The Black King (Book 7)

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “I really don’t want to spend the night in the boat,” Gift said. “If you can’t go up quickly, you should let me go first.”

  “Learning how to be patient is good for someone like you.” Bridge grabbed the sides of the rope ladder and carefully, so that he wouldn’t disturb the boat, pulled himself to a standing position. “Watch and learn.”

  “Just make sure you reach the top before nightfall,” Gift said.

  Bridge’s grin grew. He liked this nephew of his.

  Scaling the ladder went quicker than Bridge had thought it was going to. Perhaps it was the teasing. Perhaps it was the energy he had gotten from the successful mission. Either way, as he looked up and saw his daughter’s worried face hanging over the ship’s side, he let go with one hand and waved at her.

  “We did it,” he shouted. “We have them.”

  A small cheer went up from the deck. Even Lyndred smiled. Coulter bent over the side as well, holding the ladder steady. As Bridge got near the top, he took Coulter’s outstretched arm and let him support Bridge on the last part of the climb.

  As he crested the rail, he saw something flash on the mountainside. At first he thought it the Place of Power, then he looked up. That was a darkness.

  A flash. It came again. He shuddered. He had seen a flash once before, when one of his men had died.

  By an Assassin’s hand.

  Without thinking, he let go of the other side of the ladder and grabbed Coulter’s head, shoving him down on the deck. Bridge shouted, “Assassin!” as an arrow caught the sun.

  Coulter’s grip on his arm pulled him forward, across the railing, but Bridge couldn’t find a hand hold. He lost his balance and slipped against the side of the ship. He flailed for a moment, shoved his feet as far inside the ladder as he could, but it wasn’t far enough.

  He slid down the side of the ship, grabbing for anything he could reach. His feet got tangled in the ladder, and threw him backwards. His feet broke free, and he fell, his daughter’s scream trailing down the side of the ship with him. There was nothing to grab onto, nothing to break his fall.

  He kicked the side of the ship so that he wouldn’t hit the boat, then he made himself turn in mid-air. He would try to go in the water feet first.

  That was the only way he would survive.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  BRIDGE HIT THE SIDE of the boat with a thud so terrible that Gift wasn’t sure how anyone would survive it. The boat rocked horribly; Dash grabbed the globes and hung on in case the boat overturned. Gift leaned over the edge and saw that Bridge had gone deep underwater. He could see the trail of bubbles, but not Bridge himself.

  He had no idea if Bridge was conscious.

  Gift dove off the side. The water was so cold it took his breath away. He followed the bubbles down. The sunlight didn’t penetrate very deep, and the water became murky quickly. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. His own chest was becoming tight with the urge to breathe, but he knew if he didn’t find Bridge this time, he wouldn’t find him at all.

  As he swam he made big sweeping motions with his hands. He was about to give up when his fingers brushed fabric.

  His lungs were straining now. He wasn’t sure he’d have enough strength to resurface. Still, he reached down, caught the fabric, and found his uncle’s arms. Gift pulled his uncle against him. Then Gift wrapped one arm around Bridge’s chest and held him close as dragged him up.

  Bridge was clearly unconscious.

  Spots were dancing in front of Gift’s eyes and he had a horrible feeling he was turned around in the water, that he didn’t know up from down. He couldn’t see the sunlight at the top. He couldn’t see anything in this murky brownness.

  So he let a single air bubble out of his mouth. The bubble brushed against his face as it floated what seemed to Gift to be sideways, but which he knew had to be toward the surface.

  He followed the bubble, his legs kicking hard. His chest hurt, and he was having trouble keeping his grip on Bridge. Gift had no idea how far away the surface was, only that he was their only hope to find it.

  His breath would have to last until he did.

  His lungs were straining, fighting for air. It was all he could do to keep his mouth closed, to not take a breath. The movement was nearly involuntary. He had to concentrate on not breathing, and on kicking his feet, and on holding Bridge close.

