By Blood Hunted: Kingsblood Chronicles Part Two (The Kingsblood Chronicles Book 2)

by David J. Houpt

  Although he knew full well the elf wasn’t aware of him, Ammon still found himself a little chilled at the idea of being stalked by Celewyn. It was said that once the Shadow was on your trail, nothing could shake him off, nor deter him from completing his mission. Ammon knew that for what it was: legend. Elves were, despite their unaging nature, among the mortalkind and therefore fallible, but it made for a good story in the small group of people—Ammon wouldn’t call it a community—that shared their deadly trade. That didn’t mean that the idea of being hunted by the elf was appealing, but Ammon knew the Shadow could be beaten.

  Long before reaching the noble district, Celewyn stopped to enter one of the inns on Spar and passed from Ammon’s line of sight. Ammon retired to the living area he’d converted to a scrying chamber and conjured up the elven assassin’s image in his scrying ball. The elf and the innkeeper were clearly haggling, settling on a price, and once done the man produced a key and showed Celewyn to his room. Ammon could not hear anything—the spell was visual only—and neither beings’ lips were clear enough to read, but it seemed the man was going to show the room’s amenities to the elf, but was gently rebuked and sent away.

  Once alone, Celewyn poured some water into the fine alabaster basin from the matching pitcher but didn’t wash his face as Ammon expected. Instead, he reached into two of his cloak’s pockets and produced what the Easterner thought looked like a fairly flat piece of cork and something else, too small to see clearly in the assassin’s hand. The elf placed the cork in the water gently, so as not to disturb the liquid, and then placed the robin’s egg-sized object on the center of the cork. The cork turned in the water, until it was facing a fixed direction; to his frustration, Ammon didn’t have a good sense in the vision which compass heading it was, and Celewyn didn’t leave the small object—could it be a frog?—out for long.

  That’s it, Ammon thought excitedly, letting the scrying spell drop and reclining on the couch that had come with the suite. Although old, it was quite comfortable, and he lay sideways on it with a satisfied look on his face. He had no idea how much power it had taken to make such a thing, to penetrate the powerful scrying block that continuously shielded Lian from all attempts to find him by magic, but he was sure of one thing: it was very likely to be unique, and if it became his, then so, too, would the prince.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

  One small piece of good fortune was that Qan had been a full member of the Pilot’s Guild, in good standing with the various Southron Empire’s chapters of the secretive organization. As a consequence, his charts of the Vellan coastline were quite detailed and his instruments were first-rate, including a high-quality navigator’s compass that boasted four enchanted needles. One pointed true north, one pointed at magnetic north, and the other two pointed at Kavris and—to the best of Lian’s calculations—the Eastern city-state of Uril across the Eastern Sea. With these four guidepoints and Qan’s excellent maps, Lian was able to pinpoint their location to within a few miles.

  Of course, Lian could only do this because of the intensive training that Cedrick and the dour navigator Ylen had given him, in flagrant disregard of the guild’s secrecy. To the other members of the small crew, any of the charts more complicated than simple maps were impossible to decipher. “I underestimated Qan,” he said wearily to Gem as he sat with her and Lord Grey—the skull resting on a corner of the charts on the table—in Qan’s cabin. Even though Qan’s maps were better than any he’d seen of the southern continent’s coastline, they were still woefully incomplete and out of date. Not surprising, given how little human presence the western part of Vella boasted.

  “How so?” Gem asked aloud. Despite their shock and horror over the wraiths’ attack, she and Lian still typically kept up their former habit of concealing her capabilities. In the privacy of the cabin, however, Lian wanted to consult with both of them while Snog kept a vigilant watch over the ship and crew.

