by Renee Peters
The Queen hissed again, but she did not move to close the distance between them or the younger queen. “You will prove your claim before the Councils — and if you lie, not even the stones of Anowen will remain unturned. Expect our summons.”
With a whirl of dark skirts, the Queen turned away and passed through the doorway into the shadows of the hall. Lian did not hear her call out, or otherwise make a sound. He only grew more aware of the impression of sunlight replacing the weight of a tangible shadow of bodies and movement that had fallen over the castle. The sounds of conflict became more muted in their retreat, until the only noise in the surrounding air was that of the wind and of Eden’s sobs.
Lian did not trust himself on his feet, but he turned and crouched to draw Eden into his arms and into an unsteady rise. “It will heal,” he assured in a whisper as he carried her from the sun.
Hours passed and wounds healed.
The dead were found and laid out in a drawing room, where the bodies could be cleaned and attended until nightfall when the pyres could be lit. The scent of blood and death draped over Anowen, casting a heavy weight over the elegy that sang listlessly across what remained of the coven’s bonds.
Six had fallen. The Council was short a brother and a sister in Pascal and Mercedes, and the coven absent three lords and a queen. Ayla too — a soul wounded beyond healing. They were nearly absent a sire, for all that Lian had been lost to the icy numbness that had taken him for losing songs.
Yet, as the hours passed and the sun drew nearer to the horizon, the grip of ice released him, and as if a dam had cracked open, the grief flowed freely.
The Immortal Lian Redmond wept mortal tears in the darkness of an unfinished room of the castle.
He wept until his body ached and his throat felt hoarse with the sobs that racked him, folded in upon himself where he sat on dusty crates. He wept until there were no tears left inside of him, and his family joined his song in its keening dirge.
When he had run out of tears, the elder, the Arch Lord, remained in his solitude and silence. The blame for the slaughter could fall at no one’s feet but his own; Mercy, Pascal, Donavon, Nicholas, Rachael, Augustine, all his. Dead.
Lian pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and felt his throat again tighten. He lowered his hand to stare at the signet ring he now wore on his middle finger — his father had had larger hands than he and this was no wedding band, as it had been.
Forgive me.
He did not know of whom he asked it. Of Mercy with her unseeing eyes, of Pascal with his fist clenched around his sword, of Eden burnt to bloody blisters, or of his father. All of them. His coven, whom he had not protected. The elder swallowed hard and folded his arms.
Soon it would be time to light the pyres.
“Yet, we are not all lost, beloved….” The voice of his queen sounded somewhere beyond him, as if from a distance.
There was that about her voice which was old and tired, if gentle; as if the violence had stripped from her some of the facade of eternal youth, which had been his gift and promise to her. The centuries had arrived with death to take what they were rightfully owed for suffering.
“For their sakes we must rise,” she finished quietly.
“I know,” Lian answered, his voice strained. He eased to a stand and turned to look toward where his queen stood in the doorway. When he tried speaking again, it was with more strength to the words. “I know.”
The elder closed the distance to Celia and paused long enough to leave a lingering kiss against her temple. “I love you, my starlight,” he breathed against her hair.
Her fingers curled into the material of his shirt, as if to hold him there, before flattening to rest over his heart. Her answer was in her music as she released him.
He did not remain much longer than a few heartbeats before easing around her. He would have to dress for the pyres and clean off what remained of the blood from his skin and hair.
“I have not been as I should be.”
The words were spoken almost as an afterthought and a darker omen both as he left her to walk down the blood-stained hallways alone.
Chapter 12
Under a veil of stars, Anowen Coven emerged to mourn their fallen. Reverently, they carried the dead through the flowers of the gardens and toward the forest, where the smell of sap marked the freshly cut trees that had been used for the pyres.
Six pyres, neatly constructed from four layers of timber, upon which they laid their dead.
Their kind did not leave beautiful corpses; death stripped away the loveliness of the gift, revealing decades and centuries of age. And so, funeral shrouds that bound the bodies in a cover of white muslin preserved their living memory.
Lian watched in silence as the remaining queens and lords paid their respects, laying blossoms from the garden around the fallen and lingering to whisper farewells. He stood at the head of the pyres, bearing the torch that would send them off.
The heaviness of mourning drew a rigidness through his body as he kept his vigil, and as the minutes passed the scent of flowers overtook that of blood.
He did not know which of the queens broke first with a sob, but with the sound the others who had been holding back their tears finally let them fall. The desolate cries of a family suffering loss joined the elegy in their blood.
Shifting in the shadows once more, some converged on the pyres at the sides of their fallen siblings and bonds to weep together. Others only watched, but their grief was in their music even if they could not bring themselves to approach the pyres again.
When the moon was at its highest, Lian stirred to approach the first of the fallen. He murmured his own goodbye and apology, bowing his head to touch a kiss to the slain lord’s brow. Then, as he straightened, the elder lowered the torch.
The body caught fire before the wood, consumed in a flare of heat and light as the flames spread to the pyre.
Lian repeated the process for each: A bow, a kiss, and an apology whispered to a soul that no longer sang.
Then the fires.
Mercy was the last.
