The Defiant Heir

by Melissa Caruso

“Of all the scents the wind brought me this morning,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, “I did not expect the fire warlock and the Cornaro heir to be among them.”

  He took a pace forward, stalking, deliberate. His hand stirred in a lazy signal, and the soldiers swung the door shut behind us. The bar of sunlight it had cast on the floor narrowed and vanished. I willed myself not to step back, not to turn, not to show fear.

  “And what shall I do with you,” the Wolf Lord said, “now that you’ve wandered into my den?”

  From side doors flanking us, lean gray wolves slipped into the foyer, moving like the breath of a wild night wind. I had always imagined wolves to be dog-sized, but up close, they were as big as deer. They prowled around us, forming a half circle, yellow eyes gleaming.

  I locked my trembling legs in place but couldn’t stop my hand from instinctively falling to my dagger. I barely heard Zaira whisper, “Hell of Nightmares.”

  Prince Ruven flashed a brilliant smile. “Why, we offer them hospitality, of course, Father. They are guests, after all.”

  “Is that so?” The Wolf Lord’s eyes narrowed. “I see the Crow Lord’s token on one but not both. Give me a reason to keep the warlock alive.”

  Zaira bared her teeth. “I’ll give you one. I’ll bet you prefer not being on fire.”

  “Zaira,” I muttered nervously, “you may want to show courtesy to our host.”

  “Only when he shows some to me,” she retorted.

  The wolves circled closer, growling, until I could feel their hot breath when they passed. The Wolf Lord seemed unmoved by Zaira’s challenge. The piercing white rings of his mage mark swiveled toward her. She visibly braced herself under his gaze, as if all the infinite stony mass of a mountain lay behind it.

  “I know your kind.” The Wolf Lord’s words were soft, but they carried a full burden of menace. “We remember, in Kazerath, how dangerous you are.”

  I half expected Zaira’s glare to melt the stone beneath his feet. “If I’m so dangerous, maybe I should see myself out through your castle walls.”

  Graces preserve us, Zaira. Why are you provoking them? A deep, wild rumble started in the throat of one of the wolves, and primal dread crackled down my spine.

  “One good reason, Ruven,” the Wolf Lord said again.

  Ruven laughed, but there was an edge to it. “We would be poor hosts if we didn’t at least offer our guests some food and drink before matters of business. Would we not?”

  The Wolf Lord grunted. Ruven seemed to take that as a yes, and reached out an inviting hand. “Come, come. Let us sit and relax together, and speak of happier things.”

  “Like where you’re hiding Terika?” Zaira demanded, taking half a step forward.

  “Ah, you mean the alchemist?”

  I froze in shock. So they really did have Terika here. Zaira let out a hiss, as if furious steam escaped her.

  “She is your friend, then? Of course, of course you shall see her!” Ruven waved a dismissive hand. “Refreshments first. Come, sit and rest, and you can visit her after.”

  I didn’t dare move. But then Ruven’s father shook his head in disgust, and the wolves drew back, giving us space. “Very well, Ruven. We’ll try it your way.”

  Zaira’s smile was terrible as a finger bent to breaking. “Oh, yes, let’s have a nice little tea party. No sense trying to murder each other on an empty stomach.”

  All three of them had the power to kill me easy as blinking. If we needed to resort to balefire, I had no illusions I’d make it out of this castle alive.

  So I forced myself to step forward, though I ignored Ruven’s proffered arm. At least there did seem to be some tension between Ruven and his father; perhaps I could salvage some advantage from this disaster.

  “Thank you for your gracious hospitality,” I said. “We’d be delighted to accept.”

  The Wolf Lord grunted. “I leave them to you, Ruven. Take care of them.”

  With that ominously ambiguous pronouncement, he stalked off, dismissing us without a backward glance. His fur cloak swirled behind him. The wolf pack cast us final warning glares and followed him on near-silent paws.

  “Come, then, my lady.” Ruven reached toward my cheek; I pulled away, heart pounding, far too aware of what he could do with a simple touch. He smirked, enjoying my discomfort. “Let us sit a moment and talk.”

