Kingdom of Ashes

by Rhiannon Thomas

  DEDICATION

  For Alex, BFF and writing partner in crime

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Rhiannon Thomas

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  WANTED: ALIVE, FOR TREASON AND CRIMES AGAINST THE realm.

  For a thousand gold coins, even Aurora could believe that the smiling girl in the picture was a murderer.

  Aurora tore down the poster and crumpled it into a ball. She had been on the run for a week now, but she had not run far enough. Even this small jumble of houses by the forest edge knew to expect her.

  She had been so naïve, to think she could do this. Dirt itched under her fingernails. Her hair had matted around her shoulders, and blood had congealed around the blisters on her feet. She did not know where to go. She did not know how to build shelters or catch food. She didn’t even know how people outside the capital spoke, so she stood out wherever she went. And now the kingdom was covered with wanted posters, promising riches to whoever might capture her. The king’s guards could not be far behind.

  But Aurora had to go into the village. She had never felt so hungry before. She had never had to hope that she would come across a forest stream, or figure out whether a berry was edible, or spend her day worrying about whether she would eat. She had never once considered where her food came from or doubted that it would appear, had left so much uneaten to be tossed away. . . . She needed more food, or she wouldn’t make it much farther, and the king’s guards would catch her either way.

  Besides, who would think she was the princess, if they looked at her now?

  The village was quiet in the early dawn. A few people walked along the street, but they were mostly half-asleep, or so absorbed in their errands that they barely glanced at Aurora as they passed.

  Aurora could smell baking bread. She followed it to a shop with a sign above the door showing a single ear of wheat. Aurora closed her eyes and breathed in, savoring even the smell of food. Her stomach ached in response.

  She looked around. No guards or soldiers in sight. She would have to take the risk.

  A little bell rang as she opened the door. A middle-aged woman worked behind the counter, arranging steaming hot loaves onto trays. “Welcome, welcome,” she said, without looking up. “Pardon our appearance, it’s been one of those mornings. What can I get you?”

  “Uh . . .” Aurora stepped closer. The woman glanced at her, and then paused, a bun held inches above the tray.

  Aurora tensed. She glanced at the door, ready to run.

  “My goodness, girl,” the woman said. “You look a fright. What have you been up to?’

  “Oh,” Aurora said. “I’ve been traveling.” She struggled not to cringe at the words, the way she spoke so crisply, in her old-fashioned accent.

  The woman tutted. “So many traveling these days. Not enough food, is there, not enough work, so everyone thinks they have to move. It’s not safe for young things like you to be out there. Not safe at all.”

  Aurora stepped closer. The fresh bread smelled too delicious to resist. “I wanted to buy some bread.”

  “Oh yes, yes, of course. I would give you some for free for your troubles, honest I would, but things are tight for us here, too. I really can’t spare it.”

  “That’s all right,” Aurora said. “Thank you. I have money.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out the purse that Finnegan had given her. The woman’s eyes widened as the coins clinked together. Aurora made sure to tilt it toward herself as she opened it, concealing the flash of silver and gold. She picked out a few copper coins and pulled the drawstring closed.

  The woman recommended the local specialty, so Aurora ordered two loaves. “If you want somewhere to stay,” the woman added, as she placed the loaves in a paper bag, “you should try the Red Lion down the street. Good people there. Discreet, you know.”

  Aurora tightened her grip on the bag. “I have nothing to hide,” she said. “But thank you for the advice.”

  The bell rang again. A younger girl ran in, her braid bouncing behind her. “Mum!” she said. “Mum! There are soldiers here.”

  Soldiers. Aurora turned so quickly that her hip slammed against the counter. Had the guards been following her? Or had someone spotted her in the five minutes she had been here?

  The woman glanced at Aurora. “How do you know, Suzie? What did you see?”

  “They’re coming out of the forest. I was delivering the bread to Mistress Jones, like you told me to, and the soldiers marched into the street and started ordering everyone out of their houses.”

  The baker paused for a moment. “That’s no reason to stop your deliveries, is it, Suzie? People’ll need their bread, whatever happens. Quick, take the next lot to the Masons. Don’t worry about the soldiers.”

  “But—”

  “Do it!”

  The girl gaped at her mother. She shot Aurora a curious look, and then nodded.

  “All right,” she said. “I’m going. I just thought you’d want to know.” With another glance at Aurora, she sped back out of the door.

  “Thank you for the bread,” Aurora said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I’ll look at the inn, like you said.”

  “Nonsense, child.” The baker strode around the counter. “Better get you away quickly, hadn’t we, if they’re looking for you.”

  “Looking for me?” Aurora tried to frown, pushing her panic away. That was the right look, wasn’t it, for innocent confusion? But the baker would have none of it. She grabbed Aurora’s wrist and pushed her toward the door behind the counter.

  “At least go out of the back door, then. No point in dealing with soldiers if you don’t have to, if you ask me. It’s a quieter street back there, and not too far from the edge of the village.”

