by Alex Lidell
“Not now, you idiot.” Lera rolled her eyes, her thick braid swinging against her back. “I mean, when I . . . go into heat.”
Blood rushed to Coal’s face. “I . . . I don’t . . .” He had little notion of how often such things happened to humans. Glancing around for reinforcements, he found himself alone except for Tye, who’d plainly heard the question and was backing away before Coal could pull the bastard into the conversation.
“You are aware that such things happen, right?” Lera said.
“No. Yes.” Czar danced beneath him again. Surrendering what little dignity he still had, Coal raised his face and bellowed for Kora, who had the decency to keep her face straight while listening to the problem. Once Coal was done speaking, however . . .
The laughter bubbling from Kora’s chest started as a series of small, choked sounds, escalating to a full-chested howl before she could gather control over herself, her hands on her thighs. “Plainly”—she turned to Lera, whose own attempt at holding in her laughter was losing ground by the moment—“the answer is yes, they will go crazed whenever your cycle starts—seeing as how they can’t even speak of it without turning red enough to signal their whereabouts to enemy troops.”
Coal’s jaw clenched. On top of everything, the mortal’s form was starting to slip in the saddle, and Coal’s hands strained with the desire to guide her shoulders and hips into alignment. “I’m glad you two find this so amusing.”
“No,” Lera tried and failed to master herself. “Not at all. It’s just—”
“Stop,” Coal said. “Just bloody stop. And get your heels down.”
Swallowing a final laugh, Lera turned to Kora, now walking beside Sprite’s shoulder. “Are you enjoying the Citadel?” she asked.
Kora gave Lera a sidelong glance, suspicion replacing amusement in her face.
Coal sighed. “No one enjoys the Citadel, mortal,” he said, saving the trainee from having to choose between lying and speaking against her elders. “The trials and traditions are designed to be stressful and pit the quints against each other. With senior quints taking out the abuse they received at their elders’ hands on the juniors, humiliation becomes a blood sport.”
“Do many quints quit?” Lera asked. “I mean, after the trials? I know the runes stop anyone from leaving before then.”
“Some,” Coal said shortly. “No court will accept a rogue quint, so the defectors become a law unto themselves—or sell their services to the highest bidder.”
“The Night Guard,” Lera said slowly, her eyes squinting in memory.
“Yes.” Coal straightened his back. They were almost at the Citadel gate now. “That is what those warriors siding with Mors’s Emperor Jawrar and the qoru call themselves. The council has dispatched us to put down several such units. Never a pleasant task.”
“I imagine not,” Kora said.
“Oh, come now,” Tye cut in smoothly, blatantly nudging aside Coal’s horse with his own.
Coal supposed it was a bloody miracle that the redheaded male had lasted this long before claiming the females’ attention—though if Tye had eyes for Kora, he was likely barking up the wrong tree. Then again, since meeting Lera, Tye’s appetites had turned very singular anyway.
“Bringing in rogues is better than disemboweling overgrown worms,” Tye said. “River just happens to take it a wee bit too personally—being both the one exception to the ‘no court will harbor a quint’ rule and being rather high on the whole honor and duty thing.”
“Could you translate what Tye just said, please?” Lera asked, her eyes sending lightning down Coal’s spine.
“River is the prince of Slait,” Coal said, pointedly not looking at the commander. “If his father dies, River will ascend the throne and Slait will thus absorb our quint.”
Tye grinned. “Understandably, the Elders Council wants River on Slait’s throne—and free of their control—about as much as River’s father wishes to die off.”
“Enough,” River ordered sharply, pointing ahead. They’d rounded the final switchback, and now the wall rose above them, blindingly white in the sun. The wide road led through an intricate metal archway that stood taller than two fae males and now opened on silent hinges before them.
Coal knew that it would shut just as silently and implacably behind them when they went through it.
