by Gwynn White
Still muttering, Ayda drifted across the churned-up field to another crumpled body, with her and Dain in tow.
Laylea.
Caeda swallowed and stiffened her already straight back. Tears prickled, but she blinked them away.
Dain shifted, clanking his armor. His frozen eyes locked onto Laylea’s vitals, bloodying the mud.
She, Dain, and Laylea had enlisted together in the king’s army almost forty years before. Although initially strangers, they had laughed and cried together through basic training. Since then, they had cheered each other on as they’d fought their way through the ranks. Just yesterday, they had drunk a cup of ale together before heading to the battlefield. They had planned to drink another after the victory.
Ayda muttered as she stooped over Laylea. Her sword probed. A small triumphant moan, and she scooped Laylea’s soul—bright blue—into her sword.
Laylea, along with all the other souls reaped today, would be fed to the Bone.
Fear for her friend forced her from her shocked stupor. She cleared her throat. “Lady Ayda. What happens to the souls once the Bone swallows them?”
Never before in her short life—she was only sixty—had the question crossed her mind. But Laylea was her friend.
Ayda turned sharp blue eyes on her. “One does not question what the Bone does with the souls. It is enough that the Bone holds all magic, all power. It has kept our kingdom safe for more than a thousand years. That should be enough to satisfy idle curiosity.”
That much was true; no one had successfully attacked Yatres in generations, although many surrounding kingdoms had tried over the centuries to vanquish them and steal the Bone.
“My curiosity is never idle. This soldier was my friend. I want to know what will happen to her.”
She could almost hear Dain’s eyeballs flipping in their sockets at her sharpness. He was constantly telling her to put a lock on her tongue. But in the face of her friend’s death, no one fobbed her off and got away with it.
Not even Yatres’s patron saint.
Lady Ayda grimaced. “Beware such curiosity, Lieutenant. One day it may lead you into paths you do not want to tread.”
Caeda’s frown deepened. “My lady, I’m sure you can understand how a vaguely intelligent Fae could find that somewhat patronizing and unhelpful.”
Dain leaned behind Ayda and punched Caeda’s arm above her vambrace. “The Fire-Weavers have arrived to burn the dead.”
She had been aware of the red-clad Fae lining the field. They would burn the dead as soon as she, Dain, and Ayda left. The sky would be stained with the stink and color of death for days. Laylea, with all jokes and pranks, would be one of them.
“Perhaps we should let Lady Ayda finish her job here,” Dain added.
Dain. Always the damn diplomat.
Ayda patted his arm. “Indeed, Lieutenant Dain. And the souls don’t linger while we prattle.” She strode to the next corpse.
Prattle? Caeda shook her head as she flanked the annoying woman.
Dain’s handsome face glowered at her. “Remember what Garrik keeps telling you,” he muttered.
Caeda smiled self-deprecatingly. Over the years, Garrik, her commanding officer and trainer, had been at pains to tell her that, with her fighting skill, she would have been promoted to captain if she could just learn to button her lip.
“Lieutenant Caeda.” Ayda waved the glowing sword at her. “I had planned to ask you and Lieutenant Dain to accompany me when I fed the Bone. But if you find Reaping too distressing—”
“Not distressing at all, my lady.” She snapped a salute. “And I can shut up—”
“Prove it.” Before Ayda turned away, she swore she’d seen a glimmer of a smile on the Soul-Reaper’s ethereal face.
It had been an honor to be chosen to guard Ayda’s back today, and she didn’t want the Soul-Reaper to think her ungrateful.
Just uncouth. She snorted softly to herself. And strong-willed.
All good attributes in her mind. But not daring to risk being dismissed before witnessing the Feeding, she straightened her back and bit her tongue as Ayda reaped the last souls.
Of course, legends about the Bone swirled like the mist curling around her on the battlefield. But if she sliced through it all, she was left with four facts.
The Bone had been hacked off the monarch who had once ruled this land before the Yatres Fae had invaded and conquered. To wield it was to destroy or create—utterly. Only their king and the Soul-Reaper were permitted to touch it. No Soul-Reaper would ever dream of doing so without her king’s command.
