Power (Dark Scions Book 3)

by Anna Carven

  Finally, I come to a stop at the edge of a snowdrift, my body crumpled in a painful heap. I cough and splutter, clearing a clump of snow from my mouth.

  Fierce wind pressure beats down on me. I look up and see Vyloren swooping low, her golden wings outstretched.

  I groan.

  Did she just… fucking drop me from the sky?

  She isn’t going to try and pick me up in her cursed claws again, is she?

  Not again…

  But instead of swooping down to grab me, Vyloren gracefully drops onto the snow, landing in a cloud of soft white powder. She folds her wings beside her massive gleaming body and stares at me with her single golden eye.

  Slowly, painfully, I find my feet. “What was that for?” I growl, glaring at the dragon.

  You were burning up, and you weren’t responding. She shrugs her great shoulders ever so slightly. If not for the fever, I would have thought you were dead.

  “You thought I was either dead or dying, so you dropped me into the snow?”

  As I said, you had a fever.

  “You are an ancient beast with no fucking manners. You interrupted a very important conversation,” I grumble as I turn around and lift my bound arms behind me. As usual, I can feel my fingers, but they aren’t really there.

  I left my black hands back there in the silent world, along with my real name and the memory of Amali in my arms.

  She was real.

  And now the Midrians have her.

  I will destroy them all.

  “If you have any sense, dragon, you will cut me loose now and leave me here,” I say softly as I stare out across the mountains. Night has fallen, and with my Morningstar-enhanced vision, I can make out the stark snow-capped peaks. A sliver of a crescent moon peeks out from behind the clouds, momentarily burnishing the mountains with its cold, silvery light.

  I think I recognize this place.

  Yes.

  And what do you hope to achieve, young assassin, with no hands and no weapons and my curse burning up your body? No, you aren’t going anywhere. This is only a rest stop, and you probably don’t need it, anyway. You seem to have recovered from whatever that was… that momentary paralysis.

  I look above the snowy peaks to the darkness beyond. Above the mountain range, I can just make out a faint black outline, hulking and ominous in the distance.

  Ah.

  There it is.

  The Black Mountain.

  A mixture of revulsion and anger and unexpected nostalgia courses through me. For the first half of my life, this was the only home I knew.

  It’s ingrained within me, whether I like it or not.

  Part of me longs to feel the smooth, ancient swept flagstones of the training square beneath my bare feet again. Every morning, well before the crack of dawn, we would rise and scrub and polish the stones until they gleamed in the darkness, and our hands would be almost numb from the cold by the time we finished.

  Then, with the smell of lye soap lingering in the air, we would strip down to our linens and go through the forms, and one of the trainers—usually Djeru or Erul or Salanke—would hit us on the limbs or torso with the end of a stiff reed if we didn’t execute them perfectly.

  For fifteen winters, that harsh, disciplined world was all I knew. I lived, breathed, and dreamed the training of the secret holy Order of the Ven, who worship no god but death.

  And now I’m going back.

  I don’t think I really have a choice. With the state I’m in, Vyloren could toss me around like a rag doll if she wanted.

  You’re going home, Kaimeniel.

  “I somehow figured that would be the case,” I say dryly as I study the dragon. “We’re not exactly going to the Grand Midwinter Ball at the Silver Palace, are we?”

  You’re in a sorry state, little halfling, to be fighting me with nothing but sarcasm.

  “I’m not even going to try and fight you until I have my hands again,” I growl. “Right now, I’m as useless as a dragon with no fire.”

  Hmph. Human hands don’t grow back, unlike dragon limbs.

  “But according to you, I’m not entirely human.” Curiosity overtakes me. I can’t help it. “So does that mean your eye will eventually grow back, too?”

  I don’t know. Ordinarily, I would say yes, but since it was your hand that destroyed it, I honestly do not know. Her fangs are slightly bared and her remaining eye is narrowed. I can’t detect any of the terrible anger she displayed when I bested her on the Coast of Bones, or when Amali shot her rider.

