House of Blood and Bone

by Kimberley J. Ward

  “Can’t you view this as a fresh start?” Shadow asked, voice caressing, the faintest of accents tingeing the edges of his words, rounding them. Warming them. “One where you don’t see me as such a villain?”

  “I have too many questions that need to find their answers on their own. I need my memories. They are what makes me, me. I feel incomplete without them. Don’t you understand?”

  Shadow sighed and leaned back. His hand slid through her hair until he cradled the back of her head. He gently urged her to look up at him. Her eyes, filled with inquisitiveness, rose to meet with his.

  “I think you’ll find that I understand a lot more than you can imagine.”

  “Then help me.”

  “I…” Shadow closed his eyes, wrestling with internal demons. “You really will be the death of me.”

  Hope bloomed in Nessa’s heart. Did this mean he’s going to fix me? Undo what he has done?

  Nessa certainly hoped so.

  The closet’s door swung open, swinging wide. Light, blinding and white, spilled in. Nessa started and squinted, peering over Shadow’s shoulder, trying to see who was there, trying to see who they had been discovered by. The blinding light came from behind them, reducing them to nothing more than an imposing silhouette standing in the archway behind Shadow.

  Shadow cursed under his breath and twisted, shielding Nessa with his body as much as possible, blocking her from the intruder’s line of sight.

  “You have to go,” Shadow hissed through clenched teeth to her, his eyes wide and shining with alarm. “Quick! Before he sees you.”

  A din filled Nessa’s ears: the roar of blood, the racing thuds of her heartbeat, the panicked pant of her breaths.

  “But I don’t know how,” she cried.

  “Just—”

  “Brother?” a voice intoned from the doorway, deep and eerily familiar. Approaching footsteps sounded out. “It is happening. It has begun. I can sense it.”

  “Go,” Shadow whispered.

  Nessa’s vision wavered and the world tipped, darkened. A void opened and swallowed her whole.

  It has begun.

  ∞∞∞

  Nessa sat up on her bed with a strangled scream, shocked and disorientated, her eyes staring wide. The room spun in dizzying circles for a moment as she sucked in desperate breaths. Then, with painful slowness, the spinning lessened, eventually coming to a stop. Her bedroom at the guest house, swathed in the calm dimness of pre-dawn, came into focus.

  A shiver crawled down her spine, and a cold sweat peppered her body. Scared and uncertain, Nessa pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, her bedding pooling around her, abandoned. Forgotten.

  For the second time that night, Nessa was forced to question her sanity and was left to wonder.

  It has begun…

  …Sāwolwalkere…

  Chapter 41

  The streets were busier than usual, packed with people and noise. Small children, laughing and shrieking, darted through the slow-moving current of adults that flowed towards the main road at the end of the alley, jostling to get to the front. Parents called out cautions. Groups of youths chattered, animated and excited.

  Nessa hesitated at the front door of the guest house. “Is there a street fair or something?”

  Hunter looked as perplexed as Nessa felt. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Judging by the banners and flags up yonder way,” Orm came up behind them. “I’d say there’s going to be a procession.” With a hand between their shoulders, he propelled them forwards.

  “A procession?” Nessa tried to walk on her tippy-toes, attempting to see over the heads of the growing crowd. It felt as if everyone in the city was converging. Tiptoeing through a bustling crowd wasn’t a particularly easy thing to do, especially when you were in a long dress and also had to keep up with your six-foot-something friend, who was particularly keen on finding out why they had been summoned by a dragon—a dragon who refused to explain why. Nessa knew what this was all about, but she wasn’t going to divulge anything. She fully intended to sit at the back of Aoife’s rather luxuriously decorated cave in complete silence, feeling—and looking—rather sorry for herself. Aoife can do all the talking, Nessa had decided. “A procession of what?”

  “Something to do with the Twelve Houses is my best guess.” Hunter was taller than her and found it easier to see up ahead.

  Procession or not, Aoife said in all of their minds, I expect you all to be here shortly.

