by Layla Harper
“The raven master has arrived.”
“Have him wait in my quarters.” Frinhol looks over to me. “Unless you would prefer to meet with him first?”
“No, we proceed as planned.” The sooner I obtain the portal charms, the sooner I can lead my army to victory and reclaim my mate.
“Feed him, Rursk, but hide the brew or we will be listening to him lecture about the mating rituals of ravens for days on end.”
“Understood.” Without another word, the fire demon takes to the sky. We watch his powerful form soar, sunlight reflecting off the silver gauntlets at his wrists.
“Muspelheim’s citizens can be swayed from Azgagh with the right bait,” Frinhol tells me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. There is no law against offering sanctuary, but between the assimilation of the Lithyrians, the goblins, and now the demons, my queen and I will have our hands full calming Drengskador’s angry citizens when we return.
Together.
The goblin’s gaze narrows on the street, but I sense his assessment of my mood. “There is already dissention among the mercenaries. The fire realm idolizes strength, but above all, they desire freedom, not coin. They will follow a strong leader and will remain loyal if he or she proves their worth.” Frinhol scratches the hair on his chin. “I would trust Rursk and the others with my life.”
It is something to consider, but I do not have the means to convince an army of demons to change loyalties, unless… “Have you someone in mind to infiltrate Aelinor’s compound?”
“Perhaps.” The goblin comes to a stop and gestures to a newly erected tent where a stall once stood. “I thought to—”
“Enter,” a female says from the other side.
“We will talk later.” Frinhol drops the vindril and grinds his heel over the smoking roll. “Odra is Rursk’s wife.”
I arch a brow. A witch mated to a fire demon?
Interesting.
The tent’s interior is deceivingly large in comparison to the exterior view. A hanging light illuminates the interior. Like Frinhol’s quarters, soft carpeting in a bright green and blue pattern covers the floor. Cream-colored fabric serves as a wall divider, splitting the cavernous space into several smaller rooms. Comfortable seating is laid out in the center of the room closest to the entrance.
The woman, Odra, who is not only a witch but goblin and half-elf too, rises from the couch, a small child in her arms. “Welcome.” She motions to the chairs opposite her. “Can I offer you refreshments?”
“No.” I wave off the offer and take a seat. “But your hospitality is acknowledged.”
“Odra, this is Rogar, king of Drengskador.”
The female tips her head in my direction. She has the green skin and prominent ears of a goblin, but her features are elf. Long blond hair frames a face with wide cheekbones, a pointy nose, and eyes the sharp green of the spring court. Because of her elf ancestry, she is taller than the average female goblin, about Frinhol’s height, but nowhere near the stature of an orc or elf female.
“I am afraid I will not be of much help to you. Fire destroyed my stock, and as you can see, there is nothing left.” Odra sets the squirming child on the floor. “I am told you search for a transport charm.”
“Aye. One that can carry a small army.”
“Obtaining a charm capable of transporting one or two beings is difficult but not impossible. I know of a merchant in Tighe, a village on the summer border, three days west of here.” Her husky voice is as steady as her steely gaze. “But to procure a charm powerful enough to transport an army, one I assume you will want to move within days?” Her eyes lift to mine.
I nod.
“This will take time.” The boy grasps his mother’s legs and lifts his little body off the floor. She hands him a toy that he proceeds to bang against her knee while precariously gripping her pant leg with one hand.
“How long?”
She twists her mouth. “Months? I do not know.” Her eyes swing between Frinhol and me. “My contact will try to sell you the communication spells at a higher cost, but I can barter a lower price. But the charm? This is the work of a dark one. It will come with a hefty cost.”
“I will pay. Whatever the cost.” I rub the back of my neck. “How soon can I procure the spells?”
“Four days to a week.”
Cursed fates. This will not do. I must get word to Khao and Princess Daenestra immediately. They will need to immobilize our combined forces and travel through the portal before the turn of the moon. “What of the hag by the river?”
Odra’s mouth opens and a moment passes before words emerge. “The hag? How did you learn of her?”
“I told him,” the goblin admits.
Her skin pales. “Frinhol, what have you done? I will not speak of that creature in my home.” She lifts the child from the floor and squeezes his young body to her chest. “Go now. I have said enough. You must leave.”
“Odra,” Frinhol pleads. “You have nothing to fear from the king.”
“It is not him I fear.”
I rub my sternum. The silence threading through the mate bond is both a blessing and a curse. Kyra is alive, but not sensing my mate on the other end of our link is torture. Is she well? Is she safe? Does she miss me as much as I miss her?
“The situation is dire.” Frinhol pats the dark-haired boy’s head. Nubs where wings will one day grow protrude from his back. “Help us. If not for you and Rursk, then do it for your son.”
She shakes her head. “It is his well-being I guard. Now go, please. Ask no more of me.”
The female’s fear is palpable.
More determined than ever to find this hag, I make my way to the door.
I hold the dagger over my palm.
“Envision the recipient. Imagine him in Drengskador.” Frinhol sits opposite me. The raven master’s snores buffet the space between us. As luck would have it, the stout elf found the brew. By the time we arrived, he was a blubbering mess, ravens loose and croaking at his feet. Now he sleeps the sleep of the dead.
