Fae King's Hunger (Court of Bones and Ash Book 2)

by Layla Harper

  Portal charms were used in Rowena’s offensive, but as for the number, I cannot be sure. I am guessing two were used: one to separate me from Kyra and my advisors, and the second was a grandiose display of comeuppance. In days past, high fae reserved these spells for use as a last resort in battle or to escape injury. Although the magic needed to create the charms is extensive, the cost is dependent on the distance traveled from one point to another. The farther away one wishes to go, the more magic is required and vice versa.

  She could have taken my mate to the ends of Alfhemir, but my gut says no. The witch is close.

  She has to be.

  Striding down the street, I comb the landscape for clues. A blockhouse large enough to house Rowena and her people—which is most of Lithyr, based on the lack of fae casualties—would occupy a sizeable tract of land and stick out among the rows and rows of modest foundations like a winter elf wandering Drengskador. When I reach Lithyr’s western boundary, I see a strange deposit scorching the grass and, upon further inspection, an innumerable number of prints stamped into the soil. I rub the residue between the pads of my fingers and sniff.

  Bitter. Corrosive.

  Ward magic.

  Here was the point of entry. The goblins cut through the boundary ward and raided the entire village. Looking for me. Somewhere between the breach and the search, Rowena evacuated her subjects. The norns would have leveraged illusions to hide their escape, but like all magic, the power came at a great cost. Forcing an illusion on a party of four is one thing. Manipulating an army of fifty or more goblins is another.

  I glance in the opposite direction of the broken ward. Even with a union of three norns, a powerful triad, the magic required to hold an illusion of this magnitude would have severely depleted the norns. So they improvised. If it were me, I would create a distraction and quickly decamp, getting as many of my subjects to safety as possible.

  Trusting my instincts, I trek across the heart of Lithyr at a good clip. Every wooden structure I encounter is burned to ash, the stone sections marred in black. This is no normal fire. Only a handful of beings can wield magical flame, and goblins are not on that list. Could they have arrived with an ally?

  Or did Rowena order her wizard to burn the village before the goblins could lay greedy hands on Lithyr’s riches?

  I am well past the town’s main hub when I spot footprints converging into one route and a broken necklace buried in the dirt. I retrieve the brightly colored beads and raise the strand to my nose. Female. Lesser fae. Possibly brownie? About three hundred feet in the foreground, a sizeable object blocks my course. I drop the beads and race ahead, unsheathing my dagger, avoiding a toy left on the ground. Whoever passed through here—I am guessing Lithyrians—did so in a hurry. The tracks filter into a single lane leading directly to what I can now see is an abandoned cart stationed in a field untouched by fire.

  Interesting.

  The two-wheeled wooden cart sits with its bed sloped and the pull handles sunk into the soil. Old scents loiter, distinct and identifiable. Three norns. Too many half-fae to discern. Illusion magic. The scents grow weaker closer to the front of the cart. Here, the tracks completely disappear. My ears twitch, alert for the slightest sound. I cannot help but feel there is something I am missing. With the village burning, would the goblins not follow the norns this far out of Lithyr?

  I grab a handful of dirt and sniff. Minerals. Moisture. Decay. Nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing resembling the distinct marker of a transportation charm. Or a goblin’s stench.

  At the rear of the cart, the troll’s scent is thick and interspersed among the other fae. Glancing at the sky, I let the dirt fall from my hand and wipe my palm against my thigh. Lithyr’s citizens escaped without the aid of a transportation spell. Perhaps winged fae carried them away to safety, but why leave behind a pull cart filled with bundles of hay atop its bed?

  Unless that is what they want me to believe.

  Squatting, I scan the undercarriage to find grass, soil, and more prints. Pondering the clues, I retrieve several small stones, jiggling them in my palm, my ire intensifying with each angry beat of my heart. Taunting an orc goes beyond “not nice.” It borders on insanity.

  I toss the rocks to the ground beneath the cart. Two land on the grass. Three disappear.

  I throw my head back and laugh.

  Clever norn.

  Beneath the cart, the entrance to an underground tunnel is hidden by an illusion. I search the terrain for the inevitable hole, and once I have located the opening, I roll and drop down into the shaft, landing in a crouch. My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. The smells here are rich and concentrated, clay mixed with body odor and fear, but I fail to scent Kyra. Or my friends.