  Nessa rolled her eyes. She wasn’t the only one either.

  The crowd grew unpleasantly dense as they neared the main street, hindering their progress as they were forced to squeeze past people who stood lining each side of the street, eagerly waiting, jostling for a better view. All Nessa could see over the heads of those around her were the flags which caught in a light breeze, metallic threads glinting in the winter sunlight. They edged either side of the main road with bold colours, hanging from buildings at regular intervals by ornate brackets, bearing the emblems of the Twelve Houses. Nessa could see the sword and crown of House Eodor, the nine-pointed star of House Hālig and the rose in flames of House Sliðen—King Kaenar’s own family. All twelve of the Houses were there, even the raven perched on a branch for House Fæger. Nessa felt that flying House Fæger’s emblem was a little perverse seeing as that family had been slaughtered centuries ago.

  “The flags weren’t up yesterday,” Nessa mused. “I would have noticed.”

  “Indeed they weren’t,” Orm agreed, coming to a standstill. The crowd was too dense, too thick to move through. They were stuck in the junction where their street met with the main road.

  “Must have been an impromptu thing,” Hunter surmised. “Perhaps someone important is arriving. Or leaving. Hopefully leaving.” He looked at Nessa, one side of his mouth curling up into a cheeky grin. “You know, one less unpleasant bugger around to bother us would be grand.”

  “Ah laddie, my lad.” They heard a hoarse laugh to the side of them and then a breathless wheeze. “If only we were tho lucky.” The speaker had a severe lisp.

  All three of them turned to the right, where there was a wizened old woman leaning against the corner of a nearby building. In each arthritic hand, she held a cane of twisted wood, which appeared to keep her from toppling over, for her legs were as bent as saplings in a storm and her spine was folded over, keeping her trapped in a perpetual bow. Nessa’s back ached just from looking at her.

  “What makes you say that?” Nessa asked, clearing her throat and sharing a quizzical glance with Hunter. Orm, she saw, was looking at the woman with a pained grimace, one hand slowly rising to his mouth in a futile attempt to hide his horror. Nessa had to admit, the woman was a sight to behold, and not a pleasant one.

  Milky eyes, one blue and one a faint brown, covered in the hazy film of cataracts, peered at Nessa through wisps of knotted, white hair. A twisted grin deepened the maze of cavernous wrinkles on the woman’s pockmarked face.

  “Oh, if it were just a thimple coming or going,” the crone lisped from a toothless mouth, “then that would be the end of that.”

  “But this isn’t a simple coming or a going?”

  “This is just the beginning.”

  A shiver of warning crawled down Nessa’s spine, and she clutched at the satchel’s strap that ran across her chest. The grimoire’s weight against her hip seemed to grow, becoming almost burdensome. “Just the beginning?”

  The old crone cackled, something which made Nessa, Hunter, Orm and a few others around them share unnerved glances.

  “Oh yeth. This is the beginning. The beginning of the end. The Veil ripples and shifts, and the mists of old are rising. The king senses this, and he sends out his puppets for a hunt.”

  “A hunt?”

  “Oh yeth.” The crone looked positively delighted at the prospect. “With the rising darkneth shall come the Child of Erith, the king’th bane. He has begun his hunt for the one he fears the most. The
child of the divine. The one who will bring his doom. It has been foretold, and it shall come to path…” She broke off in a bitter cough powerful enough to rattle the bones.

  Nessa went to go to her aid, fearful that she would topple over and fall. A hand wrapped around hers, pulling her up short. Nessa looked up at Orm, surprised and a little confused.

  “It’s time for us to go,” he said, his golden skin growing pale. He began tugging her along, pulling her through the crowd that lined the side of the wide street in a throng of jostling bodies, everyone curious and eager to see what—who—was coming.

  Hunter kept close to Nessa’s back as Orm ploughed a path through the crowd, earning them more than a few glares and raised brows. Nessa looked at her companions, but neither would meet her eye, their gazes darting everywhere, scanning faces and peering up and down the street like they suddenly expected trouble.

