Storm Princess Saga- the Complete Series

by Everly Frost

  The griffin dropped me farther out than it should have. I watched other animals fly by with their champions, transporting them farther up the mountain, while mine landed and refused to rise again.

  Curse the Elven Command. The animals were spellcast to bring us here. It wouldn’t matter which one I chose, it would have dropped me in the same place. I have to travel twice as far, twice as fast, to make it to the gargoyle nest before anyone else chooses the pathway that veers past it.

  It’s foolhardy to use up my energy at the start of the trial. I should be pacing myself, but I don’t have a choice. I don’t have time to take care on the slippery slope.

  Gritting my teeth, I push my body to move faster, flying through the powder of snow cover, leaping over rocks and debris, boots thudding on jagged stone as the sun sinks below the horizon. I grew up climbing the mountains behind Rath land, learning how to read the landscape, to know a sure footing from a perilous one. I draw on every instinct, every second of concentration, as I dart around the increasing boulders, my heart burning, my lungs expanding, the muscles in my thighs and calves screaming.

  One by one, I pass the nearest elves, each one a figure in the distance. They pause, no doubt observing my speed. I know what they’re thinking: I’ll burn out. They won’t be that stupid. They’ll shake their heads and continue to pace themselves.

  They’re right. I will burn out, but not for another few hours. They didn’t spend the last three years of their life hunting vicious creatures in desolate places.

  I push on, finally approaching the last elf closest to the nest. He’s headed right toward its location. I recognize him as Gwynn from the House of Bounty. He’s Pedr Bounty’s grandson. Does he know about the nest? Did his grandfather set him on this path?

  We’re equidistant from the fork in the path that will either take him right past the nest or away from it. Elves think gargoyles have low intelligence, but they don’t. They’re incredibly clever and nest in the hardest-to-reach places along the difficult paths. Having wings means they don’t have to worry about ground access.

  The easier path through the mountain heads away from the nest, but I can’t assume Gwynn will take it.

  I fight my fear and force myself to focus. Focus on my breathing. Focus on running, increasing my speed, even though the slope gets steeper. I’m close enough to Gwynn to be in danger of breaking the rules. Whatever I do, I can’t cross his path.

  Up ahead, a group of high boulders will force me to do just that.

  Unless I run over them.

  A pair of gargoyle wing daggers wouldn’t go astray right now. I could pierce the rock and give myself leverage to fly over the rocks. Hah, wings would be better.

  Running left, I head for the lowest boulder—even though it will take me farther off course—judge the distance, and leap. The wind lifts beneath me and I land exactly in the center of it, using it as a literal stepping stone to leap onto the next highest rock. From one boulder to the next, I judge each jump at lightning speed, traveling higher with each leap. I sail over the final boulder, somersault, and land on my feet on the other side.

  Having cleared the boulders, I dart forward past the fork in the path, well ahead of Gwynn. I sense him freeze fifty paces behind me. He didn’t even see me coming. I’m sure he thinks he’s the one who nearly broke the rules.

  A quick glance back tells me he’s eyeing my choice of path with distrust. I’ve obviously chosen the harder way through the mountain. I can’t tell for sure from this distance, but his confused, frozen stance feeds my hope that he didn’t know about the gargoyle nest after all.

  But of course. It would ruin the Elven Command’s plan if the gargoyle nests weren’t a genuine surprise. It makes my blood boil that they would endanger their own family like that. Male gargoyles are formidable opponents who aren’t to be trifled with.

  Which is why my path now is even more dangerous.

  Relieved to see Gwynn trek away from the nest and disappear toward the other side of the peaks, I finally slow my pace. I take care around the next corner. Darkness has fallen but I don’t light my lamp, watching for the Elyria web that will tell me the nest is close.

  A scuffling up ahead makes me freeze. The sound greets me through a narrow opening. The air is still freezing, not warm like it would be if gargoyles were present, but the nest should be right through the opening…

  A soft whooshing sound breaks the silence. Wings? I tilt my head, listening with a growing frown. It sounds like wingbeats, but it’s not the deep swishing sound that a gargoyle’s wings make…

  My memory stirs a moment before a bird caws, a sharp shriek that cuts through my heart.

