You and I both know this wasn’t a normal assignment. That the Shadow Lords would throw you in prison.
I had no idea how Marroc knew so much, but he was right. The Lords had been very specific that this one was crucial to the cause. That my life depended on it. I hoped Barthol had been managing to evade them.
“All right. So I’m low on options.”
Marroc moved to sit next to me on the couch. He held his notebook in his lap so I could watch him as he wrote. I can help you get the ring you were tasked to retrieve. But you must promise to help me with my task.
“What is it exactly that you need to do?”
I want to get rid of this curse. To become alive again.
I pretended to think it over, though obviously I didn’t have a choice. Getting the ring was the only way to save my people.
“What’s your plan?” I asked. Dread already slid through me.
Because pretty as he was, he was insane, and I already knew his plan would be absolutely bonkers.
And that I would probably agree, because so was I.
Chapter 19
Marroc
I wrote in my notebook, wondering if she’d think I was crazy. We travel to the bottom of the Well of Wyrd, we retrieve the ring, then you help me steal the Levateinn.
Ali stared at me with an expression that suggested she definitely thought I was insane. “That’s impossible,” she said slowly.
No, it’s not, I wrote, grateful that a defensive tone couldn’t come across in writing. But why would I have suggested it if it were impossible?
“Levateinn? Loki’s wand?” she asked. “It’s definitely impossible. For one thing, it probably doesn’t exist. For another, if it did, it’s supposedly guarded by the goddess Sinmara and stored in a box with nine locks.”
And you are a thief, I wrote. Which is why you’re here. That last part wasn’t exactly the whole story.
“I was raised on the stories of the gods, just like every other Night Elf. But the gods are gone. Thor, Odin, Freya, Loki—they’ve been dead a thousand years. Ragnarok happened, we live in the frozen ashes of the world, and everything is fucked.”
If gods are dead, I wrote, Sinmara won’t be guarding Levateinn any longer.
“But where would we even find it?” she asked, sounding exasperated.
I know where to find it.
She stared at me, unmoving. I hadn’t ever spent this much time around a Night Elf, but it seemed she had a way of going very still sometimes, like the night itself. Then, at last, she spoke again. “Where?”
My pen spilled across the page. At the bottom of the world. The great dragon Nidhogg has it. You said you were the Shadow Lords’ chief assassin, head of thieves, hider of bodies. You and I both know you’re perfectly suited to help me retrieve it.
I leaned back, sipping my scotch, and waited for her to answer.
Of course, her criminal predilections weren’t the only reason I wanted her to help me. I wanted her with me. I needed to guard her, keep her safe. She had my soul, and she was my mate. The High Elves would be searching the city; if they found her, she’d be dead before night fell again.
She leaned back, drumming her fingertips on the armrest, silver eyes gleaming. “You have magic. Can you get a message out?”
Who? I wrote.
“He’s in Night Elf territory. His name is Barthol.”
I shook my head, a strange heat permeating my chest. There was that name again. Who the fuck was Barthol? A lover? A husband, perhaps?
My face was a mask of composure, eyes sparkling with calm. Inwardly, I seethed. And here I’d always thought myself above jealousy. Never before had I felt envy, and I would not for one moment let myself show it.
Everything about this was mystifying. Alone for a thousand years, I’d stopped feeling anything beyond base desire for souls. Where my heart once beat, I now felt only the need to consume. And then she had showed up, smelling of jasmine and dark chocolate, and it had started to stir up the dormant impulses of my kind. She’d arrived, in danger, bleeding before me, and I started to feel something again. But it was all wrong. I couldn’t love anymore—I could only want things, and break them.
For a creature like me, feeling anything at all was very, very dangerous. At any moment, I could lose control and find that I’d destroyed her. She wasn’t nearly as scared of me as she should be.
No, I wrote calmly. I’m afraid I have no way to do that. Sleep now, and we’ll return to the Citadel at night. Despite my jealousy, it was the truth. Even if I could send ravens with messages into the Shadow Caverns, it would be too risky. Anyone could intercept them.
