by Elle Cross
Probably not the best time to remind her of that. But in my defense, I barely slept, despite the upgrade to my surroundings. And a thousand years in an oubliette made me forget myself as much as others have been made to forget me.
She ignores me and goes to the black unicorn, calling it to her. He goes without protest. When she produces a treat, he doesn’t hesitate to eat from her palm.
"There now,” Acanthe croons, “remember who it is that feeds you. And who destroys you."
A scream rips from my throat, but it is too late.
With a swift movement, Acanthe's obsidian blade cuts through the stallion's substantial neck muscles, slicing its jugular. Blood runs hot and thick, splashing all over her. The pristine white silk of her gown turns to red velvet as it is drenched in blood.
I can almost feel the heat of the spray, feel its heart beating as the stallion bleeds out.
The shock of the sudden violence wears off and I remember how to breathe. “What have you done?” I can’t keep the horror from my voice. Killing a black unicorn is inconceivable. It’s like killing your good luck charm.
The last of its kind. Gone.
It was virtually guaranteed immortality under King Bramb's aegis. But now...
"What have I done?" she asks. "I set him free!"
At her words, the majestic beast succumbs to its fate and crumples to the ground. Acanthe grabs hold of the horn and wrenches it from the unicorn's brow. The gathering storm unleashes its bridled fury and erupts lightning throughout the sky. She brandishes the horn, nearly as long as her forearm, spire pointed toward the raging heavens. Blood still flows down it in rivulets.
Lightning leaps down and connects with the spire. Power, pure and strong, thrums in a primal beat as it crackles through the conduit and into Acanthe.
I cradle the stallion's head in my lap, hand on its mangled flesh. The once proud and beautiful last king of its kind, dead.
In a way, she’s right. Death is a terrible and glorious kind of freedom.
In the aftermath of the storm, once the thunder and lightning have passed, a hush steals through the court. One by one, each being present kneels, head bowed. Acanthe roves her mad gaze over everyone assembled. Then she stops in front of me.
"Will you free me next, Queen Acanthe?"
The point of the horn lands under my chin, and its razor edge breaks my skin. The sizzle of dueling magicks and power create a buzz of electricity that hums in my head.
"You haven't even begun to break for me, Lord Raze." Though Acanthe whispers sweetly, her voice seems to resonate. "But when you do break, I will make sure to save you for last."
Chapter Six
Sitara
The summons arrives a few days later. Avan and his entourage have already decamped, leaving me anxious and waiting. Azibat assured me again and again that the funeral invitation was forthcoming, but I was unable to relax. Now that a messenger has placed the scroll in my hand, I feel as if I can finally take a deep breath. I break the seal, marked with the signet ring of the Court of Thorns, and unroll the parchment; it’s simple and to the point.
Queen Sitara, Royal Highness, Court of Stars
Your presence is requested at the funeral of King Bramb and coronation of Queen Acanthe, both of the Court of Thorns, to be held in five nights’ time. Should you grace us with your presence, please note that you and your travel companions will be provided with a suite of rooms within the palace.
We hope you will join us in both mourning and celebration.
Queen Acanthe, House of Thorns
I summon Azibat immediately, certain she’s lingering just outside my door. As expected, she appears within seconds.
“It’s arrived,” I say.
She nods. “When do you plan to depart?”
“Dusk. The ceremonies are in five nights and I want to have adequate travel time, given the distance. Notify the stables and send housemaids to inform my party of the news. Then meet me in my salon to review your duties in my absence.”
As soon as she’s gone, I send a page to summon Galog. I’m in no mood to deal with him, but perhaps he’ll be pleased to have been chosen for this voyage.
He glides into the throne room moments later, moving with a grace that’s surprising in one so large and ugly. Something about him—his coloring, his raspy voice, or even the Gs in his name, perhaps—reminds me of phlegm. “You sent for me?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve received the invitation to King Bramb’s funeral and the coronation of Queen Acanthe. We depart tonight. I’d like you to accompany me.”
He frowns. “Me?”
“Yes, Galog, you. I’m taking a small coterie of attendants and guards and I want you to be a part of it.”
“My queen.” He manages to say it without gritting his teeth. “Wouldn’t it be best for me to stay here? To oversee things in your stead?”
“No. Things here will be fine.”
“But, your majesty.” He swallows hard, as though the honorific chokes him. “ I’m the most qualified to manage things in your absence. Truly, I should remain.”
I shake my head. “Galog, I’m heading into a viper’s den and I need you with me.” After all, it takes a viper to know a viper.
His eyes widen at that. “Do you expect trouble?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what to expect. There hasn’t been a royal funeral in—what, three thousand years?—and I obviously wasn’t around for that. But you know the rumors about the Court of Thorns. Probably better than I do, in fact. If our intel is to be believed, it’s a court of misery, and now it’s in turmoil. Knowledge is a weapon, Galog. One you wield. I need you in this.”
He inclines his head, acknowledging the truth of my words.
“What of Azibat?”
