Blood Oath

by Raye Wagner

  The king released me, and I grunted as the blood pounded into the spots he’d held, bringing with it a throbbing pain. Five more bruises. I brought my hand up to rub the tender spots.

  The king watched, breathing heavily after his exertion. His lips turned up in a smile. Sweeping back some fallen strands of hair, he chuckled with glee. “A Phaetyn in my dungeon.”

  I didn’t dare make a sound. Soon the king would realize I was not what he thought. Whether now or when I was put to the test. I only hoped Tyr had time to escape before it happened. By the crazed tinge to Irdelron’s eyes, it was clear he’d never stop until the person who had made the pumpkins grow was found. But if I could hold him off until I got word to Tyr, maybe he could escape.

  The king reached for my hand, and I overrode my impulse to wrench away. This time his grip was soft, almost tender, which was scarier. He flipped my hand, palm up, and inspected the dried blood from where I’d cut my nails into my skin not even an hour ago. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over my palm, and I focused on the skin beneath the cracked blood.

  The scab flaked off, and I sucked in a breath.

  The skin beneath was smooth. Whole. Uncut.

  My eyes widened, and I raised my other hand, frantically. It was bloodless and also smooth. I returned to the other hand, and the impossibility of what happened hit a solid barrier of disbelief and was prevented from going further.

  I knew without a shadow of doubt the blood had come from me. I’d felt it leave the cut and roll over my palm.

  Where was the cut?

  The truth I’d clung to, that Tyr had been the person keeping me alive this entire time, had no substance because he hadn’t healed me this time. I’d healed myself.

  “My dear girl,” the king’s voice barely registered. “My dear Phaetyn.”

  Mouth dry, I blinked at him and caught the anticipation fluttering over his face like a shiver of joy. He stepped in close and whispered in my ear, “I have something I’d like you to do for me.”

  17

  For the first time in my entire life, I wasn’t hungry. I sat at the enormous table at the front of the throne room, surrounded by platters of food I’d only dreamed of, and had no desire to even stick out my tongue for a taste.

  “Eat up, dear girl,” the king said with a wide smile. “You’ll need your strength.”

  To heal the land. That was my task.

  He frowned when I didn’t obey, but I was numb with shock over the abrupt turn my life had taken. Not the food and cushioned seat on the chair. They thought I was Phaetyn, and now I was beginning to believe it, too.

  How?

  “Are you going to drink my blood?” I whispered.

  The king laughed and gazed at me fondly. His look didn’t fool me. That’s how I viewed food.

  “No, dear Phaetyn. I have stores to keep me alive for a while, but,” he smiled at me, “when my stores run dry, we can reassess your value. For now, you need to make everything grow again.”

  I closed my eyes and took a shaky breath, attempting to gather my bearings.

  “Feed her, Jotun,” the king ordered. “I must confer with my foreman and see where our girl should begin.”

  Jotun brought me a plate of food and tossed it before me, splattering my tunic with gravy. The scalding liquid seared my skin, and I bit my lip as I pulled away from the stiff garment. I stared at the plate in front of me, stacked with slices of roasted bird swimming in glistening brown gravy, mounds of whipped potatoes, and buttered vegetables, and my stomach turned. “I’m not hungry.”

  The two guards pulled the doors closed after the king with a click.

  Jotun tilted my chair back and drove his gloved fist into my gut. The chair fell to the ground, me with it, and I rolled into a ball, gasping for air. He disappeared from view, and I scrambled to stand, lurching my way toward the door. Before I could get there, Jotun grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me back to the table. My scalp burned, but my aching abdomen churned from the blow.

  “I’m not eating it,” I spat.

  He looked directly into my eyes, and though he had no voice, he didn’t need speech to convey his hatred.

  “It’s not me you hate,” I whispered. “I’m just the only one you’re not too weak to fight.”

  Jotun shoved my face into the plate of food.

  Scalding gravy burned my lips and filled my nostrils. The potatoes scorched the sensitive skin covering my eyes. I flailed, my hands clawing at his, as I tried to free myself from his grip so I could breathe.