Her features hardened again. “Fine. Let’s steal the wand of a god, then. It sounds like a fantastic idea.”
Chapter 20
Ali
We stood at the base of the Citadel’s towering white walls. It wasn’t that long ago that we’d escaped from here. And now, like a true pair of idiots, we were about to break back in.
I rubbed my eyes, staring up at the walls. I’d hardly slept at all at Marroc’s house. I never could sleep when shit was hitting the fan, and shit was definitely hitting the fan.
Everything depended on me getting my hands on that ring. If that was truly the prize I was supposed to return to the Shadow Lords, only then would I be able to free my people. The Night Elves had been imprisoned far too long, and I’d do whatever I could to set them free.
At least I had dry boots and warm socks. In fact, I was dressed in my freshly cleaned assassin’s outfit. Back at his mansion, Marroc had shown me a strange pair of devices in his basement he called a washing machine and dryer. Genius things that had left my clothes softer and fluffier than they’d ever been—and best of all, they’d been warm on my body when I first put them on. I’d even thrown my coat in to warm it, although some of the fake fur was a bit melted when I pulled it out.
But now, with the snow rushing around us in whorls, I shivered a little as I looked up at the Citadel.
Still, I had my vergr crystal in my pocket, and Skalei ready if I needed it.
Marroc loomed next to me, wearing a large leather jacket. His magic snaked off him, blending with the shadows.
I took a long sip from the thermos he’d given me. The coffee tasted so delicious that it almost made me forgive him for this whole debacle.
The plan was bonkers, but it was all we had. Scale the wall of the Citadel, sneak over the rooftop, climb into the Well of Wyrd, find my ring. Then we’d travel to whatever world held Levateinn, assuming it existed. Allegedly, Marroc knew where it was, and he’d be able to use the wand to get us home.
Alternately, he was a soulless husk with a mind full of smoke and nonsense, and I was dumb as Helheim for going along with this.
He gently pulled the thermos out of my grasp. He turned, nodding at the Citadel. Seemed it was time to go.
“All right,” I whispered. “Let’s go.”
I stepped behind him, and he crouched down. Climbing onto his enormous back, I wrapped my arms around his neck. As he rose, he drew a pair of daggers. Long and sharp, they glinted in the moonlight, runes shining on their blades.
With me clinging to his back, he leapt into the air. At the top of his jump, he plunged the daggers into the wall of the Citadel. Stone crunched, and gravity jerked us downward, but the daggers held. Then, for what seemed like days, Marroc scaled the wall. Using the daggers like ice picks, he alternated punching them into the stone as he lifted us, hand over hand, up the sheer face of white marble.
The icy wind battered us as he climbed, and I clung tightly to him. Before, his body had felt cold, but now he was growing warmer than the world around me, faintly radiating heat. I could feel the powerful muscles of his back working as he climbed. It was amazing that he never seemed to feel tired.
Around us, snow whipped through the air and gusts of wind rushed over the wall. The cold stung my cheeks even as Marroc’s body exuded warmth. While freezing trickles of melted snow dripped down the back
of my neck and between my shoulder blades, my breasts and stomach were deliciously warm. I could smell Marroc’s scent, a mix of wood smoke and burned sage. Even though we were nearly a thousand feet above the ground, I felt safe.
When we finally reached the edge of the parapet, we paused, hiding behind the crenellations. I hadn’t been able to communicate with Marroc the whole time because both his hands had been occupied.
“Do you need to rest?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“You’re not tired?”
He took out his pad and pen. No. My body is untiring. I was giving you time to recover.
“Well, I’m not tired either,” I lied, standing quickly. I wasn’t about to admit that my forearms throbbed from simply hanging on to his neck. “Let’s get moving.”
We crept through the blowing snow, retracing our steps until we reached the Well of Wyrd. This time, the amphitheater was completely deserted. Snowdrifts gathered on the benches and steps. As quickly as we dared, we made our way to the bottom.