  There’s only one bird that makes that sound: a talon crow. A dangerous predator that can rip a fully grown male to shreds. Children don’t have a chance. If it got inside the nest already…

  No!

  I sprint toward the opening, drop my pack, and pull a dagger from my harness as I run. Without slowing, I twist sideways and speed through the opening, ducking and rolling back to my feet.

  My dagger flies straight and true toward the enormous black bird as it swoops across the clearing outside the cave entrance situated on my right-hand side. The gargoyle’s nest must be inside the cave, but I don’t have time to check.

  The bird shrieks again, a shrill cry this time, as my blade hits its outer wing, right in the joint where its wing bends. Its body is as big as a panther’s and its wings stretch nine feet across the clearing. Every feather is fashioned like a blade to cut its victims. Tusks rise from each side of its beak, giving it the ability to gore anything it clutches in its talons.

  Rage burns through me. Even the fiercest gargoyle struggles to fight a talon crow. The average elf doesn’t stand a chance.

  But me… I’ve had practice.

  The crow changes direction from the cave entrance, sweeping toward me instead. I crouch, whip out a second dagger, and run, aiming my weapon for the joint in its other wing. I let my dagger fly as the bird soars forward. The blade hits true, a precision shot.

  Just as the bird’s talons would grab me, I drop and slide beneath it. One talon cuts through my thermal suit, making a large tear, but I don’t have time to assess the damage. Right now, I don’t care. The wild rises inside me again. I move by instinct, a pit of fire fueling my actions, the same rage that got me through the last seven years.

  I grab the bird’s talons as it sails over me, yank the animal down, and flip it onto its back. It flops, wings outspread, flailing and trying to retract them to counter my move. The daggers in its joints make its movement clumsy.

  Before it can recover, I launch myself forward, one boot landing on its wing across its upper bone, my foot pressed next to the blade. My other boot does the same, pinning the other wing.

  It shrieks again, its beak wide open. It won’t stay down for long. I have only a moment before it recovers. Quickly reaching down with my bare hands, I grab a tusk in each and twist in a savage movement.

  The bird’s neck snaps.

  I stare down at it, rage boiling at the back of my mind. It shouldn’t be here. Not in elven country. Talon crows are gargoyle predators. The presence of gargoyles on this side of the border must be drawing the predators here.

  The cold air chills my heart. The faint sapphire glow of Elyria web tells me that gargoyles were once here, but if they were still alive, the air would be warm. Preparing myself for the worst, I force my feet to move to the entrance.

  Inside the cave, a nest has been built up out of rock, but it’s empty, silken swaddling cloths torn and strewn across its surface. Scattered belongings lie around the cave—a satchel lies open, its contents spilling out, a broken hairbrush, a yellow ribbon…

  I spin to a figure that moves in the darkness on the left of the cave. There are no Elyria webs on that side—either the spiders didn’t spin there or the webs were ripped down deliberately to drop it into darkness.

  A male stands in the dark, gripping a silken blanket i
n his fist. It flutters into the light while the rest of him remains concealed in the darkness. The absence of wings in his silhouette tells me he’s an elf.

  He says, “You’re too late to save them.”

  The bottomless pit of rage opens up again. I pull out my last dagger, the soft ring of steel breaking the heavy silence.

  I take a dangerous step forward, my voice a snarl. “Did you kill them?”

  “Me?” His head flies up as if he’s genuinely surprised. “My kills are clean.” He gestures to the chaos around us, his hand entering the light, revealing the edges of golden runes on his forearms. “This was messy.”

  He points to the various spots around the room—a female’s dress, a male’s belt—and finally he lifts the swaddling cloth he clutches in one hand.

