Son of Saints: A Dark YA Fantasy Adventure: Renegade Guardians: Book Two

by Kyra Quinn

  “I represent myself.”

  “Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed our chat—”

  “Wait.” Viktor leaned forward and laid a hand on her bony arm. “I haven’t come to disturb your evening or trade quips, though the latter is great fun. I need your help.”

  Iris’s fiery eyes narrowed. She jerked her arm away. “With what? What mischief are you wolves stirring up now?”

  Viktor filled her in on his visit to the castle and the queen’s sadistic game. Iris emptied her drink by the time he finished, her knuckles white around the stem of the glass.

  “The queen must want you dead,” she mumbled when he finished. She drummed her pointed against the table. “Those three are the physical embodiment of family dysfunction. Even someone on the inside could never convince them to agree on anything more complex than meal plans.”

  “What can you tell me about them?”

  Iris rubbed her forehead. “Nothing that might help you in your endeavors. Dyius admires love and passion. His wife respects structure and discipline. Ambrose is an interesting blend between the two, though beauty tempts his eye more than his father’s. He has both everything and nothing in common with his parents.”

  Viktor circled the rim of his glass with his finger as he digested the new information. “Am I correct in assuming pleas of morality or honor are wasted on them?”

  “Aye. King Dyius sits on the throne and waves at the people, but the whispers around town suggest Queen Moara has been ruling in his name for years. She’s a miserable twat, but she has the power you need to escape with your lives.”

  “Great. No problem. How?”

  She touched a finger to her lip, then leaned in closer and dropped her voice. “The queen needs to believe you and your companion are righteous and just. She won’t give her support until she’s confident you won’t disappoint her. She may have married the god of love, but Queen Moara values propriety.”

  Viktor winced. “Not much to go on, eh?”

  “Prove to the queen you will use her aide to uphold order and see justice carried out.”

  “In three days? How?”

  “Men have completed more impossible tasks. Well, maybe not.” She finished the last of her drink, her eyes never leaving his face. “It’s that or convince King Dyius to give you his heart.”

  Viktor winced. “The queen it is. I appreciate your help, Lady Iris, and you may consider me in your debt. If you’ll pardon me, I must prove myself a warrior to a demigod.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Family Matters

  The union between Cimera and Rhayer birthed the sun itself; the warmth and light of their love nourished life in Astryae.

  -The Sacred Texts, 2:13

  Viktor stumbled into the room a few ticks after midnight. He pushed the door open to find Ambrose seated on the foot of Jett’s bed. Jett leaned against the wall across the room with his arms folded over his chest. A thick candle burned on the nightstand, casting dancing shadows onto the spartan wallpaper. The High Prince welcomed him with a warm smile, but the somber expression on Jett’s face slowed Viktor’s steps.

  “Everything all right, gents?” Viktor asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. Alcohol still warmed his cheeks and buzzed through his veins. He blinked and tried to straighten his posture, but his thoughts remained fuzzy.

  “We discussed sending a search party out to find you,” Ambrose teased. “I take it you had a good time?”

  Viktor snorted. “Not sure what gave you that impression, Highness. Am I correct in assuming this isn’t a social visit?”

  The prince rubbed the back of his neck, but Jett answered.

  “Not this time. Ambrose is here to discuss our strategy for the dukaz. It turns out he doesn’t have much hope for our success, either.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Ambrose held up a ringed finger. “I only mentioned the fact that no one else has walked away from a dukaz alive.”

  “They don’t want us to,” Viktor said, his voice low. “My new comrade from Clan Sova believes the ‘tradition’ is a more entertaining way for the king to assassinate us.”

  “They love their entertainment,” Ambrose muttered.

  But Jett’s eyes rounded. “Clan Sova? They have an ambassador here in Wyvenmere?”

  “Unofficially. She plans to return to Starbright after some event in the city tomorrow evening.”

  Jett’s eyes flew to Ambrose, who shrugged in response. “There’s a small celebration feast for a nobleman’s daughter, but I can’t imagine why it’d catch the attention of someone from Clan Sova.”

  “Unless she is here on personal business instead of political.”