With the exception of the noise.
Who knew one elf could make such a racket?
I close my eyes and picture my third. If Khao is not on the training field with my warriors, then he will be in the stables tending the wargs. The throne room is the last place I would expect to find my friend.
The raven hops on top of the table and turns its black eye to the slice across my flesh.
Frinhol kicks the sleeping elf.
The male grumbles.
“The incantation, you useless oaf.”
The elf’s eyelids flutter. He opens one eye. His lips move. “From wings… to…” He snores.
Loudly.
Frinhol dumps his cup of sweet water on the male’s face. “Wake up.”
The elf grunts, jerking awake. “What? What?” His unsteady gaze takes in our surroundings. He swipes a hand down his face, and then, as if noticing the wetness on his palm, he licks it. And smiles. “Mm. ’Tis good.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Frinhol declares.
“Stand in line,” I retort.
The raven master sits up, disoriented, a nest of blond hair falling over his pale face. Extracting the knotted strands with plump fingers, he asks, “Is it time?”
“Aye, it’s bloody time,” Frinhol yells. Orcs are quick to anger, but goblins? Goblins make an enraged orc look docile. “Speak the incantation before I skin you alive and weave your flesh into socks to warm my feet.”
The elf swallows, his pale skin turning a green several shades lighter than Frinhol’s. “From wings to air,” he slurs, “his words you bear.”
The bird edges closer and then dips its bill into the blood pooling in the center of my palm. These are no ordinary creatures. Magical in nature, the raven will relay my message, and what Khao will hear is an exact rendition of all I have spoken, word for word, including the sound of my voice.
The animal drinks its fill of my blood. Powerful wings flap,
lifting its feathered body into the air. It swoops through the tent’s opening and flies off in search of its target. We repeat the process with the second raven, this one meant for Forvarra and Princess Daenestra. My ally.
Watching me intently, the third raven cocks its head, waiting, its glassy eye tracking the blood drying along the cut.
“Soon.” I open the latch to the large cage and guide the bird inside. “You, my friend, will bear the most important message of all.”
The one intended for Azgagh.
I run a hand through my hair. Nearly half a day gone, and I am no closer to obtaining the magic needed to finalize my strategy.
“You still intend to invoke the accord?” Frinhol asks.
The Accord of Sannhet, an ancient orc negotiation tactic similar to a blood oath, forces two warring parties to adhere to a set of three conditions aimed at ending the strife between them. Once I set my name in blood, I am bound.
My cousin, as the receiver, will have the option to reject my terms. But to do so, she must decide before reading my stipulations. Once the parchment’s seal breaks, we are compelled, death resulting should one of us break the accord.
The only drawback?
Should Aelinor accept, she can modify one of the three conditions. No more.
Therefore, I must carefully word my stipulations and maneuver my cousin into modifying the one provision best suited for my endgame.
“I must.” Stepping over the snoring elf, I set the cage on the floor by the entrance. It is the only way to guarantee Kyra’s safety. But it will not change the outcome of what I must do. Aelinor is too great a danger to Alfhemir. I do not relish the thought of killing kin, but she sealed her fate when she took my mate and secured the first of Myrkur’s bones.
“The female is cunning.” Frinhol taps an unsmoked vindril against the table. “She holds the advantage. It is likely she will reject the accord.”
“Reject it?” I laugh. “She will not. The rite exploits the deep-seated hatred between enemies. Aelinor’s curiosity and arrogance will drive her to use the accord against me. Besides, if she does, I will fight my way in. Army or no army.”
No one will keep me from my mate. Not Aelinor. Not fate. No one.
But my plan hinges on procuring magic. Although I have sanctioned the ravens, their flight to Drengskador and Forvarra will take days. Employing a communication spell will provide instant access to Khao, and the sooner he galvanizes our allies, the sooner he can begin the arduous journey to Argomar should I fail to procure the transportation charm. The sailing across the Sea of Storms alone will take a minimum of two days.
If they survive the crossing.
With the charm in hand, my army could be on the ground tomorrow.
And if all other options fail…
I finger the portal stone lodged in my pocket. It will not come to this, but if it does, my choice is made. Kyra’s life comes before my happiness.
Always.
I stare at the maps of Argomar spread across Frinhol’s writing table, unease spreading through my gut. So much of my plan hinges on factors I cannot control. “This hag”—I eye Frinhol—“what do you know of her?”
He stands from the table and stretches his back. “Only rumors. She trades for supplies. Meat. Herbs. I assumed Odra was one of the merchants doing business with her, but her reaction was unexpected. She is not a female to be ruled by fear.”
No, I do not think so either. My gut tells me the female is bound by an oath to the hag, one that prevents her from speaking of the witch. Either that or Odra witnessed an act violent enough to instill terror.
“You are going to seek her out, are you not?”
“I am. The earlier the better.”
Frinhol laughs. “An orc after my own heart.”
Rursk enters the tent, interrupting our conversation. “The norn is awake.” He gestures in my direction. “She asks for you.”
