Frostbound Throne: Court of Sin Book Two: Song of Winter

by Sage, May

  The ground shook, the sky roared, and the Arched Sea rose to engulf the shore. Then a wave of energy vibrated out of her, and froze everything and everyone.

  No, not everyone. Not Vale. She certainly wasn’t hurting him or the horses. She felt them and created a shield around them. She didn’t freeze the curious fox scratching its ear near the gorge or the falcon returning to Vale after his travels to Carvenstone.

  She felt them all. After truly embracing the power, she found it was entirely hers to mold, hers to command.

  Devi stopped her energy flow and let go of Vale. She turned to the sea to watch her handiwork, and then she laughed.

  Everything was ice—the sea and the town, all the elves and scions.

  “You’ve not killed them,” Vale noted, frowning.

  “I haven’t,” she replied proudly, ecstatic. “But they’ll stay in my power until I release them.”

  Her ice was eternal; it would only melt if she demanded it to.

  She attempted to take a step, but her legs gave out from under her; Vale caught her before she fell, holding her upright.

  Oh well. Apparently, she wasn’t invincible.

  “Tired?” he guessed.

  “Exhausted.” She yawned. “Call the dyrmounts. They’re fine.”

  She felt Vale whisper through her mind, although his lips didn’t move. He was talking in horse speech. Being back in his head was satisfying and comforting.

  The horses ran down the icy hill, light on their feet as usual, passing what some would mistake as realistic ice statues of orcs and fae. Alarik and Midnight stopped at the bottom of the hill and waited for them; the first neighed as if trying to explain what he’d had to endure in their absence, while the elegant black dyrmount seemed as unperturbable as ever.

  “You’re doing so well on the ice,” Devi noted. She’d been prepared to have to charm warmth into the poor beasts, despite her wariness, but they seemed indifferent to the weather.

  On closer inspection, she saw their horseshoes had a certain shine. She bent down to take a look at one and traced it with her fingertip.

  “Maille,” she said, “and something else, too.”

  She trailed her hand up the length of Alarik’s leg. The horse had something she hadn’t noticed inside him, something new.

  “Telenar looked at them before we left Elvendale. In our rush, I must have forgotten to mention it.”

  That explained it. Kira had once told her that Telenar could not encounter a thing he did not wish to help or improve. Whatever he’d done to the beasts, they hadn’t suffered for it, and they seemed better off with it.

  “I’ll have to thank him someday, if we meet again.”

  Smiling, she was holding on to her saddle, about to leap onto the horse, when Alarik released a blood-curdling scream and tore through the still-silent night.

  The horse stumbled and struggled to keep on his feet. She rushed to his side and found a golden arrow protruding from his flank. She yanked it out, and thick red blood soaked her clothes. Vale lifted his bow and scanned the sky in the direction the hit had come from. She paid him no mind, rummaging through her bag. Her hands shook in her panic. Why the hell had she stuffed her healing charm in there? That had been stupid. Who needed to be healed “in a while” after she wasted precious minutes fumbling through a large traveling satchel? Finally, her shaking hands clasped the precious charm; she applied it to the horse’s flank and pushed as much energy as she could through it. She was already drained, and the effort threatened to bring her to her knees, but she persevered until the wound had closed. Then she pulled her bow from her back and joined Vale in his search for their enemy.

  “Can you feel something?” she asked desperately, knowing the answer.

  She was still in his mind, and there was nothing. Just him and her.

  “No. Let us go forth and cross the bridge. Now.”

  Remaining here in the open was of no use.

  Devi mounted Midnight at Vale’s prompting, and Vale took Alarik’s reins, remaining on foot; the last thing the dyrmount needed while recovering was to carry extra weight. She’d done her best, but the internal wound needed more time to close.

  “Come on, beautiful boy. You’re the bestest. You can do this,” she coaxed.

