Blood of Heirs

by Alicia Wanstall-Burke

  Ran didn’t linger. He shouldered the door and burst into the waiting blizzard. A crater and debris in the snow drew his eyes to the figure of the man he sent sailing down from upstairs, now a twisted, motionless form dusted in white.

  Someone tackled Ran from behind and drove him into a drift on the road, sludge and mud only inches below the fresh powder. He kicked and swung his fists, fighting to turn around so he could face his attacker, but the man’s weight pressed heavy against the minor strength of a fifteen-year-old boy. Desperate and scrambling, Ran latched on to the first thought to cross his mind and acted.

  His magic pulsed again, this time directed at the road under his prone body. The force of the blast lifted him, with his attacker still clawing his back, into the air and across the street into the outer wall of the inn. The timber creaked and the stone cracked, both brittle and frozen and not built to withstand the weight slammed against them. The man on his back grunted and fell away, his arms limp and hands no longer grappling at Ran’s neck and face.

  Ran staggered and fell into the street, collecting his lost saddlebag before spinning to catch a glimpse of the man. The drunken cook lay at the edge of the snow crater, still, but breathing while his brother stood in the doorway with his slightly bent sword held ready. Ran began to back away and lifted his hands in warning.

  ‘It’s you, in’it? The cursed one—the Black Prince? You might run, boy,’ the barkeep sneered and stepped into the howling blizzard, recognising Ran for who he was. ‘You might run, but there ‘int a place in the world you can hide.’

  *

  Running in snow was hard. Running in mud was harder. Running in snowy, icy, filthy mud was nearly impossible. Somehow Ran’s legs kept lifting and pressing over and over in an action his brain thought was running, but he wasn’t convinced he was going anywhere at all. The ground was somewhere beneath the drifts that at times extended upward to encase his ankles and shins. He pushed on, blinking sleet from his eyes.

  Voices at his back, bellowing in the night and jeering for his blood, were all the motivation he needed to keep moving in the storm. What lay ahead was unseen and unknown, but it was a whole lot better than what he knew lay behind. Their torches grew close, the light enough to see by, and he baulked and ran harder. Memories of escaping Usmein leapt to his mind and he staggered forwards, scrambling for some sort of safety in the night. The better the light, the closer they were, and the closer they got, the nearer their swords came to his back.

  Thom the miner made no mention of the duke’s bounty being conditional. For all these men knew, a dead derramentis mage was as valuable as a live one, and a damn sight less dangerous to his captors when the body was relieved of its head. His chances of returning to Usmein alive were dwindling by the second. In fact, his chances of being alive to do anything were drastically shrinking at a rate he wasn’t altogether happy with.

  A shout echoed among the trees and he dove to the left, stumbling down a hill and seeking darkness. The ground beneath his feet vanished and he pitched forwards. Before he had time to scream his face hit a jagged slope and he tumbled in a shower of stones and ice into a black abyss. The hard ground punched through the layers of clothing to mark him with bruises and the toe of his boot caught a tree root, jerking his ankle in a painful twist.

  A stand of bracken arrested his fall as the hill plateaued to flatter ground, the tangle of thick vines holding him still and pinning his coat among its thorns like pegs on a washing line. By the grace of the gods he hit the savage shrub with his back, sparing his face the onslaught of the barbs and branches, and affording him a view up the hill he’d just skidded down. High up through the branches of tall, snow-laden trees, the glow of torches moved, marking the search for him in the storm. The wind whipped the falling ice into his face, stinging his skin and eyes, burning his lips, but he saw enough.

  The glow, a dancing light among the trees on the ridge above, receded until darkness reclaimed her dominion over the woods and left Ran dangling with his feet above the ground like a limp scarecrow. They might have diverted their search, thinking he’d run in the other direction, but their torches would tell them his tracks led over the ridge and down the hill. Their torches would lead them back to the road and their local knowledge would bring them to the base of the hill by another, more comfortable path than he took.

