Fallen Princeborn: Chosen

by Jean Lee

  Your mother your mother your mother

  The words press on Liam’s temples. He itches to reach for his blood dagger, but not yet, not yet. “What makes Keller so unfit to carry on the House, Lady Artair? He’s always displayed the very best of traits from both you and the Lord Artair. Surely such a loyal son deserves recognition.”

  Treasa won’t even look at her other son, whose steps approach Bearnard—only he would dare help the toad to his feet. Her fingers curl as talons, and her ring begins to hum a minor note that sets the joints of Liam’s jaw buzzing. “Obey your mother, Liam, and approach the matrignis.”

  Your mother your mother YOUR MOTHER

  The pressure is a vise upon his mind, and he knows he winces, but Liam refuses to move, to give any satisfaction to these gawkers ready to back the victor. “Answer, the question, Trrrreasa.”

  That does it. “YOUR MOTHER commands—”

  “KNOCK IT OFF!”

  There is a ting, and a snap—the vise’s grip breaks. Treasa holds her hand as if stung.

  A cracking sound comes from Rose House’s front wall, loud and ominous.

  Charlotte hangs out of a second story window. Her hand grips the top of the frame while one foot holds her at the bottom. Her hair blows about like a clan’s banner. The stone rose vines engraved upon Rose House’s front wall crack free, spindling and blooming like any proper roses, but these, they sound like a rockslide as they bow before Charlotte, their blooms opening, wide and flat and—and as stairs.

  Rose House has created a stair of stone roses for her, the warrior queen, her smile infectiously vicious as she takes one step after another towards the gobsmacked Velidevour.

  “Now that,” says the grizzled man, “is one hell of an entrance.”

  Dorjan hands him an apple, his green eye bright with pride. “That’s Charlie.”

  Liam’s inner wings lift his steps as he pushes the stunned princeborns aside to meet her at the last stone-rose stair. He pulls his hand out of his pocket, holds it to her. Their palms kiss.

  Their golden rings sparkle.

  “You!” Darra rises as a wine-colored fire sparks at the hem of her dress. All the embroidered swirls begin to burn, unleashing a thousand threads of fire. “I should’ve clawed your heart out when I had the chance.”

  Liam holds up his arm. Gold feathers flare as a giant shield, turning all threads to ash. “Don’t, Darra. I’d hate to char those legs of yours. They’re your best feature.” He looks over to Keller. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Keller’s not talking. Lily stands a foot away, hand shaking to reach for him, but Keller staggers from her, shoulders low. Liam half-expects to see a wound appear on his brother’s body, but none is visible to the eye.

  Bearnard holds up his ringed hand. “So, these are the games you wish to play, boy, eh?”

  A new murmur runs through the crowd. “Bearnard,” Marciane barks like an old dog, “a ring’s song should never be used against one’s own kin.”

  “Didn’t you hear him?” Bearnard snaps back. “He’s renounced his place in my House.”

  “And now stands with MY House.” Arlen leaps from the window, over all the stone roses, and lands kneeling with a thunderous crack, webbing the ground under him. He holds a a bronze short sword, its engraved thorned roses gleaming in the sunlight. Of course such a man would have his own blood weapon! “Contend with him…” He rises with hardly a grey hair upon him, his beard black as his eyes. “…and you contend with me. Please,” he holds the blade at his brother, and a ribbon of violet fire runs the thorned grooves to kiss the dagger’s tip, “please, go on contending.”

  “Arlen!” Idaeus rises with a laugh on his lips. “I thought you died on the Isles. Where is Cairine?”

  The name has all the effect Liam could possibly hope for.

  Bearnard shoves Keller aside, his eyes wider than lily pads. Treasa commands him through gritted teeth, but he only spits on her gown and cries, “No! First this disgusting excuse of a brother, and now my own son. I will not suffer such defiance! I will show everyone what it means to be a High Lord among princeborns!”

  A laugh.

  It starts low, and nervous, but quickly finds strength in the small, plump, old Brutus Aleron. “I cannot speak for the other princeborns, even my own children, but I doubt I could swear allegiance to a lord who cannot even rule his own House. If my children wish to do so, they are welcome to remain among the Artairs. I, for one, am leaving.”