  “A man clever enough to be a Master Navigator,” Lian replied bitterly, “is clever enough to fool a headstrong and overconfident errant prince. All my assumptions about the danger from Qan’s intentions were well off the mark.” Although he was well aware the ghastly fate visited upon his siblings were not his fault, the prince had to remind himself of that frequently. Not that it helped. Lian had wrestled mightily with survivor’s guilt since he’d escaped the Tower of Firavon and his uncle’s assassins. He had believed he’d come to terms with the worst of it during his service aboard Searcher, but the shades of his brothers and sisters had wakened it afresh.

  The blow to his self-confidence and ego, and the fear the attack had struck into his heart, was worrisome to both Gem and Lord Grey, for Lian had not second-guessed himself so readily prior to that night. Although he put on a brave face for the sailors and Snog, the prince allowed his self-recriminations and self-doubt to show whenever he was alone with the blade and skull. Gem felt that his hold on the crew was far too tenuous already, with mutiny waiting only for opportunity, and if they recognized his fear and hesitation they’d no doubt try one. Their chances to actually take the ship were next to none, given the magical powers Lian’s allies boasted, but that might not stop them from getting people on both sides killed in the process. And the fact was that Lian needed the survivors’ help to operate Indigo Runner.

  “That he was a gifted navigator has little to do with whether he was able to fool you, Lian,” Lord Grey said calmly. “You were well aware that he might have been planning to betray you at one point or another, after all. Adding to that the intuition that you have always demonstrated—have I not always said you’re a quick one, after all—I believe you are being far too harsh with yourself.”

  Lian’s face darkened and the blade and skull could see his jaw working. “Don’t you think I know I’m having trouble dealing with this?” he said angrily, surprising them both. “I can’t get their ghostly faces out of my head! Every time I try to focus on something else, I see and hear them, hear their hatred of me, again.” Tears streaked down his face as he shook his head furiously. “And if I show weakness before the men, especially Mikos or Naryn,” he continued raggedly, “they’ll get it into their minds that it’d be easy enough to claim the bounty on my head if there wasn’t a body attached to it.”

  “Are you reading my thoughts again?” Gem said as lightly as she could, though what passed for her heart was breaking anew. “I was just reflecting on that threat.”

  “As was I,” Lord Grey said somberly, without his characteristic chuckle. “It’s the problem of the moment, no doubt, and Lian’s right.”

  The sword and the young prince both looked at the skull, though of course, only Lian’s eyes showed the attention. The skull continued. “He is having trouble dealing with all of this. His burden was tremendous already, carrying the weight of the insurrection against the Usurper on his shoulders, and his alone. Now that he knows the depths to which Jisa and Rishak will sink, the lengths to which they will go, the fear of failure must be nearly overwhelming.” His voice, normally laden with a sardonic humor, was flat and grim.

  “On top of that fear is the terror at what was visited upon us, and what remains seeking to destroy us in the form of Princess Radiel. She’s out there—I’m as sure of that as Lian is—and she will not rest until she has destroyed her brother. She’s seen our defense of the prince lay low all three of her elder siblings’ wraiths, and she will be careful and cunning beyond measure when she resumes her attack.”

  “How is that supposed to help…?” Gem began, but Lian stayed her with a lifted finger, his eyes become hard as he gazed at the skull.

  Lord Grey uttered a harsh laughing sound at Gem’s interruption, then resumed his litany of Lian’s problems. “In addition, we’re eventually going to run aground in the middle of the great southern wilderness, where even the werewolves of the Empire fear to hunt. If Lian and the other living men survive the inevitable shipwreck and manage to head east, we’ll have to cross hundreds of leagues of rocky seacoast just to reach so
me small fishing village. And then, if we haven’t figured out a way to make the men loyal enough to keep their silence, we’ll have to do something about them, as well.”

  Lian recoiled from this, for he’d seen just as clearly as Snog and Lord Grey that the sailors knew far too much to be allowed to ever leave his sphere of control. And once they reached civilization again, that meant only one thing. The spymaster’s training told him that the sailors must die, just as the teachings of his father, mother, and elder siblings said the opposite, that men who gave their service were to be protected in turn.

