“What about our tattoos?” Malaki says.
I look heavenward. “Now you’re worried about our ink?” Technically, the Angels of Small Death have screwed the king over a time or two, but a sleeve of tattoos is hardly evidence of that.
Malaki makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Honest fae don’t sully their skin with tattoos.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’ve met an honest fae?”
He chuckles. “Aye, you got me there.”
We walk up the hill, towards the center of the island.
Towering above the shops is the palace. I frown as I stare up at it, my magic beginning to thrum. Galleghar could be in there right now, prime for killing. Every day I let him live, more fairies die. Some die on the battlefield, fighting a senseless war. Others die because he’s taxed the life out of them. And then there are those, like my mother—like me—whose continued existence is an affront to him.
“You sure you want to do this?” Malaki says, breaking me from my reverie.
I incline my head, still scowling. This is the one thing I am sure of these days.
He sighs.
“You don’t have to join me,” I say.
Malaki lowers his voice. “Because I’m going to let you take on the king by yourself.”
I glance over at him. His loyalty can’t be bought, yet somehow I’ve earned it.
My attention drifts away from Malaki when I hear an auctioneer calling out numbers. Ahead of us, a crowd’s gathered. Beyond them, standing on a podium, are nearly a dozen chained humans.
I come to a halt at the sight of them. Normally I do something about this. On good days, I simply let my darkness free the slaves’ chains. On bad days … the slaveholders pay with their lives.
“Eurion,” Malaki warns, using my fake name, “if you do something now, we’re going to have to leave.”
Freeing slaves does draw attention …
I work my jaw and reluctantly I continue up the street. It burns me deep to walk away from the slaves.
Can’t save them all.
“We don’t have to do this today,” Malaki says. “You could free those slaves, flee this place, and travel the realms to look for her.” He doesn’t need to clarify who he’s referring to.
My mortal mate.
“I don’t want to fall in love,” I say.
At least, not with her. A human.
And that’s my shame. I hate how fairies treat humans, but I don’t want one for my own.
Malaki gives me a disbelieving look. “She’s waiting for you somewhere out there. If you don’t search for her, you might never meet her.”
That would be for the best.
“When did you become a romantic sot?” I ask, eyeing a cluster of fae women and pretending like I don’t give two shits about this conversation.
He shakes his head at me. “You’re a fucking idiot. You have a mate—”
“A human one.”
There. I said it. My conscience feels heavier—not lighter—for it.
Malaki draws back. “I thought you of all people wouldn’t care about that.”
“You thought wrong.” Freeing slaves and loving them are two very different things.
He’s still staring at me, and I feel the judgment in his look. “You know it’s not a big deal,” he says. “Plenty of fae used to take humans for husbands and wives back in the old days.”
But these aren’t the old days.
“That’s easy for you to say that when you don’t have to be with one.”
That shuts him up.
I was high and mighty once too—saving slaves from serving terrible masters. I felt quite pleased with myself for my efforts. I was a liberator, a savior. And then I heard that damn prophecy, and it got a bit too personal. It’s fine to save slaves as long as you keep them at arm’s length. But to bed one—to be mated to one …
“If this is about their mortality,” Malaki presses, “there’s always lilac wine—”
I harden my features. “It’s about more than that.”
I’ve spent my entire life trying to prove that I’m more than just a poor, powerless dustback, but I can’t seem to crawl out of the hole I came from. Committing myself to a human will once again make me seem weak, vulnerable.
Up ahead I catch sight of the military recruitment center, where fairies can enlist—that is, if they don’t get drafted first. Not every Night fae gets called in for active duty, but those that do are often too poor or too weak to afford the spells that will remove their name from the pool of draftees.
It’s rare that a fairy will willingly recruit themselves, but that’s exactly what Malaki and I are doing.
Join the royal guard. Find your valor. What you seek lies on the other side of it. I can still hear the prophetess’s words in my head.
“I didn’t leave the Angels to hunt for a mate,” I say with finality, closing the subject.
I left to get my revenge, and by gods, I will have it.
Chapter 6
All Prophecies Have a Price
220 years ago
Being a soldier is a thankless job. The Kingdoms of Day and Night are forever fighting over the Borderlands, the territories that divide our two kingdoms. And so long as they are in dispute, there will always be another battle to fight. That means more bloodshed, more close brushes with death, more giving in to my dark nature.
Since Malaki and I joined the military nearly two decades ago, we’ve been almost continuously deployed at the Borderlands, first fighting at the territory of Dusk, and now here at Dawn.
Our camp sits on a bit of glittering meteorite the Night Kingdom keeps locked in orbit. This barren landmass makes Arestys look like an oasis.
Only the most important buildings here are solid structures. The rest of the outpost is nothing more than a small city of tents, the fabric of them faded from such extended use. The war has been waging on even longer than the Shadow King has sat on the throne. My grandmother, the king’s mother, started it nearly four centuries ago, and it has toiled on ever since.