  He had seen this. How stupid had he been? He had seen this, dying beside the boat. Only he had thought it had been on the way to Leut. He hadn’t recognized the waters of the Cardidas, dark and murky. He had thought he was in an ocean, but who would be in an ocean in a boat? And this sinking feeling wasn’t an undertow. It was his uncle’s weight, making Gift struggle.

  It had been a Vision of his own death. His and Bridge’s.

  He wasn’t going to make it. His lungs were burning. He didn’t realize he had gone so deep.

  Then he noticed that the water was lighter. He was actually seeing particles in the water, a thin ray of red through the brown. Sunlight. He was nearly to the top.

  Gift gave one last mighty kick and broke the surface, gasping and struggling for air. He rolled immediately on his back so that he pulled Bridge’s head out of the water. His uncle was a dead weight. Gift had no idea if Bridge was even alive.

  The boat was beside him, and the ship beyond that. Gift didn’t see any concerned faces though. He thought he heard screams and shouts.

  Only Dash looked at him, peering over the side of the boat as if he hadn’t thought he would ever see anyone again.

  Gift swam close to him. “Throw me one of those flotation cushions,” he said. Or at least he tried to say between gasps and mouthfuls of river water.

  Dash looked surprised and then chagrined as if he hadn’t thought of it. He reached behind him and tossed a cushion. It landed beside Gift with a splash. With his free hand, he caught it and held it against himself.

  It would float, but he wasn’t sure how long. Still it made him feel like he was expending a little less effort.

  He kicked even closer to the boat. “You’re going to have pull Bridge over the side. Be careful not to capsize the boat.”

  “Or fall in.” Dash’s eyes were wide. Gift remembered then that Dash had said he couldn’t swim.

  “If you stay braced, you won’t fall. Just make sure he doesn’t land on those globes.”

  Dash nodded. He extended his hands.

  Gift positioned himself under Bridge and pushed him forward. The weight of Bridge’s body made Gift sink, but he was able to hold Bridge up.

  Dash’s hands brushed against his and grasped the wet fabric of Bridge’s shirt. Gift came up for air. Then he went down again, pushing on Bridge’s torso and back, until he felt Bridge’s body move away from him.

  When Gift surfaced he saw that most of Bridge’s body was in the boat. Dash had his own body between Bridge and the boat’s bottom. Gift grabbed Bridge’s right leg and put it inside the boat, then did the same with the left.

  The left leg bent at an odd angle. Apparently that had been what hit the boat.

  Dash slid him against the bow, away from the globes.

  Gift rolled on his back again. Somewhere in the struggle, he had lost his flotation cushion. He was having trouble catching his breath. He hadn’t expected this kind of exertion.

  Above him, he saw Bridge’s face, pressed against the side of the boat, saw an oar hovering above him, saw a Gull Rider flying toward the shore.

  Dash was extending the oar. Gift had floated away from the boat. Dash looked terrified.

  Gift made himself breath, then he swam toward the boat as carefully as he could. He narrowly missed getting hit by the oar. He grabbed it, and let Dash pull him forward.

  Then Gift climbed into the boat, careful not to trip on his unconscious uncle.

  The air was frigid. He glanced up. No one was watching from the ship. He thought he heard someone yell, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He had no idea what had happened. Dash
moved more of the globes away, and Gift ran a hand over his uncle’s forehead. His skin was clammy. Gift turned him on his side, pounded his back, and river water came out of Bridge’s mouth.

  Bridge coughed, then his eyelids fluttered. He started to speak, coughed some more, and then spit out water and weeds.

  “Don’t try to talk,” Gift said.

  Bridge ran a hand over his mouth. He said, “Assassin.”

  Gift looked up, but he couldn’t see anything. And he knew that, from here, there was nothing he could do.

  FORTY-NINE

  AT FIRST, everything looked strange to Ace. Bridge shoving Coulter down, then losing his balance and falling off the side of the ship, people on deck screaming, Gift diving into the river. It happened small and far away, and for a moment, Ace couldn’t quite comprehend it.

