by Coco Ma
He bit down on his knuckle to keep from retching.
A trail of black pus led away from the package. Taking his lightstone out, the boy followed it, his heart thudding in his chest. He came to a dead end but traced his fingers along the wall and found a crack. Just like in the stories, he thought. A whispered, “Ovrire,” and the panel opened with a rusty groan that echoed against stone.
A spiral stairwell descended into gloom, glistening with mildew and slime. With another charm, he summoned a ball of light that cast the walls in a sickly green glow. Water dripped from the ceiling, splashing onto his skin as he slipped into the opening.
When the boy reached the bottom, nose wrinkled and a damp chill settling into his bones, he let out a little gasp of awe.
Mere feet away, behind a pedestal with a little bowl atop it, a great stone archway rose out of the gloom. Beyond the archway stood the most magnificent fountain he had ever seen. Three massive butterflies hewn from black stone spiraled around a gold scepter plunging out of piles and piles of precious metals and jewels. The butterflies’ glorious wings were encrusted with even more jewels—diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and still others he didn’t have names for. Dark, glimmering liquid spewed from the crown of the scepter, cascading down the butterflies’ slender little legs in dark rivulets.
The boy rubbed his hands together in delight. He would be rich! All he needed was a knife, perhaps, and then he could take all the gemstones he could carry in one go and sell them. He mapped out the calculations in his head. He had two pockets in his trousers and one on his tunic. He could stuff jewels into his shoes, too, and maybe even some in his mouth.
He sprang toward the archway, salivating at the fantasies flying through his mind. He would eat caviar until he stank of it. He would burn all of his itchy tunics, even the one with the silver embroidery that the servants wore for special occasions. And above all, he would never wash another dish again. But just when he was inches away from crossing beneath the arch, footsteps echoed down the stairs. Heart pounding, he squeezed himself into a crevice in the wall, clutching his lightstone to his chest. Should I attack them? he wondered, scanning the chamber for some sort of weapon. He had his lightstone, but not much else. What if they take the gems?
Not moments later, a figure cloaked in black emerged out of the shadows, features hidden beneath a hood. From long sleeves crept ten bone-white fingers, thin and gnarled like spider legs.
Death, the boy thought, his desire for the gems evaporating faster than steam in a desert. He bit down on his tongue to keep from whimpering and tried to quell the quaking of his body. That must be Death.
Death proceeded to dip a finger into the bowl atop the pedestal, tracing three lines with a horizontal slash onto its white forehead. The mark flared briefly as Death crossed under the archway and into the chamber beyond.
Despite his fear, the boy craned his neck to watch.
A tarnished bronze chalice was mounted on another pedestal beside the fountain. Death tipped it into the fountain’s stream. After the chalice filled, Death drew the rim to its lips and drank, long and deep.
Some invisible energy crawled over the boy’s skin, electrifying his senses. Ghostly whispers breezed his ears, caressing him, chanting songs in languages so ancient they didn’t even sound human. Death lurched onto its knees, bracing itself against the floor. A dribble of glistening saliva fell from its chin and spattered beside those hideous skeletal hands.
His lightstone slipped from his sweaty fingers and clattered onto the floor.
Death turned to him.
When Death stood, swaying almost drunkenly, the boy began to pray. Wet warmth spread down his trousers as Death approached. His legs gave out beneath him, leaving him to lie at Death’s feet in a weeping pile. Eyes squeezed shut, he felt those horrid white fingers slither across his scalp like snakes and latch onto his hair, yanking him up into the air as if he weighed nothing.
Something forced his eyes open. Prayers still spewed from his lips when he saw Death’s face. Death’s beautiful, womanly face, her silky hair and cold eyes.
The boy finally began to scream.
The last thing he knew as Death smiled at him, sharp and silver, was a red-hot pain across his throat—and then darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning, Orion awoke from a thankfully dreamless doze. Sunshine bled through the shutters of the room’s single window, casting a ladder of pale white light through the slats and onto his bed. He rolled out from beneath the covers and got dressed, his thoughts still lingering on Rose’s words while he packed up his things. Wondering what the inn might serve for breakfast, he stepped into the hallway just as the door across from him opened and out shuffled Quinlan, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a little smile on his face.
Orion nearly dropped his pack onto the garish red-gold carpeting. “Were you in Asterin’s room the whole night?”
Quinlan jumped so high that he smashed the top of his head into the lamp jutting out from the wall. He massaged the injury and shot Orion a pained glare. “Maybe.”
Orion threw his pack down and rushed forward, shoving Quinlan against Asterin’s door with a thud. “I swear to the Immortals, if you—”
“If I what?” he challenged, eyes blazing. “Took advantage of her?”
Orion’s hand latched around the Eradorian’s throat. “Did you?”
Quinlan’s mouth thinned. “Of course not. Do you actually think I would do that?” At Orion’s silence, something almost like hurt flashed across his face. “You … you still don’t trust me. At all.”
Orion’s grip slackened. Learn to give people a chance, Orion. “Well, I mean, you kind of suggested it first—”
Quinlan smacked his hand away, expression closing off, and shouldered past. “We just talked about stuff,” he said, voice cold. “Promise.”
