The noise grew louder. It was, unmistakably, a voice. Saying what? I couldn’t string the sounds into words.
“Suh-tah-nah…gah…Suh…”
Another two steps.
All at once, I realized.
“Satagana,” I breathed. “They’re claiming satanaga.”
Satanaga, a claim of help, of sanctuary, mutually understood and accepted between all Houses… and called upon only in the most dire of tragedies.
Siobhan’s eyes widened. She whirled around, caution discarded in favor of urgency. “Speak!” she bellowed. “We announce ourselves! We are Sidnee Blades! We hear your claim!”
She leveled one mighty strike through the blanket of thicket and we pushed through to a clearing of swamplands. And I drew in a ragged gasp.
Laid out before us were bodies.
A dozen of them, if I had to guess, or maybe more — sprawled out in the swamplands in a macabre, bloody trail. Male, female, a few children. None moved, except for the one closest, a copper-haired male. One hand was outstretched, as if trying to claw himself farther. The other clamped around his middle, covered in violet blood.
His face lifted, just barely enough to meet our horrified stares.
“Satanaga,” he whispered.
“Mathira, are they dead?”
The words flew from my lips before I could stop them. I dropped to the man’s side, kneeling beside him while he gazed up at me with glazed-over eyes.
He shook his head, weak but desperate.
“Get back to the Pales,” Siobhan barked. “Go to the base, bring help. Now. If these people aren’t dead yet, they will be soon if no one intervenes.”
She was already knee-deep in water, yanking bodies out of it. I began to stand, but shaking fingers clutched at my sleeve. I looked down to see the auburn-haired male, clearly fighting to stay conscious.
“Take— me—”
“I’ll come back,” I said.
“Please,” he rasped. “They must… see.”
Is that really what he thought? That the people of the House of Obsidian were so cold, so heartless, that we would not help them unless we saw his entrails with our own eyes?
I could not bring myself to leave him behind.
So I straightened, grabbed the little tube of steel that hung around my throat, and whistled for Rhee. When she galloped through the brush, I — as gently as I could manage — lifted him out of the dripping swamp. He was trembling so violently that he nearly slipped from my grasp, the hot warmth of his blood soaking through my clothes. There was so, so much of it.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, as I hoisted him onto Rhee’s back while he let out a little, gurgling groan. When I climbed up after him and urged Rhee into the fastest gallop she could manage, I tried to press my body against his to keep him as stable as possible.
We flew through the trees. I peered down and noticed the distinctive cut of his jacket, a high collar finished with bronze thread and a triangle sigil at the back of his neck.
The House of Stone. A small but respected House, and Obsidian’s closest neighbor, though it still sat miles away. My brow furrowed.
Did they drag themselves here?
“Who did this?” I whispered. We broke through the forest. The wall came into view, and beyond it, the sleek darkness of the Pales. “What happened?”
I did not expect an answer. My companion was now slack against Rhee’s neck, his blood soaking all three of us. But his face turned, just enough for me to see the edge of his profile, a sliver of green iris.
“Humans,” he ground out.
Humans?!
As far as I knew, none of the Houses had had any contact with humans in many hundreds of years. And compared to Fey, humans were so weak. I counted nearly a dozen gutted Fey in those swamps.
That couldn’t be.
“Later,” I said. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Words I couldn’t understand tumbled from the Fey’s mouth.
I leaned closer. We flew through the gates, falling into the familiar, welcoming shadow of the Pales.
“What?”
“I am thirteenth,” he mumbled. “For the crown.”
Then he went slack, falling utterly silent.
Chapter Five
Max
“I’m so glad to see you’ve made it here safely, despite the…excitement. Apparently you didn’t receive our letters at sea. Sit. Eat. You must be hungry.”
Zeryth stood at the head of the table and gestured down its length. Overflowing platters of food were artfully arranged down the center, chicken and fish, rice and breads, diced fruits with wet, crimson meat glistening beneath the candlelight. The table could have easily seated thirty, but the five of us were clustered at one end. Near the other, Tare, Sesri’s Valtain advisor, sat with his eyes downcast. And at the head, Zeryth stood and smiled at us with easy charm.