  Ruven led us through one of the foyer side doors to a dining room with a long, gleaming black table, dominated at one end by a thronelike chair adorned with the pelts of wolves and leopards. Tall windows lined two of the dining room walls; woody vines grew over them, shaped into intricate patterns. I spotted the forms of howling wolves, running deer, and towering pines, all cunningly shaped from the living vines by the touch of a skilled vivomancer. I couldn’t help staring, pulling more and more shapes out of the twisting vines, as we settled ourselves at the table.

  Ruven noticed the direction of my gaze. “Ah, you like our little decorative lattice?”

  “It’s lovely,” I admitted.

  “My late mother’s work. It was a hobby of hers.” He sighed. “I spent many of my boyhood years here.”

  Liveried servants scurried in, eyes downcast, several with handprint-shaped scars on their wrists or faces. They laid before us plates of beef cooked with tartgrass and potatoes, and glasses of red wine, cringing whenever they came within Ruven’s reach.

  I found myself without much appetite for such heavy fare, when I could still hear the click of claws on marble as wolves paced the hall, and our hosts could decide at any moment that it no longer amused them to keep us alive. I was more than happy to reach for my wineglass, however.

  I’d scarcely picked it up when my ring warmed on my finger, the stone glowing gold.

  I set the cup back down, pulse racing. Zaira saw it and pushed her plate away.

  “Forgive me, but there appears to be something amiss with the wine,” I said, with cold politeness.

  Ruven frowned. “That is unacceptable.” He crooked a finger at the servant who had brought my cup, a flaxen-haired youth perhaps a few years my junior. “You. Come here.”

  The boy went pale as death; a burn mark on his neck stood out livid purple. But he stepped forward, even in his terror; the alternative must be worse.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said sharply. “I’m quite certain it wasn’t your servant’s doing.”

  Ruven spread his hands innocently. “Why, Lady Amalia, I cannot allow an inferior vintage at my table. If my own servants bring my guests something that displeases them”—his hand shot out, closing on the boy’s wrist—“they must bear the consequences.”

  The boy screamed. The empty tray he held in his other hand crashed to the floor, and a terrible shriek of agony built in his throat. But before it could peak, the sound cut off, and he froze still as a statue. His breath came harsh and fast as he struggled to scream, still staring in horror at Ruven, unable to do anything else under the touch of his power.

  I sprang to my feet. “Prince Ruven! I implore you to stop!”

  The boy’s sleeve tore, and the flesh beneath it. Sharp spikes of his own bone sprouted like thorns from his arm, the tips stained with his blood. His breath gurgled in his throat.

  Zaira stood, throwing down her napkin. “That’s it. Let’s burn this place down.”

  “Now, now, please, sit down.” Ruven released the boy, who collapsed to his knees, clutching his ruined arm, his body heaving with the attempt to scream. But he still couldn’t do it. Whatever Ruven had done to silence him had left him mute.

  Ruven snapped his fingers, and the other servants helped the boy to his feet, scrupulously avoiding his arm with its jagged spears of bloodied bone, and all but dragged him from the hall. His eyes strained wide, and his breath heaved like a dying man’s. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him until they’d pulled him out of sight.

  “I do apologize for displeasing you,” Ruven sighed. “Our kitchen is not well versed in the palettes of Raverran arist
ocracy. I shall have the cook flogged as well.”

  “Please don’t. Your cook isn’t the one at fault.” I forced my features to stern smoothness, or as close as I could manage. I couldn’t let him see how much hurting his servants rattled me, or he’d do it again. “With all respect, I don’t see why you’re pretending to be hospitable if you’re only going to poison us.”

  “Oh, that? It’s not poison.” Ruven chuckled. “My, Lady Amalia, why would I ever poison you? You know well enough I have other ways to end your life if I choose.”

  Zaira tugged at my sleeve. “Don’t waste any more time talking to this pile of demon dung. Come on. Let’s leave.”

  Ruven’s brows lifted. “But what about your alchemist friend? Didn’t you want to see her?” Zaira froze. Ruven sighed, shaking his head. “She’ll be so disappointed when I tell her you left without saying hello.”

  Zaira slammed her fists down on the table, making the plates jump. “Hells take you! This isn’t a game.”

  Ruven’s violet-ringed gaze glittered. “Of course it isn’t. I said you would see her, and you shall. Are you certain you won’t have anything to eat, or even a sip of wine?”

