A River of Royal Blood

by Amanda Joy

  He cut open Aketo’s pants to access the deep gash across his upper thigh. I caught a flash of blood still spurting steadily down his leg and looked away. Baccha held the edges of the wound together. As Baccha healed him, Aketo groaned, his back arching off the ground.

  Aketo opened his golden eyes and I let out a breath, pushing away fear’s tight grip on my heart.

  “You’re bleeding too, Princess,” Baccha said.

  His hands were gentle as he pulled my shirt up to look at the wide gash across my stomach. I flinched as the fabric stuck to the wound, tugging painfully. He pressed the ends of the wound together and a shrill scream escaped my mouth. Icy threads pricked my skin, knitting the flesh back together.

  When I caught my breath, I asked, “How many?”

  “Twenty at the start. We ran them off pretty easily. They must have misjudged the size of our camp,” Baccha answered. “I can smell your magick, Princess. Well done. Though I’d like it if next time you could avoid getting gutted. And,” he added, looking at Aketo, “that goes for you too.”

  Baccha stood and walked to one of the fallen men. He removed the dead man’s veil. He was surprisingly handsome, with prominent cheekbones and a lush mouth, made macabre in death. Round brown eyes open and unseeing; warm ocher skin the usual northern shade. The veil wasn’t just a ruse, then; they truly were from Dracol.

  “A raid?” Aketo asked.

  “But this far south? We’re days from the capital. That makes no sense.” I sat up, clenching my teeth as I swallowed a moan. My wound was still tender. “Unless, of course, this wasn’t a raid and they’re working for whoever is trying to kill me.”

  “What interest would a man from Dracol have in the contest of Rival Heirs?” Aketo asked.

  “What do we know of the interests of men from Dracol?” I asked, glaring at Baccha, daring him to say he did know.

  The Hunter wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’m sure your Captain will have more insight. Let’s go assure everyone that you two are still alive.”

  I helped Aketo to his feet and barely looked at Baccha as we walked to the edge of camp. My hands still shook for fear of what would have happened without Baccha, but I shoved those feelings aside. It was neither the time nor the place to investigate whatever I felt for this Prince. Besides, my rule for the Patch still stood—romance was a luxury fit for those with years ahead of them, not weeks.

  Thirteen bodies were lined up in a row, dragged there by the guards. All Dracolan, their veils trimmed in gleaming black and red beads—the black for prayer and the red for the lives they’d taken, if I remembered correctly. If there had been, as Baccha said, twenty men, then with thirteen dead here and four dead near my tent, at least three had gotten away.

  Other than Aketo, only two of my guards and one of Mother’s soldiers had suffered injuries. Everyone else milled around the vestiges of tonight’s fire, cleaning weapons and packing. When Anali saw me, she didn’t waste any time.

  “We’re leaving,” she said, voice grim, “once everyone is healed and the bodies are burned. Pack quickly. We’ll ride through the night and the next day until we reach Asrodei.”

  Which meant in a couple days I would see my father. I would finally have the truth.

  CHAPTER 20

  WE RODE LIKE demons, beneath a thick cloak of Falun and Baccha’s glamour. Anali’s shadow magick spread around us when we rode into the night, and Baccha’s wolves scouted ahead. Aketo rode beside me, though we didn’t speak. I suspected that Anali had chosen him to see to my safety if we were attacked again. That, or he felt as protective of me as I had begun to feel of him after last night. I couldn’t shake the image of him bleeding out in the dirt.

  And yet, I resented his presence at my side, reminding me of everything I would never have. Aketo was khimaer. Of course there was no future for us. It would be better for the both of us if I remembered that.

  The land changed drastically between the sparsely wooded grasslands we’d been riding through and the hill lands where the Fort sat. The road sloped downward gently, green and purple hills steadily growing in size until one understood why they were called the Little A’Nir; their size rivaled the jagged northern mountains.

  We cut back and forth around and through the hills until we reached the limestone fortress.