  I fought on and on until I felt myself weakening, hands slipping as they sought purchase on the edge of the table.

  The doors were thrown open with a crash.

  “Jotun,” Irdelron said with a chuckle. “What are you doing?”

  The hand holding my neck twitched in surprise.

  A menacing growl filled the throne room. The Drae was here. There was an almighty crack, and I heard Jotun’s painful exhale a split second before his pressure released from my nape. I turned my head to one side, gasping in a sagging heap against the side of the table as crashes sounded around me. I slid off the chair to become a panting heap on the ground.

  “Irrik,” Irdelron said, “you surprise me.”

  “Jotun lost his temper again.” Irrik’s cool voice slid through the room. “He gets less reliable by the day.”

  “I rather think it was you who lost your temper, my Drae.”

  I couldn’t see any of them, but I could hear the smile in the king’s voice. I wiped weakly at the potato mash in my eyes.

  Bracing myself for the next battle in the endless war, I pulled myself to my knees and scrubbed at my face, using a square of linen next to the mess of what used to be my meal.

  “I know why you kissed her now. Your breath alone doesn’t work on her,” Irdelron said, stopping next to me. He pulled on the uneven tufts of my hair, rubbing at the bits closest to my scalp. “Such a lovely, lovely color, silver. Wouldn’t you say?”

  What was he talking about? My hair was cinnamon brown, like Mum’s.

  He swept past me to his throne. “I’m surprised you even tried to subdue her that way. Dangerous, I should think. Her cries must’ve been quite dreadful for you to risk yourself with your natural enemy. Or were you wishing for death?”

  Jotun stood, brushing the front of his navy aketon, smearing the moisture of whatever he’d landed in onto his uniform. He glared past me to Irrik and kicked at the toppled wooden chairs, some of them broken from whatever Irrik had done to him.

  I turned to face the real threats in the room.

  Irrik stood frozen behind my chair. The weight of his presence held me immobile. I glanced down and noticed his hands, covered in black gloves, were clenched, causing the veins in his arms to rise with the tension pulsing through him. Black scales popped up on his otherwise smooth skin. He flexed his fingers and rested his hands on the back of the chair.

  “My king?” Irrik inquired in the same guttural voice.

  Irdelron shook his head. “Oh, come now. I’m not going to punish you. I understand why you hid what she is, but such a risk to kiss her. Should I question your fidelity?”

  Irrik clenched, and the wooden chair groaned with the force of his grip. “It’s only her blood that can harm me, sire. And neither of us were bleeding.”

  “Always calculating, my Drae.” Irdelron focused his attention back on me. “Did you know?” he asked. “The only way to kill a Drae is with the blood of a Phaetyn? You are Lord Irrik’s weakness, dear girl. Not the weakness of heart I expected, one far more useful and . . . immediate.” The king smiled indulgently at Irrik. “No more secrets, my Drae. How long have you known?”

  Irrik frowned.

  “Come now, Irrik. You can either tell me willingly, or I can compel you through the oath. Would you really prefer that?”

  Irrik bowed his head, and the back of the wooden chair in his hands broke into shards and slivers. “When I saw her eyes.”

  He’d known? Thi
s entire time?

  “And have you been visiting her cell? Have you been pulling up plants?”

  Irrik ground his teeth. “Once. I hid them once. I wanted to see how strong she was before I made a hasty declaration without knowing her true worth. I checked on her to make sure Jotun didn’t kill her. He tortured her to such a degree, I knew you would want me to check.”

  Shock sucked the moisture from my mouth, and I sunk into a chair. He admitted to helping me? I needed a drink. I reached for the nearest goblet and gulped the red liquid. It burned my throat, and I coughed and sputtered.

  “That’s not juice,” I said with tears in my eyes.

  Irrik huffed behind me and, reaching over my head, grabbed a glass of water and set it on the table near me. He always made me feel the fool.

  The king tsked. “Don’t lie to me, my Drae. You killed her mother, something I’m most put out about. Why didn’t you kill the girl, too?”

  I inhaled sharply but kept my mouth closed. I wasn’t going to share anything else. Let the king think whatever he wanted.