  He couldn’t afford to be here when they arrived, swords shining and teeth bared in glaring, greedy smiles. Ran yanked on his arm, heaving against the strength of the bracken until either the thorns or his coat gave in. One limb at a time, he pulled and ripped, glad with every rent stitch that it wasn’t his skin against the bush’s blades. He could get another coat in time, or repair this one if his saddlebag survived the escape, but wounds could spell death if they fouled.

  A serious cluster of thorns were well entrenched in the area between his shoulder blades and despite all the pulling and wriggling he could manage, they weren’t willing to release their catch.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered.

  He slipped his arm out of the coat’s sleeve and left it hanging in the vines like a corpse. His other arm followed and he dropped to the ground, weary legs staggering under his weight. For a moment he waited and let the exhaustion ebb and flow across his skin and seep through his muscles, one hand grasping the hem of his coat for stability. If the magic hadn’t left him weak and shaking, the race through the woods had done the job for certain. Again, his legs quivered and threatened to cave. Then they cracked like brittle timber hollowed by rot and ants.

  Ranoth glanced down.

  Knees shouldn’t crack like timber.

  The ground opened with an echoing crunch and Ran fell, his coat following him down like a torn flag.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Southern Reaches, Orthia

  A few small stones peppered Ran’s brow, enough to let him know he was alive.

  He wasn’t yet sure he liked the idea all that much.

  Being alive hurt—a lot.

  It hurt in his head and his shoulders, in his back and his hips. It hurt his legs and it probably hurt his feet, but he couldn’t be sure if they were still attached. One hand hurt so badly it burned with all the fire of a summer sun, but the other was as absent as his feet; neither gone nor present, neither comfortable nor in the same agony as the rest of him.

  More stones and dirt landed on his face, but he could not open his eyes to see the source. Perhaps the pursuers had found him and now set about burying him as they thought him dead.

  No. They hunted him for a bounty, why bury him in the woods? Unless he was already in Usmein, dragged back in unconsciousness and tried in absence…

  In the distance he thought he heard a throaty growl, like a bear, or a dog, or both mixed together. He couldn’t be sure. He wanted to go back to sleep.

  ‘The heck are you doing down there?’ a voice murmured from above, a whisper meant for its owner and no one else.

  A bigger, heavier stone thumped into his chest.

  ‘You alive?’ the voice called, louder this time.

  His arms and legs refused to respond to the question, sprawled in a limp, defiant mess on a cold, very hard floor. He tried to move them, but they would not obey. The voice above didn’t sound malicious or threatening. It sounded curious and perhaps a little worried. It made him think of trusting and obliging, and of things other than putrid, unwashed miners in a taproom. All his effort moved to his eyes. If they opened, the voice would know he lived.

  The growl rumbled in the earth again. It sniffed, except the earth doesn’t sniff.

  With all the force he could muster, Ran peeled his eyes open a fraction, enough to let the blinding light of morning flood in and burn at the insides of his brain. He grimaced and slammed them shut.

  ‘Are you…?’ the voice asked again, an anxious waver in the words, uncertainty in the way the sentence hung in the air.

  Ran prised his eyelids open again, thin slits to keep the light at bay but moving enough to an
swer the question whispered from above. Against the light and the black walls of the hole he languished in, she peered over the edge, flame-red hair glowing in the white of the morning. If only he had the strength to groan.

  *

  Laying in the darkness of that hole, Ran had believed his hand and both of his feet were truly lost. He imagined himself dismembered, with body parts strewn about his bleeding figure. Now a sense of warmth curled around his arms and legs, soaking into his bones and swarming along his veins, and he knew his limbs had survived intact. The burning in his fingers and toes, the sting in his skin, was beyond the burn of magic or the release of its power. It was harder than ice and as bone deep as the coldest chill, and held nothing of the comfort warmth should. It burned like a brand and there was nothing Ran could do to escape it.

  His limbs shivered and his back ached but he didn’t dare try to move. Only the gods knew what he’d done to himself in that fall. Enough soldiers fell from the city wall for him to know what such a height could do to a person’s spine. If he survived with nothing more than a few broken bones, he’d be extremely fortunate.