5
Lera
I dismount before going through the gate. Not because Sprite would have any trouble navigating the entrance, but to buy myself a few extra moments. Despite the laughter and conversation, echoes of the haunting images that flooded my mind at the first sight of this wall still thud through me. Gray, cold, streaked with blood left by broken fingernails. Manacles cut into my skin, the sound of them closing around my wrists turning my bowels. The stench of pain to come—I blink to disperse the vision.
Shade’s wolf hangs back to wait for me. Then, catching my eye, he seems to think better of it and lopes on after the others, letting me find my own footing through the gate.
Whatever dungeon I thought I saw in my mind, I discover a moment later, was most certainly not the Citadel. Grand buildings of shining white marble rise in every direction, connected by a vast square of geometric pathways and manicured, bright green grass. Flowing grapevines wrap around thick columns. The air smells like fruit blossoms and freshly cut lawn. Fae stride along with purpose, some—armed and uniformed in a manner similar to Kora and her warriors—moving together in groups of five. Others, dressed in whatever struck their fancy that morning, stride alone or in pairs, their arms laden with books and scrolls. I’d imagined the Citadel as a military barracks of sorts, but it appears to be a place of study and learning as much as a warrior training ground. How I imagine a university would look back in the mortal lands, not that I’ve ever stepped close to one.
“Stars,” I breathe, surrendering Sprite into the care of a hostler who has appeared silently to tend to the horses. “This place is gorgeous.”
River and Coal exchange a glance that I can’t read, Tye suddenly finding the cuffs of his jacket incredibly interesting.
Discomfort slithers through me, but before I can question the males, River steps in front of Kora. “I wish to meet whoever told you that first trials were coming and sent you to intercept us.”
Kora’s face colors. “It was a misunderstanding, sir.”
“It was a calculation meant to humiliate you,” River says flatly. “I am quite familiar with the quint-trainee hierarchy, Kora. Including the power that senior trainees have to issue orders to their juniors. I presume this specific instruction came from a third trial who’s senior to you?”
The female lifts her chin. “A misunderstanding.”
“I wasn’t making a request,” River says, with enough quiet force to make Kora’s skin blanche.
“Yes, sir.” Kora bows, drawing herself up again. “Malikai and his quint will most likely be in the practice arena at this time of day. It’s this way.”
The female quint starts walking and I go to follow, only to realize that my body is little eager to obey. Filled with fae warriors and grand structures and magic, the breathtakingly beautiful Citadel suddenly seems like a poisonous flower. A spark of envy tugs at my chest as I watch Kora’s confident steps. A warrior in body, heart, and soul. And me . . . I try to swallow, finding my mouth so dry that I fail even at that.
When the Elders Council sees me, they are going to roll on the floor in laughter.
A small nip of pain pulls my attention to my hand, currently in the mouth of a large wolf, his tail swaying slowly beside my left thigh. River, Coal, and Tye, I realize a moment later, have closed ranks around me as well. All trying to look like they wandered into the formation by sheer accident. I take a deep breath, inhaling River’s clean, woodsy scent, spiced with the pine, earth, and metallic musk of the others, a blend that’s as familiar now as it is comforting.
“Thank you,” I whisper, feeling even more grateful when not a single one acknowledges having
heard me. We move out to follow Kora across the broad central square, toward a building shaped like a cistern, a wide, circular structure with a flat top.
“You realize that this Malikai bloke could only have known we were coming if he’s licking the council’s boots,” Tye says softly.
“The council’s favorite trainees have always been the worst,” River says, his hands clasped behind his back. Stars know how he managed it, but the blue jacket and black pants he donned this morning still look as crisp as new. “I can’t imagine that’s changed.”
I try to mimic the male, straightening my back and lowering my tensed shoulders in what I’m certain are subtle movements—until Tye groans on my right.
“Him? Of all of us to take after, you chose that ugly bastard?” he demands.
The bastard in question turns to flash his glistening canines at Tye. “What did you expect? Leralynn is much too bright to take after you.”
