Grave Destiny

by Kalayna Price

  In the bed, the king wheezed, his breath knocking in his chest. He didn’t have long. If I was going to do this, I needed to do it now.

  “It is just a goat?” I finally asked. “Not a human enchanted into a goat or some higher-thinking being that is more than a simple animal?”

  “He is a Faerie goat. They used to be quite common, but like in the mortal realm, most Fae don’t raise them anymore. But he is only a goat.”

  I didn’t like this, but he was right about one thing: I didn’t think the fouled magic would take to a mushroom or a bit of moss. Taking a deep breath, I approached the bed again, crawling on it to kneel beside the king. I rolled up the sleeves of my sweater, not because I thought the work would be particularly messy, at least I hoped not, but because I needed to watch the spread of my own fouled magic as I worked.

  Opening my senses, I reached out and touched the magic I could see on the king’s face. Serri tensed behind him, her wings spreading, revealing a sharp claw at the top joint. Dugan glared at her and she stilled, not preventing me from touching her king.

  “You’ll need to move,” I told her, and her red eyes narrowed, the protest on her lips clear. “The magic will likely try to spread to you. So you can’t be touching him while I work.”

  She looked to her prince—because even if I was the one they trusted to heal the king, I obviously had no authority. He nodded his agreement, and Serri ever so carefully slid out from under the king, arranging his head tenderly on a pillow before vacating the bed. She didn’t go far, but hovered a few feet away, pensive and watching.

  I plucked at a dark string of magic running through the king’s temple. It tingled where it touched my fingertips, but it didn’t actually hurt. That’s a good sign, right? Probably not. I pulled it, ripping it up and free to leave the skin below spotless. I unraveled it only a few inches before meeting the first point where it had originated in a larger string of poisoned magic that fanned out into several tributaries. I moved to the next small strand, pulling it back to that point as well. Then the next, and the next, until the larger strand was no longer anchored and I could pull it back to where it had forked off an even bigger strand.

  I kept working that way, moving quickly and as efficiently as I could as I untangled the mass of fouled magic. I freed the king’s head and his eyes stopped darting quite so drastically behind his closed lids. It was his chest that really worried me, each strained breath loud but shallow. If the magic got into his lungs and heart, that would be bad. Unfortunately I had to get his arms before I could get his chest. His breaths continued to wheeze, and I tried to work faster, pull harder. Twice someone brought me water to drink and I realized I was drenched in my own sweat. Once I had to stop and pull my own fouled magic down where it had crept up my biceps toward my shoulder. Touching the king’s basmoarte-fouled magic had opened new wounds in my fingers, and now the darkness was spreading up from both my hands. If I could find the cure, it wouldn’t matter.

  The goat died by the time I reached the king’s navel, and Dugan had to retrieve a second one. No one mentioned my tears as I continued pulling the fouled magic free. The king woke as I freed his hips.

  His eyes fluttered open only halfway before he was in motion. I didn’t even have time to form a word before his shadow blade appeared, aimed at my throat. I tried to throw myself backward, but I knew I wasn’t fast enough. An arm snaked around my waist, jerking me back as a shield of shadows materialized in front of me, stopping the blade a moment before it would have taken off my head.

  I gasped as Falin pulled me farther back, off the bed. Dugan stepped in front of me, his shadow shield still in place, but he didn’t lift his sword against his king’s attack. Nandin blinked, first in confusion, and then recognition ran through his eyes and his forehead furrowed as he looked around at the crowd in his bedchamber. The sword dissolved into shadows, and the king collapsed backward, clearly exhausted from the brief excitement.

  Serri launched herself at the bed, her arms sliding over his now-basmoarte-free shoulders. My adrenaline was pumping too hard in my ears to follow the conversation, but from what I caught, she was explaining what had happened. I leaned my head back against Falin’s chest. I was exhausted. Not just tired from lack of sleep, but bone-weary. I’d been using a lot of magic. It was taking its toll.

