Dream of Darkness and Dominion (SoulShifter Book 3)

by Hilary Thompson

  She compromised and stepped back, up onto the raised dais. Her calves bumped the edge of one of the heavy chairs, and she stood, frozen before those she might one day call subjects. The idea was too unnatural, but she did her best to school her gaze back into a mask of stone.

  From her vantage point, there was overwhelming disbelief among the two dozen or so people before her. Other expressions ranged from disinterest all the way to outrage.

  Coren squared her shoulders and drew the shadowy ring from the pocket of her tunic. She palmed its weight, then held it high, letting the light from above catch its dark, glinting promise.

  She ignored the gasps and mutterings as she looked at each face in the room, then back to the doors, where General Watersend stood. He nodded to her, and she took a deep breath.

  “Zorander Graeme is dead,” she said.

  Chapter 4

  THE DOOR TO LORD GERNANT’S office creaked open just enough to admit a sword’s width of light. It was a carefully controlled action, honed by dozens of punishments for the shaft of light being too narrow or too broad.

  Lord Gernant smiled, placing a bookmark between the wrinkled pages he’d been studying. He was not unhappy for the interruption. In fact, he’d been growing bored. Surely, the King and Queen should have returned by now, to let him know Rurok was now within the grasp of Riata. Queen Mara had trusted him with the preparation of the Wesh children, and he was eager to see how his plan had worked.

  He was confident the southern witches would have been fooled, and that Sulit would soon be theirs.

  “Come in,” he murmured after waiting to a count of twenty-three. It was never the same number, but always more than twenty.

  The servant shuffled in, terror pocking his face. Gernant scowled. That meant bad news. Not that his servants didn’t always hold him in fear. But this man cowered before the very words he had come to deliver.

  “Sir, the King and Queen have not returned.”

  “Then why in all of FatherSun would you interrupt my studies?” he screeched. His instructions had been precise.

  “Sir, they will not return. A young woman is here, in possession of the black diamond ring. She claims the King is dead and the blessed Queen is a deserter.”

  Lord Gernant stilled. His gaze bore down on the servant, pinning the shaking man to the wood floor like an insect to an observation card. Delving his hand into a deep pocket of his velvet-trimmed robe, he tossed a pinch of powder onto the man’s worn leather slippers. The servant gasped as his feet began to sink into the very floorboards, the alchemy magic in the powder sucking him down, down into Gernant’s secret chambers.

  There the displeasing servant would find himself pinned to something much more terrifying than an observation card.

  But those studies would have to wait until he sorted whatever mess Mara had made this time.

  Lord Gernant fastened his cloak about his bent shoulders and swept from the room, intent on the throne room and whatever hideous surprise he might find there.

  His anger rose as he saw how late he was and how many of his fellow, lesser Lords were already crowded before the throne. He felt even more justified at the servant’s punishment. Tardiness was inexcusable.

  The Generals were here, too, and he noted Watersend standing at the front, facing everyone.

  Gernant shoved his way through the crowd. Though once people recognized his form, they parted and made way. His close work with Mara had served his reputation well. He stalked to the dais, sweeping his glare over the form of the filthy young Weshen girl before him.

  “Explain yourself at once,” he hissed. She was nothing but a whelp - a skinny girl with unwashed hair and a blood-stained tunic. How dare she take his Queen’s position on the dais? “You’re too dark. You look nothing of Mara’s blood. They had no children. No heirs.”

  “I am of Zorander Graeme’s blood. Not of Mara’s,” she answered, narrowing her eyes at him. Her voice was stronger than he’d expected, though there was a slight tremble in its undertones. She raised her voice to reach the quieted men and women behind him. “My grandmother was Lorental Ashaden, Weshen Commander in Graeme’s army. She had a child that the King never knew to claim, never dreaming it belonged to him. That child escaped Graeme when Lorental could not, and she was delivered to Weshen Isle just as the mountains closed against Riata.”