But what did the Bone do with the souls? Would Laylea suffer? Would she ever be freed from the Bone?
Not even legend provided her with credible answers. For the first time in forty years in the military and in countless battles, that was no longer good enough. It was time to dig deeper to learn exactly what the Bone did with the souls it swallowed. While Ayda would be the best source of information, the rapt concentration on Ayda’s face suggested she’d get no answers now. Maybe later, after the Feeding, she would seek Ayda out for a private discussion.
An hour passed, then two.
Finally, Ayda sheathed her pulsing blade. “I’m done.” She laughed softly. “And yes, Lieutenant Caeda, you can keep your mouth shut when it suits you. If you like, I will mention that fact to Garrik.”
Ayda touched her face with an icy finger. Caeda was about to step back—she was a Royal Guard, not a child to be petted—but something twisted Ayda’s face. Something she didn’t understand.
A vein throbbed in Ayda’s forehead. “Beware of questions. Beware of seeking answers to things best left well alone.” Her voice dropped so low that Caeda struggled to hear her. “That’s the only way to avoid the madness.”
It was whispered that the Sword was unnaturally heavy for its size. Bearing it had certainly cost Ayda today, given her hunched shoulders and gaunt face. “Lieutenant Caeda, send in the Fire-Weavers.”
Armor clanking, Caeda spun on her heel to face the red-clad Fae. “Burn the bodies.”
As the Fire-Weavers filtered onto the battlefield with flames trailing from their fingers, she and Dain took up defensive positions around Ayda and the souls in the Sword.
It would be unthinkable if a lingering Nyhan were to attack Ayda.
Boots covered in snow and gore, they strode along the rutted track toward a black carriage. Drawn by two black horses, the dark carriage was as much a symbol to the people of Yatres as was the Sword.
Ayda stumbled, but before Caeda or anyone else could help her, she found her balance. She rubbed her temple. “The souls are very heavy today.”
Caeda moved ahead to the carriage and opened the door. She offered a hand to help Ayda up the step into the carriage.
A grateful smile, and Ayda almost tumbled onto the bench. She hitched her sword in its sheath until it lay beside her like a third leg. Blue light glowed from its sheath.
Caeda and Dain followed her inside. Caeda locked the carriage door and slipped the key into her pocket. She pulled the blinds down as the carriage set off. Even defeated in battle, Nyhan assassins could lurk in the shadows.
The carriage jolted forward, and soon, they’d be clear of the smoking battlefield; Caeda kept her sigh of relief quiet. Ayda had her own regular guard and could very easily dismiss her when they reached the Round Palace.
She wasn’t taking any chances. No matter how valiantly she fought in future battles, she would never again be chosen to witness the Feeding of the Bone. This was her only opportunity to find answers. If Ayda was attacked due to a lack of vigilance on her part, she could forget about ever learning Laylea’s fate.
Ayda slumped in her seat. That vein in her forehead visibly throbbed, and a prickle of sweat showed on her upper lip. She ran a trembling hand through her long hair, a shaky breath whistling between her teeth.
Caeda rubbed the leather-bound pommel of her very ordinary sword. She was grateful for the boring, mundane thing. It
kept her alive, and it kept Princess Taliesin, who she usually guarded when her sword wasn’t required in battle, from harm, but it didn’t put the weight of souls on her shoulders. Even if it did carry the weight of the lives she’d taken in battle.
The swiftest road to the hill where the Round Palace perched was through Upper Whaivag. The capital teemed with shouting, laughing, and cheering spectators.
Crowds meant potential trouble.
Her hand slipped under the blind closest to her. She cracked it open just far enough to check for threats. Dain also lifted a corner of his blind and stared outside.
Celebratory mead and cheap ale already flowed from caskets propped up against the wall of the town hall. Dancers swayed and gyrated in the streets, the cold be damned.
The thin layer of ice and snow quickly melted beneath their pounding feet. Musicians played their fiddles and lutes and drums on every corner, and Fae and faeries with beaming faces handed out winter flowers woven into crowns. Even the drunk vagrants had slunk out of their alleyways to join the festivities. They danced on the cobblestone roads. The Yatres flag, a crossed Bone and Sword, hung from the many windows and balconies.