“What sort of stuff?”
Before Quinlan could retort, the door creaked open and Asterin nudged her head outside, stifling a yawn. “What’s all the noise about?”
Orion jerked his chin at the Eradorian. “Beat it.”
Quinlan just shook his head and stalked off toward Rose’s room, shoulders hunched.
“Orion?” said Asterin. “What’s wrong?”
There were so many things Orion wanted to say, but then he remembered the hurt in Quinlan’s expression and his voice died in his throat. “Nothing,” he finally managed. “Just get ready to leave.”
He found Luna and Eadric outside, sitting on the steps to the inn and sharing a cup of hot chocolate from the kitchen. He tried to imagine Asterin and Quinlan in their place, and nearly stormed over to kick the mug out of Eadric’s hand.
Before long, their horses were stirring up a cloud of dust, putting the town of Aldville behind them. They continued along the main road until it diverged southeast, toward Corinthe. They kicked into a gallop, the road soon giving way to worn dirt. It was a perfect day, warm and fresh, the early spring scenery passing in a vivid blur of lush green fields and sparkling aquamarine lakes as they flew across miles and miles of land. The sky stretched endlessly on, unblemished by even the slightest wisp of white, so bright and piercing that it hurt Orion’s eyes to look at it. Wind whistled through his hair, and the drumming of hooves against the dirt road filled his head like thunder. They stopped only once to rest and water their horses, and so the sun hovered high overhead with afternoon heat when they at last arrived in the village of Corinthe.
Or at least, what remained of it.
Orion swung off Buttercup. “Immortals above.”
The others followed suit, speechless.
Dust and debris hung around them in a veil, drifting aimlessly. Shapes emerged with each step along the road leading into the village—scraps of wood, skeletal carcasses of furniture, shattered glass littering the cracked cobblestones. Ruined houses loomed over them, ceilings ca
ved in and doors missing from their hinges. The ground crunched underfoot, and it was all Orion could do not to check for bones.
It smelled like death.
They passed a water well that appeared untouched, save for the fraying rope dangling from the winch. The bucket lay upside down a few feet away, and when Luna nudged it over, she found a tattered doll trapped beneath. She bent down to pick it up. Stuffing weeped out of a rip across its face, one button-eye dangling from a lone thread.
“The demon did this,” Asterin said, voice thick with rage and grief. “It must have.”
Not a single being stirred the arid breeze as they led their horses farther into the village, all their senses on high alert. Orion kept a careful eye on Asterin’s back, his stride quickening to match hers, one hand on Orondite’s pommel. He wouldn’t let Aldville happen again.
“There were at least three hundred people living here,” Eadric said hoarsely. “But—”
“Where did they go?” Quinlan murmured. “There’s blood, but … no bodies.”
“Immortals,” said Luna suddenly, looking sick. “You don’t think the demon could have eaten them, do you?”
“Please stop,” said Asterin quietly.
Soon they turned onto a lane of destroyed houses. At its end rose an enormous pile of earth, stretching twenty feet across and double that in height.
Asterin gave Lux a pat and started up the hill of dirt. “I’m going to get a better look at everything.” The horse watched her go, swishing his tail back and forth and pawing at the ground.
Orion tugged Buttercup forward, but the mare planted her hooves in the ground and refused to budge. He handed her reins to Eadric and clambered up the slope after Asterin, stomach clenching with growing unease. Twice he nearly slipped, the loose dirt giving way beneath his boots.
Ahead, Asterin had already reached the peak.
“What do you see?” called Eadric.
Asterin failed to answer.
Orion finally managed to scrabble to the top of the hill. “What is …” His voice died in his throat as he looked down. Overwhelming denial washed over him, but there was no mistaking the horrid stench wafting upward.
“Orion?” hollered Eadric. “What’s below the hill?”
“It’s not a hill,” he said. Everything seemed to slow as he turned and told the others. “It’s … a grave.”
Luna pressed a hand to her mouth, the doll hanging limp at her side. The Eradorians’ eyes widened in shock. Eadric could only stare, expression utterly blank.
Quinlan was the first to spring into action, starting for the hill when Asterin thrust out an arm to halt him. “Don’t,” she commanded, her voice breaking on the end of the word. “These are not your people.”
“Asterin,” said Orion, reaching forward to grasp her wrist. She flinched, but he held firm and eventually she gave him a small nod.
Together, they looked back into the pit.
Heaps and heaps of corpses of all sizes were sprawled within the pit, some naked, others missing arms and legs. A strange black fluid oozed from their wounds, out of their mouths and ears. Nearly all of them were missing patches of skin from their faces, like the doll Luna still clutched to her chest, as if something had clawed their flesh right off.
Orion couldn’t stand the sight for more than a few seconds, but Asterin kept on staring at the bodies for what seemed like an eternity, her expression unreadable.
“Asterin,” he said to her softly, desperately, but she had gone mute. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook gently. “Asterin. Say something. Please.”
She clenched her fists so hard that they trembled. Then she opened her mouth, and at last, like a dam bursting open, the tears came, shaking her entire body with hysterical sobs.
