Blackbird Rising (The Witch King's Crown Book 1)

by Keri Arthur

  Blackbird Rising

  Keri Arthur

  Copyright © 2020 by Keri Arthur

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-6484973-3-2

  Created with Vellum

  With thanks to:

  The Lulus

  Indigo Chick Designs

  Hot Tree Editing

  Debbie from DP+

  Robyn E.

  Quymie G.

  The lovely ladies from Central Vic Writers

  J Caleb Designs for the brilliant cover

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  Also by Keri Arthur

  One

  The old suspension bridge creaked under my weight. The sound echoed across the stillness, as sharp as a demon’s cackle. A thick fog hid the world from sight—not even the navigation lights were visible at the far end of King’s Island, and that was bad news for any ships or yachts navigating toward the main port. The island might be small, but she’d been the cause of many shipwrecks over the centuries, before the lights had been installed.

  The silence was as thick as the fog. There was no birdsong, no sound of traffic, and absolutely no indication that a major town lay behind me. I could have been alone in this place. Should have been alone, given King’s Island was a place few ventured near these days.

  But I wasn’t.

  Someone was out there, watching from afar. While there was no immediate sense of danger, unease still crawled across my skin. Not only had there been reports of strange flashes of light in this area of late, but also of demonic activity. Then there were the disappearances … only three so far, which wasn’t much for a city the size of Ainslyn and might be nothing more than coincidence.

  Still …

  I scanned the swirling blanket of gray, my sense of responsibility warring with the need to play it safe. My grandmother wouldn’t, in any way, begrudge caution, but she was also a stickler when it came to duty. Though few these days remembered the Witch King’s true name or the reason his sword had been buried hilt-deep into stone on the island’s highest peak, the De Montfort line had long borne the task of looking after the memorial. For countless centuries, De Montfort women had made this same journey across the bridge on the first day of the new year. Mo—who hated being referred to as Gran—had been doing it for nigh on eighty years, but she’d recently taken a tumble down the stairs of our bookstore and fractured her leg, so the duty had fallen to me. She could have flown over, of course, but I rather suspected she’d taken one look at the weather this morning and decided I was more than capable of doing the blessing by myself this year. Which I was, of course, but it still felt odd not to have her by my side. Her absence, however, had nothing to do with the growing tide of uneasiness.

  I flexed my fingers and did my best to ignore it. I was neither defenseless nor without means to quickly flee. Like Mo and those hundreds of other De Montfort women before us, I was a blackbird. The freedom and safety of the skies was mine to claim with little more than the flick of an internal switch. Of course, that same switch was somewhat faulty in my particular case; I might have inherited the gene that allowed us to shift shape, but I’d somehow totally skipped the aptitude for healing magic that should have come with it. The lack was made even more annoying by the fact that my twin brother, Max, had inherited Mom’s ability to manipulate the weather and had undergone full training at the Okoro Academy.

  The old arch that signified the end of the footbridge loomed out of the fog. It was an ornate and beautiful structure despite the fact both time and the weather were taking a toll on the decorative metalwork that adorned the two stone pillars. At the very top of the arch, untouched by the rust tarnishing the rest of it, was a shield bearing a red cross and a white rose. It was said to be the Witch King’s, but I personally doubted it. It was far too small to be of any real use to a man who’d supposedly been seven feet tall.

  I walked under the arch and headed up the long hill that led to the monument, glad to be on ground that didn’t bounce under every step. Trees loomed, their windswept forms ghostly and surreal in the fog. Despite the fact the island was a haven for wildlife, there was little movement in the undergrowth and no birdsong filling the predawn darkness. The pulse of unease grew stronger, and I warily scanned the area ahead. The fog clung to the branches of the old elms and oaks that dominated this part of the island, forming a ghostly veil that covered the entire path. There was absolutely no sign that anyone or anything had moved through here recently, so why did my innate inner sense of wrongness suggest that the fog lied? That someone had not only taken this path but was now waiting up ahead?

  I didn’t know, but it was way past time I did something about it. I swung the backpack off, then opened it up and pulled out my daggers. While it was illegal for non-adepts to carry blessed blades, I’d gotten around the ruling on a technicality. I might not be able perform magic but I was immune to it—a rather weird anomaly considering the ability to shift shape was in itself a form of magic. It was the immunity rather than the shape shifting that allowed me to carry.

  According to Mo, the two daggers—Vita and Nex, which meant, quite literally, life and death—had been handed to the firstborn female of each generation at puberty since medieval times. De Montforts might traditionally be healers, but we’d once also been warriors who could both give and take life. These daggers were the conduits through which that power had been channeled.