  Treasa juts her chin out and declares, “Do, and I shall place a price upon your head so high any Velidevour will gladly tear you open for your heart’s fire.”

  Lord Aleron combs back what little hair he has with his fingers and straightens his back. “Presuming you can pay what you promise, they are welcome to try.” He makes a throwing motion with his ringed hand, and a wood-like flame swallows him up before Treasa’s ring can shriek him back.

  Lann strokes his beard again, teeth still bared at Darra. “What did he mean by that?”

  Grey hairs fall across Treasa’s forehead. “Who can say what that buffoon means?”

  Dorjan whistles. Arlen relaxes the dagger across his shoulder. When he catches Liam admiring the blade, he says, “I was a soldier, you know.” He shares a quick wink.

  “Rather rude, calling the bride’s father a buffoon,” the grizzled man says incredulously.

  Dorjan mirrors the look, eerily so. “I know I don’t blame him for leaving. I’ve half a mind to leave myself.”

  “As for you two ingrates…” Bearnard’s ring-song swells suddenly, low and pained, grabbing Dorjan by the rib cage and hurling him to the ground.

  The grizzled man hides his face with his ringed hand. “C’mon, Bearnard, you know I didn’t—”

  Bearnard’s song twists to slap the man to the ground. With a sick laugh Bearnard lifts the man as he did Charlotte in the Pits, a rim of froth about his mouth. “You always were a pathetic little rodent, Fiacra.”

  Fiacra struggles to see Dorjan over Bearnard’s shoulder. “Nice seeing you again,” he stammers.

  Dorjan spits grass onto Fiacra’s apple core. “Piss off.”

  “Suit yourself.” Fiacra’s ring-song runs like a mad dog, taking Fiacra in a wisp of green flame with it.

  “That,” Marciane stands with chin held high, “is no way to treat my grandson.”

  Idaeus approaches Bearnard, his eyes darting between Bearnard’s ring hand and Ember’s tree. “Such savage treatment for so little. Since when has your temper ruled the House of Artair?”

  Dorjan scrambles towards Arlen and the others while Bearnard jiggles himself into a jester’s laugh. “Idaeus, you know Fiacra. He is so very good at trying my nerves, much like his son.” Idaeus glances at Dorjan and the others.

  Lann, however, is not convinced. “That does not explain what you’ve done to your own son. I consider myself a hard man with my own children, but never would I dare call the heavens down upon them. Repulsive practice, not to mention a waste of strong heart’s fire,” he nods at Liam, “and your own waning power.” He leans forward as if to pounce upon Bearnard. “Consider yourself wise to avoid my water roads in Puerto Inca.”

  “But, but Lann, we share a single mind, a single hope for our kind; we always have.”

  “I thought so, too. But then, your tales of conquering Celestine always felt a bit…much.” He snaps his ringed hand, and with a single cry, black fire curls around him and takes him out of sight.

  “Even Fiacra does not insult his guests,” Marciane adds. “You’ll be wise to avoid the water road through Iceland, House of Artair, or find yourselves the next dinner for my wolves.” She grants Arlen a stiff bow of farewell, which he returns.

  “What the hell is goin’ on?” Vincent stumbles in as Marciane’s flames wisk her away. “Where’s everybody goin’?”

  “Shut UP, Vincent, and crawl back into your bottle!” Darra throws her shoe so hard it cuts through Vincent’s sleeve and grazes his arm.

  He crie
s out with twisted face, “I told you to marry better, you stupid cow! You there, get me another fucking bottle.”

  THUNK—an empty carafe strikes Vincent and sends him dazed and down. Judoc quickly wipes his hands and accepts a tossed apple from Dorjan. “What? I distinctly heard Master Vincent request a bottle.”

  Idaeus stares at the tangled mess of Vincent on the grass before him. He stretches his back, groans. “Well, I can’t say this trip hasn’t been without its points of interest.”

  “Idaeus, Idaeus, dear friend,” Treasa coos as Bearnard stands still, shaking with a volcano’s heat. “I am sure whatever interests you can be a gift from our House to yours.”

  Idaeus’ mouth curls. He nods back at Ember upon her perch. “The little spark up there—fine feathers and mind both. How much? A good price may find my favor—”

  This is the wrong thing to even begin to say.

