by Gwynn White
“That it was amazing experience, and if given the chance, we would do it again.”
“Would you?” She was sure the smile she shot him looked vaguely sick.
“Of course I would. Wouldn’t you?”
Her neck and shoulders tightened. “You’re happy that Laylea got sucked into a sword, only to feed the femur of a dead king? Surely that has to have consequences for her. And not to mention the king.”
He frowned and shifted from boot to boot. “That wasn’t Laylea. Not really. Not as we knew her.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” She slapped his arm. “Come, let’s see what the Trikarlock genius can tell us.”
Her teeth worried the inside of her cheek as she and Dain closed the distance to Izanna. It wasn’t that she doubted the need for the Bone. It had made Yatres great for almost a thousand years. Yatres had to continue that greatness for another thousand years. Why else would she have rejected a life of selling ribbons in her father’s haberdashery to sign up for the military? It was her personal calling to do her part to keep her nation great.
Her choice hadn’t endeared her to her father, any more than Zella’s choices had. To him, they were both whores—just with different masters. She shrugged her irritation at her father’s misguided notions away.
Next time, I’ll just have to kill a few less of the enemy, she told herself wryly as they reached Izanna’s dark corner. That way, she wouldn’t be singled out for valor when world-shifting honors were tossed around.
Face pensive, Izanna fiddled with a bone, almost as long and as ancient-looking as the Bone in Ayda’s tower. She looked up as Caeda and Dain yanked out benches. A smile, and the bone vanished, replaced by a simple mess spoon.
She and Dain exchanged a what-the-heck-was-that-all-about look as they sat.
“Don’t look so shocked.” Izanna tossed the spoon onto the table. “The Soul-Reaper would have known instantly that it was a fake.”
“So, Image-Meddling isn’t just useful for disguising handsome Fae?” Face sour, Dain picked up the spoon and twirled it in his fingers before dropping it back on the table.
“That, too,” Izanna said. “Now tell me everything.”
Caeda hedged. “You’ve obviously seen the Bone. How many times?”
“Once.” Izanna’s face glowed. “It was the most profoundly spiritual moment of my life. I have not stopped dreaming about it since. It has totally absorbed my life, my work.” A coy laugh, totally at odds with her earlier, siren persona. “My everything, really.”
She willingly saluted the flag, bowed to the king, and—before the Reaping—revered the Bone, but Izanna’s passion struck her as dangerous. She took a sip of ale to gather her thoughts.
Go in fighting. Get what you want before this meeting veers off into directions you don’t want it to go. Pleased with her own advice, she wiped her mouth with her hand. “What happens to the souls once the Bone—”
“Eats them,” Izanna interrupted. “They share their essence—their power with the Bone. It’s old magic.” She leaned in close and breathed, “Dark magic. It predates everything we teach today. Few still understand how it works, if anyone.”
She shifted, hating Izanna’s manic gleam. Fae said Ayda was nuts. Izanna topped anything Ayda had said or done today.
Dain slurped his stew. The sound was so wonderfully normal—commonplace—in a conversation that set her teeth on edge. She gulped a couple of mouthfuls, too, then said, “Surely there’re books explaining it.”
Izanna shook her head so sharply her silver hair tumbled into her face. “No books. It’s all passed down from one Soul-Reaper to another. Not even King Kaist truly grasps it.” She tossed her hair behind her pointed ears. “I have a session with Lady Ayda this afternoon. I’m hoping she can answer some questions before she finally goes—” Her finger curled next to ear in the universal sign for insanity. “I hear it won’t be long now. She mumbles constantly.” Izanna’s head canted like a bird, as if she were waiting for them to deny or confirm it.
Caeda swallowed a mouthful of stew without chewing. It burned all the way down into her stomach. All hunger gone, she tossed her spoon down onto her platter. Gravy splattered the table. “She seemed very sane to me. In fact, saner than some of us seated around this table.”
“You’d have to be sane to know that, Caeda.” Dain guffawed. A typical Dain attempt at defusing an awkward situation. Dain may have been a scoundrel when it came to women, but he had a sharp mind that he wasn’t afraid to use.