  I might not have inherited all the De Montfort magic, but these blades at least gave me some access to the power that should have been my birthright. After generations of being the focus point for countless De Montfort warriors, the blades had gained a life and energy of their own. Demons were certainly wary of them—I knew that from experience.

  I strapped on the sheaths, then swung the pack over my shoulders and quickly continued up the path. The veil parted before me, a wave of gray that did absolutely nothing to calm my nerves—especially given the crunch of stones under my feet seemed abnormally loud in the silence. Whoever—whatever—waited ahead had ample enough warning of my presence.

  Though I suspected they didn’t really need it.

  I finally came out onto open ground, and my gaze automatically moved to the right. On a good day you could see the entire city from this vantage point, but not even the aviation lights topping the office high-rises in the western sector beyond the old town’s walls were visible this morning. Which more than likely meant the airport was closed—a fact that wouldn’t please Max, given he was supposed to be headed to Paris for a week’s vacation today.

  The monument was situated on what had become known as “the king’s knob”—a sharp projection of rock that jutted out at an angle on the highest point of the island. A wide field of flat gray stone ringed this outcrop and, despite the wildflowers that grew in abundance all over the peak in spring, it always remained empty of life. Not even weeds s
urvived there. No one really knew why for sure, but Mo’s theory was that when the Witch King had thrust the blade into the stone, the last vestiges of the sword’s power had bled into the ground and forever sterilized it.

  In the distance, something stirred—a shadow that looked man-shaped but could have been anything, including the stump of a tree briefly visible through the fog. I gripped Nex’s hilt, finding comfort in the soft pulse of the blade’s power.

  More movement, and then light flashed. Blue light, sharp and intense against the curtain of gray. Energy shivered through the air, its force so strong the hairs at the back of my neck stood on end.

  It wasn’t magic; it was something else. Something that spoke of violent storms and the ferocity of lightning.

  Another pulse, brighter than before. Vita and Nex responded, emitting a light that bled past their scabbards and gave the fog a cobalt glow.

  Unease sharpened into fear. In all the time the daggers had been mine, they’d never responded in such a manner to an exterior force, be it magic or something more elemental in nature. I had no idea what it meant; no idea if the force that lay up ahead was good or bad. It certainly didn’t feel foul, but that was no indicator of truth. Some of the most dangerous spells ever created were the ones that hid behind the screen of harmlessness.

  The light ahead abruptly disappeared, and the still-dawning day seemed colder for it. I hurried forward, even though part of me wanted to do nothing more than turn and run in the opposite direction. But I’d yet to make the blessing that would protect the sword for another year and until I did, there could be no retreat. Mo certainly wouldn’t have.

  I hit the stone platform that surrounded the monument, and the curtain of gray melted away, revealing the evenly spaced monoliths that ran around the perimeter. In the center of this circle stood the knob and the hump of stone that held the Witch King’s sword. There was no immediate evidence it had been tampered with, and nothing to indicate a spell had been cast. If the activity I’d glimpsed had involved demons, their acidic stench would still stain the air. The only things I could actually smell were vague hints of cardamom, fresh bergamot, and lavender—all of which had a synthetic undertone that suggested it was cologne-based rather than natural. That basically confirmed my instincts. Someone had been here.

  But doing what?

  And what on earth had caused those blue pulses?

  I warily approached the outcrop of rock. The cologne’s scent grew stronger, suggesting whatever had been going on involved the monument. I skirted the knob but once again couldn’t see or feel anything that suggested magic—no lingering wisps of power, no discarded spell strings.

  I frowned and returned to the rear of the rock. The hump that held the sword loomed above me, though the hilt wasn’t visible from where I stood. Again, there was nothing here to suggest anything untoward had been going on.

  And yet my fear continued to build.

  I shivered and shoved a hand into the hollow smoothed by countless others doing the exact same thing, and stepped up onto the rock. The teasing scents got stronger and I hesitated, once again scanning the stone that held the sword. There wasn’t even the usual scrawl of graffiti that often happened as the blessing wore off and the kids moved in.

  I scrambled upward, and the visible portion of the Witch King’s sword came into view, gleaming in the soft light of the dawning day. It was a rather ornate sword for a weapon that had been used in war—intricate runes ran the visible length of the silver blade, and the cross guard and hilt were heavily etched and decorated with silver and gold. The pommel had been shaped into a rose whose petals were made with gold.

  It was all that gold that made the blessing a necessity.

  I swung the backpack off, but as I bent to open it, I noticed something odd—far more of the blade was visible than usual.

  Had someone moved it? Or had the sword become loose and somehow worked its way up?

  I reached out and tentatively wrapped my fingers around the grip. Blue light pulsed, and energy caressed my hand, a sharp but electric force that made my fingers burn and my heart race. A gasp escaped and I instinctively let go and stepped back, teetering briefly on the edge of the knob before I caught my balance.