  Instead, she seems strangely… resigned.

  What do the Order have on her, really?

  “You should never have gone against me,” I say softly. “What makes you do this, Vyloren? Whatever it is they’re threatening you with, it must be bloody powerful to make you stoop to this, dragon. Carting a sick, helpless human around while your rider lies in the infirmary? Shouldn’t you be razing the battlements and terrorizing the Grand Master for overstepping his bounds? How can he even try to control a mighty dragon like yourself?”

  Quiet, halfling, Vyloren hisses in my mind, but her voice lacks the venom it had before. You know nothing.

  “People seem to keep telling me that. It’s starting to get a little tedious. Tell me why you’re beholden to the Ven, Vyloren.”

  For a moment, she’s silent, her huge reptilian face remaining expressionless as she turns things over in her ancient mind. I stare down at the crystalline snow, watching as cloud-shadows and starlight dance across the pure white surface.

  I exhale slowly, the breath leaving my mouth in a puff of white mist.

  My one and only true love is out there somewhere, beyond the mountains, heading for Daimara on a Midrian ship.

  I know what I must do. I need to go back into my dreams and find the dark bastard who is probably my sire. I need to bargain with him for power—his blood; my blood—and I will accept whatever conditions he sets… even if it means I become beholden to him, just like Vyloren is to the Ven.

  Even if it means I become a complete monster.

  I need to rescue my Amali.

  I will do anything. Anything.

  They cannot have her.

  I just want to remind you of what you’re coming back to, Kaimeniel.

  A powerful torrent of emotion rips through me, rising up from the pit of my belly, spreading through my chest. It’s anger and desire and an overpowering feeling of protectiveness, and it obliterates the any trace of my despair.

  She is mine.

  She is waiting for me.

  The dragon stirs. What can you possibly do? Vyloren asks cautiously at last, after a long silence.

  I meet her golden gaze. “We have fought, you and I. I have wounded you, and my mate has injured your rider. You have caused me to end up like this. You are about to deliver me, bound and weak, straight into the hands of the Ven, who want me alive for some sinister reason. I could die or end up in prolonged agony.” For the first time in a long time, I feel calm. My thoughts are ordered and logical, just like they always were before I met her; just like they should be when I am dealing with a problem of this magnitude.

  I am a fully trained Ven assassin.

  I can command time.

  They will learn that they never should have tried to have me killed in the first place.

  I will make them wish they had never come after me and what is mine.

  “We could go on like this forever, like the eternal foes we are supposedly fated to become, or we could settle our grudges. Legend has it that dragons are supposed to be honorable. I would hold no enmity toward you if the forces that motivate you are outside your control.” I step forward, lowering my voice. The dragon inclines her head, listening intently. Good. “Think on it, Vyloren. If I beat this sickness and regain my powers, who would you rather have as your ally?”

  The cold wind swirls around us, howling in the distance. For a heartbeat, the clouds part to reveal the moon and the stars, and light falls across the ominous pyram
id of the Black Mountain.

  It towers above all else, radiating dark, oppressive energy.

  “I will defeat them, Vyloren, and I will make them pay. Deep down, you already know it.”

  The dragon lets out a deep, rumbling growl that sends a fine layer of snow cascading down the mountainside. Fine tendrils of smoke rise from her nostrils.

  I am… shackled, she says at last, slamming her massive claw into the ground, whipping her tail back and forth in the snow. And I fear you too much to tell you why.

  “Whether you have reason to fear me or not depends on your actions from here on,” I say quietly. “Choose wisely, child of Morhaba. Fate is only predetermined if you accept it.”

  The dragon’s great golden body starts to tremble. The single dark slit of her pupil contracts, and the tendrils of smoke rising from her mouth coalesce, becoming a grey plume.

  Her tail rises and falls threateningly.

  I tense, anticipating that she might lash out at me in rage, but instead she drops her head. Her golden eye widens and shimmers, and I can almost detect the hint of a tear forming in one corner.