So did she. She grinned at him. “Stop trying to be a smartass, Dain. You’re just an ass.”
Dain snorted his stew.
Izanna waved their mirth away, ignoring Dain’s spluttered coughs. “Tell me how the Bone and the souls made you feel.”
Caeda sat back to let Dain answer first.
He glared at her to speak.
She smiled sweetly at him.
He delivered a sharp kick on her ankle.
She kept her face blank as if nothing had happened.
Finally, he mumbled, “Good. And proud. The Bone makes us great. I like being great.”
The official line. The same one she had just spouted to herself.
Izanna’s mouth twitched like she wanted to say something. Instead, she patted him dismissively on the hand and looked squarely at her. “I sense that you disagree.”
Caeda pushed a chunk of bread into her mouth to buy time. She chewed slowly, ignoring Izanna’s fingers tapping impatiently on the table. When she could delay no longer, she said. “It made me feel like death.”
“Death,” Izanna crooned. “Death for whom? Yourself? Someone else? The souls in the Sword—” She sliced her hand through the air like a blade. “Not the souls. That would be predictable.” Her blue eyes fixed on Caeda. “You don’t strike me as being predictable. So who is going to die?”
Caeda shot to her feet. “Ayda is not the insane one here. Having seen the Bone today, the best advice I could give you is to leave it well alone. Advice I fully intend on following myself.” She flicked a salute and strode from the mess.
Princess Taliesin may have been cruel tongued and facile, but at least she dwelled in the real world, even if it was filled with silly tulle gowns, sparkly jewelry, boring balls, and even duller Fae. A world where arcane magic never featured. A world she now rushed to embrace even though it was hours before her shift started.
Anything to be away from the Bone and her unanswered questions.
Still, the spiraling ribbons—souls both red and blue—now trapped in the Bone tugged at her.
Did they feel pain? Sorrow? A longing to be free?
If she stopped seeking, she would never have the answer—and while souls were reaped in Yatres, that worried her even more than death itself. She was a warrior; she could die in the next battle she fought and find herself fed to the Bone.
It made her even more determined to find the truth.
5
Even Caeda, who had little time for the staid dancing the nobles seemed to like, had to admit that the palace decorators had excelled themselves in the crystal ballroom. Evergreen wreaths draped the golden columns holding up the vaulted crystal roof, and white orchids hung from the crystal chandeliers. Dried oranges and cinnamon, burning in incense holders, perfumed the air. Sparkling peach wine poured from the crystal fountain around which flamboyant couples swayed and glided to lilting flutes and harps. Others braved the cold to laugh and drink on the open balconies.
Charged with guarding the princess, as unobtrusive as a shadow, she trailed Taliesin and Dominik. He glided the princess, never actually dancing with her, from one group of courtiers to another. She smiled inwardly as the couple’s friends struggled to keep polished boots and dainty slippers off the princess’s ridiculously long train.
As Dominik had bemoaned, the princess indeed wore heavy layers of tulle and silk. Emeralds woven into the pale-gray fabric glittered, setting off her fiery-red hair to perfection. The gown was probably wort
h more than Caeda’s entire year’s salary, and Taliesin would only wear it once. But, as the princess declared to anyone who’d listen, wearing a pretty gown wasn’t just the only way to celebrate a great victory; it was also needed to welcome the upcoming Winter Solstice.
Although Dominik exuded casualness and grace as his betrothed’s laughter skittered across the room, Caeda saw right through him. His discomfort, to her at least, was apparent in the sharper-than-usual glint in his brutally green eyes. Also, he stiffened every time Taliesin smacked his chest with her fan, which she did with annoying regularity. She doubted anyone else noticed Dominik’s reaction, but then people generally didn’t make the study of others an art, as she had.
Taliesin crooned, “Dominik, my sweet. Where is your brother?” His lips thinned when her fan thumped his chest. “Everyone else has paid their respects to me this evening except him.”
Dominik moved away from Taliesin but at the same time inclined his head to her. “I suppose he’s still prettying himself up for you. You know how Elion likes to impress.”