  “Delivered by the Prodigal Knight?” a voice rang out from the crowd. Gernant scowled, remembering the story of the knight’s defection and later return. Graeme never should have trusted him. Now, his bedraggled daughter had returned to overthrow their kingdom.

  The girl nodded, keeping her gaze steady. “The Prodigal Knight, Kashar Ashaden, is my father. He rescued my mother from the palace long ago and brought her to Weshen Isle, where I was born, then he returned later to serve your King.”

  “And what claim has all of this to the throne of Riata?” a man called from the crowd. “You can’t really expect to push aside our Queen and claim our country based on some archaic statute.”

  Lord Gernant slid his eyes to the voice, and the man flushed. This girl’s heritage, if authentic, did indeed present a problem to his aspirations. Still, as the most senior adviser to the Queen, he should be running this interrogation.

  The girl stepped forward, dropping the hand with the black diamond to her side. She squared her shoulders, and Gernant noticed her fingers bent unconsciously to stroke the handle of a weapon just beneath the sleeve of her tunic. He sneered.

  Idiot Watersend. The General hadn’t even searched her for weapons.

  “King Zorander Graeme is dead. His body rests without honor in a stone tower of Rurok,” she began, and the room silenced. “Queen Mara and her twin, Aram, have vanished, fleeing the damage I dealt them in Rurok these past nights. Riata’s plans for Sulit have failed. The towers of Rurok have not fallen, nor have the Brujok managed to quell the southern Sulit rebellion. Instead, my friends and I have toppled the Lord of Witches and your rulers.”

  She paused to take a deep breath, and Gernant felt for the cracks in her story. She hadn’t done this great deed alone, yet her so-called friends had sent her by herself into this den of wolves. Even more, she didn’t want to rule Riata, he realized. His grin grew, unfurling in the throne room like a catten stretching in the afternoon sun.

  These things, he could use.

  “I never meant to become what I am,” the girl said, her voice lower. “But if it helps the people of Riata, I will rule in my grandfather’s place. I will rule fairly, but I will allow those who wish to leave Riata safe passage back to whatever home they may retain beyond these borders. Including my Weshen brothers and sisters, kept all these years for their magic.”

  The room exploded in gasped conversations, but all Gernant could do was stare.

  This was unprecedented. Gernant was apoplectic with sputtered protests. She couldn’t possibly break up the kingdom he’d fought so hard to keep together. Not even one tribe - not even one prisoner - must be allowed to leave.

  “Your blood must be tested,” he spat, his voice shrieking high above the others’. “And even if that portion of your story remains true, there is no guarantee you have any right to rule Riata. What power do you have to control such an important nation? Queen Mara had the support of witches, shifters, creatures - you are but a mere girl.”

  The girl’s face darkened in anger, and Gernant found himself trembling as he regarded her, but not in fear. He must have proof.

  Everything in this world could be studied. Everything could be taken apart to find its truth, and he planned to do just that to this girl’s story, to her very body if necessary.

  “Lord Gernant,” a calm voice cut through the fray. Gernant glared back at Watersend, Riata’s youngest General. He’d never understood just why Mara tolerated the upstart. Trouble from the beginning, he’d been.

  “Lord Gernant, she has power in plenty. Although I do agree, her blood should be tested, as should her story.”

  Watersend
beckoned to a servant at the edge of the room, and the man hurried to bring a tray holding a single golden goblet.

  “A bit of your blood?” Watersend asked, the words soft in the suddenly quiet room. He held a shining dagger to the girl, gripping a cup beneath it.

  “I need no dagger,” she announced, her voice carrying to every edge of the massive throne room. “As you all know, the Weshen shifter magic has returned, and I own it in plenty.”

  Her veiled threat complete, she held her palm up before them. Lord Gernant couldn’t help but stare, mesmerized, as the smooth flesh along her wrist opened of its own accord, as though slit by an invisible knife. A stream of red flowed into the cup like water from the bathing rooms. Just as swiftly, the cut on her wrist sealed, leaving not a drop of blood on her skin and no mark or scar at all.

