The Crown of Bones (The Fae War Chronicles Book 2)

by Jocelyn Fox

  The Crown of Bones

  Copyright © 2014 by Jocelyn A. Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. The rights of the authors of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.

  eBook design by Maureen Cutajar

  www.gopublished.com

  Print ISBN: 978-1505336689

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Prologue

  Queen Mab, ruler of the Unseelie Court and all its lands, monarch of the Night and the Winter, once the most powerful being in any world, was not accustomed to defiance. She stood before her delicately carved throne, her slim figure stiff with anger. Fingers of frost crept across the marble around her, and a deadly chill hung in the still air. Her courtiers had left at the first signs of her burgeoning fury, sweeping low curtseys and bowing deeply to their queen before striding away with cat-quiet steps. They feared their queen’s wrath, and the Sidhe feared few things. Only the Walker and the Vaelanseld remained. The silence in the throne room quivered like a live being with her fury. Frost crackled as it reached across the marble floor.

  The Fae queen looked down at the Walker, who waited before her on one knee, his face downturned in deference.

  “What is your name, Walker?” Mab asked, her voice cool and smooth, counterpoint to the anger blazing in her fathomless eyes. The stars set into her diadem illuminated the kneeling young Sidhe with a harsh white light, but even under such scrutiny he looked up at her calmly.

  “Murtagh, your Majesty,” he replied, keeping his green eyes carefully focused on his queen’s lips rather than her eyes.

  Mab gazed down at him. His face shone with youth, his pale skin yet undimmed by worry or hatred. He wore his russet hair slightly shorter than custom, but it became him, sharpening the angles of his boyish face into the beginnings of handsomeness. In a century or so, he would catch the attention of many a beautiful woman. The frost spread across the flagstones and reached the young Walker, swirling around him in patterns as delicate as a snowflake. He shivered slightly at its icy touch.

  “Murtagh,” Mab said silkily, settling back onto her throne with liquid grace, her eyes slightly hooded. She said nothing more, tilting her head slightly as she watched the young Walker. He bowed his head again and waited. He waited for a long time, remaining perfectly still while Mab observed him.

  The Vaelanseld watched his queen carefully as she surveyed the young Walker. He felt her anger, still burning hotly beneath her cool exterior, and her fury was all the more frightening in its flawless concealment. Once, when he had been a young knight, not yet one of the Three, he had gone Maying with the queen and her Court, and he remembered her beautiful face glowing with happiness, her perfect pale lips curved in a smile. But that was long before the great tragedy, the murder of the young princess whose name he could not speak even in his mind, because it was forbidden, and Queen Mab knew all. He carefully directed his thoughts away from that fateful event. He was the oldest of the Three now, and he was the closest to his queen, reading her moods like a Seer peering into a looking-glass, divining her tempers for the rest of the Court. He stood silently by her side, but readied himself to intervene should her fury be misdirected at the young Sidhe kneeling respectfully—fearfully. The boy was afraid, though he hid it well. Reading his Queen had given the Vaelanseld practice and honed his skills. He saw the fear in the depths of the boy’s eyes, divined it from the boy’s slight shiver as the frost caressed him, sliding over his boots and up to his knees.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours—what could have been hours—Mab spoke again. “Tell me what you have discovered, Walker.”

  A small, almost imperceptible shudder traveled through Murtagh’s lithe body as he raised his face again to the queen. “My Queen,” he began respectfully, his voice fair and courteous, “I Walked to the barracks in the forest as I was instructed. From far away, I smelled death and saw smoke. When I came to the barracks, I saw there had been a terrible battle. I could not go as close as I desired, because there was…a barrier.” He faltered slightly and stopped.

  “A barrier?” the Vaelanseld asked after a glance at the queen. “A wall built about the camp?”

  Murtagh shook his head. “No, my lord. Not a wall. An invisible barrier which I could not cross. I have never felt anything like it before, and I saw the mortal girl and several others digging in the earth precisely where the barrier began.” He took a breath and steeled himself. “They drew out of the ground pieces of the Weakness.”

  Mab made no movement to betray her surprise, but the Vaelanseld saw her eyes sharpen upon the young Walker. “Continue,” he told the boy tersely.

  “The mortal girl wore a scabbard upon her back. It looked to be of no importance, old and well-used, but then…I felt it. I do not know how, but I felt it and I knew what it was, even beneath the battered sheath.”

  Mab leaned forward slightly, ever so slightly, her eyes hungry.

  “My lady,” said the Walker, his voice trembling slightly, “the mortal girl has come into possession of the Iron Sword.”

  The Vaelanseld took a step forward as Mab straightened sharply from her languid pose.

  Murtagh kept very still and raised his chin slightly despite the queen’s sudden movement. “And, my lady,” he continued, “she knew of my presence.”

  “You revealed yourself?” the Vaelanseld asked stridently.