A cord pulsed in Taliesin’s neck. “At least he makes an effort.” Her eyes trailed down Dominik’s simple but fine tunic, leggings, and surcoat. She sighed, then muttered, “What was Father thinking?”
Dominik flicked his fingers. Two flutes of sparkling wine floated through the air to land in his hands. He passed one to Taliesin, and then sipped deeply from his own.
Caeda tucked her chin into her chest to hide her bemused expression.
What in the Bone’s name had made the great Dominik Dakar agree to marry her?
Yes, the king had commanded it, but Dominik didn’t strike her as the kind of Fae who’d marry for rank and status. His extraordinary magic, and his birthright as eldest son of King Kaist’s closest advisor, had already made him the most powerful Fae of his generation. There had to be another reason that he had submitted to a clearly humiliating, loveless match.
Or maybe he just wants to be king when Kaist dies.
Her nose scrunched.
Not buying that. King Kaist could easily live for another five hundred years.
A golden-haired Fae stepped into the ballroom from the main staircase. His handsome face was pinched with cold. He rubbed his hands together and headed to a fire burning in a vast hearth.
“Elion!” Dominik called, waving a hand for him to come and join them.
A flush of pink stained the princess’s cheeks. She looked down at her wine glass as if its contents were suddenly fascinating.
Elion spun and waved. Dodging dancers, he crossed the ballroom to join them. He slapped Dominik on the shoulder. “Hello, brother.” And bobbed a bow at the princess. “Your Highness. Lovely as ever.”
Eyes icy, the princess’s nose tipped into the air.
A somewhat harsh reaction, she decided, even if it was common knowledge that Elion was Dominik’s younger and less esteemed brother. While the brothers shared the same magic, it was a badly kept secret that Dominik’s powers as an Element-Fabricator—a polite name for magic thief—far exceeded Elion’s.
She didn’t claim to be a genius when it came to magic, but even she knew that an Element-Fabricator wielded a power far subtler and deadlier than any other. And, as unfair as it was to Elion, and every other Fae trying to compete with his extraordinarily handsome brother, Dominik was the most talented Element-Fabricator in Yatres.
On the battlefield, Dominik had ripped the magic from an enemy Storm-Rider. He’d tossed the stolen power into rocks the size of pumpkins, which he’d then rained down on the enemy. None of the Nyhans caught in his storm had survived. As magic went, that wasn’t astonishing in itself, until it was mentioned that Dominik had been half a mile away when he had done it. It was even said that Dominik’s magic could make inanimate objects sentient, a gift so rare it had won him the princess’s hand, and the kingdom it came with on King Kaist’s death.
Only the Soul-Reaper’s magic came close to what Dominik could do.
Which begged the question: what had he been doing in Ayda’s tower?
The thought of his magic touching the Bone sent a chill through her. The kind of destruction that could be wrought with such a power—
“Elion, two hours prettying yourself up,” Dominik’s amused voice pulled her away from her musing, “and this is the best you could do?”
Elion grabbed a flute of wine from a passing waiter. Before drinking, he brushed a hand down his superb royal-blue tunic, embroidered with silver swirls. The color set off his blue eyes. Tight-fitting leather leggings showed off the muscle he’d built up through regular visits to the gymnasium, unlike his brother who trained daily with the Royal Guard.
A hush echoed through the room.
She spun to find the cause.
Ayda stood at the vast double doors. Her sword hung in its sheath at her side. Snowflakes stuck to her hair, and to the steel breastplate, engraved with the Yatres sigil, which she wore over a silver robe. Her hands were tipped with steel claws over her fingernails. She looked like ice. Or the guardian of death brought to life.
She glanced to where the king slouched in his moonstone throne, idly watching a group of performers juggle balls of fire. Queen Maya sat beside him, sipping from a glass of wine as cherry red as her wild hair.
King Kaist waved the performers to a stop. Even the orchestra abruptly stilled, the sounds of flutes and harps dying mid refrain.