  The words were unfamiliar on her lips. Horse speech—a language she’d never learned. Strange, she shouldn’t have picked up this power from Vale—he’d only opened his mind to her for a moment—but she didn’t have time to question it.

  “I’ll give you all the sugar you want if you make it a little farther, Alarik. Just a little…”

  But it was too late.

  They were halfway across the bridge when, on the Corantian coast, a battalion of soldiers in red and gold appeared.

  Or maybe they’d been there all along, hidden from Devi and Vale’s senses.

  It shouldn’t have been possible, but they hadn’t appeared out of nowhere, so they must have been there. Which meant that there was a telepath among them. An incredibly powerful telepath, strong enough to mess with Vale’s mind.

  Devi stiffened.

  Dawn rose in the east; the clouds overhead dissipated, and she saw them clearly. Devi’s eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and she dismounted Midnight, taking a step forward.

  For the second time in as many days, Vale lifted his sword, barring her path to halt her in her tracks. This time, she let him.

  In front of the forty-seven Corantian soldiers stood a male dressed in black leather pants, with his chest bare and dark wings folded behind his back. A familiar male with a familiar face and a boyish grin that had never looked so cruel.

  “Rook.”

  The name fell from her lips, full of questions.

  He held a bow in his hand. Had he shot Alarik? Why? No, that was probably the least important concern right now. What was he doing here, with the Corantians?

  His smile grew. “Go on, Devi. I’m sure you can work it out. As for that beast of yours, I figured it would get your ass moving. You were taking an awful lot of time, and I’m on a schedule.”

  She hadn’t said a thing out loud; he’d plucked her thoughts from her mind. Even in her worn-out and confused state, she’d understood what it meant before his eyes shifted to Vale. His smile vanished, giving way to something colder than her ice.

  “Hello, brother.”

  Twenty-Four

  Insanity

  Vale kept his mind blank, a skill he’d learned from his father. Their father.

  Five hundred years ago, after the war, after learning he was the son of Orin and Shea and taking the better part of a century to process the knowledge, he’d expressed an interest in knowing his progenitor.

  Orin received Vale in the Court of Crystal, at Staren, his stronghold. He was dark of hair and grave. Vale found that he didn’t like his eyes, or his mind, or his presence, for that matter. The overking made him feel weak.

  “That is because you are not foolish, son.”

  Vale always kept his mental shields up, but Orin effortlessly penetrated his barriers. Vale didn’t like that either. Not one bit.

  “Then I shall teach you how to keep even the strongest of minds out of your thoughts before you leave my court. Your mother learned it. As will you.”

  And so, every morning, he’d meet with the titan and practice—another word for psychological torture, which wouldn’t end until he could stop the mental attacks of the overking.

  Orin always looked bored, disinterested, indifferent to everything. Vale didn’t understand why at first, but by the time he left, he knew. To truly keep a mind free of thought, one had to stop wanting, needing, being. One had to be no one and nothing.

  Vale was glad he seldom had to rely on that skill, as it stripped away a part of him every time he practiced it, shaping him into that indifferent person he pretended to be.

  With Devi right in front of him, using that particular skill had never been more difficult.

  His brother sucked at it, thankfully. As e
very second passed, Vale understood more and more about the scion before him—if scion was even the accurate term in his case.

  Vale looked through his half-brother’s past. The male had taken centuries to piece it together.

  Rook, as Devi had called him, as he called himself these days, hadn’t been born of a human, or a fae, or a scion. His mother had been something else entirely.

  Long ago, after the humans had created the deadly virus that spread through the lands, spelling their doom, the enlightened traveled to Eartia and fought to keep humanity in check. They needed to. The enlightened had a low birth rate, even lower than that of the fae, and they mostly produced males. Human females were the only other creature in the universe with whom they could reproduce. The first generation of enlightened who’d traveled to Eartia tweaked human evolution to ensure they’d resemble their race and that they could bear their heirs. So, keeping humans alive was crucial to the gods.