  Asrodei was erected atop one of the hills. It was difficult to tell where the fortress began and the hill ended because of the grass and wildflowers that clung to Asrodei’s walls. At the top, the Myrean flag kicked in the wind, the silhouette of the blue dagger on it flowing like an undulating snake.

  Without the mosaics that decorated most ancient structures in Myre, Asrodei had always felt incomplete to me until I lived here. Now I saw the dignity of its unadorned walls, the beauty in its simplicity.

  I heard all of the guards except Aketo sigh when we came within sight, like they were coming home. Without acknowledging it, everyone rode faster. I leaned over Bird’s pommel, heart in my throat.

  Once we came within a hundred feet of the base of hill, five guards approached. Anali started to guide her horse forward, but I spurred Bird ahead, wanting to dispel with any formalities that could delay our entrance.

  I pulled off the scarf protecting my head from the sun and thrust my hand forward. The Killeen ring was simply a silver band fashioned into eagle wings holding a bright blue stone with a black crack down the middle. My signet was a heavy gold ring inlaid with orange moonstones and my profile, underneath which was my name in tiny lettering.

  I needn’t have bothered. One of the soldiers—fair-skinned and thick-necked, with a long scar down his cheek—took one look at my face and dismounted. He knelt beside his horse and bowed, forehead to the ground. After a moment the others followed suit. They all murmured, “Your Highness.”

  The first soldier climbed to his feet, and then made us jump by yelling, “She is here, Lord Commander!”

  I went still. Anali had sent guards ahead yesterday to alert my father to our arrival, but I hadn’t expected him to meet me down here. I’d thought I would have more time to prepare myself. I had no notion of what I would say to my father.

  The rest of the guards parted and suddenly there was my father, walking through them, looking almost serious in the gold-and-white jacket of the Lord Commander. It hung unbuttoned, its ribbons and medals splayed carelessly and gleaming in the sunlight. My father always joked that next to his daughters and wife, he looked plain. He was of average height, his skin a rich chestnut, and his face was broad and ruggedly handsome, with heavy brows and a nose at least thrice broken. Though his eyes, a different color than mine, were familiar, their soft brown was still a shock in his dark face. I took in his overlong beard, more peppered with gray than I remembered, and his neatly trimmed hair as black as mine and showing its curl in the tight waves pressed to his scalp.

  I dismounted, smoothing my hands down the panels of my riding skirt.

  He wrapped me in a hug and kissed the top of my head. He smelled as he always did—of ink smudges, bitter soldier’s draught to keep him alert, mint leaves, sword oil, and fresh sheaves of paper. Up close, I could see he was thinner than usual and there were lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there when I left nearly a year ago.

  Sensing my discomfort, Papa pulled away. “You look almost surprised to see me, parder.”

  Leopard, in Khimaeran. He’d given me the name when, at eleven, I leaped onto his back from the top of an orange tree in the grove around the Little Palace.

  “I thought you would be inside.” Unable to hold his gaze, I turned toward the guard. They all dismounted and knelt in the dirt. “We’ve been riding night and day for five days. I’m sure everyone would like to rest.”

  Papa’s eyes narrowed at my mother’s soldiers as he gestured for them to rise. “Right. You must be exhausted. Shall we take the steps or . . .”

  He glanced toward the base of
the hill, where two large wooden platforms were attached to cords of woven leather. The lifts were used to raise supplies and people into Asrodei, because the steps built into the side of Asrodei’s hill were narrow, old, and could be treacherous if you didn’t watch your footing. I hated taking any of the lifts—often wind would roll through and set the entire thing swinging through the air—and I’d only gotten somewhat used to taking them during my years here.

  “The lifts are fine,” I said. They were more convenient for everyone. It would be selfish to demand that my guard and everyone else walk all the way up. It was an irrational fear anyway. When the winds became too strong, no one used the platforms.

  Anali and my father chatted until we reached the loading area and I didn’t hear a word of it, my thoughts too full of what I would say to my father once we were alone. We stepped onto the lifts. Papa, Aketo, and half of the guards formed a tight ring around me; Falun went with Baccha and more of the guards in the second lift.