  “Fascinating,” he whispered to himself, his brain churning with questions. What studies he could commit with such a subject. None of the Wesh children had ever possessed such power over their shifting. Many had tried, certainly.

  “Lord Gernant?” General Westersend called his name. “Perhaps you could test the blood for us?”

  Gernant snapped into action. “Absolutely,” he answered, a sly smile creeping along his lips. He would love to test her blood. And even if it showed her stories were true, the task would be worth the trouble, for he could learn so much from this cup.

  He snatched the goblet from Westersend and stared into its ruby depths a fraction of a second too long. The General cleared his throat, and Gernant scowled around him.

  “I’ll return shortly.” He swept from the room, his cloak trailing behind him. Just as he reached the great, wide doors, the whispering began again.

  WAITING WAS TORTURE. The Lords, Ladies, and military officers gathered before Coren now were more intimidating than the Brujok she had fought, or Queen Mara herself.

  She tried to make eye contact with the people before her, but none of them approached the dais, casting furtive looks at her and talking among themselves instead.

  Coren had no idea what these people were planning or plotting, and the extra time only gave her mind a chance to fabricate a thousand worries about Sy and Resh. And as much as she was curious to have someone corroborate Mara’s story, giving her blood to Lord Gernant seemed risky.

  His smile when he took the cup had been laced with a groundless sort of glee.

  Coren knew little of the world of men, though, and nothing of a royal court. Their passive inaction confused her. She’d expected shouted accusations and dozens of questions, but they all seemed to be waiting. Perhaps they were afraid, like Watersend had implied, that she would be an even worse tyrant than her grandfather.

  Inevitably, rumors of her wings and power would have already spread beyond the soldiers.

  Staring at the blue sky beyond the high glass windows and searching for some slim comfort, Coren wished for her friends, or any friend for that matter. As the minutes ticked by and still no one said anything to her, her thoughts slid to Giddon. Had he heard of her return? She would never send for him, for fear of drawing dangerous attention to the skittish little man.

  And with Kashar in Sulit, she wasn’t sure if she could trust or even locate his cadre of soldiers.

  As it was, there were only two people in the whole world she could rely on to help her navigate this cold place, and they were probably still a day’s journey from the palace, traveling the woods lining the Conqueror’s Channel.

  But Sy and Resh had trusted her enough to let her go forward without them, and she would not repay them with the paralysis of uncertainty. She must deal with this before they arrived. Asking the court to accept her as the true princess would be enough; requesting that they trust her enough to harbor Weshen’s General and Sulit’s Lord was beyond reason.

  Yes, she needed a friend here. One with enough power and interest to keep her safe.

  “General Watersend,” she called, and he turned to meet her eyes. He nodded to the three other Generals he’d been speaking with and stepped toward her. She spoke formally and raised her voice, conscious of many eyes watching. “I will require a room and a worthy guard. I agree to answer what questions the court surely has, but it’s only a matter of time before Riata realizes she is under new leadership.”

  She prayed her words had been strong enough, and from Watersend’s widened eyes, she guessed they had been. The next indication was the barrage of questions she’d been anticipating from the crowd.

  Before she could address any of them, though, the doors banged open, and Lord Gernant strode in.

  His sly face was a curious twist of triumph and rage.

  Gernant strode straight through the people, his eyes locked on her. With a chill, she noted how dull and flat they were, like two tiny, round holes of darkness.

  He broke his gaze only when he reached the dais. Sweeping his cloak to the side and swiveling to the waiting crowd, he held both arms high in the air, one hand clutching the goblet and pausing until they were silent.

  Something Resh once described about using physical presence to create power came to mind, and Coren realized she would soon need to take command of this crowd before their odd apathy could shift to scheming.

  Gernant began, “We shall continue our investigation into the disappearance of our esteemed King and Queen. But know this - the Weshen girl is indeed a relation of Zorander Graeme. She tells the truth of her blood!”