Orion pulled her roughly into his arms, holding her close as if his life depended on it.
She buried her face into his chest, muffling her enraged howls.
“Don’t cry,” he breathed without thinking, but she drowned him out and he didn’t repeat it.
A memory forced itself to the surface of his mind. The one memory that he couldn’t bear to talk about, the one he had struggled to lock away all his life. But now …
Seven. He had only been seven at the time, growing up in a small town dotted with quaint little houses stacked one atop the other like books thrown together in a haphazard pile. There had been a central square with a large fountain, where the townsfolk gathered for holidays. Where his family had gathered, too. It was the only home he had ever known.
Orion remembered the weather. Rolling clouds of cinder flocked the horizon, bleak and dismal, the taste of a storm hanging over the town and the air sticky with humidity—perfect for fishing. On any other day, the streets would have cleared quickly—mothers calling their children inside from their games, vendors squinting upward as they packed away their goods and scurried for shelter.
But that day, the streets had already stood empty when the heavens opened up. The rain plummeted in cold, fat drops onto cobblestones slick with red.
Waiting alone in the central square, he had gazed up at the fountain, carved with the faces of the Council of Immortals. Lord Conrye stared down at him through the curtain of rain—a little boy, drenched from head to toe, golden hair plastered to his forehead and his face upturned to embrace the storm. But even with the storm and the scent it brought of something beginning anew, the stench of vomit and human waste still lingered. He wondered where the Immortals were, if they even existed. He wondered why they weren’t here. Why they hadn’t been here, when so many people had needed them so badly.
The rain cooled his burning cheeks, dripping past his lashes, but he ignored the sting in his eyes and the ache in his tired feet. He simply stood there, alive and whole, when he knew that he was supposed to be dead.
“I just wanted to go fishing,” Orion had whispered up to Lord Conrye. A drop of rain trickled from the god’s eye.
Though his gaze was fixed on the faces of the Immortals, they were not the faces he saw in his mind. No, he saw the faces of his friends from school. His neighbors. The man who sold roasted peanuts on the corner beneath the big oak tree with the branches perfect for climbing, the woman who sold jars of pitted peaches and apricots. The shoemaker. His son, who polished the shoes his father made from morning until evening. The bellmaker. The priest and his acolytes. The friendly baker who snuck him a fresh-baked cookie every time his mother sent him to buy bread.
Mother.
And Sophie, too.
Hirelings—those willing to commit any crime for the right price—had invaded their town to intercept a convoy containing a priceless nebula diamond heading for Axaris. The diamond, an affinity stone that could multiply one’s powers a hundredfold, was a secret kept so close that only King Tristan and a few trusted advisors, including his Royal Guardian—Orion’s father, Theodore Galashiels—knew of its existence.
But one of those advisors had betrayed him.
And when the hirelings came, they didn’t just steal the diamond. They ransacked the entire town, taking everything they could possibly sell and cutting down anyone who tried to stop them. The best of King Tristan’s soldiers had arrived to eliminate the hirelings, but by then, it had already been too late.
That day, Orion’s street, bordering the edge of the town, had been the first to be attacked.
That day, his mother and baby sister had stayed home while he went to the lake to go fishing.
His fingers twitched, itching to lift the hem of his shirt so he could glimpse the smooth, unbroken skin that had been marred by a deep gouge just hours ago. His father had healed it with nothing more than a word and a touch.
Stupidly, he had dropped his fishing rod into the lake. When he climbed down the dock to retrieve it, he had slipped and impaled himself on a wooden spike sticking out of the shallows.
Mana
ging to flounder onto a rotting, overturned boat beneath the dock’s underbelly, he had curled up, trembling from shock and pain. Only minutes had passed when he heard the first screams shatter the air. And after that, the screams just hadn’t stopped.
Maybe an hour later, the thud of hooves and boots. Shouting. The clang of swords.
When the fighting ceased, leaving behind a silence that almost felt worse, Orion had closed his eyes, too weak to cry for help, too scared that the wrong people would find him. A cruel, vicious wind bit at him. The blood loss and pain left him feeble, shaking like a leaf.
He had begun to drift off, wondering if he would bleed out before anyone would even find him.
And what if you do? a voice had asked. His eyes snapped open. He didn’t want to die. Hold on, another voice whispered, far away and lovely, soothing his pain. Just a little longer.
“Orion?” yet another called, growing louder. “Orion!”
Only when he was being heaved out from underneath the dock by a pair of strong, warm arms did he realize the voice was not in his head. “Papa?”
“Orion,” his father had rasped into his hair, hugging him so tightly that it became hard to breathe. “Yes, I’ve got you now. I’m here.”
Another voice. “He’s bleeding.”
“Stay still,” his father coaxed, placing a palm on Orion’s torso. “It hurts, love, I know, but you have to stay still,” he murmured as Orion hissed and squirmed. “Haelein.” Orion’s shivers died away as his wound closed up. He buried his face into his father’s neck, too numb to do anything but breathe. “I saw your fishing rod floating in the lake. The Immortals were kind,” his father whispered before tipping his head skyward. “Thank you. Thank you.”
