A River of Royal Blood

by Amanda Joy

  I looked away from him. “I know it’s different. I’m not . . . the same.”

  One of his hands moved from my hair to my chin, twisting it so that I faced him. “It makes no difference. Whatever outward changes, you’re the same. You feel the same.” He pressed his lips hard against mine. He whispered against my ear, “You taste the same.”

  I laughed until his lips captured mine again and I became lost in them. He tasted of my favorite mint tea, steeped just a bit too long, and sweetened with two spoonfuls of honey. Bitter and achingly sweet—just right.

  But still the thought came to me. Are you the same? And if you’re khimaer, are you still a Princess?

  “I should let you rest,” Aketo said, sensing my torment. We shared a breath and he turned away.

  I grabbed his wrist. I didn’t want to be alone. “Stay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  No, I wasn’t, but I was tired of spending every night alone waiting for my nightmares to find me.

  When Aketo crawled beneath my blankets and draped an arm around me, I let my eyes fall shut. Soon I would cross the Red River, under the cover of Baccha and Falun’s heavy glamour, with this Prince beside me. I felt so many things at once, but one won out: hope.

  Once I left Ternain, I would know something akin to freedom, the likes of which I’d never felt before.

  EPILOGUE

  Queenmaker

  A KNOCK SOUNDED at the door. Baccha swore—rot and thrice-damned magick—and lifted the pen off the paper. A drop of ink fell from the tip, ruining the page.

  He frowned. He’d only written her name so far, but words to suit this occasion floated at the edge of his thoughts.

  My apologies, Evalina, I’m breaking what little trust is left between us. Best of luck, love. Remember at coronations red is best. Reminds them of all the blood you’ve spilled to get there—and all the blood you’ll spill should anyone cross you.

  No, that wasn’t right.

  Having decided against throwing the table into a wall, Baccha crumpled the parchment and strode to the door. He hoped it wasn’t one of guards the girl had sent to watch over him. The fools thought that if they knocked every so often, to remind Baccha of their presence, he would stick around.

  Luckily it wasn’t them. It was the boy, the Prince. He still looked dazed from last night, but some small happiness hung about his face. He’d seen her, then. He smelled like her—crushed roses, blood, steel, and a bit of Baccha’s own scent, the result of the coalescence.

  Baccha let him into the room. “How is she?” he asked in Khimaeran, for the boy was freer with his words in his native tongue.

  Aketo rolled his eyes. “Come see for yourself. I doubt you’d like my assessment anyway.”

  True enough.

  “So you’ve come to hurry me along.” The news that they were all leaving Ternain hadn’t come as much of a shock, though Baccha had hoped that Mirabel would force her to mull it over for a day or two, giving him time to leave before Eva could notice. Unfortunately not. And he hated making escape plans under such a tight deadline. “Running errands for her now?”

  “She’s anxious. She was going to send Falun, but I figured he would only slow you more.” His eyes dipped to the parchment in Baccha’s hand.

  Baccha held up three fingers in a rude gesture and Aketo grinned. “I need more time, and I’m sure you can soothe the Princess’s . . . anxieties.”

  Aketo flushed, but lifted his chin. “How much time, Hunter?”

  Baccha didn’t answer, spinning his horn bracelet around his wrist. His mind wasn’t on Aketo anymore, but on his next few weeks and how he would explain her to the Tribe. I’ve disobeyed your orders, yes, but only because I knew our hope, our salvation lies within this girl, who is terribly powerful, but wants nothing more than to be free—who deserves nothing more than that.

  He pulled a knife from his sleeve. Steel flashed as he turned it over and under his knuckles, calming himself.

  Aketo repeated his question and Baccha considered every option before landing on the truth. “I won’t be traveling with the Princess. I need you to protect her, and I need you to give this to her.” Baccha held up the bracelet. He couldn’t afford to be followed. “I can only leave if I know she has it. Do you understand?”

  “How can you leave after everything?”

  Gods, he was going to regret this. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo there. Despite its age, it had never faded—a red crown, a black staff, and a narrow dagger. “There is a legend, Prince—a hope—but very few khimaer let themselves believe in it. Do you know of what I speak?”

  Aketo’s mouth fell open. “The Tribe? You—you’ve been with the Tribe?” the Prince asked. “The Tribe still lives?”

  “Yes.” Even that one word sent a spike of pain through the base of his skull. The Tribe was a secret buried deep within a legend, and a fair amount of magick. Their secrecy was thrice sworn by all who learned of the Tribe. But in the centuries since leaving Myre to work for the them after the Great War, Baccha had learned a few ways around the prohibition.

  Before Eva, he’d thought previous knowledge was the only one. Even though he’d all but spilled their every secret, he didn’t worry about Eva finding out more. This was buried too deep for a girl who was raised human to have ever caught wind of. Now he knew that finding a way to share thoughts with someone would do it, though Baccha would not again risk coalescence. It had tied him to the Princess too tightly, making it impossible to follow his orders completely.