  “Quite certain,” I said firmly.

  Ruven rose, extending a hand. “Walk with me, then. Let us see if we can come to an amicable agreement through the power of civilized discussion.”

  Zaira snorted. “I don’t promise to be civilized, but I’ll go for a walk.”

  Neither of us accepted Ruven’s proffered arm. We strolled out of the dining room and across the foyer to the great throne hall. I eyed the doors as we passed them, but I doubted we’d make it down the steps if we tried to run.

  The throne stood empty, and servants scuttled along the edges of the hall, bringing in elaborately carved wooden chairs. A rotund woman and an elderly man, both in the livery of the household, argued about where to place them. All fell silent and bowed low when they noticed Prince Ruven.

  “Forgive the mess,” he said, and I realized with a jolt he was referring to the people. “We’re preparing to host the Conclave soon, and I fear the castle is quite disrupted.”

  “I can disrupt it more for you,” Zaira offered.

  “Now, now,” Ruven chuckled. “We do not need to be enemies. There is much we could offer each other.”

  “Oh, I think we need to be enemies,” she said bluntly. “You have my friend prisoner.”

  “Do I? I assure you, she is less a prisoner here than at the Mews.” We had drawn near his father’s black throne, with its jagged fan of intricately interlaced points of bone or antler. Ruven mounted the two steps of its simple dais to lay a hand on its arm. “You owe the Empire nothing, Lady Zaira. You are in Vaskandar now. And here, the mage-marked rule.”

  Zaira snorted. “That would be a fantastic idea if it weren’t for people like you.”

  “You could join my father’s court, as a member of the highest class of Vaskandran society. You would have as much freedom as I do, yes?” He ran his fingers along the dark curves of the throne, almost stroking it. “No tricks or traps. All you need do is become part of my father’s domain. Then you would be a free woman, a great lady, set above all those without the mark. Is that not preferable to serving an Empire that only sees you as a weapon and uses you as a tool?”

  If Zaira didn’t hate Ruven so much, I’d have worried she might accept. And I might not have blamed her.

  But she arched a skeptical brow. “And your father would welcome me into his court with open arms? The old bastard wants to kill me.”

  Ruven chuckled, as if the idea was delightful. “But of course he’d take you in! After all, he can still kill any of us at any time. This is his domain. The only law in Vaskandar is the will of the Witch Lords. Everything in Kazerath belongs to him.”

  “Even you?” I asked.

  Ruven’s eyes met mine; the violet ring of the mage mark gleamed around his pupils with a momentary intensity so stark it shocked me like an icicle driven through my heart. I couldn’t tell if it was anger, hatred, or some twisted and desperate blend of more complex emotions.

  Then he let out a long sigh and descended from the dais to stand on the hard stone floor with us again.

  “For now, alas, yes.” He shook his head. “It’s why this war with your Empire is necessary. To rule my own domain is my birthright. To have my father set above me grows intolerable to both of us. But we have no unclaimed land left in Vaskandar, and thus must take it from you.”

  “Can’t you just inherit your father’s domain?” I waved a vague hand to soften the question, in case he thought I was suggesting patricide.

  “Of a certainty, if my father ever takes it into his head to die.” Ruven raised his brows. “You study history, do you not, Lady Amalia? You must have some inkling how long he has been the Wolf Lord of Kazerath.”

  “Actually, no,” I admitted, embarrassed. “Raverran histories are singularly unclear about when a given title passes to the next heir in Vaskandar. They just keep talking about the Wolf Lord, as if it were …” I trailed off. Demon of Madness. “The same person,” I whispered.

  “There! Yes, you see my problem.” He nodded, emphatically. “A Witch Lord is tied to every living thing in his domain, with bonds of absolute dominion. All that life, the great wild tide of it, is his. My father has lived two centuries already, and he is not even close to the oldest of the Witch Lords. I will be dust long before I could come into my inheritance.” Ruven swept an arm at the throne. “If I wish to partake in such immortality—and who would not?—I require my own domain. And so you see, Lady Amalia, why Vaskandar is always at war.”