Her gaze swept over the gathered masses, marking known troublemakers. Nyhan stragglers weren’t the only threats. While Upper Whaivag may have been beautiful with its ivory pillars, green-framed windows, and tall, sun-bleached tea-colored buildings, its underbelly was filled the poor and hopeless who grubbed for money to survive, selling anything from ribbons to their younglings. Gambling barons fought for turf and the whores who plied their wares for pennies along their grimy streets.
The value of the Soul-Reaper’s sword—and her life, was incalculable.
Even here, Fae left their daily grind to party in the streets. Someone threw a roughly crafted Nyhan flag into a bonfire in the dried-up fountain. The flag went up in smoke, and the people roared their victory.
“That’s what happens to those who try and steal our Bone. We destroy them!”
A Fae with a bloodied head, dressed in a tattered Nyhan tunic, lurched into the street ahead of the carriage. He shouted and waved his sword. The driver yelled a warning and swerved the horses.
Caeda reached for her blade and surveyed the area. If this was an attack—
The Nyhan staggered into the gutter, only to be swamped by the crowd. Fists flew and boots kicked before uniformed city guards broke up the tussle.
They hauled him to his feet, but he hung limp in their arms. The two years the war had lasted was a mere blink in a Fae lifetime, but their people had bled and cried and sacrificed enough.
Caeda raised her eyebrows at Dain. “Looks like he got what’s coming to him.”
He shook his head wearily. “How many more are there?”
“Things will be tense for a while.” She glanced at Ayda.
Her head lolled, although her breathing didn’t suggest sleep.
The carriage trudged up the hill, finally breaking free from the crowds to approach the maze surrounding the Round Palace. Once beyond the miles of snow-covered, trimmed hedges that guarded the heart of Yatres, the Round Palace opened before them. Built from clean white marble, dozens of towers of different heights soared into the sky above the long main building, the emerald shingles of some even piercing the low-lying clouds. Wooden window frames painted in brilliant jewel colors brightened the pristine white stone. From many of the windows, lights glittered, promising glowing hearths on a bitterly cold day.
A shout rang out to open the palace gates. The carriage lumbered to a stop in the stable courtyard tucked behind the grand building. She unlocked the door and climbed out, scanning the courtyard for threats. Apart from a few stable boys, who ducked behind the stable doors and piles of hay, the wind-whirled courtyard was deserted. The stable hands knew better than to get under the feet of the guards protecting the Soul-Reaper and her fully charged sword. Satisfied it was safe, she extended a hand to help Ayda out of the carriage.
Ayda snatched her hand away as soon as her boots hit the icy cobbles. She strode across the courtyard for the marble stairs that spiraled up a narrow tower into the Soul-Reaper’s chambers, where she and the Bone lived.
Caeda kept pace with her as Ayda lumbered up the narrow, winding staircase. Her ears strained for any approaching dangers.
About halfway up, Ayda paused, clutching the stone banister.
She shuffled past her so she would at least be first to encounter any dangers ahead of them, and then stopped and waited. She considered offering Ayda her arm, but the Soul-Reaper’s downturned mouth and crisp hand wave stopped her.
“You guards panic for nothing,” Ayda wheezed.
“My lady should have let us check the stairwell first for intruders.”
“And who would come here? In the one hundred and fifty years since the Sword picked me to be Soul-Reaper, no one has triggered the wards that protect the Bone.”
Her jaw hardened, and she couldn’t stop herself saying, “The Nyhans have spent the last two years trying to get the Bone. And we just passed one in the city. They are still a threat, my lady.”
“Pah! And trying isn’t succeeding. Believe me, the wards surrounding the Bone are impenetrable to anyone without the Sword.” Ayda patted the simple pommel on her hip. “Death awaits anyone who steps through the door without my or the king’s permission. Even he needs the Sword to break the wards.”
So Ayda was in a chatty mood. Good. Time to start her interrogation.
“Have you ever touched the Bone?” she asked.