Strangely, no snow had accumulated on the top of the well. Like an inky eye, it seemed to stare up into the stormy sky. Suddenly, a voice cut through the storm.
“I thought you might return,” shouted King Gorm from the top of the amphitheater, as above us a phalanx of giant moths descended from the clouds. I heard the sound of wands being charged, and moments later, spells began to sizzle into the snow around us. I started to run, but Marroc caught my wrist.
Crouching over me protectively, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small sphere. It gleamed with an unearthly light in the darkness.
“Don’t!” I shouted, but he’d already tossed the anti-magic bomb onto the center of the well.
For a moment, it rolled across the glassy surface. Then it detonated with a tremendous explosion. Above us, hexes fizzled and snuffed out in little puffs of light. Elven riders screamed as the magical bindings of their moths snapped and the beasts thrashed wildly under their weight. And, directly in front of us, the magical surface of the well shattered into a million pieces.
Marroc growled. I barely had a chance to brace myself before he grabbed me and leapt into the swirling mix of snow, flailing elven riders, and flapping wings of newly freed moths.
“No!” As we arced over the yawning chasm, I realized that our trajectory would not allow us to reach the other side. We were supposed to climb down the wall, not dive straight in. Marroc might survive a gravity-based trip to the bottom, but there was not a chance in Helheim I would. The lich had already gotten me killed.
Then we slammed into a moth. The insect struggled, its wings beating the air frantically, but Marroc clung to it like a limpet. With one hand, he grabbed one of the moth’s antennae, forcing the bug into a sharp downward spiral as he pulled himself onto its back. Terrified, I clung to the fur of the moth’s body, until Marroc lifted me up so that I sat in front of him.
He gave an unnatural, rasping growl, which I took to be a sort of affirmation. Then he reached over my shoulder and grabbed the moth’s other antenna. Gently, he pulled the terrified creature out of its dive.
My stomach clenched. We’d already descended deep into the well. The walls rose around us claustrophobically. Seaweed-green moss clung to the gray stone, and the sound of water dripping came from all angles.
I looked up. The entrance to the well was far above us, a circle of light that grew smaller even as my eyes focused on it. There was no sign of any High Elves. They, at least, had the sense not to descend into the abyss.
The air was cold, and I shivered at the chill. Behind me, Marroc shifted, moving himself closer. Warmth emanated from him, and without thinking, I leaned into his chest. He stiffened for a moment, and I thought I heard a low growl rise in his throat, but it might have just been my imagination. I could smell him again: the faint, strangely comforting scent of wood smoke and sage.
We flew down and down, deeper and deeper into the seemingly bottomless pit. Slowly, the walls narrowed, till after an hour I could almost reach out and touch them. The moss disappeared, replaced first with mushrooms and fungi. Then those too vanished, and we were left with bare stone.
But the rock wasn’t endlessly gray. Cutting through it were great veins of quartz, shadowy caves that led into darkness—once, we even passed a massive cavity filled with glowing crystals as tall as men. This was Night Elf territory, though I saw no sign of my kind. It got darker, too, but that wasn’t a problem for me. My silver eyes pierced the shadows with ease.
We must have been descending for a least an hour before I noticed the first root. Initially, I didn’t know what it was—a brown serpent that seemed to cling to the rock? But as we continued to descend, they became more and more frequent, and it was obvious they were the woody extremities of trees.
It was strange to see roots this deep in the earth, and I was about to ask Marroc about them when suddenly the walls of the cave disappeared and we passed into an absolutely enormous cavern. The roof was stone, but as far as I could see, there were no walls, just blackness that even my Night Elf eyes couldn’t penetrate.
One glance at the cavern’s floor answered my questions about the roots I’d seen twisting through the well’s walls. It was covered in a massive tangle of them. Giant and tuberous, they wrapped and twined amongst themselves like the entrails of a gutted beast. We flew lower and lower, and I was awestruck by their size. Even the smallest ones were humongous, as tall and wide as houses.