  Devyn vaults across the air as an arrow straight to its target of a princeborn’s neck. He gashes Idaeus’ head open as they somersault round one another in a flaming haze of smoke and feathers, spinning out as two owls, one gray as a thunderstorm while the other burns white as ash bark. Ember chirps madly to intervene as the flames sizzle around Devyn’s talons, but he does not relinquish his grip upon Idaeus’ head, only snaps for the eyes, the wings, again and again. Judoc grabs for Devyn and yanks him free before any more feathers can burn away. When both owls transform back to their bloodied, burned selves, Ember changes too, and clings to Devyn.

  “You wish to know my price, princeborn?” Ember says, her body shaking. “Your eyes. Your tongue. And every spark of your heart’s fire.”

  Devyn’s legs are still smoking, but nothing can block the ferocity of his gaze.

  Judoc gives the princeborn a knowing look. “Trust me. She’ll take them.”

  Arlen, Liam, Dorjan, and Charlotte run to keep the scouts from the Artairs’ sight. Treasa raises her ringed hand, Mawdre curses now gnarled in her mouth, but Idaeus stands up before her, blocking her aim.

  “I see I was wrong to presume the Artairs had any control here whatsoever,” he says as he brushes blood and grass off with wounded dignity. “Fine. Any Artair or Aleron dares trespass my vineyards, and I will send every commoner under the House of Eurus to hunt them down and drown their hearts’ fires.” He kicks Vincent for good measure before flaming off.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Charlotte says with a wave.

  “No no NO!” Bearnard stomps about, trampling Darra’s train on several occasions. “No, No! How could this be happening? How could we have come this far and yet fall so short?!”

  Treasa stands very, very still, arms crossed, pinching her nose bridge. “None of this would have happened,” she says far too quietly and calmly for anyone’s comfort, “had you been able to subdue your loins for a cursed woman.”

  Bearnard throws his ring-song wildly at his brother. “This is all your fault, YOURS!”

  Arlen spins round, sets his jaw, eyes fixed on air, and then, with a sudden twist of the blade his blood dagger cuts the ring-song. Charlotte sees the spark of broken magic, crimson as blood. The song cries out, dies.

  Charlotte and Dorjan stand gobsmacked. Liam helps hoist Devyn’s arm over Judoc’s shoulders while Ember calls to Lily to help.

  “I didn’t even know the daggers could do that,” Liam says.

  “And why should you? Aether forbid you learn to properly defend yourself against parental ring-bearers.” He points with his dagger from Lily to Devyn and mouths the silent command HELP THEM before saying, “Now out of courtesy, Treasa, I’m giving you a chance to leave with your kith and kin alive and uninjured. Bearnard’s too weak to fight, Vincent too drunk, Darra too unstable. You know this as well as I.”

  But he does not mention Keller. Liam spies Lily’s searching looks round the clearing as Ember leads her and the others to the Southern Road and safety past the Wall, and realizes just how silent Keller’s been.

  How absent.

  51

  Bleeding Ground

  “Too weak, am I?” Big Bad Bernie’s belly jiggles with his psychotic ho-ho-hos. “No no, brother dear. Far from it.” He punches the air with his ring, forcing its cry hard and fast.

  Liam unsheathes his blood dagger and drops to the ground, driving the dagger into the soil and sending a ribbon of fire towards his father’s feet.

  Treasa lifts her face to the skies and surrounds herself with her feathers, orange and wild, her flaming wings full of blistering heat to blow everyone back.

  Yet Arlen braces his blade with violet fire and blocks the ring-song. Liam whips his own wing of fire at Treasa while Arlen spins his blade point down and strikes the ground, summoning a torrent of thorned roses—not green and red, but living iron. They wrap around Treasa’s eagle form before she can fly far from the ground. Her scream sets Charlotte’s mind shaking, but Dorjan’s got the sense to push her toward the stone roses. “Go now, and remember the plan!”

  Charlotte launches herself up the steps, Dorjan at her heels, the stones crumbling apart before Darra can follow.