  Only then did Viktor notice the king’s pet guard lurking in the shadows behind Jett and Ambrose. Her armor blended in with the night. She stepped forward to stand next to Ambrose, and Viktor’s chest tightened.

  “Why is she here? She’ll report everything we say back to the king.”

  Zorya’s eyes flashed, but Ambrose shook his head. “Zorya’s relationship with my father is complicated—”

  The soldier stepped closer until she stood so close the warmth of her breath tickled Viktor’s skin. She locked her eyes on his, her voice low. “For weeks, images of carnage and destruction has haunted my dreams. Until your arrival, I dismissed the nightmares as part of the unfortunate aftermath of the work I do. But they’ve gotten stronger. Clearer. Someone is trying to reach through the veil to warn us.”

  Viktor’s breath caught in his chest. “What do you know about the veil?”

  A sly smirk lit Zorya’s lips. Ambrose burst into laughter. Viktor shot a bemused glance at Jett, but the older wolf appeared as lost as he was.

  “Zorya is more than a soldier or well-dressed guard,” Ambrose said after his fit of laughter subsided. “She has unique talents—”

  She didn’t give him a chance to finish. Zorya held up a hand and shook her head. “My personal information is none of their concern. I have more experience with the veils than any other creature alive, and that’s all you need to know.”

  But her explanation left Viktor with more questions than answers. Had the demigods employed a demon to lead their military? He didn’t detect any sulfur, but her blood didn’t carry the same pungent divinity as Ambrose’s, either. He covered his face with his hand and tried to sniff her out. His nose wrinkled when her scent hit his nostrils.

  Wrong. The word repeated over in his head with each whiff he caught of Zorya. A dull ache settled behind his eyes. Her scent was like a song played out of key, the notes mixed until the melody was no longer recognizable. She smelled of blessings and curses, of the ashes of death and the promise of life all wrapped around a heart that beat like the drums of war.

  His throat burned to press harder, to figure out who and what the armed woman was. But the deep frown tugging at her lips and flames in her multicolored eyes warned him not to press his luck.

  “Lady Iris didn’t strike me as the type to care about passive girls or elaborate parties,” he said instead. “Whyever she’s come, it must have something to do with Clan Sova. She hates this pretentious place as much as I do—no offense, Ambrose.”

  The High Prince chuckled. “None taken. Wyvenmere has its faults like any other place. Still better than Faomere or Killara.”

  Viktor snorted, a smile tugging at his lips despite his discomfort with Zorya’s presence. “Anywhere is better than Faomere or Killara. Not much competition there.”

  “Bird Lady’s interest in local affairs is puzzling,” Ambrose said, steering their attention back to the discussion at hand. “Do you think she plans to hurt the girl?”

  “What? No. She didn’t mention a girl when we spoke.”

  “Unless the girl isn’t her target,” Zorya mused. “Though I can’t imagine who in Wyvenmere has vexed the Avians.”

  “They’re a temperamental bunch,” Ambrose added. “Doesn’t take much to vex them.”

  Viktor bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t have e
nough experience with Avian shapeshifters to comment on the prince’s assessment of their temperament, but the comment stung as though directed at him. Why did the High Prince seem so willing to help them when he resented shapeshifters so much?

  “From what I could tell, Lady Iris doesn’t intend to hurt anyone. Maybe her clan charged her with protecting the girl.”

  “But why?” Jett asked, his features tense. “The clans rule over Starbright, but they’ve never shown much interest in the rest of Astryae.”

  “Clan Kinzhal dissolved a long time ago,” Zorya said, her voice soft. “Priorities have changed.”

  “Do the king and queen plan to attend this gathering?” Viktor asked.

  Zorya nodded. “The girl’s father is one of King Dyius’s highest ranking nobles. Social etiquette demands he attend, even if he disapproves of the entire tradition.”

  “Can’t he change it? He’s the king.”

  Ambrose shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The nobles respect tradition and rituals, honoring the old ways. The Stalasc is one of the most sacred traditions in Wyvenmere.”

