Jeric was on his feet at once.
Shades. Three of them.
A woman screamed; the crowd gasped in horror. Jarls reached for weapons that were not there, because—on Astrid’s insistence—all had been forced to leave arms at the door for the new king’s safety. All, that was, but the guards.
The ten guards who’d carried the platform drew swords and crossbows, bolts fixed on the crowd. One aimed at Jeric, and Jeric glanced across the hall to find Braddok in a similar predicament. Some of the guests tried the doors, only to find them barred from the outside.
One guard fixed a bolt on Hagan’s face, and he raised his arms. “Astrid! What is the meaning of this?”
Jeric slowly and steadily reached for the blade he’d tucked into his vest, but a point dug between his shoulder blades. He glanced back. Another guard held a skal sword at his back. Through the helm, Jeric noticed a pair of furious dark eyes.
Sol Velorian eyes.
Understanding dawned, dark and terrible.
“So this is where all the missing Scab slaves and skal has gone.” Jeric’s voice sliced the quiet. “You’re working with the legion.”
Astrid turned to face him. To Jeric’s horror, her skin rippled as though a dozen hands slid just beneath the surface, distorting her features, and her blue eyes turned pure black. “No, Wolf. I am Legion.”
The sound came from another world. It was not one voice; it was many. An inhuman warp of hissing and snarling and screams, and Jeric’s blood turned to ice.
Astrid spread her arms, and her gown fell free, leaving her naked. Her hips protruded sharply, and her joints looked swollen against her emaciated frame. Her body was a canvas of inked glyphs—so numerous, hardly an inch of skin remained visible—that stretched and morphed from the hands pushing against her skin.
Someone screamed. Another began to weep.
And Jeric understood. All this time, they had been searching for a legion—an army. And it was an army—an army of demons living in the body of one.
In his own sister.
“Astrid… Did the necromancer do this to you?” Jeric asked, unwilling to believe it.
But Astrid did not answer. Her eyes rolled back, and a supernatural wind ripped through the hall. Candles flickered and dimmed; shadows whispered. Dark shapes seeped from her chest, rising like vapors until they filled every corner of the hall. A tide of darkness, held back by the command of one.
“What are you doing?” Hagan asked.
His voice was not so confident anymore.
Astrid’s eyes rolled forward—pure black—and they fastened on Hagan.
A shade leapt. It landed on Hagan, pinning him to the floor, and Hagan screamed. Jeric lurched on reflex, but then his world spun and did not stop spinning. He gripped the table’s edge for balance, and he noticed his emptied mug of akavit.
Akavit Astrid had chosen for the celebration.
His knuckles blanched as he gripped the table. Of all nights to drink the godsdamned akavit.
But the shade didn’t attack. It simply held Hagan there, pinned to the ground, its needlelike teeth bared while its nostrils expanded and contracted, breathing him in, eyes ablaze with hunger. Its growl rumbled through the dark and silent hall, but another force held it back, reined it in.
Jarl Bek yelled and stumbled toward the nearest guard, but a shadow swept in. It passed into the jarl like a vapor, and Jarl Bek went rigid as stone. His eyes bulged, swirling black and unseeing, and his face twisted in horror with a bloodcurdling scream. And then his eyes seemed to dissolve into tendrils of blackness, become a part of it, then suck inside as the inky shadow gathered itself and poured out of his open mouth. Jarl Bek’s body crumpled, his skin ashy white and stained by a web of black veins, and where his eyes had been, only empty sockets remained.
Lady Dona—the jarl’s wife—screamed.
The shadow soaked itself back into Astrid’s naked body. She shuddered as the spirit entered, then sighed and relaxed her shoulders, as if absorbing it had given her strength.
No one dared moved.
Jeric gaped at his sister, sickened, and suddenly, the last remaining detail clicked into place. “You are the necromancer.”
Her head tilted in a sharp and unnatural way, and she smiled. It was not her smile. It belonged to something else.