  Nessa opened her mouth, about to ask what was wrong, why the urgency to get to Aoife, but she wasn’t in any particular hurry to be yelled at, or for her grimoire to become group knowledge. She was already stepping on too many toes for anyone’s liking.

  A low murmur rippled through the crowd, a wave of excitement and awe that quickly built in momentum and volume. The roar of thousands and thousands of voices rose into the air as a dozen dragons detached themselves from the gleaming castle in the near distance.

  Nessa’s questions were forgotten.

  They cut through the sky like arrows, creatures born of the sky and magic, their scales, coloured diamond and emerald, ruby and tanzanite, garnet and amber, shining like the finest gems in the cold winter sun.

  Nessa watched them with wide eyes, enraptured just like everyone else in the street. Like the rest of the city. The dragons were a sight to behold, both beautiful and terrible.

  They were her destiny.

  They were her enemy.

  In the back of her mind, Nessa could feel Aoife’s worry, her longing. Dragons were not solitary creatures, usually living and hunting in small groups, most often with siblings or parents until they reached maturity and found their partner, their life mate. Aoife knew no such relation or company. She was alone, the only dragon who was not sworn to the king with an unbreakable vow, with binding words of magic. Nessa reached out to her through their bond, sending all the love and comfort she could through it, reminding her that, no matter what, Aoife always had her.

  There was a trumpet of horns, a steady beat of drums, and with dragons overhead, soaring high over the city of Ellor with sinister beauty and grace, the Dragon Riders of the Twelve Kingdoms appeared at the very end of the wide road, a slow procession that leisurely moved ever closer.

  Rows of drummer boys and soldiers-at-arms marched in front, a splendid display of finery and synchronism. Their steps perfectly timed to the drumbeats, their armour polished, their black uniforms uncreased. They cleared the centre of the road of stragglers and dawdlers, forcing the crowd to cram against the buildings. Rogue elbows dug into Nessa’s ribs, and heels kicked her shins as the front of the procession reached where she stood. She clutched Orm’s hand and her satchel, fearing that she would be crushed, that she would lose him and her grimoire. Hunter stood on her other side, shielding her as much as he could.

  Rows and rows of drummers passed.

  Rows and rows of soldiers passed.

  And then the Dragon Riders came into sight.

  They rode in a long line on the backs of the finest of horses, stallions of the most prestigious lineage, with long manes and shimmering coats. There were twelve of the fourteen Dragon Riders in the procession, just as there were twelve dragons in the heavens above, large, membranous wings spread wide, riding on updrafts, souring with the barest of efforts amongst the handful of soft, white clouds.

  Nessa knew who the two missing Riders and dragons were: Shadow and King Kaenar, Bane and Spite. Of course, they wouldn’t be there. The king had better things to be doing than parading through the city. And Shadow… Nessa could only presume that the king’s right-hand man was likewise indisposed.

  Nessa was glad that Shadow wasn’t there, that she wouldn’t see him so soon after… Her cheeks flared pink. After last night. As for the king…in another lifetime would be too soon.

  With a clatter of armour and the clear ring of iron-shod hooves on the cobbled street, the Dragon Riders of the Twelve Kingdoms moved past Nessa, power and grace coming from them in waves.

  House Bismer led the way on glossy, black steeds, the twins Haelan and Maeon riding side by side, dressed in reds and golds that matched their long, fiery hair. Behind them was House Derian with the twins Daegal and Daegon. They were identical, clothing and looks. Their sable hair was styled the same, their dark clothing was the same. Even their bright, hungry smiles were the same. While Daegal and Daegon appeared to revel in the attentions of the crowd, drinking in the awed whispers and the cheering children with smug expressions on their matching faces, it was a different story with House Bismer. Haelan rode with her back straight, her countenance bored, cold. She was as unmoving as a statue, her stare fixed far ahead. Her brother was equally uninterested in the crowds, in the sights around them. They were beneath him. Unworthy of his and his sister’s attentions.