  “Sorry, the who?” Jett asked. He’d reached for his dagger at some point in the conversation. He leaned against the hostel and used the tip of the blade to pick the dirt from his nails, his face slack with boredom.

  “The Stalasc dates back to the dark ages, when many children never lived long enough to reach adulthood. The Stalasc is a celebration of a child reaching the age of maturity and being introduced to society.”

  “Introduced?”

  “For gentlemen, it is their chance to establish their name and join the ranks of society,” Ambrose said with a roll of his eyes, as if their simple questions betrayed their ignorance. “For the young ladies, it’s an opportunity to meet suitors and strike a favorable match.”

  “The success of the ceremony is measured by different metrics for each gender,” Zorya added. “They offer young men opportunities for apprenticeship or higher education. Young ladies are given offers of courtship.”

  “And the ambisex?” Viktor asked, not sure he wanted to know.

  Zorya only shook her head. “If the Avian has plans to hurt the king, it will fall on me to take her out.”

  “She won’t,” Viktor said, his voice more confident than he felt. “Jett and I will attend and make sure of it.”

  “I suggest you do.” Zorya’s eyes narrowed. “I’d hate to spill blood on some nobleman’s expensive rugs.”

  * * *

  “This is not the party I imagined.” Jett scowled and tucked his small wooden pipe into the pocket of his slate grey suit jacket. “What sort of child enjoys this as a birthday celebration?”

  Viktor pursed his lips. He had expected the girl’s parents to hold some ball or dinner, something to impress the other nobles and royal guests. He had never met a wealthy family who didn’t love an opportunity to flaunt their success while boosting their social calendar. From the moment they crossed the snowy grounds to the front door of the towering limestone manor, Viktor planned on an evening of drinks and dance.

  Instead, the family’s doorman led them into some sort of indoor arena built onto the backside of the manor. The hair on the back of Viktor’s neck stood at attention. Pillar candles supported by silver candelabra affixed to the walls lit the windowless room. The left wall held three canvases with targets painted on the center. A weapons rack sat near the back of the room, a raised circular arena in the center.

  Only then did Viktor notice the lack of gowns and bonnets in the room. Not a single woman stood in their ranks. The man had taken them to a room filled with other men of varying ages. Some lounged about with their heads buried in conversation while others toyed with weapons and exercised.

  “What the bloody—”

  “They think we’re here for the competition,” Jett said, his voice flat. “This bloodline must value strength.”

  Viktor had no concerns about his ability to best any of the cocky suitors in battle—he’d taken on a demon marquis and lived to tell the tale—but the royals would not look favorably upon them stirring up trouble with the locals. He turned to leave, to find Ambrose or Lady Iris, but the two burly guards in front of the door shook their heads. Their hands twitched for their weapons.

  “All participants must remain in the arena until the battle’s completion,” the stockier of the two men said. A thick mustache covered his upper lip. He stood several inches below Viktor’s eye level, but he glared at him with the confidence of a man twice his size.

  “This is a misunderstanding. My companion and I are not here to take part in whatever this is,” Viktor said with what he hoped was a winning smile. “We’ll take our leave.”

  “No one leaves the arena until the battle is over,” the guard repeated. “Mistake or not, fate has entered you into our challenge. May the gods smile upon you.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Jett grumbled. He and Viktor stalked away from the door and out of the guards’ earshot, his muscles tight with tension. They found a secluded spot near the back of the room, a weapons rack behind them littered with enough lethal force to rival Daeva’s personal collection. Jett’s nostrils flared as he whirled on him with flames in his eyes.

  “We came to secure help. Not get ourselves locked into a battle to the death over a child bride. This is savagery.”

  Viktor agreed. “But our success with the dukaz depends on winning the queen’s favor. Dyius favors love, which neither of us stand much hope of finding in three days’ time. If Moara favors justice and order she won’t take well to us insulting their culture’s traditions. As much as I’d like to force our way past the meager security detail, our hands are tied.”

  Jett snarled. “It’s no wonder the king disapproves of the ceremony. This is barbaric. The poor girl’s father will marry her off to the biggest brute.”