“Tell me what all these buildings are,” I say quickly, halting the retort I can see forming on Tye’s tongue. “I assume the tall tower is for the council, but what is that huge bowl beneath, with the paddock beside it?”
“That’s the trial arena,” River says, smoothly accepting the change of subject. “It is heavily warded and only accessible during trials. A smaller practice arena, where we’re headed now, and other training structures line the north side of the Citadel. The dormitories for quints, visiting scholars, and staff are on the south end. The large building on the east corner is the library, with the dining hall beside it.”
“What about that sea of huts?” I say, squinting against the high sun as I point south toward a distant cluster of wooden buildings that seem to belong to this sacred place as little as I do.
“Guard country,” River replies, his voice tight. “That’s where non-bonded warriors like Pyker dwell. They keep to themselves there, unless on duty.”
Pyker. Klarissa’s pet, who tried to stage my death and come out the hero. I want to ask where he might be now, having been handed back into Klarissa’s hands a week ago, but we are already walking up to the smaller cistern-shaped building. Up close, I can see that it’s a broad, windowless stone tower with a set of steps winding around the outside wall from ground to roof.
Except there is no roof, I realize as the ten of us get to the top—just the flat edge of a thick wall encircling a sand floor two stories below. Two groups of five fae males are there now, both sets dressed similarly to Kora’s quint except for their underlying colors—a fiery orange and a mute purple instead of the females’ emerald green.
The orange quint stands with their hands connected, a glow like a miniature sun surrounding the five of them. And the purples . . . I wince as an invisible force lifts two of the males into the air and slams them into the wall. The orange leader, a tan-skinned male with long black hair tied back at the nape of his neck and a sharp widow’s peak, laughs. Even at this distance, his pale eyes glow cruelly from his handsome face. “Get up and do it again,” he calls as his victims gather themselves, blood covering their skin, hair, and clothes.
Bile rises in my throat. I’ve seen this scene before. Lived it. Not the magic and uniforms and training arena, but the sheer helplessness of a larger master doling out punishing blows that, no matter what he or anyone says, nothing will prevent.
A hand spreads on my back. Not along one of the spots that the males’ palms often brush—my shoulders or lower waist—but right under a shoulder blade. Where Zake’s belt left its final marks before the males pulled me from that stable.
I turn my head to find Coal there. Not looking at me at all, even as his touch says everything.
“That is Malikai?” River asks Kora. “The senior of the third trials?”
“Yes, sir,” the female says grimly. Her body is tense, uncomfortable with being here. “But those are first-trial trainees. The newest.”
I swallow, my voice low enough for only Coal to hear. “If River calls out Malikai now, the bastard will make Kora pay for it later.”
Coal says nothing.
Before I can say more, one of the purples holds out his hands, a fireball launching from his palms. I gasp, jerking away from the edge and into another male body.
Tye puts an arm around my shoulder, his pine-and-citrus scent soothing my nerves. “The practice arena is warded,” he says into my ear. “The magic will not escape these walls.”
The fireball slams into the orange quint’s shimmering shield, the flame dissolving into harmless hissing smoke. In retaliation for the assault, rocks the size of small apples rise from beneath the sand, pelting the purple fire-thrower until he cries out, collapsing to his knees.
“Again,” Malikai calls to the fire-thrower, who is still down on all fours. “Do you imagine your first arena trial will be gentler? Maybe you should beg the council to cleave you idiots apart now. Save us all the trouble.”
I don’t see Coal move until he is flying through the air to land softly in the middle of the sparring ring. With his tight black leathers, fierce blue gaze, and long sword strapped down the groove of his back, he is the consummate warrior. Beside him, the other fae seem little more than colorful toys.
“Who the bloody—” Malikai’s words die in midair as he finds himself looking first at Coal and then at the rest of us, lining the top of the stone wall. When Malikai’s gaze touches mine, his eyes flash with distaste. Turning back to Coal, however, the male pulls himself up straight and bows, the rest of the males on the sand following his example. “Sir,” he says, his tone full of grudging subservience, “how might we be of assistance?”