  First, they combated the virus itself. To an extent, they succeeded. The disease rendered humans undead, killing them first, then turning them into mindless beasts that were entirely useless to the enlightened. The cure they developed returned the undead to life, giving them back their sense and thoughts. But they remained what they’d been reduced to: vile creatures who only wished to destroy the living and eat every life form they could get their hands on without any notion of creating.

  The orcs were created.

  The battle that followed was ruthless, for the orcs were many, and the enlightened, mighty as they were, were too few to protect the rest of humanity. They built strongholds under energy walls, and kept the survivors safe. Then, the enlightened targeted specific targets—the orcs who’d risen into power among their kind.

  An orc who had surrounded himself with many wolves took Achdrak—modern-day Asra. Since the cure had spread, their kind had been able to reproduce. The lord of Achdrak had a harem at his disposal, and he’d impregnated many females. When the enlightened took the fortress, Wolven Fort, they were disgusted by what awaited them within.

  The orc lord was fond of his children, so when the time came to make him talk, the enlightened threatened, tortured, and did worse things to the young orcs.

  Eiulr was such a child. The overking, Cronus, ordered his son, Orin, to rape her right at her father’s steps. The ultimatum they gave the orc lord was simple: all orcs leave the continent in boats and never return. The orc would hear nothing of it, not even to spare his children.

  All were killed in Achdrak and in many orc cities. Finally, once the powerful had been dealt with and the vermin left alive had been chased behind the walls of the Isle, there was peace.

  But in Wolven Fort, Orin had looked at the poor female he’d defiled and he’d pitied her. So when his father ordered the enlightened to kill all orcs, he slashed her face with his sword, leaving a scar that would never fade, pretending to slay her.

  Eiulr lived to give birth to a son she called Makrs, a boy born in the Isle to a creature who could find no reputable work and who had no home. They erred through his childhood until his mother perished one cold winter at the edge of a forest. The boy had no skills to talk of and nowhere to go. To sate the hunger that never quite went away, he ate anything he could find, mostly worms.

  Then a beautiful male found him. He laughed and called Makrs the prince of worms. A name the boy still loved and hated.

  “Come,” he said. “We will feed you at our table.”

  Elden Star took pity on the famished, lost creature and brought him to the small settlement he’d recently founded in the heart of the Graywoods.

  “Marcus,” he was called for a time, a strong name that fitted him well, but as the boy grew, he asked himself questions. Dangerous questions, such as why he only had one name. Who were his people? Who had fathered him? He asked Elden, one day, because Elden knew all things. Never had he seen the king turn so grave.

  “I cannot speak of it. I will not. If you wish to learn of your past, go north to the lands where our kind still dwells behind their walls.”

  At twelve, Marcus went north. He observed and listened with his mind and ears. He spied in the shadows. After a long time, he finally saw him: a male of great consequence who looked like him and had the same powers of the mind.

  Orin, son of Cronus, now overking of the Isle.

  Marcus never knew hatred until he saw his father. So, he began to plot.

  Over the centuries, he rallied many creatures, many fae and scions to his cause. He seduced the Duke of Stormhale with promises of riches and the Stormhale daughter, Antera, with promises of crowns. Once she was his, he whispered into his half-brother’s ear until he found Aurelius’s weakness.

  Aurelius had long wanted a child of his own. Easy enough to provide one, when one knew what to look for.

  Finally, it was time. In the middle of the night, Marcus hid his spirit, sneaked into the overking’s chambers, and struck Orin in the heart.

  Vale pulled himself out of his brother’s mind, disgusted by every word and vision he’d read.

  Cronus was a monster. Orin was a weak waste of space, and Vale was glad of his death. Aurelius had had no spine. The Stormhales should rot in hell. And as for Marcus…

  Makrs had been innocent, without evils, without greed or vices. But sometime over the last two thousand years, his brother had been consumed by something else entirely. Marcus, Rook—whatever name he chose—was a cancer that needed to be cut out for the good of the Isle.