  He echoes my thoughts as he says, “There was a male, a female, and two babies.” He circles the side of the cave, keeping to the darkness, stopping before he enters the light. “But there’s no blood. They weren’t killed. They were taken.”

  I consider the chaos—plenty of broken objects but no sickening scent of blood. The question is: Where were they taken? I’m not sure which is worse: to be killed by elves or returned to the horror that awaits in gargoyle territory.

  I lift my chin, peering into the dark. “Who are you?”

  The male elf finally steps into the light. He’s nearly as tall as I am, almost as broad in the chest and shoulders. His platinum-blond hair and the golden runes tattooed on his bare arms glow softly in the light.

  “You taught yourself to walk again,” he says.

  I allow my dagger to lower to my side. “You visited my home with Gideon Glory, but I don’t know your name.”

  He casually watches my blade’s descent. I could use it in an instant, but he seems unperturbed. He doesn’t carry a single weapon but considers me with an impossible confidence. “Didn’t your father tell you?”

  I consider his reaction carefully as I speak. “My father said you lived in a cage.”

  His eyebrows rise, and then he gives me a nod, as if he’s surprised by the accuracy of the statement. “Your father was an astute and perceptive warrior. I was sorry about his death. I wanted to attend the funeral so I could pass on my condolences but… it wasn’t to be.”

  He still hasn’t told me his name and now I’m wishing I had pressed my father for more information. I put aside my questions about this male’s identity. Right now, his motives are more important.

  “If you didn’t kill these gargoyles, why are you here?”

  Questions plague me. How did he get here? He’s not a champion, despite the fact that his physical appearance clearly says he could be one. In fact, the way he moves, stealthy, graceful, and the careful thought he puts into his speech, tells me he would be a formidable opponent. Yet he is not the champion for his House.

  He studies the cloth in his fist, crushing it. “I’m not supposed to be here. I heard Gideon say that gargoyles were hiding on this mountain. I’ve wanted to see a gargoyle for a long time. I finally had the opportunity to… slip out… while Gideon was distracted with the trials, so here I am.”

  I take a step forward, my hand hovering over my blade again. “Do you expect me to believe that you’re here out of sheer curiosity?”

  He grins. “A warrior as intelligent as yourself would never believe such a thing, Baelen.”

  “Then why?”

  His smile becomes bitter. He opens his fist and drops the cloth into the nest. “Because it felt like freedom. Because maybe I know what it’s like for these gargoyles, trying to escape what lies behind them.”

  Does he know what they’re escaping? That seems like a dangerous question, so instead, I ask, “Why do you live in a cage? If you’re confident enough to stroll into a gargoyle’s nest, then what’s stopping you from leaving?”

  His eyes narrow dangerously. “And leave the only family I’ve ever known?”

  I take a guess. “Gideon isn’t your father. He’s not your grandfather, either.”

  “You’re right, but he’s the only reason I’m alive. The only father I’ve known. I owe him…” He takes a deep calming breath. “I owe him my loyalty.”

  Until that moment, I considered whether I had found another male I could trust. I believe that he didn’t come here to harm the gargoyles. I also believe he could be an asset in a fight—I haven’t seen him in action, but I can tell at a glance that he would fight like a demon if needed. But… his loyalty clearly lies with the Elven Command.

  He sighs, leaning forward, his palms pressed against the top of the nest. “Loyalty is a tricky thing, isn’t it? Would your men still trust you if they knew where you were for the last three years?”

  I’m wary. His question implies that he knows, but that’s impossible. “They would trust me no matter what.”

  He folds his arms. “You have more faith in elves than I do.”

  Laughing cautiously, I shake my head. “Only in some.” I push away from the cave wall, crossing the distance to scoop up the swaddling cloth.

  He freezes as I approach, then he carefully steps in the other direction, maintaining the gap between us. He reminds me of Marbella, the way she shifts away from people because she’s afraid of hurting them.

  He gestures to the cloth. “They wrap their children in cloths made of silk, yet they wear rough clothing themselves.”

  Sadness wells inside me. “Gargoyles value their children above all else.”