  The old woman had ordered him to learn everything about the Killeen line and shatter their dynasty if he could. Well, he had learned—and he’d found a way to break them. But he didn’t think the Tribe would consider putting a Killeen Princess on the throne drastic enough.

  “And you? Why would you be with them?” Aketo’s spine straightened, every inch the Prince.

  “I may not be khimaer, but everything I am, I owe to them.” Baccha wasn’t going to explain that he would die without them—that he almost had faded when he tried to run during the Great War. There was no need to sound even more self-serving. “I must return, because I am sworn to, but also because I must find someone to teach Eva. The magick inside of her . . . There is only one person I know who can teach her to use it, and it is not me.”

  The girl had true Queen’s magick. Khimaerani’s magick.

  “Why won’t you just tell her you have to leave?” Aketo’s fists were clenched. “If you go without seeing her, she won’t forgive you.”

  “I can’t.” She would lock him away, and dungeon escapes were always tricky.

  “Mother’s cup, Baccha.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “She can’t take this, not now. After everything, how you could even consider it is beyond me.”

  “I know you want to protect her, but there is strength in her. Eva will endure what she must, and even if she never forgives me, I must do this. I don’t have time to explain it all to her—or to you.”

  “How long, Hunter? How long will you be gone?”

  “I’m not certain.” He hoped the trip would be short, but he had no way of knowing. “Protect her in my absence—and keep her sharp. Tell her I will miss her, and I will return as soon as I can. If she needs me, tell her to look to the bond. That may offer some comfort.”

  Baccha saw the disappointment on the boy’s face. Luckily he was used to such reactions. He was trapped between an oath that couldn’t be broken and his own desires. That rarely made for good company. “Just . . . be what she needs, as much as you can. I will find both of you as soon as I am able. By then I expect you’ll have told her why you truly came here—and what her choices will mean for you.”

  Aketo winced. “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “Your choice, Prince. Your risk.” Baccha shrugged. He nearly warned the Prince that Eva’s reaction to his departure might be unpleasant,
but thought better of it. “Now go.”

  Before he could say anything else, Baccha gave the Prince a knife for himself, and the bracelet for the Princess.

  After he left, the Hunter set to collecting his things.

  It was time to make a Princess into a Queen.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THIS BOOK WAS born of so many things, but the foremost among them was the love of my family and friends. This book would not exist without you. Thank you.

  To my super agents, Taylor Haggerty and Holly Root, whose belief in me and this book—and Baccha—changed my world two years ago. Thank you for always having my back, for your sage advice, and for fielding my panicky emails. We will have those I HEART BACCHA T-shirts one day, I promise!

  To my editor, Stacey Barney, whose wit, vision, and insight are sharp enough to stand against the many blades wielded in these pages. From the first time we spoke and laughed together, I knew Eva couldn’t be in more capable hands. Thank you for your patience and relentless pursuit of my best. I’ve grown so much as a writer because of you and I am beyond grateful. I can’t wait to go on this journey again.

  To the incredible team at Putnam and Penguin Teen. Thank you for your passion and kindness and help in making this book-shaped dream a reality. I look forward to getting to know more of you, but for now, special thanks to Caitlin Tutterow, Felicity Vallence, and Lindsay Boggs.

  To my brilliant cover artist, Alexxander Dovelin, and designer, Samira Iravani. Thank you for bringing Eva and Isadore to life, with all the beauty and fierce energy I dreamed of. It still takes my breath away.

  Six years ago, I moved to New York for graduate school, and I am so grateful for the community I met and made there. A thousand thanks to my New School professors, Caron Levis and Sarah Weeks, and especially to David Levithan, my thesis advisor, who saw an early, frightful draft of this book and did not run screaming. Thank you also to my Writing for Children cohort, and especially P. G. Kain, whose advice still rings in my head daily: write the book.

  To two of my closest friends, Laura Silverman and Anna Meriano. I could not have navigated this year without you. Thank you, Anna, for answering all my grammar questions, and thank you, Laura, for all your email advice. Thank you for keeping me hopeful. Thank you for making me a better writer.

  To my dear friend and critique partner, Kyriaki Chatzopolou. Kiki the Impaler to my Amanda the Great. Simply put, I could never have done this without you. Your heart for story inspires me always. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. All my love, always.

  To my third-grade English teacher, Mrs. Zorns, who when I misbehaved placed the first Harry Potter book in my hands. You first taught me the joy of writing and I am so thankful.

  To my brothers, Daniel and Jordan. Dan, your love of reading continues to inspire me just like it did when I was a kid, wishing I could read half as fast as you can. Jordan, your work makes me create more fearlessly and you are always there to listen without judgment. I love you both so much.

  To the friends I call family. I love you all more than I can say.

  Finally, to my parents, Michelle and Alfred, who sewed a love of the written word in my heart early and often. You taught me to trust my voice and never doubted me in this journey. Your support over the last five years made this all possible. Thank you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Amanda Joy has an MFA from The New School, and lives in Chicago with her dog Luna. You can find her on twitter and Instagram at @amandajoywrites.

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