Through the translucent shroud he saw the darkness of her hair and the blankness of her eyes, where they had come open as if for a final look at the stars. Or at him.
He felt a tightness in his chest, and pain at the back of his throat, and he looked away from her eyes to her hands, where they were folded over her heart.
Dipping into the cloth pocket at his waist, he drew free the chain that had held his father’s ring. Lian draped it over her interlaced fingers and then eased his hand up to cup her cheek. The kiss he left on her temple lingered, with the promise he left unspoken.
And the apology.
In silence, the Arch Lord of Anowen let the torch lower to her pyre. There he remained, until only ash and charred wood were left.
Chapter 13
The hidden city of Nevirnum, Monti Sibillini, Italy
It was two months before Lian arrived at Nevirnum with the Royal Council, and a week longer before they were due to be seen by their Mother.
They sat together in a room carved from white limestone. Torches pitched orange light and stark shadows across the sculpted reliefs which decorated the walls; their designs harkening to an empire long lost. Plush rugs afforded some comfort beneath the gilded furnishing, and overhead, an oculus let in some natural sunlight.
The hole was overgrown and small enough that the secret city that had been carved into the mountains east of Rome could not easily be discovered. Nevirnum was older than even the eldest of the Heirs; home to their sleeping Mother, her siblings, and a village of ancient Immortals and their servants who served as wardens.
They had known the moment Athanasia had awoken. It had felt as if an explosion had erupted in their blood before her music finally settled into something soothing and muted — if no earthly music that Lian could name.
He was hardly able to think for the distraction and want of the Empress Mother, and not trusting his steadines
s, remained in his seat while the other Heirs paced or found their own ways to bide the time until their summons.
Adaeze, it seemed, had decided the best use of these moments was an unrelenting study of his person. He could sense her focus and the shameless brush of her mind against the borders of his own as if to test his limits. Here, under the sway of Athanasia’s music, they were none of them entirely their own.
“Your rival, Redmond,” she offered from the shadows, “if your claim is worth its weight in blood, is sure to be not far behind you in arriving at Nevirnum. Eromerde has been claimed by its acknowledged Lord, and the Royal Council must recognize him as Sovereign. Absalom will be less than pleased to find his war so … inconclusive.”
“Indeed.” Synne turned to glance over her shoulder. “Your challenge would be one to our Sovereign. You would rule over us, Redmond? Is this your idea of recompense for our… slights? It is unlikely to stand.”
Lian lifted his gaze to settle on Synne. He was not entirely sure he wanted to answer either of them. The time for avoiding his heritage was long gone, lost to the winds with the ashes of his fallen children.
He would be Sovereign, and he would reign over the Royal Council in England as he should have. He would be what he should have been, what he had been trying to be since the pyres.
All too late now, but not all his family was lost.
Mercy.
“He knows enough to be aware there will be no protecting what is left of his … House if this is a farce,” Jaime interjected, almost too idly, from where he stood pressed against the colonnade that marked the room’s entrance. “Surely he is not such a fool.”
“I am wise enough to know that slights against a rogue House mean nothing. Nor will Vanessa of Delresus be faulted for the slaughter of my children,” Lian said, slowly. “It was not my want to rule. I would have been content to be left alone and Free with my family. I would have been content for Verona to have her place as Sovereign instead, but it seems this Council would have otherwise at every turn.”
“You would do well not to mention that which you know nothing of, Redmond,” Iona spat, her eyes flashing a vibrant green in the shadows. Synne’s hand shifted to stroke through her bond’s curls, her own lavender gaze shifting to a burning violet in response.
“I know enough,” Lian answered grimly.
As if the disturbance in the room had been sensed, an ancient Immortal, older than the Heirs themselves, appeared with a torch.
“Your Highnesses,” he offered in a voice that was gentle and dry, and thick with an Italian accent. Dipping into a bow, the Immortal lifted a hand to encourage them to follow.
He guided them from the antechamber where they had waited, into the long corridor that led to the Imperial Council. On either side of the hall, they passed large sculptures of the First Immortals, the Emperors and Empresses who had birthed the curse onto the world.
Lian recognized Athanasia’s image, even for never having seen her himself. She stood, cast in marble, with her face downturned toward the Heirs and holding an armful of flowers. There was that about her expression which was quiet and distant, as if she wished to be elsewhere, but it took nothing away from her flawless perfection.
For a moment, the Immortal looked at her, all too aware of the pulse of her song echoing through his blood. His brows furrowed, and it was only the sound of stone scraping stone as the Council Chambers opened that caused Lian to tear his gaze away to resume his walk.
He had a promise to keep.
Chapter 14
The nine members of the Immortal Imperial Council were as close as the world would have to divine beings living permanently among mankind. It was a trait they shared with the surviving Aegean ancients; those beings who had spawned the various races that now competed for dominion of the darkness.
They were each alike in their flawlessness; perfect in a way that was unmatched. Though they all bore the same slender, long-limbed build and possessed large, almond-shaped eyes that burned brightly in the shadows of the Chamber, they were as different from one another as snowflakes.