  Vincent drags himself into a run and bursts through a cloud of dust and feathers as a hawk, wings shaky but talons black-tipped and huge. He swoops round ready to tear apart Charlotte’s face, and there’s no place for Charlotte to go but several feet down to where Darra’s transforming—

  Dorjan falls on all fours, growls himself into black fire, and leaps off the steps at Vincent, teeth clamping down on one of his wings. But Charlotte can’t watch, she’s gotta keep running because Darra’s swooping in, talon catching Charlotte’s hair, and she’s arcing back, dammit, and Charlotte’s gotta run and tuck and roll through the window screaming to Rose House, “CLOSE IT!” Stones slam the space shut behind her. Charlotte rolls up, panting, turns to run for the balcony to the back patio and the lake beyond—

  Keller, all frumped up, pale, and blood shot, stands in the foyer between her and the stairs. All he needs is a little make-up and a rain cloud hanging over his head to be the ultimate Sad Clown. “I knew you’d come here.”

  “Smart guy.” Charlotte snaps her fingers.

  The floor opens beneath her, and she falls down a slide to exit out a kitchen window and onto the patio.

  Darra’s servants are there.

  Eviscerated.

  Their bodies are strung between the iron chairs, slit open and hollow, faces still so fucking stupidly happy, eyes drying out in their sockets, and intestines lumped together on the ground while shriveled liver, kidneys, lungs, brain lay scattered on the table. Charlotte stumbles back, slips on, oh shit, fucking something of theirs, and she can’t breathe until she dumps her guts, but she’s got to run, got to run because Darra’s wing peers around the corner, because Bearnard’s roar shakes the trees. Stay safe, Liam, please. She presses her wedding ring to her lips and swallows back the vomit, but those shriveled eyes still find her in her brain, and she’s got to keep running—

  Around the house, Bearnard rears back, raging. “You think mere weapons of the earth can compete with rings from the heavens?” His mountainous crimson bear envelopes him.

  Liam sheathes his dagger and runs into the air, feathers forming as his body kisses sky, his eagle of fire ready with its talons for the crimson bear’s back. He strikes before the bear can dodge, forcing a mountain to fall onto its side.

  Dorjan throws Vincent at Rose House’s front wall, and the bird falls in a pathetic heap among the scraps of rose bushes. Dorjan transforms, spitting feathers from his mouth. “You should keep better friends,” he says, “especially better than my father.”

  Arlen pulls his blood dagger from the ground when the iron vines begin to melt around Treasa’s wings, her screeches loud enough to shake the darkest depths. Arlen grips his blade with his hand. And pulls.

  His blood sword burns a royal violet in its engraved petals. He holds it before his face, ready for Treasa to shake the last of the melted iron thorns off her wings.

  The patio slips out fr
om Charlotte’s feet—no, a force, something thrusts her into the woods before Darra can grab her. The hawk screeches madly, circling above the treeline. Charlotte flails, trapped but not pierced by thorns—

  Keller.

  He crouches as he holds Charlotte in the underbrush, his hand over her mouth. Only when Darra flies over the patio and back around the house does he loosen his hold and ask, “Are you all right?”

  Charlotte bolts.

  But Keller’s too damn fast, and he’s on her, pinning her with one knee on her chest, the other on one arm, one hand on her mouth, the other holding her free hand. “Just, stop, please, just one second, okay? One fucking second. I’m not gonna hurt you!” Hs whisper’s raw, desperate. He holds her wedding ring up to the light, and his face twists. “Why? Why this?” He thrusts Charlotte’s own hand at her. “I didn’t wanna scare you, I just… you got me so excited to meet someone like you, I wanted you to know it was going to be amazing, the two of us laughing and making music and living. I’d never, not fucking ever, have let Bearnard and Treasa hurt you. I’d have killed them first.” The words are spilling out of him so fast they come with tears and spit upon Charlotte’s chest. “But he let them hurt you, again and again. He was ready to bond himself to someone else like that’s some sort of sacrifice.” Keller shakes his head like he can’t stop. “You can’t really want someone weak like that. No. No no no. We connect too much. I know you felt it in the library, in your room. We are a real we.”

  Lightning cracks through the air from a cloudless sky and strikes in the clearing. Charlotte screams into Keller’s hand, twists, swinging her arm as hard as she can, but he holds it fast. “Let them destroy each other,” he says with eager smile. “He took your mark off just in time for me to take you away. Anywhere you want to go. Name a place and I’ll make it ours.”

  A laugh, wickedly musical. “I should have known this slut’s got both of you wrapped around her pathetic mortal finger.”