  The damn sword was the source of light and magic I’d felt earlier.

  I stared at it, more than a little unwilling to believe it was possible, despite the evidence of my own eyes. In all the years I’d been coming up here with Mo, the sword had been utterly inert. As far as I knew, that had been the case ever since the Witch King had declared, with his dying breath, that only the next true king would draw the sword from the stone.

  Ainslyn’s royal line had since merged with human monarchs, who ruled from their palace in London, and the world in general had all but forgotten the Witch King’s existence. Even history books had relegated his presence, his victories—which included saving human and witch alike from the dark elf sorcerer who sought to claim this realm as his own—and his sword to the ranks of myth and legend.

  But Uhtric Aquitaine was no myth and neither was the power of his sword.

  Which begged the question, why had it come to life now?

  And why had it reacted to my touch, however faintly? The De Montforts had no links to the Aquitaine kings as far as I was aware, and there were few enough true descendants left these days anyway. My gaze dropped to the stone that held the sword; the inscription was as unreadable now as it always had been. Why I expected anything else I couldn’t say, but I had a bad feeling the sooner we uncovered what it said, the better.

  I hesitated, then stepped forward and gripped the hilt a second time. Once again, that otherworldly force rose, pulsing through my body, a wave that rushed through limb, muscle, and bone, as if it were seeking something.

  Or accessing something.

  I frowned at the thought and tightened my grip, trying to pull the sword from the stone. It didn’t budge, which was no real surprise given the fact I was female and also lacked the prerequisite Aquitaine blood. It did mean, however, that someone from that line had been here, testing his link to the sword. It wouldn’t be the first time and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

  But it was, as far as I knew, the first time the sword had actually responded.

  I scanned the emptiness around me. The awareness of being watched remained, but there was something else moving through the distant fog now. Something that spoke of darkness.

  I released the sword and quickly emptied the backpack of its contents. After carefully placing the short white candles in a circle around the hump of stone, I lit them one by one. Then I grabbed the twin bottles of sanctified water, took a deep breath that did little to calm my nerves, and waited for the sun to crest the horizon.

  It seemed to take an eternity for the first rays of the new day to spear the sky. I waited, tension running through me, as the light grew stronger and the sky was painted orange and gold. Then the sun crested the horizon, the sword began to glow, and the golden rose on the pommel gently unfurled.

  Now, an inner voice whispered.

  I raised the vials of sanctified water and slowly moved around the sword’s base, calling on the power of the sun and the moon to protect the blade through the upcoming year, to keep it safe from darkness and all else who might wish it harm. As the words ran across the silence, a force sharper and more ethereal than any mere spell rose. The sanctified water hit the base of the sword’s stony sheath, and the air shimmered in response; the power of the blessing took hold, becoming a visible force that crept upward toward the blade. When the rays of the sun combined with the blessing’s shimmer, a shaft of golden light shot from the unfurled center of the rose. As that light dissipated, the blessing’s shimmer melded into the rock and the sword stopped glowing. I closed my eyes and sighed in relief. The sword was safe for another year.

  I knelt to place the now empty vials back into the pack. A soft noise ran across the stillness, one that sounded an awful lot like the scratch of a claw against ston
e. I froze, goose bumps racing across my skin and my heart seeming to lodge somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.

  For several seconds, there was only silence. Then that one scratch became two, and two became three …

  I swallowed heavily and clamped down on the thick wave of fear. This wasn’t the first time I’d come across demons. I might do nothing more than help run a book and healing store, but I was still a De Montfort. Juvenile demons seeking to boost their standing amongst their brethren routinely went after the low- or no-powered members of the various witch clans.

  I tied the vials safely into the pack, my skin twitching with awareness. Then I took a deep breath in a vague attempt to calm my nerves, drew Nex and Vita, and rose. White light flickered down the edges of the blades, and a hiss rose from the demons gathering below the knob.

  May the gods help me …

  This wasn’t a couple of juveniles out to test their prowess. This was something far more serious.

  There were over a dozen demons standing within the stone circle, and at least eight of them were winged. While instinct might be clamoring for me to change shape and flee, that was probably the worst thing I could do. Blackbirds weren’t equipped to fight demons on wing—neither our beaks nor our claws were designed to tear through leathery hides. I had more hope of survival in human form, but against so many …

  I tightened my grip on the daggers. I was a De Montfort, however underpowered, and I’d been well trained by Mo. I could and would survive this.

  The biggest of the gathered demons stepped forward. He was an ugly son of a bitch, with mismatched yellow daggers for teeth and eyes that were as orange as the skies. His red wings fanned lightly, making him appear even bigger, and his thick, sharp claws flexed in and out of their sheaths.