All this time, they had been searching for a necromancer and a legion, but they were one and the same. His sister, an Angevin with Corinthian blood, somehow possessed Liagé power, and she was using that power to steal lives—a legion of lives—and pull them inside of her body. Feeding off of their energy, to make herself stronger, more powerful, and then using those lives—those spirits—to do her bidding.
“Astrid…” Hagan cried out in desperation, still pinned beneath the shade. “Please…”
The shade lifted a long, gnarled finger and began carving into Hagan’s cheek. Hagan cried out in pain as he squirmed and writhed in its grip. Finally, the shade gnashed its teeth, backed away, and returned to Astrid’s side. Hagan stumbled to his feet, using the table for support, and Jeric spotted three red lines on each cheek. Like Corinth’s inquisitors. Already, the lines were turning black.
Hagan looked painfully, furiously back at their sister as black and red trickled down his cheeks. “Why…?” The word squeezed with betrayal.
Astrid regarded him. There was nothing human in her eyes, and when she answered, her voice was a distortion of many and one. “You don’t really want me to answer that here, do you? What will everyone think of you then?” She said a tsk-tsk-tsk, then stopped before him. “For so many years I hated myself for what you did to me.”
Jeric suddenly wondered something he had never wondered before. He recalled the subtle looks, the awkward intrusions and harried exits.
How often he had caught Hagan in Astrid’s chambers.
“But then I discovered the light,” Astrid continued. “I discovered a purpose greater than everything, and I realized how small you are.” She paused, regarding him with something like pity. Invisible hands snaked down her bare back, and the shadows whispered. “I now have the power to take from you what you love most, just as I took it from Father.” Her voice deepened, layered and distorted. “The power to take away the only god you have ever truly worshipped: Your self.” Her teeth flashed. “You are mine.”
39
Sable lay bound and gagged upon the ground, with sewage soaking her clothes and hair. She watched three Sol Velorians dressed in Corinthian arms care for their weapons. This was the second time Ventus had caught her, but she didn’t think anyone would rescue her this time. The one man who might probably assumed she was riding away on a horse by now.
She glared at the ceiling. Really? You’re going to get me out of my prison, only to deliver me to Ventus?
Ventus hadn’t lingered. He’d ordered his men to secure and watch over her, but he hadn’t said more than that. Sable didn’t know what he intended, or what these guards were waiting for, but whatever Ventus had in mind, clearly he couldn’t be bothered with keeping watch over Sable, nor risk letting her go.
So there she was, lying in sewage, trying to figure a way out. On the bright side, if there was a bright side, the sewage wasn’t as deep here as it’d been in other places. The men had taken her dagger and flute, and they spoke only to each other, keeping their voices low as they spoke in their native tongue—a language she knew, though their dialect differed from Istraas. Sable wanted to talk to them. They were supposed to be on the same side, and by some of the glances cast in her direction, she thought they wondered it too, but they wouldn’t dare override Ventus’s command.
How Ventus had come to be in command of an army of Sol Velorians, Sable could not figure out. How he was alive, Sable did not want to figure out, either, because that might mean Tallyn hadn’t survived.
One of the guards leaned back against the wall and held her flute to the light of the torch, which they’d propped against the wall. His dark eyes flitted to her, curio
us and also patronizing.
“What’s an Istraan doing with a Liagé flute?” he asked his fellow in their language, though his eyes lingered on Sable. “You a ziér?” A troubadour.
The taller guard, whom Sable pinned as the trio’s leader, cast her a perfunctory glance. “It’s not your job to care, kushka.”
The guard holding the flute scowled at the dark glyphs. “It’s got skárit all over it. Being caught with an object like this would get you killed up there.” He nodded to the world above them.
Sable wanted to remind them of her current position, but, for obvious reasons, she said nothing.
The taller guard cast him an irritated look, then joined the third and stockier guard a few paces ahead. The two of them bent their heads together, discussing something quietly. The man with the flute regarded Sable, then pushed off the wall, shoved the flute in his pants, and approached.