  Viktor didn’t know how to respond. Marital ceremonies were rare in Mulgrave after the war reduced half the port town to rubble. He’d once thought the absence of formal ceremonies indicated an extreme lack of love in the town. The truth, he’d learned from his travels, was more complicated.

  For a split second, his chest ached for the unknown girl soon to find herself wed to a stranger who won her hand through conquest. People in Mulgrave didn’t marry much, but the lack of commitment left them free to love as many people and as many times as their hearts desired. The nobleman’s daughter would never know such passion or freedom. The moment her vows left her lips she’d find herself bound to a stranger for the duration of her mortal life.

  Viktor rubbed the back of his neck and eyed their opponents. “I won’t enjoy this any more than you, but we’ll do what we must.”

  “They aren’t all passives,” Jett muttered, surveying the crowd of men. “I smell at least a few Fey in the midst.”

  Viktor tried not to allow himself room to fret over their presence. Fey took more effort to kill, but he could manage it if the situation demanded. He refused to leave Wyvenmere empty-handed.

  “The only way out is through,” Viktor muttered. His eyes glazed over the weapon rack, none of the blades and bows as impressive as his own collection. “Maybe if we cut enough of them down, we can save the young lady from her unfortunate fate.”

  Jett shook his head. “No matter what we do here, Queen Moara won’t approve. If we win, we disrupt one of Wyvenmere’s oldest traditions unless we marry the girl and provide for her. If we fail, we lose her respect and any hope of her entrusting us with her men.”

  “Perhaps she’ll show mercy,” Viktor murmured, still studying the other competitors. None of the men struck him as much of a catch. Some were old enough to have fathered the girl. Others had stomachs the size of the moon. He couldn’t imagine allowing any of the savages in the small arena to marry his sister or nonexistent daughter. “Or King Dyius. We’re here to fight for this stranger’s right to marry for love.”

  “A noble cause in Carramar or Mulgrave, but a problematic one here in Wyvenmere. The people
stopped marrying for love after a while. Emotions cloud sound judgment too much. I doubt the girl is concerned about marrying a stranger.”

  An older man in a sleek charcoal suit stepped into the room, everything about his posture radiating power and control. His left hand clutched a wooden cane as his right adjusted a monocle over his right eye. A long grey mustache covered his face. He moved his right hand to rest on his plump midsection and cleared his throat until the room fell silent around him.

  “Gentlemen, I welcome you to my daughter’s Stalasc.” His dark eyes scanned the room as an eerie grin pulled at his chalky lips. “May the best man win her heart.”

  A chorus of cheers erupted from the room as if the man had announced free drinks or some victory. Viktor’s hands balled at his sides. The man waved his free hand in a circle over his head and strolled out of the room with a dark chuckle.

  “It’s time,” Jett said, his voice somber. “Show no mercy, and don’t lose.”

  Viktor ran a hand through his hair, his stomach heavy. “If this goes south—”

  “It won’t. If it helps, pretend you’re fighting for the love of your life.”

  Bitterness flooded Viktor’s dry mouth. Despite Felicity and, more recently, Lilianna in his life, he understood as little about abstract concepts like love as he did religious studies or domestic arts.

  “No pressure,” he grumbled under his breath. He flexed his fingers as he sized up the rest of the men. Most stood shorter than he and Jett, their bodies toned and ready. Viktor’s stomach churned. Most of the other men in the arena trained for ceremonies like this one. How many would walk away alive?

  He opened his mouth to ask if a fight to the death was their best option when a bell rang through the arena. The men all stood at attention, their heads high and chests puffed. Viktor’s blood turned to ice. Ready or not, the ceremony was about to begin.

  * * *

  “Welcome to Miss Sonya Corbyn’s Stalasc,” Ambrose boomed from the arena’s center. His eyes flickered between the wolves and the rest of the crowd. He forced a smile as he spoke, but Viktor could smell the anxiety in his sweat. He hadn’t noticed the prince enter the room, but Ambrose obviously wished he were anywhere else in Astryae. “We have over thirty impressive men vying for Miss Corbyn’s hand, but only one will leave here with an agreement intact.”