  When the first gust of wind caught the bottom of the platform, my knees buckled. How I hated being at the mercy of this little scrap of wood.

  Everyone on the lift was facing away from me, except for Aketo, who held out a hand. I took it, and our fingers interlaced. The lift swayed again; I held on to him so tightly I thought my fingers would cramp. His thumb stroked the back of my hand until my pulse slowed and I could breathe around the fear.

  For a horrible moment, I wondered if this was his magick. But no, I decided. Magick was rarely this subtle. And in my tent Aketo had said that he and his mother never changed anyone’s emotions without their consent. If he did, he was no better than Isadore.

  Seconds later the sounds of twisting leather stopped. The lift had been pulled up to one of the open ledges at the base of the Fort. I let go of Aketo’s hand and hurried off behind my father, glad to find my feet on stable ground.

  I didn’t get the chance to thank Aketo. Anali ushered him off with the rest of the soldiers. Only my father and a few of his Kingsguard stayed. Papa turned to me, brown eyes tight with worry. “Now it seems there is much we have to discuss. Things in Ternain must be truly dire if your mother let you out of her sight this close to your nameday.”

  “They are, but that isn’t why I’m here. I came to ask you about my Harkening.”

  Papa’s eyes widened, but the shock was quickly replaced by resolve. “Very well. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  * * *

  We walked through the familiar gray halls of Asrodei in strained silence, a few members of his Kingsguard trailing behind so they wouldn’t hear our conversation.

  The Fort was a hive of activity. Groups of soldiers saluted Papa as we passed and clerks in ink-stained tabards trotted along carrying maps and long sheets of parchment. The Queen’s Army employed hundreds of craftspeople—blacksmiths, fletchers, seamstresses, and more—and many worked in Asrodei, bowing low as we walked by. Papa was well acquainted with most everyone we passed, and I recognized the head blacksmith’s son, broad-shouldered with a dimpled smile that had once made me blush, but we didn’t speak to anyone as we moved through the Fort.

  Hands clasped behind his back, frown etching lines around his mouth, Papa finally spoke. “Mira wrote me. She told me about the assassin and Dagon.”

  “I’m so sorry, Papa,” I whispered, blinking away sudden tears. As with every time I thought of Dagon, I felt the warmth of his blood on my hand. “I didn’t want to hurt him, but there was nothing I could do.”

  My words sounded hollow. Dagon would never draw breath, never laugh or cry again. And it was all because someone so wanted me dead they had used him as a pawn.

  “You were defending yourself. You have nothing to apologize for, Eva,” my father said.

  “He’s still dead, Papa. By my hand.”

  “The cursed Sorceryn who set that spell on Dagon is to blame. And even more to blame is whoever set the Sorceryn on the task of killing you. I should have never let you go back to the Palace without me. I’ve been away from the capital too long. I will make certain you’re safe here. I confess I am glad your mother saw fit to give you additional guards.” He paused as a towering red-haired man approached us in the hallway, seemingly to try to speak to Papa. Even though the cobalt dagger pin on his chest marked him as a General, Papa waved him away. “Mira also told me that you’ve been learning magick with the Lord Hunter. I think I know why you’ve come.”

  I clenched my fists, trying to remain calm. “Why, Papa? Why bind my magick?”

  “Because”—he sighed heavily—“of the omens.”

  “Omens?” I echoed, stopping in the middle of hall. A tapestry hung from the wall near me, depicting some ancient, blood-drenched battlefield. The sight of it turned my stomach. “But what does the Blood Moon have to do with my magick?”

  “It was more than that, Eva. Four months before you were born, there was an eclipse, what the Auguries call ‘the Black Sun.’ It was the day after your mother announced her pregnancy to the Court. Weeks after that, there was a shower of stars in the sky above Ternain. The Auguries had predicted the Blood Moon’s rising well before your nameday, and the falling stars, but the eclipse . . . surprised them. It’s a rare omen and troubling enough that one of the Auguries went behind your mother’s back and came to me. They believed the Queen wasn’t taking the threat to you seriously.”