At the end of today’s shift, I head back into my tent, the entrance flapping closed behind me. I sit down on my cot and crack my neck before I reach down and begin to remove my armor.
At this point, wearing the protective gear is a mere formality. There hasn’t been any active fighting for almost two weeks, not after we trounced the Day soldiers so completely that they had to retreat. Eventually they’ll be back. They’re never gone for long.
I unlace my greaves and toss them aside. Then I remove the boiled leather armor encasing my forearms and chest. I only give a passing glance to the blood embedded beneath my nails and between the creases of my knuckles. If I cared much, I’d spell it away. I don’t.
This place is beating down my will.
I glance up at the ceiling from where I sit. It’s been enchanted to be semi-transparent, and through it I can just barely make out the faintest hints of stars amongst the predawn sky. No matter how long I live here, I’ll never get used to the sight of the sky, caught somewhere between day and night.
… Someone’s heading your way …
The shadows are forever goading me, hoping to taste a bit of my power in return for their secrets.
Let them come. I’m in no mood to make idle deals with shadows today.
My tent flaps are thrown aside, and Malaki strides in. “It’s our last night on this fucking wasteland. Let’s get drunk and celebrate.”
It’s our last night—for now. I’m under no illusions that either of us will be back in Barbos for long. Just long enough to remember how nice it is to not fight for a stupid cause. And then we’ll be called back, just as we have been a dozen times before now. The war is always raging.
My eyes move to the bronze band circling my bicep. I frown at it. How thrilled I’d been to receive it, believing this would be my opening to face the king again. But it had amounted to nothing.
Malaki takes me in, his eyes missing nothing. “You are the onl
y man I know who pouts about a war cuff,” he says.
I push off the cot. “I’m not pouting.”
“You are,” Malaki says. “Because leaving this damned rock means you’re farther away than ever from seeing your vendetta through.”
I push to my feet. “Where are the festivities at?” I ask, ignoring his words. Wine and women go a long way to making everything better, and there’s always a little of both around here.
“Dining hall.”
Figures. That’s where the festivities usually are—unless they’re taken outside.
Before I leave with him, I grab a bottle of oil, a dirty rag, and my sheathed sword, my leather belt wrapped tightly around it.
The two of us exit my tent, and I squint against the dawn. The edge of the sun perpetually sits on the horizon.
Malaki and I move across the camp, threading our way between tents. Around us, I can hear several soldiers singing ballads, one even playing a lyre. When we’re losing a battle, the songs turn into dirges, but right now, the music is lively and upbeat from our recent win.
Malaki and I enter the dining hall, the place nothing more than a massive tent filled with rough-hewn furniture and soldiers. Fairies sit around the tables, their cheeks ruddy and their mouths loose. It won’t be long until the festivities move outside. Get enough liquor into us, and we like to dance and dally under the open sky.
A few soldiers still on duty are serving food at the back of the room. Perched next to them are two barrels—one of distilled spirits and another of ale. Ogre piss tastes better than this stuff, but when you’ve been far from civilization for this long, it’s all practically ambrosia.
Malaki and I make our way to a group of soldiers seated around a circular table, the group of them drinking liquor and laughing.
This is how my days go. Wake up, grab a bite from the dining hall, take a shift, get off, grab another meal and share a drink with comrades—perhaps warm myself with a woman—then go to bed. Wake up and it all begins again.
An hour after we enter the dining hall, the room has filled to the brim with rowdy soldiers. I pull out my sword and unstop the vial of oil. Pouring a little onto my rag, I begin to clean my blade, my boots propped up on the table.
Tonight I’m in a grim mood. Still no closer to killing the king.
Maybe the prophetess never meant for me to be in the military this long. Perhaps I found my valor long ago without realizing it, and all this time I’ve spent slaying the enemy has all been in vain.
My sword has barely begun to glisten when the dining hall’s tent flaps are thrown open. Two dozen scantily clad men and women file into the room, the lot of them clearly here to trade flesh for the evening. I stiffen when I see some mortals mixed in with the fae.
That’s new. There are always fairies coming to these outposts to relieve soldiers of their most primal urges, but never humans.
Malaki’s eyes are on me. He leans in. “Supposedly the mortals are a gift from the king for our latest victory.”
A gift? Marrying a human is outlawed. Even sleeping with one is taboo. They’re considered unclean and primitive. To send them to us as a reward … it seems more an insult than a gift.
The group of men and women filter through the room, quickly pairing up with interested soldiers. Malaki and the others around me get up, letting the fairies and humans lead them outside, where they’ll dance around the campfires before moving into the clouds for a little privacy.
“Not coming?” Malaki asks when he notices I’m still sitting.
I give a shake of my head, my attention on my sword. So far, I’ve shrugged off three separate attempts to pull me away.
The girl Malaki’s with tugs on his arm with a giggle. He backs up a few steps, wanting to say something, but he chooses not to, instead turning on his heel and leaving with the rest of the soldiers. In a matter of minutes, the majority of the room has cleared out.
Just when I think I might have a little alone time, I hear the soft swish of a woman’s skirts heading my way.