  Nessa breathed a sigh of relief as they moved past. They didn’t notice her amongst the awed throngs. They didn’t know that she was there in the crowds. Then she spied an emerald dragon fly overhead as the next pair of Riders passed by.

  And everything changed.

  The blood in her veins turned to ice as she watched the creature soar and dance through the sky in a beautiful display of deadly grace and strength. It was Margan’s dragon. It was Anda.

  Margan.

  She didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t want to put a face to the name. Better a faceless monster than a beautiful demon. But she couldn’t help herself.

  Nessa’s eyes were drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

  Margan.

  He rode beside a pretty girl who looked like she could have been his sister, both of them had pale-blond hair and wore matching expressions of boredom. Braelyn of House Blēoh, one of the three female Dragon Riders who served under the king, looked as pretty as a winter rose, and as delicate as one too, all softness and regal grace. It was a facade. Nessa knew better. She could sense the power crawling beneath Braelyn’s skin. She was almost able to see its aura.

  Whereas Braelyn was a winter rose, Margan was ice. Cold and hard. Not even his sharp beauty could hide that. There was nothing but cruelty in his glacial-green eyes, nothing but anger in his posture.

  Nessa watched him pass by, a din filling her mind. How could people cheer for him? For them? Do they not see what monsters they are? How cruel they are? How much pain they cause?

  How much pain he causes?

  It was as if time had slowed down. Nessa’s vision was filled with nothing but the sight of Margan. Her ears were filled with the crowd’s applause and praise. A headache formed behind her eyes, a deep throb that echoed the thundering of her heart.

  The ice in her veins turned to fire.

  The fire was painful.

  How could they admire him?

  The fire was agonising.

  Why are they admiring him? All the pain, the uncertainty, the fear he has caused me… How? Why?

  Nessa collapsed, falling to her knees, a soundless scream ripping from her throat, her hands clutching at her head. Spikes, knives, talons, claws were being driven through her skull, fracturing it into a thousand pieces. The world around her shrivelled and shrank to nothing, becoming dark and sinister, barren and claustrophobic. She was floating in a sea of black flames, burning to a cinder, burning to ashes.

  Burning…

  Burning…

  Ping…

  The strangest of sensations invaded her mind, something akin to a sharp crack of crumbling glass, of something breaking. Shattering. Then there was someone else in the flames with her, someone known to Nessa yet also a stranger.

 
Nessa reached for them, calling for answers, begging for help.

  She was drowning in a sea of fire.

  Words whispered through Nessa’s mind, as quiet and soft as a spring breeze, intangible and strange, echoing around in the darkness that had swallowed her whole. There was distorted laughter…crying…screams…

  Promises…pleading…

  Nessa fell deep within herself, pulled beneath the current of voices. Some were hers. Other weren’t. Images accompanied them, flashing here and there, filling her fractured mind, showing her so many things. So many great and terrible things.

  She stopped burning. She stopped drowning.

  The pain vanished.

  Nessa was freed from the darkness with a suddenness that made her gasp.

  She felt different.

  Changed.

  Nessa opened her eyes, squinting up at the bright, blue sky above her, which was framed by stocky buildings on two sides. She was laid out on the cobbled ground in a quiet alley. The crowd and procession were nowhere in sight.

  “Why am I on the ground?” Nessa asked, confused and a little disorientated. “Where am I?”

  Hunter was crouched down beside her, and as he leaned over, messy hair fell casually over his forehead, almost hiding the concern in his amber eyes. “You collapsed,” he explained. “We got you away from the crowd before you caused a ruckus.”

  “Yeah.” Nessa turned her head and found that Orm was leaning back against the side of a building, arms folded across his chest, his gaze locked onto the alley’s entrance, making sure that no one stumbled across them. “Luckily for us, everyone was more interested in the Dragon Riders then your fainting arse.”

  Hunter sent Orm a warning glare.

  It went unnoticed.

  Nessa shot to her feet, breathing heavily. The satchel, the grimoire, was a comforting weight on her hip. Fainting. If only it had been as simple as that.