She did not look away. To look away was to give him dominance.
He crouched before her, amused, then tilted his head, studying her. “What does he want with you, eh? A court musician?” His eyes searched, then became mocking. “You are a pretty thing. Perhaps I’ll have you play privately, for me.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.
Sable jerked away and yelled into the gag. The other two guards glanced back.
“Juvé!” the tall one barked. “Leave her.”
The man called Juvé smirked at Sable. He patted her cheek and returned to his place at the wall, but he didn’t look away.
And then the world shook.
What in the wards…?
The men cried out in surprise, and the man called Juvé fell on his rear with a splash, cursed, then scrambled back against the wall. Chunks of rock and dirt rained down, and Sable curled into a ball.
When she thought the caves couldn’t possibly bear any more, the trembling stopped. The men cursed, and Sable opened her eyes to pitch-black. She straightened her body, and her fingertips knocked against a rock. It must have fallen during the strange tremor. She felt around it, and, to her delight, her fingertips grazed a sharp edge.
One sharp enough to cut her ties.
She got to work in the darkness while the men struggled with the torch, and by the time flame bloomed, Sable had sawed through the bindings on her wrists. The tall guard looked sharply over at her, appraising her for damage. Sable only glared back. Seeming satisfied, he moved on and discussed rapidly with the others.
Sable set to work on her feet, and she cut through the rope just as the men broke apart. She tucked her ankles behind her, out of immediate sight as Juvé resumed his station across from her. His eyes taunted, but he eventually grew bored, pulled a small tuft of herbs from his tunic, rolled it, and lit it with the torch.
Heshi. It was a scent she hadn’t smelled in years. Smelling it now transported her to hot desert nights, arid verandas, and rustling ferns.
“Now?” the tall guard growled.
“What?” Juvé cut back. “I’m tired of smelling this scat.”
“He’s got a point,” said the stockier guard. “May I?” he asked, approaching Juvé.
The tall guard’s expression soured, his eyes flickered past Sable, and then he set his attention ahead, in the direction Sable had come from—the direction Ventus and the rest of his Sol Velorian army had gone.
Juvé held out the herbs, and the stocky guard took a long pull. His eyes rolled back, his lids closed, and he exhaled a slow puff of smoke.
“Siéta, that’s a good blend.”
It was a strong blend, by the smell of it.
“Don’t take all of it, dásha!” Juvé said, reaching for it.
The stocky guard stepped back, teasing him with it, and Juvé smacked him on the back of the head. He handed it over with a snicker, and Juvé murmured something Sable couldn’t hear.
“Who’s your dealer?” the stocky guard asked.
“That, my good man, is a secret. But I’ll tell you what. Once we’re done here, perhaps I’ll—”
A rock clattered up ahead, and both men froze. The tall one strained to see in the darkness. Juvé looked at Sable, who glared straight back, daring him to blame her for the sound.
Which, of course, she had caused.
But they hadn’t seen her throw the rock. They’d been too enthralled by their heshi.
“Saluté?” the tall one called down the tunnel. “Ventus?” He exchanged a look with the stocky one, who joined him to investigate.
Leaving Sable with Juvé. As she’d hoped.
Sable yelled into her gag, and Juvé looked over.
“Quiet,” he hissed.
Sable yelled louder. Juvé stalked toward her, and Sable readied herself. She’d have to move quickly.
With one hand, Juvé gripped her by the tunic and jerked her up, her face inches before his.
“I said—” His eyes widened as he realized her arms were free, and Sable grabbed the heshi from his hand and shoved the burning end to his face. He shrieked in pain and let go.
“Hei!” yelled one of the other two as they spun around and sprinted toward her.
Sable kicked in Juvé’s knee, and he screamed. She shoved him back and snatched her flute from his belt. The glyphs illuminated at her touch, and she shoved it inside her tunic to hide the light, then grabbed the torch and shoved the flame into the mud and sewage, plunging them all into darkness.