  “No,” Murtagh replied firmly. “The mortal girl looked at me…and she saw me, even though I did not wish to be seen, even though I was concealing myself.” He paused. “My lady, I saw the Vaelanmavar being led through the camp with bound hands and a guard.”

  Mab hissed slightly through her teeth, the sound sliding through the air like wind through the trees at night. “And the girl,” she purred, a hint of some dangerous predator slinking among the shadows of her words, “is she bound by blood to the Sword? Has she marked it for her own?”

  “I do not know, my queen,” Murtagh murmured. “All I know is that she saw me when she should not have, and something in her power called to mine.” He lowered his gaze for a moment. “If I may, your Majesty, venture my…opinion.”

  Mab waved one hand gracefully, eyes glittering like shards of ice. The Vaelanseld watched with a hard gaz
e.

  “I believe she has been bound to the Sword, though I know little of such matters,” the young Sidhe added humbly. “How else would a mortal have seen me? Her power…it reached out and touched me. It tasted my power, and it deemed that I was not a threat, but it told her that I was there, and she saw me. I also overheard a conversation, in the camp, between two members of the patrol. They said it was only by her power—her power through the Sword, my lady—that the battle was won, and the Shadow driven back, if only for a short time. By their account, she saved them.” Murtagh shook his head. “There was the North-woman with her, my lady, and her wolf. The black wolf.”

  The Vaelanseld glanced at Mab’s hands. Her hands were the first to show her anger—other than her eyes, and he couldn’t very well look into her eyes. One of her hands rested on the arm of her throne, and it looked as though she was merely grasping the smooth wood calmly, but the Vaelanseld saw her knuckles, the bone showing starkly through her pale skin as her grip tightened. He turned back to the Walker. “The Queen thanks you for your service. You are free to go.”

  Murtagh stood and bowed—it was well known that the Vaelanseld spoke for the Queen from time to time. He turned on his heel smartly and left the throne room. As the great doors slammed shut behind him of their own accord, he heard the beginnings of the Queen’s scream of fury, and he ran.

  “My lady, please,” said the Vaelanseld calmly as icy wind shrieked around the throne room. “Such behavior does not become you.”

  Mab carved her fingernails into the wood of her throne. “Many things do not become me,” she snarled, her face twisted in fury. She threw herself from the throne and paced before it thunderously, the sound of the bells on her hem crashing over the room like waves breaking on great rocks before a storm.

  “My lady,” the Vaelanseld said again, in a reproving tone.

  She wheeled upon him. “What would you have me do?” Her mouth thinned. “My power wanes so that I cannot even survey my own realms without the help of a Walker just past boyhood! It is all I can do to keep the Shadow from the gates of Darkhill—and that—that mortal whelp has been bound to the Great Sword.”

  The Vaelanseld faced down her tirade unmoved. “She escaped you, your Majesty, and it is understandable that you…dislike…her because of that insult, but the Sword has been found. It is on the field of battle against the Shadow, and that is something we should count among our blessings.”

  Mab stood carefully still, listening to her oldest and most trusted Knight. She stared into the distance and then, finally, sank down upon her throne, passing her hand over her eyes. “No-one shall hear of this,” she said with a hint of weariness in her voice.

  “As always, I am yours to command, my lady,” the Vaelanseld replied smoothly. The Queen would not apologize for her outburst—it was not the way of queens to do so, and he did not expect it.

  “I dreamed that the Vaelanmavar had erred, but I did not think it was a foretelling,” Mab said, an expression of icy serenity reclaiming her beautiful face. “And still I do not know. If the mortal girl and her companions are treasonous, there is a possibility that the Vaelanmavar is still faithful.”

  “The Vaelanbrigh is with them as well,” the Knight reminded his Queen.

  A small bitter smile touched Queen Mab’s lips. “So I lose one or the other of my Knights, and this mortal girl bears the Iron Sword instead of the fendhionne of the Prophecy.” She shook her head slightly and said silkily, “What a strange turn of events.”

  “Indeed, my lady,” said the Vaelanseld, touching the hilt of the Eldbranr. “Indeed.”

  Chapter 1

  I stepped out into the sunlight from the semidarkness of the barracks, wrinkling my nose at the smoke still lingering in the air. The scents drifting on the breeze and the still-smoldering piles of ash scattered around the clearing froze me to the spot, unmoving. I wished I could forget the smell of burning flesh, and the sound of hideous cries rising up into the night sky, mingled with the clash of blade upon blade. What use were oaths of fealty and the power in my blood with memories of horror clotting my mind? The rider with the crown of bones surfaced behind my eyes, his blank black stare searing my soul. I remembered the feel of his hideous strength, and how very close his black blade had come to my neck.

  The Sword, in its scabbard upon my back, nudged me, just enough to get my attention. It had a mind of its own, and even though it didn’t speak to me in words—or hadn’t yet, at any rate—it let me know its thoughts. I let a thread of its power wind up my spine and into my head. It wrapped some of my memories, not taking them away but dulling the rawness and the pain, letting me think clearly.