  His words uncorked a new flood of shouting, the din now twice as loud and ranging from confusion to outrage.

  Coren’s breathing quickened. This was the moment.

  Her wings itched to spring forward and beat away these threats. Her whip begged to loose its tight coils on any who might present themselves as enemies. Her shifter power surged to lift her higher.

  And so she gave in to some of her instincts. She waved her hand, and a portion of the wall to her left crumbled. Sunlight streamed in as Coren dissolved the sources of the stone to show her magic. The dust gathered in a dense cloud at the ceiling.

  She flapped her wings, rising toward it, and flicked her whip, hovering above their heads.

  “I refuse to rule Riata with fear!” she called down, aware that many of them were already cowering. She concentrated on rebuilding the wall and then coiled her whip around her arm. Her four wings slowed, and she drifted down. This time she chose the floor before the dais, on eye level with the Lords, Ladies, and Generals. “But neither will I be ruled by it. Fear has no more place in Riata.”

  She caught the eye of General Watersend, and the corner of his lips quirked up in approval before he stepped in front of the people. None of them had called a question since she’d shown her power.

  “Gentlemen! Ladies!” Watersend called. “I know we have much to discuss. I propose that we prepare our questions and return here for dinner. It’s true we’ve heard nothing from our King or Queen, and Lord Gernant has confirmed that Corentine Ashaden is a true heir. This affords her our protection.”

  “And what of our protection?” Another General yelled, and several more muttered their agreement.

  Watersend held up his hand. “General Cusslen, I would suggest you send for the Brujok under your command. They can provide the protection you desire. And please, question them about our Queen’s return, if you can find them.”

  Cusslen flushed red with anger, and Coren wondered what history was between these two. Cusslen would be one to watch, for certain.

  The lone female General stepped forward, a firm hand on her peer’s shoulder. She turned to the Lords and Ladies. “I agree with Watersend.” She looked pointedly at the last General, and he nodded.

  “I concur.” He glanced in apology at Cusslen but said nothing more.

  “Then it is settled,” Watersend said. “Lords and Ladies of the court, you will have your opportunity for input at dinner. Until then, do you respect the military right to rule, in the absence of our King and Queen?”

  Muttering swept the crowd, but none called
out a challenge.

  Coren let out a deep breath as Cusslen pivoted and strode from the room, a few of the court following on his heels. Lord Gernant eyed her with interest and began to approach.

  Watersend stepped closer to her. “I need to get you out of here,” he said, his voice low.

  She nodded in relief, and he gripped her elbow and backed her swiftly out a narrow side door she hadn’t noticed before. It opened into a small alcove and then an endless set of shadowy stairs.

  This time, she didn’t bother to keep track of the turning halls and twisting stairs he led her through, setting his pace at a light jog. Her mind was swirling with too much doubt about whether she was doing the right thing. She wished again for Sy and Resh, praying that she wasn’t making a mess of this.

  Finally, Watersend pushed her through a plain wooden door. He bolted it behind them and walked the perimeter of the modest bedroom, checking behind the long curtains and inside the attached bathing room.

  “Am I in a great deal of danger now?” she asked when he finally turned back to her.

  “One is always in danger in Riata,” he replied, contradicting what he’d told her in the throne room. “Your blood gives you some protection, but also calls new fear.”

  “You believe in me now. Why?” she asked, gambling.

  His cheeks flushed beneath the dark stubble, and he lowered his eyes. “I’m not sure,” he admitted after several seconds. He turned away, dragging the single chair in front of the door. “There are a few plain dresses in the wardrobe. Take what will fit and have a bath. Then we’ll see about food before the court gets you again. I’m sorry I can’t give you more than a secluded room.”

  Coren smiled. Whatever his reasons, she was relieved he’d decided to help her. “The room is perfect. Weshen Isle thrives in simple seclusion. My companions are also used to the Weshen life of hunts and sparse living. We need little.”

  She thought of Jyesh then, and her expression soured. He would want servants. Lots of them.