  I knew the Blood Moon was a harbinger of change, and all omens of falling stars relate to magick, but the eclipse . . . “What does the Black Sun mean?”

  “It’s an omen of great danger. The Sisters believed your magick would threaten you, perhaps even bring about your death. Sister Amya was fearful enough that she suggested sealing away your magick until you came of age, and then you would be allowed to decide to embrace your magick . . . or not.”

  “And you agreed? How did you expect me to survive against Isadore without my magick?” I growled, rounding on him. A bitter taste coated my tongue.

  His hand trembled as he rubbed his forehead. “I spent months researching the effects of bindings and knew I couldn’t allow you to be severed from your magick completely. With the help of a Sorceryn I’d known for years, I came up with another solution. A binding that would allow the use of some magick, but would limit the use of your greatest powers. It seemed like the best option at the time.”

  “Even when I can use my magick,” I said, voice cold, “the binding still pains me. It grows worse every time.”

  “I’m sorry.” His eyes, shining with unshed tears, met mine. “I was trying to protect you, parder.”

  “There can be no more lies between us, Father,” I said, voice as cold and remote as I could make it. It was my best approximation of Mother’s voice when she was giving edicts to the Court.

  He nodded. “I promise you, Eva. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before? You may have protected me from one danger, but by never telling me and never giving me an opportunity to fix it, you’ve left me weak,” I said.

  “I know,” he answered, head bowed. “I’ve wanted to tell you all this time. I tried, but I didn’t think you would forgive me. Not after what happened.”

  All my anger and confusion were like a hard pit in my stomach. “What are you talking about, Papa?”

  What more could there be?

  My father looked me in the eye as he answered: “Brother Kaar, the Sorceryn who placed the binding, is dead. He was killed eight years ago, just before you turned nine.”

  Papa continued to explain how Brother Kaar had been found with his throat slit and how when my father went to the Temple to collect the Sorceryn’s research on bindings, he found that they were all destroyed. And that Brother Kaar had been attempting to learn the secrets of marrow and blood magick so that he could help me navigate the binding. After Kaar’s death, Papa had searched the Queendom for someone else to teach me magick, plan
ning to confess as soon as he found someone. But he hadn’t. I’d found Baccha on my own.

  I was only half listening; I walked with my arms wrapped around my stomach as my pulse drummed in my ears.

  My father had always been infallible to me. Even his mistakes—like waiting to tell me about the Rival Heirs—were made because he wanted to keep me from being hurt. He had protected me from Mother when I asked to leave Ternain. He’d taught me most everything I knew that was worth knowing—how to hold a sword and ride a horse and that Myre was made up of more than the nobles who held power.

  But he’d lied. I thought of all the times we’d spent together in these same walkways, every lesson he’d taught me on military theory, the meals shared, each visit to the library when he could have taken me to this Sister Amya. He could have told me anytime, but instead he’d let me believe he was perfect.

  He was right. I couldn’t forgive him. Rage had coiled around my heart, and my father’s apologies only made feel colder.

  Unless I wanted to risk my life, I was stuck with this binding. Only Brother Kaar could have removed it safely. And if the omens were true, maybe that was for the best.

  CHAPTER 21

  I SLEPT LONG and hard after retiring to my rooms. By the time I woke the following day, it was already well into the afternoon. I declined an invitation to have lunch with my father.

  Anger had worn me down till not just my heart but my skin felt raw.

  I would have stayed in my rooms for the rest of day, but Falun brought a note from Baccha. It was time for our next lesson.

  * * *

  I sat across from the Hunter at a round table in his room. It was nicer than I expected, large for a bedroom, with a green patterned rug spread across the tiled floor, a spacious sitting area, and a circular window looking out on the green hills around the Fort. There was a long, flat white box on the table between us; Baccha’s pale fingers held its edges, flexing ever so slightly.