  “Thanks,” I told it, and it hummed in reply. I took a deep breath.

  “Tess!” Wisp stopped just short of my nose. “Or, Lady Bearer, I suppose I should say now.”

  With a small smile, I slid back half a step so I could look at the Glasidhe without going cross-eyed. “You can still call me Tess, Wisp.”

  He began to protest, but I could tell he was secretly pleased by the way his aura brightened. I held up a hand.

  “You and I, we were friends before all this mess,” I said. “And I think I’ll go insane if everyone starts calling me ‘Lady Bearer’ and bowing and scraping.”

  “I shall do my best to keep you humble,” Wisp replied, a wicked glint in his eye. “That means I can still ride on your shoulder?”

  I smiled. “If you can stand it, the Sword being so close. And as long as you don’t pull on my hair too much.”

  “Duly noted,” said the Glasidhe as he landed on his customary perch, grasping the hair by my ear delicately for balance. “Forin and Farin and I have marked all the buried Weakness so that the camp can be freed.”

  “How did you manage that? Didn’t the iron make you sick?”

  “We flew above it, far enough that it wouldn’t hurt us too badly, and we dropped markers onto it,” Wisp explained.

  I nodded. “All right.” I paused. “I guess that means I have to dig it up, doesn’t it?”

  “We would not ask you to perform such a…grubby…task if we could do it ourselves,” Wisp said apologetically.

  I waved a hand in dismissal. “I can deal with a little dirt. Show me the markers.”

  Wisp leapt from my shoulder and led me to the edge of the clearing. A little ways into the trees, a bright scrap of blue cloth rested on the forest floor. I knelt and picked up the scrap, discovering that it was wrapped cleverly around a small pebble to give it weight—and accuracy when the Glasidhe had dropped it from overhead. Just to the right of the marker there was a small fresh scar in the dark loam. I drew my smallest dagger and scratched at the scar until my blade hit another piece of metal. Like a surgeon exploring a wound, I slipped my fingers into the hole and groped in the earth until I felt the edge of the shard. I hooked my fingers around it and pulled steadily until I held it pinched between two fingers. The shard was about the length of my palm, and half as thick. Wisp made a sound of disgust from high above me, perched among the branches of an oak.

  “This would go much quicker if there was someone to help,” I said, half to myself and half to Wisp. “Molly might be able to help…do you know whether the North-people are affected by iron as much as the Sidhe?”

  “It varies, with the North-blood,” Wisp piped, his glowing form obscured by leaves.

  “Well,” I said, wrapping the dull, earth-encrusted shard in my handkerchief, “would you mind going and asking Vell and Kavoryk? I guess if you can find Molly, you could ask her as well.”

  “Be back faster than you can spit,” Wisp replied, zooming off in the direction of the barracks.

  “I don’t spit,” I muttered to the trees, affronted, as I straightened and searched for the next blue marker.

  I walked carefully along the forest floor, skirting tree trunks and clambering over roots as I searched for the blue markers. I found another and began digging. The shard was larger than the first, and something about its shape both
ered me momentarily, but then Beryk loped up to me, tongue lolling, golden eyes appraising the small bundle laid carefully by my side. I deposited the second shard into my handkerchief and looked at the wolf, still kneeling. “What’s the verdict?” I asked him. “Can you and Vell help, or does the iron hurt you too?”

  In answer, he stepped forward, ears perked curiously. He sniffed the bundle thoroughly, then looked at me and yawned.

  “All right then. You can start too. They’re marked by the blue scraps, see?”

  But Beryk was already trotting through the dappled undergrowth with his tail held jauntily high and his nose down to the ground. Apparently he could track iron by its scent, because he found the next marker without raising his nose from the soil. He nudged the pebble-weighted cloth aside and settled back on his haunches, digging with his forepaws. I smiled a little at the resemblance just then between Beryk and any one of the dogs I’d seen digging furiously at the ground to unearth a bone back in Pennsylvania.

  I slipped past Beryk to the next marker. As I slid my knife into the soil, the black wolf loped over to me, holding the piece of iron delicately in his teeth, lips drawn back in what I could have sworn was a grimace. He deposited the chunk of metal carefully by my bundle, glanced at me with golden eyes and then lowered his nose to the ground again. I tilted my head, watching him for a moment.

  “Ah, I see you’ve already put poor Beryk to work,” Vell said jauntily from behind me.

  “More like he volunteered,” I amended. “Can you touch it too?”

  “Yes,” Vell replied, though her tone conveyed immense distaste. “It’s about as pleasant as dragon’s dung, though.”

  “Dragons seem to be very…noxious creatures,” I observed wryly, prying with my knife in the dirt. “The healers swear by dragon’s piss to revive the unconscious.”

  Vell grimaced expressively as she sank down on her haunches, watching me dig. “It’s true, they use it.” Her golden eyes danced with mischief. “And I hear it makes for one hell of a wake-up call.”

  “Well, here’s to hoping that neither of us ever need it,” I said.