A River of Royal Blood

by Amanda Joy

  My eyes filled with tears at my mind’s betrayal. It had not always been like this. Mother’s hand tightened like a vise around mine, drawing me back to reality. I blinked the tears away, refusing to let them fall.

  The pyre lay on a flat-hulled boat, piled with timber at the bottom and a profusion of blossoms on top. They were the plants of our sigils, blue lilies for Mother, orange poppies for me, and Isadore’s verdant ivy woven throughout. The pyre was crowned with a deceptively small body wrapped in a white shroud. How many layers had they wrapped him in, to keep all the blood from dampening the shroud?

  Beside me, Mother called out: “Now.”

  I jerked as a stream of fire exploded from the hands of the Sorceryn near the river’s edge. Flames caught on the bottom layer of timber. My knees buckled and my chest felt crowded—my heart containing too many things, eating me up inside. Only Mother’s iron grip kept me on my feet.

  Fit for a King, the magickal fire would take hours to burn, creating a steady flow of ashes down the river. At the banks of the Red River, west beyond Ternain, Myreans would gather to watch the ashes of their King flow downriver. Here we were to stand waiting until the flames ate up his shrouded body. Many would leave to escape the heat, but we couldn’t. Hours with my hand in Mother’s, with my sister just a few feet away, threatened my sanity.

  I didn’t know who had ordered the assassination of my father, though I was sure now that it was the same person trying to kill me.

  There was one week left until my nameday. How was I to kill Isadore when I was too weak to stand? When the thought of shedding more blood made me want to forfeit everything? If only my anger at Isadore and Mother would focus me, sharpen me like a blade, instead of turning me into this cowering thing. I had little strength, but I did have rage to bolster me.

  It whispered a truth I didn’t want to face. My family had done all they could to undermine me. They’d kept secrets, withheld their affection, lied, and manipulated me. I loved my mother and Isadore, but I could not trust them with my heart or the Queendom that I loved despite its flaws. Since they fought to keep me from the throne, I would find a way to take it.

  I imagined a narrow box and inside it I locked away everything my mother was but for Queen and obstacle. And then I made more space, putting away everything Isadore was to me except enemy.

  I stared into the churning depths of the river, my father’s ashes fading into dark red-brown. A river of royal blood, Papa’s now, and soon it would also be full of either mine or Isadore’s.

  It took some time, but I stood taller. I breathed deeply; though the air burned in my throat, I welcomed it. I allowed the smoke to cloud my mind and bade my thoughts to silence, except for one refrain: enemy, obstacle, Queen.

  CHAPTER 25

  HOT WIND CARESSED my back as I climbed over my balcony railing. My fingers, gloved and steady, curled around the wrought-iron ledge. I closed my eyes as my foot sought the edge of a nearby brick.

  I braced myself for a moment, feeling just how easily I could fall. It was only a fifteen-foot climb down to the suite below mine, but it was a sheer drop straight to the gardens of the royal courtyard below.

  The metal bit into my fingers as my breath eased out of me. I was no closer to death than I’d been in recent months, but this did away with the illusion. And for the first time, I was the one in control of my own mortality.

  I began the downward climb. After ten breathless maneuvers over terrifyingly narrow edges of sandstone, I pulled my trembling body over a balcony similar to mine. The door was locked, but after three well-placed kicks, it swung open.

  Mirabel had boarded up the hatch beneath my bed while I was away, so I’d had to be more creative in my escapes.

  I found a hidden door inside the dressing room of the unused suite below mine and was out of the Palace so quickly I surprised even myself.

  I’d braided my hair back earlier and tucked it beneath a cap. In plain brown trousers with a jacket that somewhat minimized my chest, it was the best I could do for a disguise. The particular blood-orange color of my eyes was a problem, after such a recent public appearance, but I would keep them shaded under the bill of the cap. If I saw recognition in anyone’s face, I would be gone before they could tell a soul.