Marroc directed the moth toward a bare spot amongst the roots, and we landed. Stepping off, he offered me his hand, which I took. The moth rose into the air, and the now-familiar flapping of its wings quickly faded into silence. Looking up, I saw that shadows obscured the ceiling. There was no sign of the Well of Wyrd.
“Is this the roots of Yggdrasill?” I whispered. Awe washed over me. It was the cosmic tree that bound the Nine Worlds together.
Marroc’s pen scratched for a moment on his notebook. Yes. Now we must find the great Shore of the Dead, where the dragon Nidhogg dwells.
I nodded, my skin going cold. “Okay. Sounds like a great time.”
I’d do whatever I had to if it meant getting my ring back.
Chapter 21
Marroc
I had crossed the northern seas, traveled the astral plane, once visited the mists of Niflheim, but nothing had prepared me for the vastness of Yggdrasill. The power of the cosmos flowed through the intertwining roots, humming up my legs. Even if we failed—if we died and our souls were sent to Helheim—this trip alone would have been worth it. Few elves had visited the place where the gods used to dwell.
“I don’t see any sign of the ring.” Ali interrupted my thoughts, and I realized I’d forgotten about the ring.
The ring was now worth only the weight of the gold from which it had been cast. The true prize was Ali herself. She was the one who housed my soul. But I couldn’t explain that to her; I’d taken her with me under the pretense of finding that ring.
Ignoring my curse, I inscribed sowilo in the air, and light bloomed. With a flick of my wrist, I cast up the glowing rune so that it hovered above us, giving me light to search the overgrown floor.
With the glow in the air, I could see that we stood atop a massive root, wide as a Viking longboat was long. It was nearly black, and slick with water. A few pale mushrooms grew on the bark, dotting it like stars, but I saw no sign of the ring.
“Are those bones?” asked Ali.
She was pointing to something on the opposite the side of the root. My eyes followed her finger to what was, in fact, a massive mound of bones. It took me a moment to work out how they’d got there. Piled higher than any of the nearby roots, they made me wonder how many thousands of years the High Elves had been throwing their enemies into the abyss.
And this meant we were likely in the right spot—the place where objects thrown in settled.
“Look.” Ali pointed up at the mount of bones, where a fresh body lay high at the top. “That�
�s the prison guard who tried to throw me in the well. The ring might be somewhere near him. I’ll climb up to see.”
But I held my hand up to stop her. If we did it her way, the search would take forever. The ring could be anywhere in that pile, and we didn’t have time to clamber around on it.
What we needed was a location spell. Difficult without the power of speech, but not impossible.
As a lich, I could consume souls. All living things contained magic tied up with their souls. Ali had some—extraordinarily beautiful—magic, the perfect complement to my own. And if I were to drain her soul and her magic, it would be without a doubt the greatest pleasure I’d ever known, pure ecstasy lighting up my body. She’d feel it too: the wild, forbidden pleasure of being drained by a dark sorcerer.
But there was no way in Helheim I was going to disturb her magic or risk killing her.
And besides, another source lay under my feet. Crouching, I pressed my palm against the rough bark of the root. The ancient tree’s soul pulsed under the bark, and a strange euphoria spread into my fingertips, racing up my arm. Yggdrasill required enormous amounts of magic to hold the Nine Worlds together.
With a thrill of anticipation, I drew one of my daggers and plunged it into the root. Instantly, a milky, opalescent sap flowed around the blade like liquid pearls.
I withdrew the dagger and pressed my hand to the shining wound. As Yggdrasill’s soul poured into me, pure ecstasy raced through my veins, and I shuddered with delight. My gaze flicked to Ali, her body lit up from below by the glow of this pearly sap. Her eyes shone with wonder, and as pleasure filled me, so did an unyielding ache to drain her. How much better would that feel? My lips against hers, my tongue against hers, and her soul imbuing me with divine rapture.
Cursed Prince (Night Elves Trilogy Book 1) Page 8