Ayda bowed to the king, then glided to the throne. Her guards, Jaz and Hamil, flanked her, glaring at anyone who moved. She stopped two feet from the king and drew the Sword. Head bowed, she knelt before him and laid the Sword at his feet.
“King Kaist,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Today our Bone fed on the souls of your victory. A victory wrought from—” A flash of crimson blasted from the Sword.
Ayda jumped up.
The crowd gasped as a tendril of light shot up into the air. It hissed like an angry snake.
Caeda yanked her sword free and jumped between the light and the princess. The king’s guards also leapt between him and the threat.
The light burned red, spinning left and right. A snarl, and it shot straight for Ayda’s throat.
Jaz and Hamil jumped into its path, swinging their blades as if they could cut it down.
The light forked.
A prong hit each of them in the chest. She gasped. Their blood sprayed across the empty throne. Their swords dropped from their hands. The light lifted them up and tossed their bodies aside as if they weighed less than feathers.
Two more friends stolen from her in one day.
She clutched her sword and stiffened every muscle to stop from crying out at their loss.
Unguarded and unarmed, Ayda gaped at the glowing red ribbon. Her haunted eyes and twisted mouth screamed disbelief louder than any words could.
The light lashed at her, catching her around the wrist. It yanked her to her knees. A second tendril struck at her throat.
Her eyes widened as blood bubbled from her lips and from the second mouth gashed into her throat. Hands clawing the air, she slumped to the ground.
A pool of blood spread around her like melting wax.
The Soul-Reaper was dead.
6
Ignoring the nobles screaming around her, Caeda spun to Taliesin. Face a ghostly pallor, the princess had collapsed in a heap of tulle and jewels. Dominik drew the sword at his side and took up position beside Caeda.
“We need to get the princess out of here. Now,” she hissed, glancing over at the king and queen. Their guards had rushed them to safety on the other side of the hall. Like her and Dominik, they had drawn their weapons. But, also like her, they didn’t seem to know exactly what they were fighting.
When Dominik didn’t reply, she leaned down to haul the princess to her feet. They were too far from the main doors to escape that way, but perhaps she could get Taliesin to one of the balconies, where so many of the other nobles had fled.
“Keep still. The light is trac
king movement,” Dominik snapped. He spoke as if the light were alive.
She froze on command. Still bent over, she glanced at the Sword. That evil red light twirled left and right in the air. It darted toward a moving guard, flickering from crimson, to magenta, to cobalt. The guard froze, and the light pulled back. It circled, then surged forward again as if it had scented something.
A male voice rang out, clear as a bell. “Hello, sweet Reaper.”
She straightened and nearly dropped her sword.
The voice pealed a second time. “Yes. You. What a pretty little mistress.”
She looked around. Where was it coming from, and who was it speaking to?
Not a single face in the ballroom mirrored her questioning gape.
The strange voice tsked. “Does the mistress know where our Bone has gone?”
Still no one else reacted. She shifted from foot to foot. Should she demand to know if anyone else had heard the disturbing question?
Before she could decide, the voice cooed, “The Mistress doubts herself. The Mistress likes hiding in the shadows, and saluting the flag, and the—”
“Caeda!” Rough hands grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Her head snapped back. “Caeda, look at me!” Dominik Dakar swam before her eyes.
He knew her name?
His lips were parted and pale, and his sea-green eyes drowning in grief and alarm.
Her mouth started to open to reply.
It snapped closed.
Blue light snaked up her legs. It curled around her thighs. It licked up her stomach and back. Then up her chest and across her face. It brushed up her scalp. Gently, lovingly, it pulled her braid free and fluttered her dark hair in the air.
All screaming in the ballroom stilled. Everyone stared at her. Dominik’s shocked pallor was echoed on every face.
So many eyes watching her every breath—
Her chest caved in, and her knees knocked. She sought for a snappy comment, but her mind had frozen along with the rest of her.
“Snappy lines won’t help you now, Mistress. There is nowhere to hide.” The blue light tickled her face. “They all see you for what you are. My mistress.” The voice was anything but kind. It chuckled darkly. “You’re no longer an unseen blade with a smart tongue, Soul-Reaper.”