5
Kyra
The next day, hours pass before anyone takes notice of us. Around lunchtime, or what my internal clock judges to be midday, a male servant enters the hall. When he approaches our cage, the guards move to lower us. The pee pot is exchanged for a smellier one, and the tray of moldy bread and yucky ale he drops unceremoniously on the floor is no better.
No sooner does the guy back away than our hyper attentive guards close the gate and haul us up and up and up. The ugly demon on the right sneers when he catches me staring.
Ugh. This duo is so different from the two we had guarding us last night. Which totally sucks because I swear I had a sliver of a chance at swaying the other pair to the side of good.
But these guys?
They nosedived into whatever Kool-Aid Aelinor’s selling.
Speaking of which, the ice queen hasn’t shown her face. Maybe she choked on a turd of black mist and died in her sleep. A girl can hope.
I drum my fingers on the hard plexiglass-like surface beneath my ass. None of the prisoners in the hanging cell across from us have attempted communication.
I cup my hands around the sides of my mouth and whisper-scream, “Hey, over here.” I wave. “Hello? Anyone up?”
“Quiet,” the stern demon on the left orders.
There’s no movement in the other cage.
Dammit.
After inspecting the bread, I put aside the best pieces for Ilearis. I break off a corner of the remaining slice and try not gag over the taste. We can’t afford to weaken, although I’m beginning to think keeping us sleep deprived and underfed might be part of Aelinor’s master plan. We’d barely slept with the partying lasting until dawn.
Ilearis yawns.
“Good morning.” I hand her the bread. “How are you feeling today?”
“Tired. Do you wish me to heal your injuries?”
“You can do that?”
“Minor injuries, yes.”
“I would so take you up on your offer.” I glance down at the demons. “But if Aelinor notices the swelling gone, she might question how I healed so soon. I am human, after all. Eat.”
The door behind the dais opens. Aelinor emerges, Magda at her heels.
“Bring the girl,” Aelinor says without sparing either of us a look.
The guards lower the crate.
“Kyra, I’m scared.”
“It’s—” I can’t say “it’s going to be okay” because fuck, it’s probably not. “I’m here.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m not leaving you.”
The cage hits the ground, jarring the metal tray and pitcher.
Magda opens the latch, and I make note of the fact that she didn’t do anything special to unlock the gate.
Maybe it wasn’t locked?
Crap, I should have checked, but then again, who knows if magic is at play? I certainly didn’t feel anything unusual.
“Girl.” The vampire points to the dais. “You heard your queen. Obey.”
I move to follow Ilearis.
“You stay.”
“What? Why? Look.” I point to my knees. “I’m hobbled. I pose no threat. I probably can’t even walk.”
When I step forward, she presses a sharp claw to my jugular. “It would be a shame to mark flesh my queen plans to barter.” She steps closer, drawing in air. “I will wager human blood is very sweet upon the tongue.”
“Magda,” Aelinor warns.
“Yes, my queen.”
“Leave the human to the guards.”
Magda hesitates, and for a terrible moment, I’m certain she’s about to feast on my neck. She smirks, clearly getting a good whiff of my fear.
I grin back. I may be scared, but I refuse to cower.
The vampire forces Ilearis out of the crate, nudging her forward when the girl doesn’t move fast enough.
The gate closes and I panic. “Ilearis, use your shields. Do whatever you have to do to protect yourself.”
She shuffles forward, slowing to make her way around tables and overturned benches, and every time the vampire prods her back with unnece
ssary force, my teeth grind. When at last she reaches the foot of the stairs, Aelinor is standing before the throne waiting.
“Has your magic returned, child?”
Ilearis shakes her head side to side.
“Would you lie to me?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. Magic pours out of her, falling around the teen like dirty hail. When I’d first witnessed Aelinor’s magic in Lithyr, it had been a verdant, fresh green, like spring foliage. So, so different from this coaly shade darkening the glass floor.
Ilearis falls to her knees, hands clutched to her head.
“Stay strong,” I urge. Gah, if I could, I’d send her every ounce of the strength I possess. But I can’t. I can’t do a fucking thing from inside this cage.
Strain tugs the lines of Aelinor’s face. Then her expression goes slack.
Sharp, short breaths heave from Ilearis, the sound matching the boom, boom, boom, boom drumming in my ears.
“I will break you, little wizard. Perhaps not today.” Aelinor descends the stairs and stoops until she’s eye level with Ilearis. “Perhaps not tomorrow. But I will break you. It is only a matter of time. You will thank me for it.” An almost tender smile touches her lips. “Now come.” Her gaze has teeth, and it nips at me. “I think a little air will do you both some good.”
The demon grunts, startling me. He motions to exit the crate.
I grip the metal bars, leveraging them to lift my weight. Fighting back a grimace, I shuffle behind the guard, each step amplifying the pain ballooning in my knees. I bite the inside of my mouth.
Focus.
Details matter. I need to look for clues. Guards. Weapons. Anything that can aid our escape. Because we are escaping.
I reach Ilearis at the door. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t respond.
Please, please don’t let Aelinor be in her head.
The thought spurs another thread of fear to life.