  “Grace of Mercy,” I breathed. Immortality. My books spoke of vivomancers remaining healthy and young-looking into their seventies or eighties, but not living hundreds of years. No wonder Ruven wanted to invade the Serene Empire.

  Zaira shook her head in disgust. “Eruvia needs you to live forever the way it needs me to set it on fire from end to end.”

  Ruven laughed. “If you take up my offer to join our court, perhaps we can arrange for you to burn it.”

  We stared at him. Even Zaira didn’t seem to have any words left.

  “No?” Ruven sighed. “I am disappointed. But perhaps you’ll change your mind with further contemplation.”

  “Terika,” Zaira reminded him, relentless. “Are you taking me to see her, or am I finding out how long it takes balefire to melt stone?”

  Ruven’s eyes narrowed. “I do not recommend testing my father’s patience, Lady Zaira. I tell you this not as a threat, but for the sake of everyone in this castle. This is his domain.”

  “Then don’t push me, either. Everything that burns is fire’s domain.”

  “Very well,” Ruven sighed. “I said you could see your friend, and you shall. I’ll bring her to visit you in your room.”

  “Oh, we don’t need a room,” I said, politely as if of course no one had been threatening to murder anyone else. “We’ll be on our way in a moment.”

  Ruven’s eyes glittered. “Oh, no, you must stay the night. I insist. Vaskandar is a beautiful country, but I fear it’s dangerous after dark.” He snapped his fingers at a servant who cowered in a corner, one of the few who hadn’t dared flee when the Wolf Lord entered; she flinched away from the sound. “Is our finest guest room prepared?”

  The servant bowed. “Y-yes, Your Highness,” she stammered.

  “Good, good. Let me conduct you to your chamber, then, and you can take your rest there while I see about your friend.” He extended a hand. I pointedly ignored it, but we had little choice but to follow him.

  When we stepped out of the throne hall, two tall, lean chimeras slipped up next to us: built like long-legged hunting cats, but with smooth black scales and the reared-back heads of serpents. Their snakelike tails lashed behind them as they fell in beside us. One bent its head toward my injured leg, tongue tasting the air; I sucked in my breath and clutched at Zaira’s arm, but it didn’t touch me.

  “Do
n’t mind them,” Ruven said. “My little pets. Quite harmless. Unless my father or I command them to attack, of course—then their venom is rather fatal.”

  Zaira’s arm went rigid under my hand, and her face took on an almost greenish cast. “Everything about this place is ruddy charming.”

  Ruven smiled. “I’m glad you find it so.”

  His shining blond ponytail swung against the black leather of his coat as he led us back to the foyer and up the sweeping curve of stairs to the second floor. Zaira glanced longingly at the castle doors as we passed them, but there was no way we could make a run for it with the chimeras pacing at our sides. Oil lamps illuminated the windowless second-floor guest hallway, their warm light flickering off the curves of black wood that lifted the ceiling into a pointed arch, like a dead monster’s rib cage. I had the uneasy sensation the castle was swallowing us.

  Ruven threw open the door to a lavish, spacious room. More dark woodwork formed elaborate shapes over the lilac-painted walls, like the patterns of bare branches against the evening sky. Fur rugs scattered across the floor, some from recognizable creatures and others doubtless from expired chimeras. A fire burned in an arched hearth that made me think of a demon’s maw, with chairs set before it covered in more pelts. Two canopied beds draped with excessive quantities of purple velvet stood at the far end of the room, side by side.

  “Please, consider this your home,” Ruven said. “I’ll return shortly.”

  He bowed, a smirk pulling at his lips, and left. The two chimeras stayed in the hall, flanking the door, staring at us from slitted yellow eyes.

  Zaira slammed the door on them, then put her back against it. “I want to burn his face off, then keep burning a path all the way to the border.”

  I sank onto a chair to ease my aching leg. A massive weight of postponed horror loomed above me, like the stony bulk of the castle and all its reaching towers. “It may come to that. But I’d like to try to come up with a better option first. This is an excellent chance to learn more about Ruven’s plans, so long as we can get out of here alive.”

  “Plans be damned. I’d do it right now if it weren’t for Terika.” Zaira hunched her shoulders. “If they don’t murder us before sundown, we can get her out of here tonight and leave this pit of vipers behind us.”