Ah, predictable Galog. He may be clever, but he’s never surprising. “Azibat will remain here. As I said, I do not anticipate anything unusual happening in my absence. Azibat can oversee the mundane perfectly well. You’ve been at court longer and know more about not only the Court of Thorns and its associated House, but Inara’s history and royal protocol in general. Your skills will prove useful, I’m sure.”
His mottled forehead is still furrowed, as though he suspects I’m up to something, but he nods. “As you wish, my queen. I shall go and prepare. I will need books and weapons.”
“Very well. Gather whatever you think you need. And bring courtiers of your own. There will be space in my carriage for all our trunks.” I’m no more fond of his aides—spies, really—than I am of him. But keep your enemies close and all that. Better to have them with me than to leave them here with Azibat, potentially plotting to overthrow her or worse.
“As you wish,” he mutters.
“Good. Return here at dusk.”
I return to my own chamber to finish my preparations. I don a lightweight gown in the palest blush, topped with a dusky blue traveling cloak. I strap one deadly stiletto to my thigh, the other to my forearm, and don both my rings, though I leave the necklace and star stone in their cases. I wind my hair up in a pair of elaborate braids secured by a gold coronet, lace on sturdy boots, and give Azibat her last instructions. When all that is done, I have the pages load my trunk in the royal carriage.
By the time night falls, a small group has gathered in my throne room. There’s Lyser and his four most trusted guards. Galog, of course, as well as his personal scribe, Norin. Ozeer, Janal, and Typhin, Galog’s aides. The court historian, a handful of minor courtiers, and five of my personal attendants, as well as two footmen and a carriage driver. I lead them outside the palace and to the stables, where our mounts await. Twin stags, enormous animals with shining golden racks, are harnessed to my carriage.
Their names are Farren and Fain, and according to legend, they were plucked from the constellations by the very first King of Stars. They require neither food nor rest, and serve me of their own volition. They always seem to know when they are needed and my stablehands find them waiting in their stalls. The rest of t
he time the stags are free to roam and do whatever it is such mythical creatures choose to do.
The rest of my party will ride aback a flock of stellarae, huge, pale pink birds with iridescent tail feathers that fan out behind them. All the mounts are outfitted in the livery of the court, including black velvet saddle blankets embroidered with metallic indigo thread and silver reins.
I settle myself in my carriage, Lyser on the seat across from me, and we set out.
“I am uneasy about this,” he says in a low voice. Concern is etched across his features, marring his smooth brow and darkening the amethyst of his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
His fingers toy idly with the grip of his sword; although he is dressed in travel clothes, he rarely disarms. “You know as well as I do that it’s rare for royalty to die so unexpectedly. And in one of the Dark courts? I suspect palace intrigue had a hand in all this. I fear for your safety.”
I smile at him. “I’ve no doubt the king was murdered. But if this troubles you so, why did you not speak of it sooner?”
“Would it have deterred you?” he asks wryly.
“Fair point. But I’m not so naive as I appear, Lyser. Do you truly believe that I would not have considered these things? That I would not have prepared?”
“How can you prepare when you don’t yet know what happened?”
I shrug. “I can’t, I suppose. Not really. But I’m armed. I have you at my side and at my back. Galog is here, where we can keep an eye on him, and who knows? He may prove useful. We’ve brought trusted guards. And you aren’t the only one draped in weapons.”
His black eyebrows raise. “Is that so? How many do you carry?”
I grin at him and flutter my lashes. “Why don’t you search me and see how many you can find?”
“My queen! While we travel?” He pulls a scandalized face.
“My dear captain of the guard,” I say. “Can you think of any better way to pass the time?”
He slides to his knees in front of me, never breaking eye contact. “Truly, my queen, I cannot.” He glides his hands up my legs, parting my thighs, and proceeds to search me very, very thoroughly.
The journey is both perilous and tedious. The Court of Thorns is on the far side of Inara and to reach it we must pass through the Steppes of Ash and Decay. As its name suggests, it is a region of great unpleasantness that sits smack in the middle of Inara, neatly separating the majority of the Light courts from those of Darkness.
Foremost, there is the eternal blackness. No sun or star can penetrate the air in this expanse, though fog mysteriously blossoms at will, despite the lack of water here. We are equipped with torches and floating faerie lights, but they can only do so much to penetrate a land that does not wish to be seen. Further, much of the landscape comprises shifting dunes of sand—or quicksand—but there are also places of barren rock, narrow passages of boulders through which travelers must cram themselves. There are also lava geysers that spew at random. Inara’s tectonic activity is unusual, and while there are volcanoes on the far southwest side, which is unfortunately where we are headed, earthquakes and lava are unusual elsewhere.
Except for here.
The air is noxious and searing; smoke hangs heavy, obscuring our surroundings even further. Nothing green survives, leaving the land barren and charred. There’s a burned-hair scent to the air, and it singes the lungs with each inhalation. It’s not poisonous, but it is dreadful.
And that is just the landscape.