In their hair, they favored darkness, but in their midst were tresses like fire and gold, and their skin ranged from the deepest dark of nightfall to the paleness of starlight; smooth and untouched by their millennia of existence.
Their garments were black and gold, each bespeaking of the land they had claimed for their empires, and they had assembled in a half circle on gilded thrones carved from limestone and embellished with soft cushions and precious gems.
His Empress Mother, Athanasia, sat as still as if someone had carved her from the surrounding stone. She was as perfect as her siblings — more so, perhaps. Lian could not tell if that was his own thought, or if it was the draw of everything she was and the haunting melody that rippled through his blood for her proximity. She had a tumble of silver-blonde hair, left free beneath a golden crown. At her chest, under an onyx choker, was something smaller and more clumsily made: a ring carved from bone that rested above her heart.
Her expression was almost a match to her statue. She regarded her offspring as they came to a standstill at the center of the Chambers in silence, and her gaze had a dullness that made cold iron out of what should have been a burning silver.
A pair of twins, the eldest of the Firsts, held a place of honor in the thrones at the apex of the arch. They were male and female, both brown skinned with dark hair interwoven with quartz and gold. Their eyes burned heterochromatic — a brilliant red and blue that cast a halo glow on the crests of their cheeks.
Lian bowed respectfully, as he should, easing down onto one knee. The other Heirs did so as well.
The male twin only studied Lian’s bent profile for long moments, before passing a trailing glance across the Heirs at his side.
“I grow weary with the need for the disruption of our rest at the will of Britannia’s Council,” he began. “It is not enough, your unending wars — now rogues aspire to be Sovereign.” He paused for a beat. “Rise. You will present the evidence of your claim to Sovereignty, Lian Redmond, at the stake of your life and that of your children.”
Rising to his feet, Lian closed his fingers around his ring to loosen it. “I am the second sired of Dunstan of Ostun, raised in the absence of Mother when she journeyed to Aotearoa to begin new Houses. Two years after I was sired, Hadrian betrayed Verona and sent his children to slay my father. I was there for his death. He gave me his ring and the rights to his blood-gift, so I might stand to survive. His is the Arch Elder’s gift in my veins. The ring and what memories he gave me are what I claim for evidence.”
“Come, Lian Redmond.” Athanasia’s voice was silvern when it lifted, and her palm extended. “I will see the ring.”
The Immortal hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, as if testing the depth of water, he drew nearer to the Empress Mother where she sat. The ring dropped into her hold, but it was her opposite hand, as quick as a snake strike, that claimed his wrist and drew him to her lips.
He felt her teeth in his skin, and then a white fire burst through his mind.
Lian did not know what happened after; only that when he could see again, he was on the floor before her feet, and she was examining the signet in the light. Her lips were redder for his blood.
“They are both Dunstan’s,” she said, drawing the jewelry in closer to her heart.
He watched her for a moment before his fingers closed around his bleeding wrist and he pushed to a stand.
“I would claim my place as Sovereign in Britain if the Council will recognize me.”
“It will be problematic to do so,” the female twin interjected. “You make a claim for the House of Dunstan of Ostun. Such a House no longer exists. Athanasia’s Heir line is the House of Hadrian, by our laws, and Eromerde has an Arch Lord. Your Royal Council has a Sovereign. There cannot be two reigning crowns. Do you expect us to determine the course of your Council for you?”
“Hadrian’s House no longer exists, your Imperial Maj
esty,” Lian offered, turning his head toward the twins. “Eromere and Dúchas are gone with the original Sovereigns. Anowen and Eromerde stand in their steads, and I claim Dunstan’s blood for my right.”
“And with it, the rights of the eldest of the Royal Heirs.” The male twin stated the obvious. He turned a look over the Heirs who had kept their silence. “You have heard your Mother’s words. Lian Redmond is the son of your brother. A Sovereign does not long reign without the loyalty of family and subjects. The fate of his sire is evidence as much — as is the blood that has been spilled in pursuit of its power. The decisions of the Imperial Council will mean little for the son of Dunstan if he will fall to treachery when we close our eyes.” His voice grew colder. “Will the Council of Britain acknowledge this man as Sovereign?”
Jaime’s dark eyes were thoughtful as they studied Lian, and again the Immortal felt thoughts brush against the boundaries of his mind.
“If not Anowen,” the Spanish Lord intoned, “it will be the continued instability of Eromerde.” His hand shifted to hook his thumb into his belt. “If it is true that the slights suffered against a rogue house will be forgotten, then House Recodo will honor Dunstan’s blood.”
Adaeze’s head dipped in a ghosted bow toward the Emperor, then turned to regard their Mother. Athanasia had closed her eyes and drawn the ring of her bond against her heart in her silence. The Moorish Queen’s gaze shadowed.
“Dunstan’s lineage is owed a debt that will never be repaid. That which I was not strong enough to do in the past, I will do now and for as long as the power of his House stands. House Imari will honor the will of the Imperial Council, and our Sovereign should he be named.”
The two blonde Queens were silent, their gaze shifting from their Mother to Lian. Synne was the first to straighten, neatly folding her hands before her as she turned her attention back to the Imperial Council.