  “Ah,” the king spoke. “You were thwarted at the finish line by my soldiers, were you? Do try for honesty next time, Irrik. You know I deplore lies.”

  It made perfect sense now. Why Irrik had appeared to help me while so clearly hating me. Why he’d brought the bath, new clothing, and bedding. To wash away anything that could give me away and therefore give the king power over him. The sunflowers grew where my blood spilled, and the pumpkins grew after my chamber pot toppled over. My body fluids were the key to making things grow. He hid my identity not to help but to protect himself from the king . . . because my blood could kill him. Lord Irrik wanted to keep the knowledge of the single weapon effective against a Drae secret. I’d heard others talk of the Drae’s oath to the king, but I’d always assumed Lord Irrik held the same corrupt ideals as our ruler. I’d just glimpsed evidence of the opposite. Or was this part of their game? Trying to understand the twisted relationships in the castle made my head spin.

  “I commend you for keeping your enemies,” Irdelron waved first at Jotun and then at me while continuing to talk to the Drae, “close.”

  Irrik took a deep breath, as if resigning himself to something distasteful. “You misunderstand—”

  “No, I think not.” King Irdelron chuckled again. His gaze came to rest on me, and he reached to the vial of Phaetyn blood around his neck, touching the glass fleetingly as he watched me. “Jotun, you are dismissed. Irrik, the Phaetyn is now your charge. She is the most precious resource we have, and you will make sure you keep her alive and safe while she works the land. I bind you to this by your oath. Tomorrow, she will start in the potato fields, and we shall see just what our Phaetyn girl can do.”

  A terrifying and unruly sound burst from Irrik’s chest. “Sire—”

  “It wasn’t a question,” Irdelron snapped. “Now get out of here before I decide to punish your disloyalty. Take her back to the dungeon.”

  Irrik barely made a sound as he appeared at my elbow, cold-faced, and grabbed my arm. His fingers wrapped around so tightly pins and needles filled my hand. Just like Jotun. Perhaps they had required training on how to grip people and maximize discomfort. Maybe they got a medal when they successfully demonstrated mastery. I bet Irrik taught a class on it.

  Irrik led me from the throne room, easing the brutal pace once we’d left the rows of guards behind us. His grip lessened, too, and he sighed long and hard, sounding weary. With a veiled look toward me, he guided me back to the stairs that led to the dungeon.

  As we marched down the steps, I tried to process what had happened. My mind was drowning in information, and I didn’t even know where to start categorizing. Jotun hated Irrik, and vice-versa. Irrik hated the king, and vice-versa. Irrik hated me, and vice-versa. Conclusion: Irrik was an A-hole.

  “I could really kill you?” I asked with anticipation for ideas that would surely come to mind. I had no idea how my blood was lethal to him, but if it was, I’d happily spare however much it took to destroy him.

  “Just try it,” he said, not even deigning to look my way. His jaw clenched, and his pulse feathered in his neck.

  The scales I’d seen on his arm earlier were gone, but there was an entire patch of black reptilian skin on his shoulder. The scales disappeared under his sleeveless black aketon and then reappeared on his neck.

  “Whoa, are you losing it? Are you going to shift?” I asked, reaching up with my free hand to touch his scales. My fingers brushed the small black semi-circles covering his shoulder, and I could feel his anger and hatred.

  “Don’t,” he snapped, pushing me away.

  I stumbled more from shock than the force of his shove. Had he not held my arm, I would’ve toppled down the stairs.

  “Do that again and you’ll regret it,” he snarled, black scales covering both arms now.

  I followed alongside the Drae-man mutely, reeling. I hadn’t just felt his anger and hatred. I had heard him speak, too. Like I did with Tyr.

  I’d heard the words kill her.

  18

  As soon as I heard the outer door close, I counted to twenty. That would be plenty of time for Irrik to disappear up the stairs. If he flew, it probably took less time, like three seconds. Stupid Drae.

  When he chose, Irrik seemed to be able to work around the king’s oath, which told me I’d better do my best not to incur the Drae’s wrath, especially when it was only me and him and the potatoes. Whatever power I had over him was lost to me until I understood how to use it. Whatever power he had over me was already being set in motion.