  “That is what scares you the most, is it not?” Lord Grey said, his earlier harsh tone softening into kindness. “That you must wallow in the darkness that fills your aunt and uncles’ hearts in order to fight against them. That you must become the murderers and monsters they already are in order to have a chance.”

  Lian sat silently for nearly a full minute, his face expressionless save for his burning eyes. “Gem has always said that it was dangerous to let you into my head,” he said softly. “That letting you analyze my dreams, to share my innermost fears and thoughts with you would only give you what you need to manipulate me.

  “And she was right,” he continued, caressing the pommel of the longsword affectionately. “You have learned enough about me to manipulate me, and that’s what you’re doing right now.”

  “Am I, Lian?” the skull asked innocently, though his tone didn’t fool either of his companions.

  “You are,” Lian replied, nodding. “And, damn your long lost eyes, it’s working.” Against his will, the prince found himself thinking again.

  “You have suffered terrible losses, and to have witnessed the fruit of Jisa’s black labors is even more terrible still,” Lord Grey said, his voice less harsh than before, but not kind, either. “We all know that, and we’re all worried the grief, pain, loathing, and rage will drive you mad, but you don’t have that luxury, Prince Lian Evanson.

  “Whether Rishak manages to establish a dynasty and his line holds onto control of Dunshor or whether the line ends with him and the Theocracy reestablishes itself to a rule of mages, the people of Dunshor will suffer,” he continued, his voice rising. “Not as your fellow princes and princesses did, most of them, the lucky ones.”

  Lord Grey made a pained-sounding laughing cough. “But suffer they will, your people,” he said. “Many will know abuses far worse than Lyrial’s paltry crimes against the goblins or the innocent child whose bone you still carry. And some will suffer crimes against their bodies, against their minds, against their souls, that will put even what has happened to Radiel to shame. I know this; I have seen it, what my fellow mages will do, eventually, if unchecked. And I don’t believe for a moment that Rishak will be able to hold onto his crown without the old Theocracy mages’ support, and that means he has to let them pursue their black arts, not the worst of which is necromancy!” The skull’s voice conveyed his disgust and even horror at the excessive evil he’d witnessed, and as Gem and Lian suspected, likely participated in.

  “That doesn’t change the fears I feel,” Lian said, calm in the face of the skull’s passion. “That doesn’t make your observation that I might have to be as horrible as my aunt and uncle just to survive, much less fight them, wrong.”

  “I know, lad,” the skull said after a time. “All you can do is try to be true to the principles that were taught to you and minimize the harm that you must do. And let us be plain here—even had the coup not happened and you had merely been a prince of Dunshor instead of its king, you would have had to do harm sooner or later.”

  “One cannot be a man or woman of power, magical or political or both, and not bloody one’s hands,” Lian said, repeating something his father King Evan had said once.

  “Precisely,” Lord Grey replied.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Time again to cast off lines and trim the sails,

  Into the Wavelord’s realm far from wife and home.

  O brave souls climb the rigging and set the sails

  Deep and deeper go ‘till sight of land is gone.

  Master of the Seas, down deep in your palace

  Gaze upon we men in our tiny frail ships.

  Guard us, Oh Sealord, and grant us your mercy

  Ne’er let us becalm or be caught in gales’ grips.

  He chooses who is to live and who will drown.

  Lord of the Waves, we pray you grant us calm seas,

  And let all your wrath and fury be withheld,

  That shores again we spy, your fell wrath appeased.

  Master of the Seas, down deep in your palace

  Gaze upon we men in our tiny frail ships.

  Guard us, Oh Sealord, and grant us your mercy

  Ne’er let us becalm or be caught in gales’ grips.

  Bold men back into the sea, go ye lively!

  Guide us to find the full tide, Lord of the Waves,

  Not to founder in the ebb-tide’s treachery,

  And keep us, we pray you, from watery graves!

  Master of the Seas, down deep in your palace

  Gaze upon we men in our tiny frail ships.