… Slave …
The woman steps up behind me.
“I don’t sleep with humans,” I say before she can touch me, not looking up from my blade.
There’s a pause, and then her hair brushes mine as she leans in over my shoulder. “I can promise you that I’ll do things your fae lovers won’t.” Her breath fans against my cheek.
I sheath my sword and take a drink of my ale. “It’s not anything personal. I just happen to like my women willing.”
She runs a hand across my chest. “What makes you think I’m not?”
I catch her wrist and I run my thumb over the royal emblem branded onto her skin. The crescent moon looks grotesque when it’s made out of raised flesh.
“Tell me,” I ask, studying it, “would you be propositioning me if you weren’t owned by the crown?”
She leans in. “Tell me, would you be sitting here, waiting for battle, if you weren’t owned by the crown?”
I release the woman’s hand and look at her. She has a sharper tongue than some fairies I know, but her features hardly match her mouth. Wideset eyes, heart-shaped face, and smooth, ivory skin surrounded by wild red hair. It’s a very pretty face, a very pretty, innocent looking face.
“Fair point,” I admit.
I stare at her a little longer. She’s piqued my curiosity. Though I’ve spent years saving mortals, I haven’t ever actually stopped to talk to one. And now here I am, surprised that this human woman can actually grab my attention with her words.
Making a decision, I nod to the now empty table I sit at. “Want to join me?”
In response, mortal begins to sit on my lap.
“No.”
I might want to talk to this human woman, but I don’t want her touching me. I don’t want any human woman touching me. None except for …
A cynical smile almost slips out at the half-formed thought; apparently I’m saving myself for my mortal bride. How quaint.
The woman takes a seat across from me and grabs a nearby ale stein that one of the other soldiers abandoned. She trains her gaze on me while she takes a swallow.
“Where are you from?” I ask her, my eyes sharp.
She sets the drink down. “You really want to talk?” She looks surprised.
“If you’d rather not …” I gesture to around the room, where several soldiers still sit. I’m sure someone will take what she’s offering.
Her eyes flitter about the room before returning to me. “What do you want to talk about?”
“You’re the entertainment. You tell me.”
I’m being a dick. I don’t care. This is not how I envisioned my last night here.
“Surprising as this might be, I’m not being paid to talk,” she says.
“You’re not being paid at all.” Another shitty comment. But it’s also the truth.
Her eyes thin. “How was your d—”
“Boring,” I interrupt her.
She looks affronted. Fragile human egos.
“How did you become a slave?” I ask.
“I was captured as a baby.” So she’s a changeling.
“And then?” I ask.
“… And then I was raised to please fairies.”
… Lying …
I narrow my eyes at her. “No you weren’t.”
She hesitates. “No,” she agrees, “I wasn’t. My master taught me all sorts of things you’re not supposed to teach slaves.”
“So how did you end up here?” I ask.
“My master died without releasing me. When her estate went up for auction, I was sold to the crown, and here I am.”
She raises an eyebrow at the war band I wear. “A medaled soldier. What did you do to earn it?”
Deep in enemy territory, blinding sunlight burning my eyes. Blood pouring out of my many wounds. Surrounded on all sides. My magic swarms out of me, devouring the enemy and permanently dragging the night into what was previously Day territory.
I take ano
ther drink of my ale. “I killed the right people.”
She takes in my expression. “So, you’ve met the king?” she asks.
I stare at my stein. “He was away the night I was medaled.” At least, that’s what his right hand had said when he, and not the king, presented me with the bronze cuff. More likely than not, Galleghar was either sleeping in with his harem or off killing innocents. It’s anyone’s guess which he enjoys more.
My hand tightens around my mug at the memory. I’d been so ready to end him. How often does any soldier get that close?
The woman leans back in her seat. “Huh.” She stares at her branded skin, “I saw him once.” Her eyes flick to me. “He looked an awful lot like you in fact.”
Trust a human to notice.
It’s all I can do to keep my body loose and languid. “Then he must’ve been a handsome devil.”
She nods slowly, her eyes going distant. “He was. But there was something cruel about him. Something around his eyes and his mouth.” She brings her hand up to her jaw, distractedly running her fingers along the edge of it. “You could tell he was a man who liked killing.” She blinks, returning to the present. “Not like you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Her eyes are far too shrewd. “I’ve met enough soldiers to figure out which ones that like the carnage and which ones simply bear it—or am I wrong about you?”
She isn’t, and the fact that a mortal can read me this well has me shaken. Either I have far more work to do on controlling my features, or she’s even sharper than I’ve given her credit for.
Outside the dining hall, the music and laughter quiet. I turn away from the human woman, cocking my head to better listen. It only takes seconds for the shouts to start up.
My chair scrapes as I stand, unsheathing my sword.
“What’s going on?” the human woman asks.
Around me, the other soldiers in the dining hall are looking about, sensing something in the air. I feed a little of my magic to the darkness.
The Emperor of Evening Stars (The Bargainer Book 3) Page 6