  There were two slums in Ternain: the Patch and, even worse, the Tiger’s Den, where the small Dracolan population lived. Since Papa’s death four weeks ago, piles of garbage had been left to fester in the streets. The steward assigned to these streets was clearly ignoring his duty, but few Myreans would notice or care. The crown had announced that Papa’s murder and the attack on my camp during the ride to Asrodei were plots orchestrated by the Dracolan King.

  I was convinced that if Dracol’s King Lioniten was truly involved, he must have had help from someone with power in Myre. How else would six Dracolans have infiltrated Fort Asrodei? But despite the many arguments I’d made to my mother, she would not change her mind.

  I had never hated her more.

  I supposed it was more convenient for her. She didn’t have to pretend she actually cared about Papa’s death, and she could turn her eyes toward Dracol. The drums of war were on the cusp of being sounded. My nameday, just three days from now, was the reason for the hesitation. The Court wanted the succession decided before they made any decisions. Dracolans had been aggressive for decades, but this was the first significant attack that Myreans could truly blame on them. War was being discussed, as well as the pressing need to name a True Heir.

  I walked until I reached the farthest edge of Ternain.

  People were dying in the Tiger’s Den, attacked to avenge Papa’s death. With the Dracolans possessing none of our magick, they were easy targets, and Mother wasn’t doing a thing to protect them. The guards assigned to patrol those streets, soldiers all of them, had abandoned their posts. So I was expecting danger.

  When I realized someone was following me, I slid a knife into my palm.

  I felt no fear. Death had been perched on my shoulder for months. This was hardly an adjustment.

  When the hand landed on my shoulder, I whipped around, my knife sliding across the man’s face.

  The blood was on my arm and magick coiled around the knife in two blinks. This, at least, I could manage despite the binding. Any leftover bitterness I felt at not having full access to my magick was lost momentarily in the wonder of protecting myself.

  Pain stabbed at my mind, raking it with claws, but I gritted my teeth and—

  “Princess, it’s me,” Baccha growled. “Bloody magick, couldn’t you tell?”

  My concentration slipped and the loss of the magick left me reeling.

  “What are you doing here?” I shoved him away. “Why are you following me?”

  He grabbed my hands when I made a second attempt. “Princess, I happen to think the most important question is, What are you doing in the Tiger’s Den?”

  “None of your concern,” I grunted, snatching my hands away.

  “Oh, Princess,” he said. “Just because you don’t want someone to care doesn’t mean they can just stop.”

  My eyes slid to Baccha’s right, where Aketo stood. My thoughts stalled and I forgot the next thing I was going to say. I shut my eyes tight, teeth sawing at my bottom lip as I took a deep breath.

  The concerned expression on Aketo’s face was exactly what I expected. If he could feel the rage that rattled around in my chest like a wild animal, the dread at my quickly approaching nameday, the panic that made it hard to breathe in the small hours of the night. I couldn’t handle suddenly being in front of both of them after these weeks alone. Alone like I needed to be to get through this and find out who killed my father.

  I tried not to look at Aketo head-on. On my worst nights, I dreamed of how I’d been kissing him before finding Papa dead. And I woke up longing for his touch, because at least I could get lost in it.

  I co
uldn’t see Aketo, because he could fix it. If he was with me all day, he could push away the pain so it didn’t make me forget where—and who—I was. He could make it so I could sleep at night. So that I wouldn’t wake up choking on the smell of my father’s blood and having to crawl into my dressing room so the guards outside wouldn’t hear me screaming.

  But he would tire of me. How long would it take until I snapped at him the way I snapped at Mirabel? How long before he was avoiding me?

  When his eyes flicked to me, my entire body clenched.

  “Eva, how are you?”

  “I’m sure you can already tell.” My body shifted toward him, but I kept my eyes to the ground. “Why are you here?”

  “We’re following you, Princess. So unless you want us to continue and ruin whatever likely ill-conceived plans you have, tell me. What are you doing out tonight?”