  Do dragons even cry?

  I have no choice but to take you to Mak’tar, she laments, raising her massive claw. Do not make this any more difficult for me, Kaimeniel. It is beyond our control.

  Instead of arguing with her, I stare at the Black Mountain as it disappears behind a veil of cloud.

  Mak’tar. The name reverberates into my very bones. It sounds ancient. It sounds right. Why does it feel so familiar when it is a word I have never heard before? Instinctively, I understand that this is the ancient name for the Black Mountain, one that has long since been lost to human knowledge.

  That same dark instinct tells me I must go back there now and finish this once and for all.

  Mak’tar is my home; the place that forged me into the killer that I am. The key to my existence lies in that cursed place.

  Mak’tar calls to me.

  Strangely, my fever has abated a little, and the terrible pain racking my body is not as bad as it was before.

  And Vyloren… she drops her head and folds her wings close and leans backward, as if shying away from me.

  Me? I am the one who is bound and helpless.

  She is the one with all the power here, yet she seems almost… afraid of me.

  I take a step forward. “As I said, dragon, choose wisely.” I keep walking, my feet sinking into the soft snow. I reach her side and drop to my knees beside her outstretched claws. I lean in close, until I’m staring her right in the eye. “Ah, you must be missing your young master, Ancient One. I understand there are some ties that bind so tightly one has no choice but to be defined by them. I understand very well, Vyloren, and I do not blame you. So now you must return me to Mak’tar and watch as they try to break me. Watch carefully, and see what happens.”

  Maybe, just maybe, if I didn’t have Amali, I would have become resigned to my fate.

  But now I am angry.

  Really fucking angry.

  My mate has called to me, and I will find a way to reach her, no matter what it takes.

  Fourteen

  Amali

  The wind starts to howl like a banshee at midnight. The waves crash higher and higher, drenching me in freezing salty water. There’s water in my eyes, in my throat, in my hair. I’m soaked and freezing and seasick from being tossed around like a rag-doll in this terrible weather.

  The rain is coming down hard, fat droplets of water turned into projectiles by the driving wind. The rain actually stings as it hits my face, and I can’t even raise my hands to cover myself.

  But I’m ecstatic.

  The storm has come. I took a chance and read the red sky and the clouds, and I was right.

  Maybe the cruel man who refused me water is feeling just a little afraid.

  But still, no-one comes.

  I close my eyes and hold my breath as another massive wave crashes over me.

  The seawater is so bloody cold.

  How much longer can I endure this?

  Trise and his Midrian sailors aren’t doing a very good job of keeping me intact. I’m the new emperor’s prized possession; his revenge fetish toy. Surely they will come and take me down from here.

  But then again, they’re too busy fighting against the storm. It came up so quickly they had very little time to prepare.

  In my limited field of view, I observe chaos and commotion across the decks. Men are running around the decks shouting, doing things with the big white sails, using strange contraptions and pulleys to roll the cloth tight against the long wooden beams that extend horizontally from the masts.

  Ropes fly everywhere. Someone almost slips overboard, catching the rail at the very last moment. A massive swell hits the side of the ship. We sway violently, tipping back and forth as water sluices across the decks and over me.

  I spit salty seawater from my mouth and take a gulp of sweet air.

  “Midrian fools!” I yell over the wind and rain, forcing my hoarse voice to become as loud as possible. “If you do not respect the ways of the gods, you will all die here.” I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. It’s all horsedung as far as I’m concerned. I just want to catch their attention. I remember something Kaim said about Midrians and their ridiculous fear of the dark. “You are heading into the dead of night, where Elar’s protection will be at its lowest ebb. If you don’t take me down from here now, you are all dead men.”

  I’m out of breath my the time I finish. My chest rises up and down. I gasp and heave as water hits me in the face again and again. In the palace, I heard about something called Midrian water torture. Surely this is what it feels like.