  A door nearby opened but did not close. The visitor did not plan to linger.

  A figure sat beside him and pressed a cup to his lips, thick liquid lapping at his mouth. He tried to refuse it, but all he managed was a throaty gasp.

  ‘Drink it or you’ll be howling in an hour.’ The same voice as before issued the order without a hint of room for compromise. Her accent spoke of the Orthian highlands, rolling her R’s and extending her vowels. ‘Won’t have you keeping everyone awake ‘til sparrows.’

  Ran obliged and let the liquid pass, his tongue doing its best to ignore the bitter flavour barely masked by berries and mint. The effect of the tonic swirled into him instantly, taking with it the agony in his face and neck and dragging it down his throat. It collected pain as it travelled, scooping it from one place and the next, balling it into one throbbing ache at the small of his back, before soothing it to a dull pulse. It settled there, warm and numb, present but calm, and content to rest until the tonic wore off and it could return to the places where he bore his injuries.

  He hoped she’d made the mixture good and strong.

  He did not wish to feel the pain again.

  *

  He woke, shivering and weeping, the pillow at either side of his head sodden and cold in contrast to the heat of his fevered skin. His rescuer sat on the bed again, dabbing a cool cloth to his brow. She whispered quiet incantations and words of comfort, urging him to find peace in the pain when there surely was none.

  Ran choked on a sob and opened his eyes a fraction.

  She removed the cloth and buried it in a bowl of snow balanced in her lap. Her fingers were red raw from the ice, but she persisted and returned the cloth to pat his cheeks and neck. Her eyes met his and she smiled. ‘Hoped to keep you sleeping.’

  The cloth felt lukewarm as it settled on his brow and moisture dribbled through his hair to mix with sweat and tears.

  ‘Sorry…’ he croaked, his voice hoarse with lack of use.

  ‘Aye, fever will do that. Close your eyes.’

  It cost him. Pain lanced through his skull at the movement of his eyes, but it was well worth it for a glimpse of the flame-red curls pulled back from her face, wrapped in a cloth to keep them contained. She pulled the compress down from his forehead to cover his vision, leaving him no choice but to heed her command.

  *

  His fever broke in the night and Ran finally fell into a restful sleep.

  The ghost girl appeared then, sitting in the corner, watching in silence. He said nothing to her, nor did she speak to him, her hard gaze wandering across him with an expression of flat disappointment. She vanished before he shut his eyes but he didn’t have the energy to wonder why she’d gone.

  *

  Morning peeked through the curtains across the room, and his strained, injured muscles relaxed for the first time since he’d escaped Graupen. Ran felt safe in this room, as though the terrors of the outside world could not penetrate its walls. His head knew that to be a lie, but his heart held fast to the idea, unwilling to concede what his mind knew to be true. It would not be long before he had to move on. There were few places in Orthia he could call safe or secure, where his father’s scouts might not happen upon him or where his face might not be recognised.

  But where was he going? What was he doing except running headlong into the wilderness without a plan?

  Dreams of the western coast and the Syod Archipelago had flashed through his fever, leaving him in little doubt that his future lay beyond the edges of Coraidin. The continent was vast, and he knew from his lessons that it was not the only land to be seen. There were strings of islands stretching away to continents far larger, and with many more places to hide.

  All he needed to do was survive long enough to get there.

  Such places were a haven for people fleeing old lives, looking to make a fresh start where no one asked questions or cared where you were from. Many would be willing to accept a young man with magic in his blood and the skills to read and write and fight.

  Yet, as appealing as disappearing into obscurity beyond the borders of Coraidin seemed, setting such a course meant leaving his entire life behind. What of his place in his father’s house—his rightful place, as the duke’s son and heir? Did that not warrant some response on his part? Anguish twisted in his belly, and he knew a clean break for the coast wouldn’t suffice. He wasn’t ready to throw it all away just yet.