  Falin’s arm around me tightened, holding me close. With his other hand, he passed me a glass of water. I accepted it gratefully, draining half the liquid in one series of gulps.

  When I lowered the glass, I found all eyes locked on me.

  “You can cure basmoarte?” the king asked from where he lay half propped by Serri.

  I straightened and reluctantly stepped out of Falin’s embrace. “I can move the poisoned magic. The infected wound is still there.”

  “So it will return?”

  I nodded. My own creeping infection proved that fact. “It doesn’t appear to spread as aggressively after the first wave, but yes, it will return. I have not finished cleansing your legs. Would you like me to continue?”

  The king levered himself up onto his elbows and looked at the dark lines of fouled magic spiderwebbing his thighs and shins. Even that little bit of exertion seemed to tax him. He nodded, collapsing back into Serri’s arms. She ran her taloned fingers through his hair gently before she glanced at me. That one look from her ruby-colored eyes was enough to know that she had no intention of leaving his side again. I didn’t waste my breath asking. As long as she stayed at the head of the bed, she was far enough away from where I was working to not be at risk.

  I crawled back onto the bed, and then hesitated. When the king had been unconscious, I’d barely noticed what part of his body I was working on. I’d simply been trying to unravel the basmoarte as efficiently as possible before it killed him. Now that he was awake and watching me, I was very aware that I was working very high up on his thigh and he wore very little to bed.

  “Do you know how you were infected?” I asked to distract myself as I pulled inky strands free.

  The king frowned, his gaze going distant. “It had to have been at the revelry. Nothing stands out except . . . I did have one odd encounter.” He paused, clearly trying to recall details. “A Sleagh Maith approached me and propositioned me for the title of consort. She said she was skilled in pleasurable magics and my court clearly needed some new blood.” Behind him, Serri went very still. The king reached up and placed a hand on the arm draped over his chest, the gesture affectionate and automatic, not even causing him to pause his narrative. “She attempted to demonstrate these magics, and I remember wondering what she assumed I found pleasurable, because her magic stung. I rebuked her for her presumptuousness and sent her away.”

  I looked up from where I was pulling free a strand of fouled magic over the king’s knee, and searched for the wound where the infection had started. I’d done a thorough job pulling the poisoned magic out of his upper half, but there was a darker patch on his arm, just below his shoulder.

  “Did she touch you here?” I motioned to the spot on my own arm.

  He frowned, considering the question. Then he nodded. “I believe so, yes.”

  “What did she look like? Did she say her name?” Falin asked.

  “I’m sure she did.” The king’s frown deepened and he shook his head, as if that could jar the memory loose. “She was brown-haired, brown-eyed. Looked to be a fae from one of the warmer courts.”

  Dugan reached into the shadows and pulled a handful out as if it were clay. With his magic, he formed it into a small but dark replica of Lunabella.

  The king’s eyes widened. “Yes, that was her.”

  I hissed out a disappointed breath, and Dugan and Falin deflated slightly as well.

  “She is deceased,” Dugan said, and the sculpted shadow dissolved.

  “You . . . ?” the king began, but Dugan shook his head.

  “We believe she
was killed because we were getting too close,” I said, pressing the basmoarte into the small goat. It bleated pitifully and I cringed, hating this, hating myself, but more than anything, hating whoever had masterminded this whole thing.

  I was almost finished with the king’s right leg, with his left still remaining, and I fell into silence as I worked. By the time I finished, I was starving, exhausted, and very much feeling the fact that I hadn’t had a proper amount of sleep in days. I stripped my own fouled magic, which had spread like decorative gloves up both of my arms, and then pushed it into the goat. The poisoned magic wasn’t quite enough to kill it outright, so the poor beast lay on its side, breathing heavy as its slitted eye rolled in its head. Dugan put it out of its misery.

  I wanted to go home and sleep for a month, but that wasn’t an option. My own basmoarte was going to spread faster now. I needed to find who was responsible for the deaths and the spread of basmoarte. And I needed to locate the cure. I just hoped it all came back to one source.