  My stomach sinks. Racing down the tunnel at orc speed, my feet pound against the uneven terrain, and I am forced to hunch my head and shoulders to keep from scraping the channel’s roof.

  Time passes. Too slowly. My frustration transforms to fear. What if my assessment of the norn’s actions is wrong? What if this tunnel is a cleverly planned diversion leading me farther away from my mate?

  Images of Kyra bound and bleeding flood my vision. Fury scorches the back of my throat. I want to rake my claws against the endless walls of loam barring me from my càirdeil.

  The rational part of my brain tells me she is safe. Gauron would die before he allowed harm to befall an innocent.

  But my second’s injuries leave him weakened.

  And Aelinor?

  I fear my cousin’s loyalty will be usurped by her mistrust of Kyra. Aelinor’s tenacity and sharp tongue are a welcome diversion at court, but those immutable traits could very well be the noose strangling my mate’s pretty neck.

  The temperature drops, and soon the tunnel winds to an end. A trap door blocks the exit. I stretch my arms overhead and shove at the wooden barrier. It topples over, and I quickly haul my body out of the enclosure. To my left, rugged cliffs tower hundreds of feet over the Sea of Storms, ringing the outer barrier of Lithyr’s southern border.

  Carefully, I survey the area and set the door back into place. The disappearance of footprints in the soil near the opening compresses the fist clamped around my heart. But it is the leagues of emerald grass and slate-colored rocks without a building in sight that punctures the organ in two.

  I have wasted hours Kyra cannot spare.

  Rubbing a hand across my mouth, I slowly pivot. I had been so sure I would find the blockhouse once I emerged from the tunnel. Instead, I am met with the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. No tracks. No scent of fae, norn or otherwise.

  My instincts cannot be wrong, but then again, I have not been myself since the day fate dropped a beautiful human female in my path, pitching my orderly world into a heap of chaos and uncertainty.

  A sensation pricks against my rib cage. I rub the spot burning at the center of my sternum.

  The bond stirs, and for the first time since the attack in the forest, I sense my mate. Relief loosens the tightness in my chest. Following the tug, I jog across the turf, the promise of Kyra’s bright blue eyes and plump pink lips fueling my every step. But in the back of my mind, I grow wary of the bond’s growing power—of the need building in my soul. The want. The hunger. The dream that churns and burrows deeper into my heart with each day that passes.

  Keeping Kyra in Alfhemir will endanger her life. If I had thought a future with her was possible, the norn’s shenanigans have wrecked that hope. I cannot let my burgeoning desires endanger my mate, and I refuse to let my world consume her.

  I ignore the budding ache spreading across the center of my chest. A half-blood king cannot afford weakness. Already I have made too many mistakes. Mistakes that have jeopardized my subjects and my kingdom. Mistakes I will gladly make again if it means my càirdeil reaches her Earth unharmed.

  A cold breeze carries the ocean scent upon its wings. I slow to a stop, my senses registering the natural landscape unfurling before me and nothing e
lse. Yet the bond beats excitedly in my soul, telling another story.

  “Where are you?” With my claws sinking into the soil, I dig deep and then stride across the land, flinging dirt like a plant reaper sowing seeds. After a hundred feet and an umpteen number of handfuls, a blur ripples in the expanse. I move forward, my hands outstretched, until I come into contact with a solid edifice. My hands pat what appears to be empty space but feels like a stone structure.

  “Rowena.” Senses on alert, I reach for my dagger, cursing the norn for confiscating my war hammer and sword. “You have made your point, witch. Allow me entrance. Perhaps I will consider your request.”

  I wait. One beat. Two. Three.

  “Your wall will not keep me from what is mine,” I roar, sheathing my weapon. I feel for a crack or edge to grip, my neck prickling from the unseen eyes watching my ascent.

  A huff and then “You are persistent. And quick.” The last two words are spoken as an afterthought. “I had expected at least a day or two before you located your charge.”

  “Pray to Ulda I do not break your neck, witch.” My feet and hands work synchronously, hauling by body up the jagged surface.