  Vale was certain of it, now he knew his brother’s endgame.

  Rook was obsessed with one thing: destroying the walls around the Isle. He wanted to let his brethren once again roam freely on their land. He believed that coexisting peacefully with the orcs was possible and that they deserved a chance to leave the undead seas. But Vale knew this would only unleash chaos on all the realms.

  If he succeeded in his endeavor, fae, elves, scions, and even the gods would all be doomed. Even the dragons had reasons to fear that outcome.

  Vale gleaned all this information in less than one minute, as his half-brother stared into his eyes with unadulterated hatred. Beneath the loathing was something else. Clear jealousy. The male fancied Devi. Vale almost smirked.

  Good luck with that, asshole. Devi was his.

  Rook signaled to the Corantians, and two men walked forward with chains.

  “I wouldn’t resist if I were you, Blackthorn.” Rook lifted his bow, the arrow aimed right at him. “I’m a fairly good shot.”

  Devi was exhausted. Rook had tricked her into using her power too early; Vale wouldn’t make the same mistake. He had no clue about the extent of Rook’s powers, but he wouldn’t underestimate a two-thousand-year-old demigod with a chip on his shoulder and an arrow aimed at his face.

  He lifted his hands and let the soldiers chain them in front of him. The moment the manacles snapped shut, all strength and energy left him. Vale struggled to stay standing. Another pair of guards advanced with similar devices, and Vale almost snarled. No way were they similarly crippling Devi in her state.

  Rook lifted his hand, stopping them in their tracks. “No need. The girl is exhausted. Besides, she and I are going to have a pleasant chat, are we not?”

  Devi’s glower suggested that her idea of a pleasant chat consisted of carving his entrails out with a teaspoon, but if he noticed, Rook didn’t take it to heart.

  “Come on through. You’re just in time for dinner.”

  Twenty-Five

  Dinners and Deals

  Two soldiers, one male and one female, escorted Devi. They stood right behind her and nudged her with their swords whenever she slowed down.

  They followed Rook through empty rooms.

  The manor was old and decrepit. It looked strange, with walls too plain and symmetrical, columns, round-top windows.

  Devi let it distract her. Better she muse over the architecture than try to understand how Rook—Rook of all people—was Vale’s psychotic elder brother.

  She remem
bered the first time she’d met Rook at the start of her protector-in-training courses. He’d seemed nice. He’d been nice, self-deprecating, kind to anyone he encountered, and quick to laughter. It just didn’t compute in her mind.

  So, she focused on windows, doorways, and wood flooring.

  Rook turned to find her glancing at the walls. “Do you like this place?” he asked conversationally. “It survived an age. It was built before the war. The owner renovated it. A lot more effort than razing it to the ground and rebuilding, if you ask me, but it has a certain charm.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” she replied.

  Rook laughed. “Fair enough. You’re angry, I get it; trust me, I do. Hence we’re going to sit down, have dinner, and talk. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  Her head was going to explode.

  “We were. Then you turned out to be an evil bastard. Literally.”

  The anger that flashed in his eyes gave her pause. It wasn’t annoyance or vexation, but pure, undiluted, murderous rage. Others would have shivered. Devi had always poked the bear; it was in her nature to have a snarky retort for anyone who deserved it. Her instincts told her to be cautious with this male. He wasn’t rational. He could, and would, see her suffer for crossing him and laugh with glee. Nice Rook was a facade, a shadow.

  But the anger was gone as fast as it had come. He had some self-control.

  “Careful, now. That wasn’t very nice.”

  “Shooting my horse wasn’t very nice either.”

  She recognized his laugh well.

  By all gods, how she hated him.

  “Fair. All right, come on through. I bet you’re parched and famished. That was an impressive display out there. For a minute, I wondered if your ice would reach us.”