  Guard us, Oh Sealord, and grant us your mercy

  Ne’er let us becalm or be caught in gales’ grips.

  -- The Song of the Sea, invocation prayer to Tysleth common to the Southron Empire

  Something was troubling the tall Avani, and though he focused upon the feeling of disquiet, he wasn’t able to identify the source, even after opening his magical senses to try to discern it. Hundreds of years of experience, however, had taught him to trust his instincts. Has one of Rishak’s oracles somehow stumbled onto my objective? Celewyn pondered, for his mind associated the vague feeling of unease with the idea of someone watching on him from afar. If someone was, it put both him and Prince Lian in far graver danger then they already faced.

  It seemed unlikely. Anyone who did somehow recognize him and then—even less likely—realize he was looking for Lian would no doubt assume he was doing so for the massive reward the Usurper and his wife would pay for the prince’s head. Such an observer would never think that so dread a personage as the Shadow was seeking him to help him, to try to protect him against his huge array of enemies. Unlikely didn’t mean impossible, he well knew, but the probability that the Usurper knew he was seeking Lian to help him was quite remote.

  Competition seeking Lian, or a rival who’s decided to kill me? he pondered for a time, turning the concepts over and over in his mind. The latter seemed much more likely on the surface. A rival seeking to kill him, however, would hardly have let the game go on this long, and he believed he’d been feeling this undefinable sensation for some time. It didn’t fit the sequence of events, and he set that possibility aside for the moment.

  A contender for the prize associated with handing the Usurpers Lian’s head, although it seemed nearly ridiculous that it be so, fit the feeling better. He’d been careful, as was his long habit, and had not spotted anyone appearing to recognize him. In his meditative trance, Celewyn explored his memories but found nothing that set apart any person he’d met or seen in the recent past.

  But he was quite skilled at not being noticed when he chose to be stealthy, and another assassin would possess those skills as well. As improbable as it seemed, he decided that he must give credence to the idea that another assassin had somehow concluded he was after the fugitive prince, and further, had decided that the best way to find Lian was to follow Celewyn.

  Not too many would have the capability or the gall to follow me, he thought, changing the focus of his meditation to the practical. In order to follow him by sympathetic magic, they must have somehow drawn blood or flesh from him in Avethiel and were using it to form a link to him. That meant not only a skilled assassin, but a spellsinger, to boot.

  Or a pair or small group working together, he conceded as his mind puzzled at the possibilities. A guilded group of killers could have, between them, the spectrum of skills needed to carry
this off. But unless all of the group were equally skilled at escaping notice, he probably would have spotted at least one of them in the elven city, so he discounted a larger number, settling on one or two opponents. It felt right, anyhow.

  So the question is, he thought, feeling the urge to clench his jaw and suppressing it, have they seen me use the frog? It was unique in the world, that small figurine, and irreplaceable. It was also tremendously dangerous to the prince since it could penetrate the veil drawn about him by the Key of Firavon. If his unseen adversaries hadn’t seen the jade frog, or at the least didn’t realize its purpose, Celewyn felt he was relatively safe from attack. The hunter or hunters could not assume that his means of pursuing Lian would survive Celewyn’s death. Therefore, the chance that the tracking magic would be lost if the Avani were killed would prevent them from trying to kill him.

  On the other hand, he thought with clinical detachment, if they have seen the frog, if they recognized what its significance is, then they may conclude that I am superfluous. He didn’t fear the death he’d visited upon so many, but he did worry that his mission would be uncompleted. Worse, Elowyn’s dying wish would not be fulfilled, nor his death avenged. Death was, therefore, something to be avoided.

  He chided himself and resisted the urge to snort aloud, his body instead remaining silent as stone as he sat meditating. He had felt anxious and out of sorts when Lian’s trace had deviated west, and there was nothing to be done but try to follow him. Being in danger, under threat himself of being assassinated, had allowed him to focus past that helpless feeling and center against becoming unbalanced by emotion.

  So it had ever been.