“No, and I pray I never do.” Ayda ran a trembling hand across her sweaty forehead. “It hasn’t been used since King Kaist first came to power five hundred years ago.” She stared into the distance and muttered, “That’s what I keep telling them. You know that.” She hitched the still-glowing sword on her hip and started up the stairs.
Who was Ayda talking to? That was one question she wasn’t about to ask when the only answer led inexorably back to Soul-Reaper insanity. Instead, she sped up ahead of her, taking the next two stairs at a leap.
Footsteps scuffled on the stone above her.
No one should have been here.
Her pulse spiked. She and Dain pulled their blades free.
2
Lord Dominik Dakar rounded the corner.
“Dominik!” Ayda’s face lightened. Some of the tension melted from her taut body.
Caeda relaxed, marginally, but still clasped her sword.
If Dominik noticed the blades angled against him, he gave no sign of it. “How lucky I am to catch a glimpse of our lovely Soul-Reaper on victory day.” He wrinkled his nose. “Even if you really could use a bath.”
With his shocking sea-green eyes, Dominik was beautiful, even by Fae male standards. So beautiful, in fact, that it almost hurt Caeda to look at his brutally magnificent face. Although easily three hundred years old, like all Fae he didn’t look a day older than twenty-five. She guessed that many a noble heart had been broken when King Kaist had announced a month before that Lord Dakar had been selected to marry his daughter and heir, Princess Taliesin.
Poor sod.
The princess was as popular as an infestation of lice.
Placing her on Taliesin’s guard detail was Garrik’s last-ditch attempt to teach her to melt into the background until spoken to.
But the raw, painful truth was that even standing in the cold, watching eerie Ayda reaping spine-chilling souls—Laylea excluded—was preferable to spending time in the princess’s company. Not that Taliesin ever noticed her guards. The Fae—Caeda included—who devoted hours of back-breaking silence to keeping Taliesin safe were mere furniture in the background of the princess’s privileged life.
Ayda leaned casually against the opposite wall, as if the weight of the Sword no longer pressed so heavily on her. “You are cluttering up my staircase, so the odds of seeing me were good.”
Caeda knew they were friends, but if she were the Soul-Reaper, no matter how pretty Dominik was, she’d hav
e demanded to know what he was doing here uninvited, with the Bone no more than a few turns of the stairs away. Her lips twitched in a smile; Garrik and Dain would be proud of her that she hadn’t blurted that truth out.
Dominik leaned against the curved wall. He crossed one booted ankle over the other. Lean muscles as hard as diamonds from constant military training rippled beneath his fine silk tunic and surcoat. Small white scars flecked his hands and arms. A dark shadow of stubble highlighted his hard chin. “You had a good Reaping?”
“You should know.” Ayda almost simpered. “Many of the Nyhans in my sword can blame you for their demise.”
Her nose almost crinkled. Did Soul-Reapers fancy gorgeous men? Apparently so, given the flush brightening Ayda’s ghostly white skin.
Dominik cracked a wolfish smile. “That’ll teach the buggers to come after our Bone.”
Ayda barked a laugh. She pointed to a fading bruise on Dominik’s cheekbone. “Last time I saw you, there was blood gushing from that thing. I think my privilege was truly in seeing you bleed.”
He snarled playfully. “Just a little scratch.”
“One that had you scampering from the battlefield before the final victory horn?” Ayda tsked.
His smile faltered, and he sighed. “I’m sure you can guess the real reason I left before the final trumpet.”
Ayda’s face softened. “She summoned you at such a time?”
He nodded curtly and jerked his hand through his long, silvery-dark hair. “The battle was already won.”
“Making excuses for her?” Ayda’s head canted. “That’s not the Dominik I know. So where is your lovely princess? Shouldn’t you be spending victory day with her? I can’t imagine she’d be happy to be parted from you if she pulled you away from the battle.”
It was all she could do to keep from huffing. She’d hope a day with the Soul-Reaper would allow her to escape some of the drama that followed Taliesin like a personal storm cloud. Being her guard meant she had a front-row seat to every flash of emotion that flitted through the pretty girl’s vapid head, including her annoyance and disdain for the brash Lord Dominik. And his equal haughtiness toward her.