  She ushered Aurora into a cramped storeroom, with sacks of flour resting against one wall and a huge counter covered in trays of rising dough against the other. The low ceiling was held up by two beams, and the baker swerved around them as she headed for the back door. “This way, this way,” the baker said. “No point in hiding you, they’ll only look, and then how will you get away? This door here now.”

  Someone knocked on the back door. “Open up!” a man shouted. “King’s orders. We need to inspect the property.”

  The baker jerked back, her hand tightening on Aurora’s wrist. She turned toward the shop front again, but the bell above the front door rang. Two soldiers marched into the bakery. They stopped when they saw Aurora, eyes widening. They might have known she was in this area, but they had not known she was in here. She should have hidden as soon as she heard they were looking for her.

  The soldiers pulled out their swords, one shouting to the others outside. Aurora wrenched her wrist free of the baker and ran for the back door. A so
ldier kicked it open, and three men advanced into the storeroom, swords raised. Aurora scrambled back. She grabbed the dagger in her bag.

  She had been foolish to think entering a shop would be safe. Now they would catch her, they would drag her back to the capital, back to King John’s booming laugh and his stony eyes and his threat of the pyre.

  The nearest soldier grabbed for her arm. She dodged, panic and defiance swelling inside her, and fire shot across the storeroom floor. The soldier’s cloak caught, and he tore it away, yelling. The burlap bags burned too, and the wooden pillars in the center of the room. The baker screamed, and Aurora jumped around her, around the shouting soldiers, running for the door.

  Her whole body seemed to blaze. She dodged, and she ran, out of the storeroom and onto the street.

  More soldiers hurried toward the commotion at the bakery. Aurora spun on the spot. There had to be somewhere she could run.

  “Stop!” one of them yelled. He held a crossbow. “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”

  But he couldn’t kill her. The king wanted her brought back alive.

  Smoke billowed from the bakery. Aurora swerved around the side of the building, twisting as a crossbow bolt flew toward her. Flames danced in the window. The baker was screaming.

  Aurora ran onto another street, and then another, but the village was not that big. There was nowhere she could hide. She tore toward the edge of the forest, but her feet were aching and blistered, and she stumbled.

  A soldier grabbed her arm. She shoved him away, fire crackling again. The man shouted in pain and let go.

  The air stank of smoke. And the soldiers still ran after her, still shouted. Her head rang with the sound of their voices. They were going to catch her. There was nowhere to hide here, and they were going to catch her; they’d catch her, and the king would burn her, torture her, make her into nothing again.

  She could not let that happen.

  She sent flames across the ground, burning a line between her and the soldiers, reaching higher than the buildings around them, fed by nothing but Aurora’s fear.

  A house on the edge of the village caught fire. More people screamed, and the flames swelled again. They were too hot, too strong. Stop, she thought, but the flames swelled, as though driven by her panic.

  She dove into the forest. As she ran, she dodged brambles and tree roots, racing for the stream. She leapt over the mud by the bank, the water splashing as she landed, and ran. Steam rose around her.

  A tree with low-hanging branches stood ahead. Aurora scrambled up, the bark digging into her palms. She climbed and climbed, until the branches shuddered under her weight.

  In the distance, smoke rose into the air.

  The whole village was burning.

  The baker had helped her, tried to protect her, and she had burned her shop to the ground.

  She should keep running. Follow the flow of the stream as far as she could, before the guards caught her. But she could not move. She stared at the flames, so fierce now that they reached above the trees. She could not look away.

  It had come from her. She had not decided to use magic. She had not wanted to set things alight. But the panic had taken over, and now . . .

  She had done this. She did not know what else she was capable of, if she did not get her magic under control.

  She stared, and she stared, as the fire burned itself out, and the sun rose and fell in the sky.

  She had to go back. She had to. Even with the guards, she had caused this. The fire was hers. She had to help.

  But it was dark before her legs agreed to climb down from the tree. She followed the stream back, each step cautious, certain the guards would snatch her at any moment.

  She saw no one.

  The stench of smoke and burned wood got stronger the farther she walked. And then the end of the forest was in sight. The world beyond was black, hidden by the lingering smoke that formed a blanket across the night sky.

  She crept to the edge of the trees. There were no soldiers waiting. There was no one.

  The village was nothing but ashes.

  TWO

  SMOKE STUNG AURORA’S EYES AS SHE STARED AT THE village’s remains. A few buildings clung to life, with half-collapsed walls and charred beams, but otherwise, everything was destroyed. Everything was gone.

  She couldn’t have done this. She couldn’t have. Her magic had always been so small before, a candle, a flash of flame. She had shattered the fountain in the square before she ran, but she couldn’t burn down an entire village without a thought.

  She hoped the baker had escaped. She hoped . . . she hoped many things.

  Aurora stepped to the edge of the tree line. She could see no one, but surely some would have stayed behind, to salvage what they could, to mourn what they had lost. She took another step. A branch snapped under her foot.