Someone cursed. Juvé cried out in agony.
Sable pressed herself to the wall, waiting. The shadows would hide her, as they had always done.
“Where’s the torch?” the tall one growled.
“She broke my leg!” Juvé yelled.
“I’m going to break something else if you don’t shut up, kurjit!”
Sable didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
A footfall squished, followed by suction. Then another. The stocky one was close. Getting closer.
She could feel his warmth, smell the heshi on his breath.
And then he was standing right before her.
In her mind, she envisioned his body, his height and his build. She didn’t need light to navigate. With a quick breath and a prayer, she kicked low, striking his legs. She felt his knee give as he cried out, but before he fell, she grabbed his tunic and slammed her knee into his head.
Boots splashed as the tall man charged.
She ducked on instinct. Metal slammed against rock above her head. She rolled away and shoved the stocky man into the tall man’s path. He tripped over the stocky man with a growl, and Sable navigated around, positioning herself behind him.
She heard their breathing. Two labored, one furious. Her ears pinned on the furious. It moved away from her, then closer, debating and unsure.
She waited, heart pounding, trusting the shadows to hold her and keep her safe.
And, perhaps, trusting a higher power.
“Enough of this!” he snarled impatiently. “You won’t make it far. We’ve taken the city, and the others won’t be so kind.”
“You call this kindness?” Sable said, unable to help herself.
His footsteps squished closer.
“You’re following a monster,” she spat.
“That monster is going to help the legion free our people,” he snapped, slowly approaching. “Perhaps you should reconsider which side you’re on.”
Legion. They were all working for some legion. Even Ventus. But who was leading it?
“I’m not on anyone’s side,” Sable said. “You’re all the same. Corinthian. Sol Velorian. Slaughtering your way to the top. All you’re proving is that you are exactly what everyone feared.”
“They should fear us,” he growled, closer. “After everything they’ve done to our people. But I wouldn’t expect a little Istraan zier to understand.”
He reached for her, but she heard him a split second before he moved. She leaned aside and jammed her elbow up. Bone crunched, and he gasped with surprise and pain, then wrapped his arms around her and slammed her into the wall. She
hit with a grunt, her flute fell out of her shirt, and his large hand grabbed her neck, squeezing.
Beside her, the flute pulsed dimly in the muck.
His dark eyes widened on her. “It glows for you.”
She clawed at his hands, gasping for breath. She couldn’t answer, even if she wanted to.
He squeezed harder. “Why does it glow for you?”
She kicked him in the groin. He cried out, his grip loosened, and she slid down the wall, snatching her flute before ducking away from him. He charged her in the dim light, and at the last second, she whirled around and slammed her glowing flute against his temple.
His fight left him with a soft cry, and he collapsed with a squish and a plop.
“You might be surprised at what I understand,” she spat at him.
“Niran?” one of the other two called out, squinting in the pale light of her flute.
Sable felt around the tall man’s body for weapons and found two daggers, an Istraan star, and a sword. The sword she left, but the star and daggers she took, as well as the man’s baldric, which she slung across her back to carry her weapons.
“Vindaré.” Traitor.
Sable glanced back to find Juvé glaring at her.
“You betray your own people,” he snarled. “You will regret this.”
“I regret a lot of things, but this won’t be one of them.” She held up her flute and looked ahead, in the direction she needed to go to escape. Where a horse and one thousand crowns waited for her. Where she could run and hide and survive.
Sable closed her eyes, feet rooted to the spot.
It was all she had ever done. All she was doing now. Running from herself. Surviving as another. Existing, but never truly living.
Alone.
But it could never be how it was. She was different now. She knew the truth. And then she thought of the Wolf…
Prince Jeric.
Jos.
He was up there, facing whatever storm Ventus and the legion had unleashed.
I will be with you…
The flute warmed in her hand. She opened her eyes and ran.
The Gods of Men Page 36