  “Swear an oath to harbor my subjects and perhaps I will lower the wards before you fall to your death. It would be a shame to see that strapping frame of yours broken.”

  “You push your luck, norn.”

  A laugh echoes from above. “Very well, orc. You have come this far. Who am I to take away your pleasure? Climb to your heart’s content. Shall I add to the challenge? I so love a good sporting.”

  I can almost hear her clapping with glee. “So help me, witch…”

  Black tongues of misty smoke lash around me, stinging my arms and legs.

  “Rogar, king of the orcs, I will wait for you inside. Do not tarry. We have much to discuss.”

  Glowering at the black cloud descending over my head, I ignore the welts forming on my limbs and continue scaling the wall. When I reach the top, the fog breaks, and with it the illusion obstructing my view of the norn’s blockhouse. Clutching the top of the wall, I hoist myself onto a rampart encircling a ruined tower and a colony of makeshift shelters.

  My gaze is drawn to the left. From this vantage point, I have a breathtaking view of the cliffs and the sea below—blue-green seawater foaming white against a soaring rock face of striated stone.

  For a moment, I still. Alfhemir’s beauty washes over me, briefly soothing the apprehension coursing within. But my reprieve is brief. From the corner of my eye, I see Gray charging into view. Through our link, I send him a pulse of assurance, then jump to the ground.

  Four male elves surround me, half-breed by their mismatched eyes.

  “Rowena.” I watch the elves approach, circling me like vultures, swords gripped. “Blood will be shed here.” The norn and her troll commander are nowhere to be found.

  “We have been ordered not to kill you,” says one of the elves with a smirk. The other three wear identical expressions, their hatred clear in their uncanny eyes.

  “You are to slow me down. Is that the plan?” I crack my neck and loosen my shoulders. “Very well. I will bestow you the same courtesy, but I warn you, you will hurt. Considerably. So much so that you might wish for death. Drop your weapons.”

  The elves step forward.

  “So be it. You had your chance.” I flash a smile and get to work.

  Chapter Four

  Kyra

  I jerk awake, my vision slowly coming into focus. Unfamiliar surroundings greet me. Stone walls. Dirt floor. Iron bars. My heart claws up my throat, and it takes me two terrifying seconds to remember where I am.

  A prison cell hidden somewhere inside Lithyr.

  At least I think we’re in Lithyr. Realistically we could be anywhere. How I nodded off sitting upright with my back pressed against the wall is beyond me. I’m not exactly a light sleeper, and given my upbringing, I would never leave myself exposed, especially in a dangerous place with an elf who hates my guts.

  I ease off the wall. A soft grunt escapes my lips. My back is killing me. Correction: my whole body is killing me. Two-day hurt is no joke, and neither is the drool puddled at the corner of my mouth.

  Or the crusty trail leading down the side of my right cheek.

  Ugh.

  Gross.

  I wipe the spit with the back of my hand and then dab at the damp spot near the tunic’s neckline. An elbow jabs me in the side. “What the—”

  Aelinor juts her chin forward, and I swallow the curse on my tongue.

  The thick, medieval-looking door opens to reveal a woman at the threshold. Waves of brilliant red hair tumble over her shoulders. Dressed in a blue gauzy gown, her appearance is ethereal until you notice the jet-black eyes pinning you to the wall like an insect stuck in a glass case.

  Rogar’s shaman jumps to her feet. Her hand swings to the sheath at her hip and then falls away empty.

  The red-haired woman holds out a slender hand. “Be at ease, esteemed daughter of Regnir. I mean you and your friend no harm.”

  Yeah right. And I’m a four-foot pixie. Those midnight eyes fall to me, and the curiosity sparking in the killer orbs makes me uneasy. “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Quiet,” Aelinor chides. “What is the meaning of this mistreatment?”

  My eyes go wide. The big bad Aelinor chooses now to mind her p’s and q’s? Screw diplomacy. If I had the ability to throw beams of magic from my palms, I’d subdue the red enchantress and save my questions for later.

  As if reading my thoughts, the woman smiles and says, “I am Rowena. It is I your king sought.”

  “You’re…?” I frown. “You’re the witch who’s supposed to hide my scent?”