  I can’t feel my feet or hands anymore. The freezing water has turned them numb.

  I could die here.

  No, Amali, you aren’t allowed to die here. Kaim’s stern voice rings through my mind, and although I don’t know whether it’s real or imagined, it’s music to my ears.

  Open your eyes.

  Look up.

  Imaginary Kaim barks orders in my head, jolting me out of my self-pity.

  I open my eyes.

  I see a man standing before me, up on the prow. He’s one of the Midrian soldiers, I think. I can’t really tell, because he’s as drenched as a drowned rat—just like me. “What are you carrying on about?” he shouts over the wind. “You dying up there, woman? You need to shut your mouth, for Elar’s sake. You’re spooking the sailors.”

  Dying? That’s a stupid question to ask. What do you think, asshole?

  I only have one chance to get this right. I summon every last shred of my resolve and glare at the man through the driving rain. “You want this storm to end? Then you will bloody well treat me right. Get me off this ridiculous thing and out of the rain. Get me inside!”

  The Midrian stares at me, then disappears as the ship is rocked by another giant wave.

  My heart sinks. Are they really just going to leave me here? I really could die from the cold.

  Kaim would never see me again.

  “Hey!” I yell, my lungs burning. “Come back, bastard!”

  Suddenly, the ship is level again, and the man is back, along with two sailors. I recognize the sandy-haired youth who tied me to this ugly statue in the first place.

  The sailors and the soldier shout at each other, gesticulating wildly. The youth picks up a loop of rope and ties it around his waist. He pulls a dagger from somewhere and secures it between his teeth.

  Then he climbs out toward me, stepping over the wooden railing, going onto his belly as he grabs onto the long wooden pole.

  He pulls himself toward me, gripping the pole tightly. As he reaches my ankles, he catches my attention by slapping my bare foot. “I’m going to tie this rope around your waist, then cut your restraints,” he shouts. “You need to wrap your arms and legs tightly around Elar until I’m done. Don’t let go for anything, not even if the biggest wave hits us. Otherwise, you’ll be lost to t
he ocean.”

  Fat lot of good Elar did to protect you against my so-called magic, I mutter silently as the boy gets to work. “Your commander is an idiot!” I shout over the roar of the sea.

  “I know,” he snaps back. “Stop talking. You’re wasting time and energy.”

  The youth lashes rope around my waist and secures it tightly. Then he gets to work sawing through the rope around my ankles and wrists and body. Several times, we freeze and hold on for dear life as a powerful wave hits us. I have to give the boy credit. I don’t know how he manages to cling on and wield his knife at the same time, but somehow, he manages, and suddenly, I’m free.

  “Now you need to climb back toward us,” he yells. “Hurry. They’re about to batten down the hatches.”

  My arms and legs are numb and trembling, and I feel as if I could let go at any moment, but somehow, I manage to cling on upside-down and shimmy my way down off the statue of Elar and along the pole.

  Thinking of Kaim and his dogged determination helps.

  Thinking of seeing him again, of being in his arms… it gives me strength.

  As I reach the end of the pole, the rope around my waist is yanked tight and I’m hauled over the edge by rough hands.

  I’m on the deck again, standing on solid timber.

  Thank Celise.

  That’s when my legs give way, and I collapse to my knees. Rough hands pick me up and they run, slipping and sliding, scrambling across the deck to safety.

  We go down through some kind of hatch, and suddenly I’m below decks, being roughly bundled into a coarse blanket. I’m in a crowded cabin amongst many men, who carry, drag, and toss me around. The hatch above slams shut.

  The cursed rain finally stops hitting my face.

  I’m pushed into a corner and forced to sit down on the hard wooden floor. It smells dank and stuffy in here, and the only source of light is a flickering lantern hanging precariously from a low ceiling beam. It looks like some kind of cargo hold. There are barrels and crates and hessian sacks neatly stacked against the walls. Heavy iron bolts and chains secure the cargo, preventing it from sliding around.