Zeryth. Zeryth was there, in the same spot my father used to sit, in the main dining room of my family home.
Zeryth Aldris, wearing a crown on his head.
I was so furious I could barely speak.
“Why are we here?” I demanded.
But my words were sliced in two by the sound of splitting air. Three silver blurs whizzed past my ear, so fast I felt my hair rustle.
“You snake,” Nura spat.
In a split second, Zeryth was leaning against the table, rubbing his neck and peering over his shoulder — at the three throwing knives now embedded in the wallpaper behind him.
Beside me, Nura stood rigid, her eyes icy with rage.
“Welcome back, my dearest Second,” Zeryth said, sweetly.
“You have no shame.”
“As opposed to… who, you? Who didn’t wait thirty seconds before your first assassination attempt?”
She missed on purpose. I wished she hadn’t. Words still escaped me. That was rare.
“You have many things to explain, Zeryth,” Tisaanah said, quietly but with a deadly edge to her voice, and Zeryth straightened as he smiled at us.
“I do indeed. Sit down, and we’ll talk.”
Sit down. Funny, how out of everything, those two words, were the thing that made a bitter laugh slip between my teeth.
Zeryth’s smile turned to ice.
“Is something amusing?”
“Zeryth Aldris just invited me for dinner in my own Ascended-damned childhood home, with a crown perched on his head. Amusing is not the term I’d use.” I didn’t realize I was leaning forward until I felt my palms pressed against the mahogany of the table. Beneath my left thumb, I could feel a scratch in the surface. Variaslus had made that mark, some fifteen years ago, when scratching away at too-thin parchment with the nib of his pen.
And now Zeryth is sitting there, telling me to sit down.
“Where is Sesri?” Sammerin asked.
“Why are we here?” I added. Because still, despite everything, it was the one question I kept coming back to.
But I wasn’t quite expecting the sheer lack of hesitation, the utter nonchalance, as Zeryth said, “Queen Sesri is dead.” He took a bite of steak, chewed loudly. “Eat. Don’t make all of this go to waste.”
We all sat there in stunned silence. Every set of eyes looked to Tare, who seemed to sink into his chair, staring down at his empty plate, expressionless.
“Horseback riding accident,” Zeryth added. “It was horrible.”
“Accident,” Sammerin repeated, dryly.
Zeryth cocked an eyebrow, then put down his fork and continued. “Sesri placed a great deal of trust in the Orders. Tare, after all, was her most trusted advisor.” Zeryth gestured to the Valtain beside him, though Tare’s gaze remained dutifully lowered. “Obviously, Sesri had no heirs and likely would not for a very long time, considering her age. So, prior to her death she enacted a decree entrusting the Crown to the Arch Commandant as regent, in the event of her death. Thus…”
Zeryth reached into his breast pocket and produced a sheet of folded up parchment paper. He
smoothed it out on the table, then slid it towards us. I craned my neck to read it.
By Decree of Queen Sesri, first of her name, she of no successor, I hereby declare that in the untimely event of my death…
I skimmed through the rest, several paragraphs of winding verbiage. Until I got to the end — the important part:
…crown shall pass to the Arch Commandant of the Order of Midnight and the Order of Daybreak, as one who is most committed to Ara and most qualified for the role.
And there, beneath it, was Sesri’s signature.
“But of course…” Without looking up, I could hear the smug, sarcastic smile in Zeryth’s voice. “None of this is a surprise to my dear Second. She didn’t fill you in?”
The realization fell over me like a cold shadow.
All this for what? For a thirteen-year-old’s throne? I’d asked that to Nura merely weeks ago, when we were traveling to Threll. Now, it all clicked together. They — Zeryth, and Nura — had been using Sesri. Using her to replace Lords with ones more favorable to their cause. Using her to make herself so horrifically unpopular that any alternative would be welcomed with open arms.