  He swooped low to help Gift and, as he went down, he saw an arrow sticking out of the railing at the place where Coulter had been. It couldn’t have been fired from the ship; it had to have come from a long distance.

  Ace flew back up and as he did, Coulter started to stand. Another arrow hit the railing. Coulter fell to the deck, and crawled toward the deckhouse.

  Ace flew past the ship, higher than he had gone before. He saw another arrow. It came out of a clump of bushes on the side of one of the mountains, but he couldn’t see who released it.

  He called to the other Gull Riders, then flew for that clump of bushes, staying high like he was going to fly over it. A fourth arrow released, and he thought he heard a scream.

  The audacity of the shooter stunned him. He had clearly stalked his prey all afternoon, waiting until no one paid attention, then shot at Coulter. If Bridge hadn’t seen something, and acted quickly, Coulter would be dead.

  The bushes looked empty until Ace was directly overhead. Then he saw the shape of a man, gray like the stark branches, hidden within the clump. The man was hard to see but his bow and arrows weren’t.

  The Assassin.

  Ace felt anger flare through him. With his hand, he signaled the other Gull Riders, but they weren’t as close as he was. He dove, beak outstretched, for the back of the Assassin’s neck.

  Ace hit it with such force that he almost cried out in pain. His beak sunk into the soft flesh, ripping and shredding at blood vessels, hoping to find the artery.

  The Assassin didn’t scream. He flailed at Ace with his free hand and then dropped his bow so that he could reach Ace better. Ace flapped his wings and dug his talons into the Assassin’s shoulder. A flinch of pain ran through the man, but he still didn’t cry out.

  The other Riders were above him now, diving toward him. Ace pulled out his beak to smash it into the neck again when the Assassin’s hands closed on him. Ace pecked at the webbing between the fingers, but he couldn’t get the Assassin’s hands to move. They squeezed, then yanked, pulling him off. Hunks of bloody skin came out with his talons.

  The other Gull Riders were flocking around them now, but the Assassin didn’t even seem to notice. He brought Ace forward and Ace saw the man’s face. There were no features at all, like a Spy without a mask.

  Ace flapped and struggled, but the Assassin didn’t let him go. With a simple twist of his hand, he snapped Ace’s Gull’s neck. All of the strength left his Gull’s body, and he couldn’t shift back to Fey form.

  He looked up into those empty eyes, praying for one of his companions to poke them out, but no one came close. They all seemed shocked by the way the Assassin was holding Ace.

  Ace wanted to shout to them, but he couldn’t. He was rapidly losing all of his strength.

  The Assassin’s hand covered Ace’s head, and he tried to push it off. And as the fingers gripped his tiny, thin neck, he knew he wouldn’t be able to fight this one.

  That didn’t stop him. He struggled until the end.

  FIFTY

  COULTER CRAWLED to the side of the deck house. The arrows seemed to have stopped. Lyndred, Arianna, Skya and Con were on their bellies. One of the female Sailors was screaming, and there was blood on the deck.

  Those arrows hadn’t come from the ship.

  A moment ago he had seen Ace fly past like he was pursing something. The other Gull Riders had gone as well. Coulter leaned around the deck house, saw the Riders’ white shapes inside a clump of bushes against the nearby mountainside.

  The Assassin had gotten extremely close.

  Then a bloody form rose in the air, and the Gulls followed it, following their nature, as gulls did.

  The Assassin knew how to fight Fey. Of course. That was his purpose, not to fight others, but to fight Fey. Riders could be defeated by appealing to their animal natures.

  Coulter removed his shirt and used it to cover his blond hair. It wouldn’t fool the Assassin for long—not with the sun shining on his pale skin—but it would buy him precious time.

  He crawled to the other railing, careful to stay low, and when he rose up, he saw the Gulls fighting over the body of one of their members. The Fey on the Gulls’ backs were hitting their Gull bodies, trying to make them obey, but the Gulls saw food and they were reacting instinctively.

  There were feathers on the bushes.

  He would only get one chance at this.

  “Lightning,” he whispered, and he aimed it at that single spot.