“I want this space,” Coal says calmly.
“Of course.” Malikai bows again, his face tight. “We will clear out at once. My apologies for not anticipating your needs.”
I raise a questioning brow at River. “Seriously? Did that bastard just go from thinking himself a god to pretending to be a footman in a heartbeat’s time?”
River nods without humor. “Coal is a full quint warrior and Malikai only a third trial. He has no choice, not unless he wishes to find himself at the flogging post.”
Of course the Citadel would have such a thing. A poisonous flower indeed.
Coal’s hand shoots out, grabbing Malikai’s wrist. “Keep your quint here, Third Trial,” he says in that velvet-soft voice that promises painful things to come. “I wish to train.”
A corner of River’s mouth twitches, the only sign he gives of having an opinion on Coal’s actions.
Malikai swallows. “Of course. It will be our pleasure to provide whatever your quint—”
“Not my quint.” Coal’s smile is feral as he pulls his sword from the scabbard down his spine. The razor-sharp steel winks in the sun. “Just me.”
My heart stutters. Five. Coal wants to go up against five.
The purple quint is out of the arena in the blink of an eye, climbing up a ladder I didn’t notice before and bowing to us as they slide by toward the outside steps.
“All of us,” Malikai clarifies with Coal down below, his voice growing cockier. “Again, just—”
That’s as far as he gets before Coal’s heel sweeps the back of Malikai’s ankle and the male lands hard on the sand.
Behind Coal, Malikai’s quint brother gathers a ball of orange flames around his hand. I open my mouth to shout a warning, but River touches my arm and motions for silence. My heart pounds as the flaming sphere grows to the size of a grapefruit and the male holding it cocks his arm to throw the mass at Coal’s unprotected back.
At the last moment, Coal moves, his muscles flexing like a dancer’s as his body slides off the center of the attack. The fireball, deprived of its intended target, continues on, now rushing toward the half-risen Malikai.
The orange-clad male drops gracelessly back to the sand, narrowly avoiding the blazing magic, which fizzles harmlessly against the far wall.
Coal is already rolling again, avoiding a second blazing sphere, this one lobbed against the hissed advice of
the other warriors. Coal’s steel glistens in the sun as he comes to his feet, a stone gripped comfortably in his free hand. One of the damn rocks that Malikai’s quint pelted the first trials with. My breath halts as Coal’s arm snaps like a whip, each muscle so perfectly controlled as to make the movement seem slow motion. The stone flies from his palm, cracking into the fire-thrower’s hand.
The male screams and bends over his bloodied limb, his pain and fury echoing off the arena’s stone walls while the third fireball he’d been building fizzles into smoke.
“Connect!” Malikai orders, his quint brothers already rushing to the downed fire-thrower, their hands outstretched.
My stomach clenches. A connection. The moment those five link together—
Coal flows. A blur of leather and steel as he rises suddenly at the head of the column that Malikai’s quint scampers to form. Forcing the quint’s males to be in each other’s way.
Malikai, who was the farthest from the column, rushes forward with his arm outstretched—only to yank it back as Coal’s sword slices the air that Malikai’s hand was about to travel through.
Grabbing that arm, Coal twists it behind Malikai’s back hard enough to drive the male to his knees. With the next heartbeat, Coal’s sword rests against Malikai’s exposed windpipe, the defeated male’s chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths.
“Anyone make a move and I will slit your commander’s throat,” Coal informs the quint calmly.
They freeze, looking to their kneeling leader for instruction until Malikai manages to rasp, “Yield,” nicking his own throat on Coal’s blade in the process.
Withdrawing the sword, Coal shoves Malikai between the shoulder blades, sending the male’s face into the sand. “Get up and let’s do this again,” Coal says, now swinging his weapon in a lazy arc. “I’ve all the time in the world.”