Nura wasn’t flinging knives at Zeryth because he’d stolen a crown. She was flinging knives at him because he did it without her.
My head snapped up. Tisaanah was giving Nura a piercing stare, but Nura’s eyes still looked at nothing but Zeryth, any reaction hidden beneath layers of ice.
“You still haven’t answered,” I ground out, “Why are we h—”
“If you’d have some patience, Maxantarius, you would hear me explain that we are here because there is still a great deal of work to do. Is no one going to eat? No?” He let out a sigh and stood, then grabbed a rolled up piece of parchment from the sideboard behind him, pushed his place setting aside with a dramatic flourish, and unrolled the fabric down the table. It was a map of Ara. Red paint marked various cities across it, and the largest red circle of all was around the Capital.
“As you all have seen,” Zeryth said, “Sesri declared the Arch Commandant — me — to be the rightful heir to the Crown in the event of her death. But as one might expect, many of Sesri’s cousins are not especially eager to accept the truth of the matter. Particularly Atrick Aviness. I came north shortly after the announcement to solidify my position with the Ryvenai nobles and gather loyal troops.” His gaze flicked to me. “We all know that Korvius, of course, is the military center of the north. Your Aunt Lysara was all too willing to host the new king, especially once she learned that you’re an ally.”
“Lysara,” I repeated.
Of-fucking-course. I wouldn’t put it past my miserable aunt to host Zeryth. Still, there was a certain… was it disappointment? For a second, there had just been a part of me that was wondering—
“Surely you didn’t think Brayan had invited me,” Zeryth said.
No. It was a ridiculous thought. “He wouldn’t have done that.”
Zeryth’s nose wrinkled. “No. He wouldn’t.”
As far as I knew, my elder brother had been gone from Ara for the better part of ten years. All too eager to leave the estate in the care of our aunt and go wander Besrith. Not that I could blame him.
“Anyway.” Zeryth cleared his throat, voice growing sour. “I admit it was a mistake to leave the Palace so soon. I underestimated the loyalty some in the Capital would have towards the royal bloodline. Aviness’s forces took control of the Palace while I was gone. Merely a stumbling block, of course. Given our superior resources.”
His gaze fell to Tisaanah, and I ground my teeth. She stared back at him with a cold glare.
“You knew what would meet us at the Mikov Estate,” she said, quietly. “You had fought with Ahzeen Mikov. You knew he was angry at the Orders. You knew that party invitation was a trap. And you told us none of it. Were you hoping that some of us would not make it back alive? Or was it just something to keep us busy, while you came to Ara to steal a crown?”
“I took the invitation at face value. Besides, I had great faith in your abilities. Rightfully, it seems. I heard some incredible tales of what happened that night.” His eyes flicked to me. “Very interesting things, actually.”
“And after all that,” Tisaanah said, “you expect us to go take the Capital, and give you your stolen throne.”
I could practically see the gears turning in her head.
“I object to that description,” Zeryth said, brushing the crown on his brow. It seemed to sit oddly on his head, like he wasn’t fully comfortable wearing it. “But yes. Of course we are to put down the rebels challenging the rightful line of succession.”
“Rebels?” Nura snorted. “You make it sound like we’re talking about a bunch of ragged militiamen. Atrick Aviness has one of the best armies in Ara, perhaps even the world. And I see at least five other old-blood houses on that map of yours.”
She was right. Some of the most oldest, most powerful districts in Ara were among those marked in red. It was no surprise to me that these would be the families to object most strongly to Zeryth’s reign. For some, the loss of a royal bloodline meant the loss of their own claim to power. But even beyond that, many would oppose on principle alone. Zeryth had gained great power within the Orders, yes, but he had come from nothing. For Aran nobility, a throne held by a nameless bastard would be seen as a threat to their very way of life.
“If you’re suggesting that we take the Capital back now,” I said, “then we’re looking at a bloodbath, no matter… how much power we have.” I did not miss the pleasure in Zeryth’s stare on Tisaanah. Or on me.
“And how would you do it?”