  I pulled my hat down and strode forward.

  They both matched my stride. “Princess?”

  “There is a tavern here. A rough place.” For the first time in weeks, I let my consciousness slide toward the bond. Worry. Of course. The same feeling colored every word Mira and Anali said to me. I didn’t need the bond to know Baccha would feel the same.

  “And why are we going to this tavern, darling?” Baccha asked. “You might as well tell me.”

  “You’re a pushy bastard, you know that, right?” I shook my head. Oh, he knew. “I’m going there to see if anyone knows who might have hired the Dracolans who killed my father.”

  Baccha stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “What makes you think that’s what you’ll find?”

  “Because King Lioniten did not orchestrate the plan to kill my father on his own. I’m sure of it.”

  Baccha gave me a long slow blink. “Go on.”

  “It isn’t right,” I whispered. “I’m sure there is someone noble involved. I just need proof. Killing the King is a death sentence. And I will deliver the execution myself.”

  The only person exempt from that sentence was the Queen. But if my mother was knowingly keeping the Queendom focused on Dracol instead of investigating who was really to blame, it might be enough to force her from the throne within the next year.

  It wouldn’t stop Isadore from challenging me, but without Mother’s support, she would have less power over the Court.

  “Eva,” Baccha said softly, in the kind of voice I’d use to calm someone threatening to step off a ledge. “Are you sure this is wise?”

  I ignored him, striding forward purposefully even though I had completely lost my bearings. I clenched my trembling fingers into fists.

  For a moment I felt this warmth curling around my thoughts and I drew in a deep breath—because I suddenly could. I twisted around to glare at Aketo. “Stay out of my head. If you can’t control your magick, maybe it would be better if you stayed away from me.”

  “That isn’t me,” he said softly, though he couldn’t hide his frustration completely.

  “It’s me, Eva,” Baccha said. “You’re feeling my emotion from the bond for the first time in weeks. You can’t shut me out when I’m right in front of you.”

  “Stay out of my—”

  “Sweetheart,” he murmured. “We’re in the middle of an alley in the Tiger’s Den. If you want to have it out, we can return to the Palace.”

  “My nameday is in a few days.” I stared both of them down. “And you are delaying me. You may go back, but I’m doing this.”

  Baccha and Aketo exchanged a look, but made no move to leave.

  “Follow without questioning me or get lost. Got it?”

  A few minutes later, we ducked into a dim little room. It was a bleak place, no name, just a sign posted up that said ALE. Seven mismatched tables were spread across the room. The smell of browning pork hung in the air and every table had a greasy sheen. Sawdust covered the floor. There was one barmaid moving through the room and maybe twelve men scattered around.

  Once we sat, the barmaid slung three glasses of cloudy wine onto the table. Like most Dracolans, her skin was pale golden brown. She wore a long skirt, stained along the hem, and her hair was in a haphazard knot of silky black tangles at the back of her head.

  She gave Aketo a long look, but I was fairly certain it was because he was lovely and not because he was khimaer. He’d worn a scarf around his neck to hide his scales and the lamplight made something of his eyes, seeming to light them from within.

  I pulled off my gloves and reached for the wine, but before I could snag it, Baccha dumped half of mine into his cup.

  “I think you’d do better without this, Princess,” he said.

  I bared my teeth. “I don’t care what you—”

  He rolled his eyes. “So what is the plan?”

  I had a coin purse stuffed deep in one of my pockets. I’d planned to find a way into a game of cards, or dice, or tiles, and then just ask around. I hadn’t done all that much planning once I read of the place in Mirabel’s notes.

  When the barmaid came nearby again, I reached out and caught her hand. “Have you seen anyone strange sniffing around here?”

  “You mean besides you?” she asked, voice thick with a drawling accent.

  She glanced down at my hand around her arm, her eyes widening at the red lacquer coating my fingernails. I pulled away.

  Stupid mistake. Most common folk would not have their nails manicured.