  Surely there was a cure for this curse. Surely there was a way to reverse the magic, or suppress it. He knew his father and the Orthian people would never accept a magic-weaver as their future ruler, and this reality left him with a single choice—banish his magic, or accept a life on the fringes of the world. Perhaps the answer lay in Isord, in his grandfather’s court. Surely his mother’s family would help—

  The door opened to his right and a young woman entered with a tray. A bowl of soup steamed beside a pile of fresh bandages, the smell alone setting his mouth to watering.

  ‘Well, you look better today.’ She smiled briefly and set the tray on a nearby table. Ran checked himself as she approached, realising she was at least his age, if not a few years his senior. Her hazel eyes scrutinised him in his sickbed with the same cool professionalism he saw in the palace infirmary and from his childhood nurse. Her hands were not shy of work, fine scars and short nails attesting to hardship.

  She went to the end of the bed and drew back the covers. A cool puff of air curled up Ran’s legs and he realised with a start that he was arse-naked under the sheets and blankets. He recoiled as much as his weakened body would allow, but his nurse raised a brow and smirked.

  ‘Today isn’t the first time, sir. Seen one, you’ve seen them all.’

  Ran looked away as she removed a bedpan and returned to examine his feet and ankles, calves and knees. She probed a place in his upper thigh and he jerked away from the sharp pain that lanced through his muscle like a startled cat.

  ‘That’s healing nicely,’ she observed, then returned the covers to their rightful place and sat beside him. She took his hands, one at a time, turning them in the light and manipulating his fingers and wrists. ‘You’re lucky I found you when I did, and that you had decent gear. This one was frozen stiff and I thought it might have to go.’

  She lifted his right hand so he could see the peeling skin on his fingers and the back of his hand.

  ‘Snow-burn. It will heal but you need to keep it warm and cream it often. At first, I thought you managed to avoid breaking anything…’ Her eyes appraised him again, this time as if she expected him to admit a secret. ‘I thought it strange until I saw your ankle.’

  The woman went to the end of the bed again and pulled the cover back from his foot, gently lifting it to her shoulder. She rested his heel under her collarbone and held the weight there, pointing to the bulging bone on the inner side of the joint.

  ‘Th
is, was over here,’ her finger moved to point at the front of his shin and Ran felt his eyes widen in surprise. ‘These toes were here,’ she pointed to the empty air past her shoulder. ‘And the whole thing was set rock hard.’

  Ranoth swallowed and shrugged.

  She raised another sceptical brow and laid his leg back on the bed, then crossed her arms and cocked her hip.

  ‘No way you ran through the woods on a foot that badly deformed, so it wasn’t an old injury. I saw your tracks and you had two normal feet before you fell down that shaft. You near snapped that foot off when you fell, and in the time it took for me to find you and drag you here, it set itself, albeit badly.’ She shrugged and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. Ran tried to look at something else, but her eyes were all he could see. ‘I thought maybe it was frozen, so I corrected it. Found out the hard way that it weren’t frozen. I had to break your ankle to get it back in place.’

  His mouth ran dry and his heart thumped hard. What was she saying? His ankle had broken then mysteriously healed itself?

  ‘I thought it would take weeks to heal again. It took days.’ Her gaze bore down on him. ‘You’ve been here a fortnight. I’ve treated men in the mine, crushed under loads or wheels, so I know how long it’s meant to take. No one heals a broken bone in less than two months, let alone a couple of days.’

  Ah, shit…

  The magic. It was the only explanation, the only force strong enough to change him so rapidly and without his control or command.

  When he offered no answers, she stood and brought the soup. She fed it to him in silence, his hands too weak and aching to hold the bowl or spoon. The broth was simple and probably the blandest thing he’d eaten in his life, but in that moment, it was divine and warm and all the things he needed. When the last drops were finished, she set about changing the bandages on his arms and legs, a dressing above his left eye, and situating a clean bedpan, all without a word.

  By the time she piled the soiled bandages on the tray and stood at the end of the bed preparing to leave, Ran thought he might have the strength to utter a word or two of his own. He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it.