  “My court and I, myself, owe you an enormous debt,” the king said. He’d extracted himself from Serri—though she remained by his side—and he now sat propped with pillows. He was still pale, but his breathing was normal. He would be okay until the fouled magic began to take over again.

  I only nodded. I could feel the debt, and I would cash it in eventually, but I wasn’t going to commit to a price for my help. Not yet.

  “His Majesty should rest,” Serri said, fussing over the blankets around him. He batted her hands away, gently but resolutely.

  “Someone has made an attempt on my life. I don’t have time to rest.” He swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood. Then he swayed.

  Dugan approached the edge of the bed and bowed. “Sire, we are looking into the matter. You are still afflicted. Rest would be better. Let me investigate this matter for you. That is why you have a prince, isn’t it?”

  The king looked unconvinced, but he also looked like a strong wind would knock him over. At its peak, my own basmoarte had covered maybe a quarter of my body, and I’d barely been able to remain conscious. The king had been much more afflicted. I doubted he’d be back on his feet anytime soon. Or possibly ever, if we don’t find the cure. I glanced at my hands. Even though I’d just purged them, the tips of my fingers were already showing signs of discoloration.

  “Rest, Sire. We will get to the bottom of this,” Dugan said, bowing deeply to his king.

  Nandin frowned, but after a moment, he collapsed back onto the bed. We made a hasty exit before he could change his mind, though I wobbled unsteadily as I scurried for the door.

  “You need to rest, as well,” Falin said as soon as we reached the hall.

  “I’m . . .” I couldn’t say “fine.” That was a blatant lie. I swayed, throwing out an arm to steady myself. Falin caught it, concern heavy in his features. Probably because the arm he’d caught was the one that hadn’t been infected before. But the tips of all ten fingers were a bruised purple now, magical wounds from where I’d contacted the king’s poisoned magic.

  “Sitting down would be good. And some food,” I admitted. But I didn’t have time to rest for long. I was going to get worse, and the more magic I used to cleanse the poison, the faster it would spread.

  “This way,” Dugan said, leading us through a nearby doorway.

  It led to a sitting room. There was a small table with meals already laid out, so apparently we were expected. Falin deposited me in a seat before taking one himself.

  The meal was a simple one for Faerie: a half wheel of cheese on one plate, another loaded with salted fingerling potatoes, a basket of rolls, and a plate with some sort of roast on it. After the incident with the goats, I didn’t even want to look at the meat. I knew that most likely it had never been a living animal—in my experience food in Faerie was mostly magic—but I couldn’t eat it. I helped myself to a large serving of the rest.

  “I think this proves there is a cure,” I said between large mouthfuls.

  Both men looked at me quizzically and I realized I’d started a conversation in the middle of my own thoughts, which I hadn’t been sharing. I drained a glass of water before speaking again.

  “Lunabella must have willingly allowed herself to be infected for the purpose of infecting the Shadow King. Assuming she wasn’t a martyr, she wouldn’t have done that without assurances there was a cure.”

  “But she wasn’t cured,” Falin said. “It was rampant in her body at the time of her death.”

  True. So had the mastermind tricked her? Or had he changed the plan after learning we’d been looking for her? And who was the scarred prince? Was the fae in the gold cloak Lunabella’s scarred prince? Who was he?

  “Is there anyone in Faerie who is close to being named a prince?” I asked.

  Dugan ran a hand over his chin as he thought. Falin leaned back in his chair, looking contemplative. After a few moments, they looked at each other, as if silently confirming their thoughts. Then they both shook their heads.

  “There is a potential princess in spring,” Falin said. Which we all knew wasn’t helpful.

  “The only fae there were even rumors of potentially being named prince was the Winter Queen’s nephew. It was assumed he was already practically a prince except the icy old bitch will never relinquish any power,” Dugan said, and I blinked at his description of the Winter Queen. Clearly there was no love lost between cousins. Not that I disagreed with the description, it just surprised me from him. “But he hasn’t been heard of since he was banished.”

  And he isn’t scarred.