  “What was that?” a man said, from somewhere in the ruins. A survivor, or a guard? If he was a survivor, she had to help him. He could be trapped. But if it was a guard . . .

  A hand clamped over her mouth. Aurora gasped, the sound swallowed by her captor’s palm. She jabbed backward with her elbow, twisting, reaching for the fire. . . .

  “Shh, Aurora.” Her captor—a woman—murmured in her ear. “It’s me. It’s Nettle.”

  The singer from the Dancing Unicorn. She should have been miles away in Petrichor, not lurking in the forest, not grabbing Aurora in the dark.

  “Do not move,” she said, so quietly that Aurora barely felt the breath against her ear. “There are two guards on the other side of the village.” She loosened her grip on Aurora and reached for something on the ground. Aurora could not see what she did next, but she felt Nettle’s arm snap out, the air shifting as something flew past her cheek. There was a small thud, and a groan of straining wood, as one of the charred buildings shook.

  Two guards came into view, torches held high. The flames illuminated the wreckage—charred fragments were falling from the wooden beam that Nettle had struck.

  The beam creaked. One of the guards glanced at it and let out an exasperated huff of air, but the other continued to look around. “I know I heard something,” he said.

  “It was just the beams,” the first said.

  “We have to be sure.”

  Nettle’s hand pressed over Aurora’s mouth again, but Aurora did not need the singer to help her stay silent. She could barely breathe for fear.

  The second guard looked right at them. He couldn’t possibly see them, not outside the blinding glow of his torch, not when the air was thick with smoke, but for one breath, and then the next, he watched their scrap of the forest.

  A crack cut through the air. The first guard had kicked the offending beam. He kicked it again, and it shuddered, more shards of wood snapping.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Proving a point,” the first guard said. He kicked the beam a third time, releasing another burst of soot. “They creak. They snap. There’s no one here but us.”

  The beam creaked again, as though to agree.

  “I still think we should check around.”

  “Fine,” the first guard said. “You do that. I’ll be sitting over there, where it’s warmer, enjoying some of that rum and giving this assignment all the attention it deserves. If you were the girl, would you come back here? No.”

  He strode away. The second guard gave the tree line another glance before following him.

  Nettle loosened her grip on Aurora’s mouth. “Quickly,” she said. “Tread softly.”

  Aurora hesitated. She had no idea what Nettle was doing here, but she had helped her evade the guards, and Aurora had to leave. Nettle could not lead her anywhere more dangerous than this.

  They crept through the forest, Nettle guiding Aurora with a hand on her wrist. They did not speak. At first, Aurora flinched every time she snapped a branch or rustled the underbrush, but the forest around them was full of noises too, owls hooting and creatures scrambling through the bracken. They heard no hum
an voices, saw no torches or signs of pursuit.

  “We have to head out into the open,” Nettle said, after about an hour of silence. “We’ll be harder to track across the fields. Fewer twigs to break.”

  Water gurgled ahead of them. The ground sloped down, and moonlight bounced off a shallow stream.

  “To stop any dogs from following our trail,” Nettle said, as she stepped into the water. Aurora followed her. The water soaked through her shoes, chilling her sore feet and blisters.

  The stream led them out of the forest, into open hills. Flocks of sheep slept in groups on the grass, but there were no buildings, no signs of human life.

  “Is it safe to talk?” Aurora asked.

  Nettle let go of Aurora’s wrist. “Yes,” she said. “Quietly. You must have many questions.”

  Aurora had so many questions that for a moment she found herself unable to speak. Nettle had helped her, that was clear, but she had given no hint of why she was here, or where they were going, or what had happened in the village. When Aurora finally found her words, she said, “How did you find me?”

  “You were not difficult to track. It is lucky that you evaded the guards as long as you did.”

  “You’ve been following me? Since I left Petrichor?”

  “I was about a day behind. When I saw the fire in the distance, I thought I must find you nearby. I am glad that I did.”

  “Why?” Aurora said. “Why were you following me?”

  “Prince Finnegan asked me to.”

  “Finnegan?” Aurora stopped. Finnegan, the prince of Vanhelm, who had helped her to escape the palace, who had encouraged her to abandon Rodric and Alyssinia altogether. Why would he ask Nettle to follow her? The water lapped around her ankles. “Finnegan asked you to watch me?”

  “Aurora, we must keep moving.”

  “You work for Finnegan?”

  “Yes,” Nettle said. “As I said. But we must move while we talk.”

  Aurora did not move. Nettle worked for Finnegan. Of course she worked for Finnegan. She had been at the banquet in Aurora’s honor, had been invited to perform by Finnegan himself after the previous musicians fell suddenly ill. She had sneaked into the ball; she had spoken to Aurora just before Princess Isabelle was poisoned; she had vanished soon afterward. . . . Aurora took a step back, the stream splashing around her. “Finnegan,” she said. “He—was he involved in Isabelle’s death? Did you kill her?”