  Baccha rattled off a stream of syllables I couldn’t understand, but recognized as Dracolan. Of course he spoke Dracolan with the fluency of a native. Hadn’t he been hiding out there for centuries?

  Baccha and the barmaid exchanged a few words, and then he pointed his chin in my direction and nodded at her. She turned to me, but hesitated.

  “Go on, tell her,” he murmured in Common. Khimaer and fey called it the human tongue, but it had been declared the Common tongue when human Queens took the throne, as if the name would bring us together.

  “Like this one.” She grimaced, pointing at Baccha. “But not so. Brown-skinned, pale hair but strange. Like a blue or a green. You know how they look—pretty but wrong.”

  So a pretty fey had been here, not as particular as Baccha, but prettier than most if she felt the need to mention it. One with blue or green hair . . .

  Immediately I knew who it must have been.

  When I last saw Isa at Court, she was with Lord Katro. Lord Katro, with the softly waving green hair, known for his unique beauty and well-connected fey family, but not for his intelligence. Nor was he known for plotting or scheming of any kind.

  “Green?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

  The barmaid shrugged. “I saw him just once—sent Neshiko to run him off.”

  I assumed Neshiko was the muscle-bound young man with a dimpled chin and cudgel in hand who sat near the young woman playing a three-string harp in one corner of the room.

  “Does she—do you think Lioniten would have ordered the killing of King Lei?”

  “Who else?” The girl shrugged. It wasn’t much of an answer. To her, the answer to my question could have just as easily been, Who cares?

  We sat in silence after she left. It felt like there was a lead weight on my chest, but I also felt empty, listless suddenly. Was it that simple? Working to find this place for weeks and immediately having my answer? Katro, one of Isa’s known friends at Court? I could make my way to his rooms right now and put a knife to his throat to see what insights he could offer.

  I glanced up at Baccha. It seemed he’d had the same thought. He gave me a pleading look. “I’ll collect him, Eva. Let me soften him for you, then we can question him in the morning.”

  If he thought I was going to let him take the reins on this, he was mistaken. “I would rather—”

  “Let me do this, Princess. You can’t go marching up to this man and expect him to come quietly.” His eyes said
what both of us knew: it would be too dangerous for me. If Katro had a hand in the King’s death, he might think little of hurting me. It wasn’t as if I could enlist my guard or Mirabel to help. Whenever I spoke of investigating Papa’s death, all their concern became focused on me.

  Getting me to talk. Making me practice swordplay, as if that mattered. All foolish wastes of time.

  Baccha looked meaningfully toward Aketo, eyebrows wiggling suggestively. I was right to avoid them; I was shifting focus already, worrying about them instead of Papa.

  I explained a number of places where Baccha was likely to find Katro, all in the Palace. “Just . . . don’t question him without me.”

  He nodded, face sober. “Of course not.” Then Baccha leaned forward, casting his voice low. “Find me in the morning, both of you. Until then, how you spend your time is no concern of mine. I trust you can keep each other safe.”

  He reached out and tapped Aketo’s hand, but when he spoke, he looked right at me. “Good luck.”

  And then Baccha left the two of us alone.

  Aketo’s eyes didn’t move from his empty cup.

  “Let’s get out of here.” The patrons were eyeing us sharply. We left the tavern and walked in charged silence. My head was so full of him that I couldn’t think of anything else.

  Time slowed to a crawl while I stared at him. “Aketo?”

  He glanced up. “Ah, I’m sorry. It’s only I’m considering what to say. Concern will only serve to annoy you, and pity will infuriate you. Tell me what you’ve been doing, tell me anything.”

  “There’s little to tell,” I whispered. I’ve just been locked in my bedchamber, crying and reading notes from Mirabel’s ghosts.

  I forced back the tears gathering in my eyes. That happened now. I went from fine to tearful with nothing in between and I hated it. I pinched the inside of my elbow; the pain helped.

  “I want to understand why you . . . disappeared.” He caught my wrist.