  I paused, a buttered roll halfway to my lips.

  “Iron poisoning leaves scars, doesn’t it?” I asked. I had a small scar on my back where I’d been grazed with an iron dart. It was hardly noticeable, but I’d been raised in the mortal realm and had a higher-than-average tolerance to iron—which wasn’t to say the small wound hadn’t been dangerous, but the fae healers who’d cared for me had been surprised by how well it had healed.

  Falin lifted an eyebrow. “It leaves the worst kind of scars. And glamour won’t hide them.”

  I nodded. “Scars you might wear a cloak to hide?”

  “The gold-cloaked figure from the revelry?” Falin said slowly, clearly picking up where I was going with this. “You think it could have been Ryese?”

  “Would the banishment on him keep him from the revelry?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Then I think it’s a distinct possibility. I saw only a flash of a hand under the cloak, but the skin was gray, sickly.”

  No one said anything for several seconds. Then Dugan said, “He—whoever he was—did not meet with Lunabella again while I was watching her. He trailed her at times, but sporadically. I wasn’t following him, so I’m not sure where he went or to whom he spoke when he wasn’t trailing Lunabella. I have no clue where he went after you fainted.”

  “But I saw him right before I passed out. Him and that stone that flashed light no one else saw . . .” I paused. “Ryese was—is—an alchemist. If he was able to resurrect and weaponize basmoarte, could that flash of light have triggered it to activate?” I held up a hand when Dugan began to disagree and continued by saying, “I know I didn’t contract the basmoarte from that magic, but you keep saying this strain is much more aggressive than in previous outbreaks. I walked around with it for far longer than the king before mine began spreading. What if it lies dormant until triggered?”

  Both men looked contemplative. It was a guess, but it felt right. Of course, I had no way to prove it. Not until we found Ryese—if the gold-cloaked figure was in fact the Winter Queen’s nephew.

  “When I returned the bodies to the winter court, I sought out the healer who examined Kordon,” Falin said after a long moment. “She recalled feeling some discomfort when she used her magic to examine him, but she appears mostly fine. There is a sm
all discoloration on her palm—unnoticeable unless one is looking for it—that is likely the basmoarte wound she received from Kordon. I quarantined her, obviously. But her disease hasn’t spread at all, even though she was exposed before you, Alex.”

  “That is consistent with historical cases. You questioned her extensively, didn’t you? Ensured she has had no magical contact with anyone since her exposure?” Dugan asked, the alarm on his face enough for me to raise an inquisitive eyebrow. He noticed and turned to me. “The last outbreak of basmoarte became an epidemic largely due to healers. They would contract it without realizing it because the symptoms appear slowly. So they spread it to other fae before anyone realized basmoarte had returned.”

  Falin nodded. “I believe we contained the situation before an epidemic could occur in the winter halls. But her lack of symptoms does seem to confirm that Alex and the Shadow King were targeted specifically, and that this strain can be aggressively triggered.”

  Well, no epidemic was definitely a good thing, but if the basmoarte was weaponized, could mine be triggered a second time? I doubted I’d survive a second aggressive wave of the disease. We had to find that cure, fast.

  “Has anyone heard anything about Ryese since his banishment? I mean, is he even alive? We could be barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Tree?” Dugan asked, looking confused.

  “It’s an expression. ‘Looking in the wrong place,’ is that clearer?”

  He nodded, then frowned. “I can ask some of the listeners specifically, but I have not heard what befell him.”

  Now it was my turn to be confused. “Listeners? Like fae who sit around listening to the rumors the shadows carry?”

  “More or less.”

  Good to know.

  I looked to Falin. He’d been the one to order Ryese removed from winter’s lands, right after he’d driven the iron dart Ryese had intended to assassinate the queen with into the other fae’s hand.

  “I’ve heard nothing,” he said, mouth pinched. “Though it is rare to be accepted into another court after an attempt to kill your previous monarch. The queen banished him because she didn’t want to watch him die, but she was sentencing him to almost certain death.”