  Above him, the sky darkened, and thunder boomed. With a squawk, the birds broke apart, and the Riders seemed to regain control. Coulter wanted to warn them away but couldn’t. They started to dive again, reassuring him, letting him know that his target was still there.

  Lightning rippled across the sky. He would kill his own Gull Riders if they weren’t smart enough to move, if they didn’t remember the stories that Matt had told.

  But if they moved, they would warn the Assassin.

  The sky had turned an odd green. The lightning gathered, and then stabbed the ground.

  Feathers rose and some of the Riders flew away. Not as many as Coulter would have liked.

  The bushes caught fire, and in it, he thought he saw a man’s torso engulfed in flame.

  Coulter let out a small sigh. That had been too close.

  THE BLOOD

  (Two Days Later)

  FIFTY-ONE

  THE DAY WAS COLD and misty, with a bit of fog. A perfect sailing day. Grantley stood on the deck of his ship, and looked across the bow at the ship flanking his. They were both old vessels, in poor condition, but he was able to get them seaworthy, and for that the Black Queen had made him Captain of this mission.

  Captain. He liked the sound of that.

  He studied his crew. The Sailors stared at the water as if it were giving up secrets. The handful of Nyeians aboard were older, used to working in an ancient boat. None of them seemed interested in the mountains, but the soldiers were. He had Foot Soldiers and Beast Riders, a few Red Caps, and a hold full of Infantry. He had to give them all small duties to keep their nervousness from showing.

  He had to work at keeping his from showing too. Until two days ago, he had been the captain of a trading vessel who had successfully fought off Leutian pirates twice, and managed to bring home some of their cargo. He had lived through horrible battles, watched men die in a myriad of different ways, and hadn’t lost a single crew member.

  That story—true as it was—hadn’t impressed the Black Queen. She had only snorted when she heard it, looked at him with her strange pale eyes, and said, “He’ll do.”

  Her assistant, DiPalmet, however, thought it a good recommendation. DiPalmet was the one who looked at Grantley’s ship and decided it was too small. DiPalmet was the one who told Grantley that if he could fix the two warships and find a crew for both, he could lead the mission.

  Grantley was supposed to listen to the minor Visionary on board if she had a Vision to report. Otherwise, he was to get his ships to Constant and begin leveling the area. Slash and burn, the Black Queen had called it. Mass destruction, DiPalmet had said with a bit of embarrassment.

  Grantley could do that.


  Then as he was leaving, the Shaman the Black Queen had found pulled him aside. “You watch whom you attack. The Black Heir, his family, and friends are there. You make sure you don’t touch any of them.”

  He had agreed, of course. Who wouldn’t?

  “He went there by ship,” she said. “You know his ship?”

  Grantley nodded again. He had seen the Tashil ship and he had envied it for its speed and grace in the water. “I won’t touch him.”

  “Make sure you don’t.”

  Even now, two days later, the conversation still disturbed him.

  He glanced at the rising mountains around him. In all his travels to Blue Isle—and in his thirty years there had been plenty—he had never gone up this part of the Cardidas. His Sailors told him that it was straightforward, a simple river with no tricks, but he was cautious anyway. He’d seen too many traders lose ships by misjudging a river’s power.

  He wished he could talk to Targil. She commanded the ship beside his and was a trader as well. She had been his recommendation to command the other ship, but he was wondering now at the choice. The ship had kept level with his all the way from Jahn. It was almost as if Targil was sending him a message, as if she wanted everyone to know that she was his equal even though he had been given this command.

  He hadn’t expected her jealousy or her recklessness. Since she didn’t own the ship or have any responsibility for its cargo, it seemed as if she had license to try things she wouldn’t normally attempt. She had sped through the narrows out of Jahn. And now he couldn’t shake her.

  Her crew seemed out of control as well. He heard shouts and laughter, and thought he saw drinking. He had told her that the mission was an important one, and she had laughed.

  “Don’t you see what they’re doing?” she said. “They don’t want control. They want destruction. You don’t hire captains like us if you want things to go as planned.”