I was pointedly silent. I had an answer, of course. But I wasn’t about to advise Zeryth Aldris on the best way to conquer Ara.
Nura spoke instead.
“If the Capital is held by Aviness’s army alone, then maybe you’d have a chance at taking it back easily. But that would mean taking, at the very least, the Gridot, Lishan, Varnille, and Archerath families out of his ally pool.” She gestured to five cities on the map. “They have strong armies and deeper connections within the old blood. Without them, Aviness’s forces fall apart.”
Zeryth nodded. “I think so, too. And so, that will be our approach. Tisaanah will help me topple Varnille and Archerath from power. And you, Max, will take Gridot, Lishan, and a few other of these little strongholds to the west.”
Tisaanah and I exchanged a quick glance.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“If you gain these people as your allies,” Tisaanah said, “you will be stronger than if you simply conquer them. You absorb their strength instead of destroying it.”
I could tell that even Tisaanah understood what she was suggesting was unrealistic. But I knew Ara’s upper class well enough to know that it was more than unrealistic — it was outright lunacy. These families? They would sacrifice their own lives and thousands of their soldiers’ before they would bend the knee to someone like Zeryth.
He gave us a look that said he knew it, too. An ugly realization settled over me. After everything, this was what it was all for. The Orders’ manipulations. Tisaanah’s Blood Pact. This was the war she would fight. The servitude he would demand. She would kill in Zeryth’s name.
And I wasn’t about to leave her side. Not for a minute.
“I’m here to keep Reshaye under control,” I said. “That’s all. I’m not about to tramp across the damned country collecting lordships for you.”
“Let’s drop the pretenses. Everyone in this room knows why you’re here. And it’s not because of Reshaye.” He leaned forward, his smirk fading into something sharper, a look that made my blood boil. “I’m not too prideful to say that you’re a great fighter, Maxantarius, and a phenomenal Wielder. Any army would be honored to have you on their front, mine included. But.” His lip curled. “If you step a single hair out of line. If you undermine me. If you so much as look at me in a way I disapprove of, I will make these next five years the worst ones of Tisaa
nah’s life. And I do know the scale of all that implies, considering her past.”
Beside me, I heard Tisaanah let out a slow breath through her teeth.
My fury ran so hot it scalded the insides of my veins. And for a moment, I genuinely considered the possibility of killing him — right here, right now. I could take him. And was there anyone in this room who would stop me?
Zeryth’s gaze sparkled, in that particular way that I’d come to learn meant he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to show you.” He reached down and unbuttoned the wrist of his jacket, then wrenched the sleeve up to his elbow. There, on his forearm, was a tattoo. I did not recognize the design — similar to a Stratagram, but more twisted and chaotic, the lines twining through the circle’s center and growing so dense that individual shapes were indistinguishable. Circling its edge were tiny, jagged figures that looked as if they could be words, though not in any language I’d ever seen before. The black ink bled angry, mottled purple into Zeryth’s albino skin.
“Nice,” I said, flatly. “Very pretty, Zeryth. Looks infected, though.”
“This isn’t just a tattoo,” he said. “It’s a spell. It combined my blood, and Tisaanah’s. And it binds her life to mine. If I die, so does she.”
My heart stopped beating. My gaze shot to Tisaanah, just long enough to see her eyes go wide.
“Impossible,” I barked.
Zeryth smiled as he rolled down his sleeve. “Nothing is impossible, Max. The people in this room should know that better than anyone, by now.”
Impossible, a part of me still insisted — the part of me that wanted so desperately to be right. It can’t be done. Impossible.
Tisaanah moved so silently I didn’t realize that she had stepped forward until she was leaning past me, pressing her palms on the table as she stretched towards Zeryth. Her face was utterly calm, and yet, her eyes were so bright, like something inside of her had lit on fire.
“I signed your pact,” she said, her voice quiet and sharp. “I will fight your war. I have no choice in this. But know that I’ve defeated more powerful men than you, Zeryth, and in the end their desire for power only made that easier.”
Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2) Page 4