  He lacked none of this knowledge.

  Which meant I needed help.

  I wiped my face on my tattered shift and turned to my best source of information. The wall of knowledge.

  “Ty,” I called. He hadn’t answered me in what felt like days. I couldn’t handle another blow today, and terror at him being dead briefly froze me on the spot. I stood at the corner of my cell, holding onto the bars as I called to him again. Please be alive. Stretching my arm through, I tried to reach his cell, but my hand met only rough stone. “Ty, are you there?”

  “Ryn?” he croaked. “Drak, what happened? I saw Jotun drag you out of your cell two hours ago.” His already hoarse voice was even raspier. “What’s going on? Are you al’right?”

  Just hearing the compassion in his voice made tears spring to my eyes. My throat constricted with emotion, with feeling, for the man next door to me, who cared.

  “I’m al’right. I . . . I just . . .” How could I even tell him without sounding mad? “Where have you been?”

  Ty sighed, and I heard him shifting closer. “Unconscious for the most part. Jotun was worked up well and good this time.”

  I rested my head against the bars. “It’s my fault he’s doing that to you, Ty. I’m so sorry.”

  “He does it because nothing makes him feel pleasure, except pain. I don’t regret a thing. In fact, I may’ve mentioned that to him once or twice. He didn’t seem to appreciate it.”

  “You didn’t!” I gasped. “No wonder he did a number on you.”

  “Not my smartest idea, I’ll admit.” He slid down to the spot by the bars on his side. “So, how’ve you been? Made any new friends?”

  Not quite.

  “Let’s see,” I mock remembered. “At some point, I nearly drowned in a plate of gravy.”

  “I can think of no better way to die.”

  I scrunched my nose, contemplating that. “You might be right. I shouldn’t have fought back.”

  “Wait, you’re serious?”

  Oh boy, was I? I settled into my spot on the ground. “Remember that sunflower I showed you? The one I thought was magic?”

  A beat passed before he said, “Do you know how that happened?”

  I considered my words. I’d treaded lightly to this point, feeding him only the barest of details, at first because I didn’t trust him and then to keep him safe as much as myself. But I was leaving in th
e morning, and I didn’t know when or if I’d be back. I wanted him to know.

  “The king says I’m Phaetyn, Ty.” The cork was popped, and the story blurted from my lips until I was rambling in the aftermath, attempting to piece it together. “I don’t know how. Mum said . . . She said the shampoo was for nits, but she had to have been dying my hair a different color. The king said my hair is silver. What the hay? And she kept me out of the gardens all those years, telling me I killed everything. Was she killing everything? Because it couldn’t have been me. And if she was doing all those things, she had to know exactly what I was. She hid it, even from me, and Irrik has been hiding it while I’ve been down here so the king won’t use my blood to kill him. Or rather Irrik was trying to hide my identity. The king found out, and he’s going to send me to work the land. To save it.”

  I had no idea if what Irdelron proposed was even possible, but I couldn’t contest the growth that happened here in my cell, sprouting out of seeds overnight.

  “Your mother was Phaetyn?” Ty asked. “She was Phaetyn living here?”

  “She could make anything grow,” I said. “I guess I know how now.”

  “It makes sense that Irrik would kill her if she was Phaetyn. I’m surprised he didn’t kill you too.”

  I listened to the drip in one of the other cells and thought back to the conversation I’d overheard between Mum and Irrik.

  “Ty,” I hesitated before plowing forward. I needed answers. “Would Phaetyn blood kill a Phaetyn?”

  “No. Phaetyn blood only kills Drae blood. Everything I know says it would heal another Phaetyn. But I’m no expert.”

  My heart dropped. I must’ve made a sound because Ty asked, “What is it?”

  “My mother was killed with a Phaetyn blade, though.” I floundered. “I don’t understand. She wasn’t like Irrik. She wasn’t Drae.”

  But why else had he killed her with that specific blade? I was a Phaetyn. If my mother was a Drae, that meant. . . “She wasn’t my mother.” And if I was the only Phaetyn, then it had been my blood on the blade that killed her.