  Aelinor stiffens beside me. “Where is our king, norn?”

  “He…” Rowena cocks her head as if intercepting an inaudible message. “Your king arrives shortly. Worry not, Princess. He will come to view this as an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  I snort. Misunderstanding, my ass.

  When the norn steps aside, I notice the girl standing behind her. Slim with short brown hair and matching eyes, she wears pants and a tunic similar to mine with a leather sash cinched at her waist. Black ink swirls along one side of her neck, and although she’s young, maybe thirteen or fourteen, there’s something about her that makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

  “Enough chatter.” Rowena sweeps into the room. “After such an arduous journey, I’m sure you are both ready to wash the forest’s dirt and grime from your skin. Yes?”

  Sure, I might kill for a shower, but I’m not stupid enough to let my guard down in a place teaming with off-the-rocker norns and their helpers. And by the silence emanating from the shaman, I’m assuming she’s thinking the same.

  “It is settled, then. You will want your privacy.” Rowena gives us a clipped nod. “I will have a bath and refreshments brought here for you, Princess.” She points to me. “Come, earthling. We have another room prepared for your ablutions.”

  I dig in my heels. “I’m not leaving with you.”

  “No you are not,” Aelinor agrees. And although her eyes are glued to the girl at the door, she directs her words to Rowena. “You tried to separate us earlier—unsuccessfully, I might add. What makes you think you’ll prevail now?”

  Aelinor’s words grab my attention. I’m in this room because of her?

  “Always a battle with your kind.” The norn sighs. “You will make this situation more distasteful than necessary.”

  I motion to the cramped room. “So being kidnapped and imprisoned in a dirt cell isn’t considered distasteful in your eyes?”

  Aelinor throws me a hard look to shut me up, then resumes glaring at the norn and her teenaged assistant. “On the contrary. It’s you who leaves me with no choice. King Rogar won’t take kindly to his favorite pet being abused by one of your ilk.”

  “I’m no one’s pet.” I don’t know why Aelinor’s words goad me, but they do. The shaman may be the reason I’m
under her protection, but I’ll be damned if I let her denigrate whatever this thing is between Rogar and me, especially in front of the person who clearly betrayed his trust.

  The air charges with static.

  With magic.

  The norn cocks her head. Everything about her stance dares Aelinor to retaliate. To attack.

  Rogar’s cousin rises to the challenge. Thick, fibrous vines erupt from the dirt floor and bolt around Rowena’s ankles. The witch doesn’t flinch. No emotion flares across her face. If she’s scared, or worried, or perturbed by the large ligneous tentacles climbing up her legs, she shows no hint of emotion.

  The girl, however, reacts. Legs spread wide, she holds both arms out like weapons, fingers spread and her palms out. Her body shakes as sweat beads across her forehead, eyebrows pulled taut across delicate features as she leverages her own magic against Aelinor’s onslaught.

  Grunts sound from my left. Aelinor’s brown eyes flash with effort. Chest heaving, she pitches her body forward, muscles straining against her tunic. The bright beams of green magic flowing from her palms dim right before the vines explode into a million pieces of falling dirt and wood. Shoved to the wall by invisible hands, Aelinor’s body is locked against the stone surface.

  Holy shit.

  I brace myself against the bench.

  “I will let the infraction slide, Princess. This one time.” Rowena punctuates the comment with a raised finger, but her words cut like the sharp edge of Rogar’s sword. “Dare to raise your magic against me anew and I promise you, you will not leave this room unharmed.” Tilting her head to the door, she says, “Earthling.”

  I don’t miss the threat in her tone. From the doorway, the girl’s arms tremble and her face twists as she holds Aelinor immobilized against the wall. Her physical exertion is the only sign that magic is at play. Weird, because I can see Aelinor’s magic, but where tattoo girl is concerned, I see nothing.

  I wonder what that means.

  Mustering what little courage I’ve got, I exit the room with my chin held high. As I walk by the girl, my skin pebbles and the hair on my arms stands on end. The door clicks shut. I half expect invisible handcuffs to appear around my wrists, but nothing happens. Rowena glides by me on silent feet, gauzy skirts billowing behind her while the girl watches my back quietly, probably waiting for me to make my next move.