  He’s silent. So silent that I consider him carefully. Just like the day I first met him, I can’t read his expression. I suddenly realize that’s because it’s an expression I rarely see. Most elves are naturally confident, especially the elves in the House of Glory, pompous and self-important, believing themselves to be better than others.

  This male is the opposite.

  He’s full of self-hatred.

  He says, “Then a child would have to be truly worthless for them to abandon it.”

  My caution increasing, I murmur, “Only death separates a gargoyle from their child.”

  “Ah.” His expression is blank now. He circles the cave, staying at the edges, well away from me before proceeding to the entrance. He pauses there, a silhouette against the growing dark outside. “My name is Grayson.”

  He disappears into the darkness and I let him go. If he got here on his own unscathed, then he’ll find his way home. I try to shake off my disquiet about how much he seemed to know about my past.

  Now that I’m alone, I slump against the nest and allow my emotions to show.

  I was too late. The gargoyles are gone. If the nest were empty, it would mean they had relocated somewhere else, but the broken belongings indicate a fierce struggle.

  Failure weighs heavily on me, pressing down on my heart.

  I thump my fist against the rock. I have to refocus now. I’ve burned up a lot of energy and I have to make it through the valley tonight and up Scepter Peak before the trial ends. The talon crow is a sharp reminder that the mountains are deadly. If I had more time, I would take one of its talons with me as a reminder of the danger. As it is, I’ll have to keep my eye out for other predators.

  I race from the cave, scoop up my dropped pack, and leave the empty nest behind.

  18. Grayson Glory

  I crouch silently at the edge of the rock overhanging the cave. Below me, Baelen Rath disappears into the darkness. He’s a stealthy figure who blends into his surroundings, reminding me to pull my dark mottled coat over my head to ensure I’m camouflaged from spying eyes. The dead talon crow lying in the clearing was merely a vessel. One of the Elven Commanders would have been inhabiting the crow’s body, using its eyes to spy on the mountains. Luckily, Baelen killed it before it saw me here.

  Gideon thinks I stay in my cage. He trusts me to stay in my cage where I won’t do any damage.

  I exhale my feelings of guilt.

  Below me on the ground, Baelen picks up a steady pace and doesn’t look back.

  I envy hi
s freedom. I envy the way he sees the world with clear boundaries of trust and loyalty. I envy the way he seems to belong—even in this wilderness.

  Me… I live in the gray, in the space between.

  Drawing upright, I inhale the crisp air, the scent of the wild around me, but it’s not mine to keep. Only to experience for a short time.

  I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d taken up Rordan Rath’s offer to me all those years ago. I was only ten years old when he first found out about me. He took one look at me and immediately asked Gideon for permission to train me in combat, saying I could be an incredible asset to border defense. It’s true, I’m physically stronger than other Glory elves, even stronger than Garrett—the one the House of Glory chose as their champion.

  Rordan Rath turned to me and asked if I wanted to come and train in the House of Rath with the chosen few from the major Houses.

  I wanted to say yes. So badly.

  For the first time in my young life, someone was offering me something that could be mine, but then I saw the expression on Gideon’s face. His smile. His nod. He wanted me to say yes.

  I love Gideon, owe him everything, but he made no secret of the fact that he would do anything to bring down the House of Rath. I would have been an instrument of destruction. Rordan had no idea the danger he was putting his own son in by asking me to train beside him.

  But if I had said yes… what then?

  I catch myself before I consider the impossible.

  Friendship is not an option for me.

  I take a moment to consider my next move, drawing on the power inside me, my senses tingling as it rushes through me like a waterfall. I could visit the other side of the peaks, catch sight of the Storm Princess for the first time, but no doubt that would be a waste of my time. Gideon may have had reluctant respect for Rordan Rath, but he has nothing but scorn for Marbella Mercy. He says she’s the weakest, most self-centered princess we’ve ever had. Still, it would be interesting to see her for myself. The fact that she chose to fight for herself in the trials is intriguing.