The inhabitants of this treacherous region are among the most dangerous in Inara. The Steppes are crawling with flamewalkers, barbed-goblins, and their ilk. It’s unlikely they would be so brazen as to raid a royal caravan, but vigilance is required nonetheless. Before we departed, I checked my royal library to see whether the creatures who make their home here had ever been cataloged. The records are incomplete, but there was enough for me to find it disturbing. Indestructible pit vipers, all teeth and digestive tract, nest in the quicksand. Tribes of grotesque fachans roam the land, always hungry and hunting. Ogres make their dens amongst the boulders, snatching unwary travelers, using the dead’s femurs as toothpicks.
And then there are spriggans, wild, shapeshifting things. Occasionally you might encounter a tame one at court, but for the most part they are feral, unpredictable, and very, very clever. Unlike most things here, they do not hunt by instinct alone. They are smart, cunning, and have an agenda foreign and unknowable to all but themselves.
Those, along with the barbed goblins and flame-walkers, are all the things my book mentioned.
At least, all the ones with physical form.
The sense of being watched, of being hunted from the darkness, is hard to shake. Farren and Fain are unperturbed, but the stellarae are anxious, fluttering and singing to one another in order to stay calm. I can’t really blame them. I’ve kept up a steady stream of careless conversation with Lyser, simply to distract myself from the landscape.
Flitter, my gameskeeper, croons to the stellerae and cares for them, brushing their feathers and slipping them fat worms. It lessens their tension enough to keep going. I brought her along for this exact purpose. No one else in the court is better with animals. Flitter always garbs herself in great swaths of fabric overrun with pockets, from which peek all manner of creatures: mouse hobs, wish-granting froglings, grasshopper-sized pixiekits, feather-winged cherub beetles, and more. Flitter’s wings are the largest I’ve seen, sweeping out from her shoulders all the way to the ground, the downy owl feathers in lovely shades of brown and tan. It’s entirely possible that she’s part avian herself, which would explain both her strigiform appearance and her affinity with animals.
Our party trudges along, enervated by the searing heat and toxic air. Even Lyser, solid and uncompromising, sags a little in his seat.
I run a finger over his brow, capturing a bead of sweat. “Warm?” I tease.
He frowns. “This place is loathsome.”
Even as he says it, the stags pull up short, falling still.
I glance out the window, but of course, it’s impossible to see anything. I reach for the carriage door handle, but my guard’s strong hand stops me. I look up, meeting his eyes.
Lyser gives me a look that plainly says stay here, and then slides his long body out of the carriage.
“What is it?” I call to him.
“I don’t know yet,” he answers, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear him.
Despite his silent command, I step out of the carriage and make my way to Flitter, who is doing her best to calm our anxious flock. The stellarae pace and peck, clearly agitated.
“Do you sense anything? Whatever it is that has them so upset?” I ask. It’s so dark here, I can barely see the path in front of us. It’s more than the absence of light. It’s as though blackness has been poured onto this part of the world.
Flitter gestures into the distance, where I can just make out an upright column of flames that whirls like a dust devil. “They don’t like firewalkers, but I don’t think that’s it. Something else is here, something we can’t see. Something they sense.”
I crook a finger at Lyser, drawing him into our conversation. “Do you sense anything?”
He narrows his amethyst eyes. “Yes and no. There’s definitely something here. A...presence. But I can’t pinpoint its location or tell what it is.”
“Is it malevolent?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s not like anything I’ve ever felt before.”
I turn to the owl-girl. “Flitter?”
She pauses, her head cocked to one side. “I don’t think malevolent is the word I would use. It’s focused, intense. It’s not that it wants to cause us harm, exactly. It’s that we’re nothing to it.”
Lyser frowns. “What do you mean?”
Flitter reaches into a pocket and produces one of her endless worms. “How do you feel about this?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how do you fe
el about it? Do you hate it? Love it? Does it disgust you?”
“Flitter,” Lyser growls, barely containing his impatience. “It’s a worm. It’s not exactly on my radar.” He keeps his gaze on the horizon, searching, only half-listening to the conversation.
“Oh,” I say, understanding dawning.
“Exactly.” Flitter nods and tucks the worm away.
Lyser shifts his attention to me. “My queen?”
“Whatever we’re sensing out there, to it, we’re like the worm. The worm is such a lowly life form to you that you hardly acknowledge its existence. You wouldn’t even realize if you stepped on it. That’s how it perceives us.”
Lyser straightens, drawing to his full height. “Well,” he drawls. “That’s not good.”
“It might be,” Flitter interjects. “It might mean that that presence won’t even notice us. Sometimes it’s good to be ignored.”
She’s right, and yet, it’s hard for me to acknowledge the wisdom in that statement. I’ve spent my whole life in the spotlight, working to be noticed. Being ignored is anathema to me.
Galog jumps off of his stellarae and joins us. “Captain?” he asks Lyser.
Lyser spares him the barest glance. “There’s a threat somewhere out here. We all feel it. But we can’t see it.”
Galog’s serpentine tongue flicks out, tasting the burnt air. “An autochthone,” he mutters.
We all freeze. No one, not even the fiercest warriors or the bloodiest courts, messes with the autochthones. Primordial entities, they have roamed the edges of Inara since the beginning of time. They are formless, dangerous, and utterly alien. We may be worms to them, but if this one should decide to pay attention to us, we may well be doomed.
