Hidden Realms

by Dean Murray

  Mackenzie’s reply was no louder than a breath, and Hunter had to resist the urge to look at her, to see how terrified she would be in the face of this coliseum full of monsters. In the face of his king.

  She had apparently asked Krea to repeat herself, because Krea said, “Nightsbane.” There was another whisper and Krea laughed. “He translates poorly.”

  Mackenzie had not known the name this king had given him. He had never been Nightsbane to her, not a King’s Son, not a gatekeeper. Hunter imagined telling her, in those first few hours after she’d found him under Azral’s gaze. He’d woken from fever dreams, her face pressed against his chest as she slept, clearly having dreams of her own. Nightmares of the very creatures surrounding them. He couldn’t have told her, not then. Not once he’d allowed her to lock herself in a basement with him.

  “Breaking of this oldest law is no minor transgression,” Malkyn said. “That is why the penalty must be severe.”

  “It’s too many.” Mackenzie’s voice rose, and Hunter glanced at Krea, a warning to keep the girl quiet.

  Mackenzie caught Hunter’s eye. “There are too many,” she said. She was pressing a hand against her chest, the sick and pain showing through every facet of her expression. It took him a moment to understand. This arena was filled with Iron Bound. Not the hundreds that had filled her skies.

  Hundreds of thousands.

  “How many will come?” she whispered. “How many will they take?”

  Her voice was so desperate, so dangerous, that Hunter couldn’t stop himself from answering. “Thousands,” he said. “Thousands upon thousands.”

  “And for that reason,” the king boomed, “the laws are binding.”

  Binding.

  Why wasn’t he mentioning the others? Why hadn’t he asked how the gateway had opened?

  “It brings me great sorrow, for this is a son of the king,” Malkyn said. Azral waited in the background, a winged beast among a line of kingsmen. “The price for this offense must be as great as the deed.”

  No, Hunter thought. No, no, no.

  “I fear for the realm in the days to come, that we will know no greater trials than the potential loss of our reaping,” the king continued. “But hardships will strengthen us all. May the next son of a son—”

  “No,” Hunter said, stepping forward with such strength that the crowd—which had been growing agitated with the possibility of a lost reaping—fell silent once more. Hunter sucked in a shallow breath, glancing around the hall. His eyes caught on Krea, her cunning smile as she wound her wiry fingers through Mackenzie’s.

  He was caught. It wouldn’t matter what he said now. Nothing would save them.

  And that blasted legend kept replaying in his head.

  “She is mine,” Hunter said. “I claim the girl…” His words hitched, a catch in his throat, and the crowd hung in suspense. “As my queen.”

  The roar that took up the coliseum did more than Hunter’s power could have. It was a deafening howl, the bellow of a hundred thousand Iron Bound. Hunter’s skin tingled, hair rising on end. His heart beat like thunder, pulse feverish. He had done this; he had caused the chaos of this room.

  Hunter stared at Malkyn, at those dark blue eyes and ever-present scowl. This man was a king. He was a beast, a leader, the ruler of the realm.

  And Hunter had just challenged him for the throne in front of his entire kingdom.

  The initial crash of disbelief among the crowd gave way to tremors, but still Malkyn did not respond. Hunter waited for denial, for rage, for his king to laugh.

  None of those happened. No emotion crossed Malkyn’s face.

  Beside him, Hunter could hear Krea attempting to explain.

  “What?” Mackenzie said. “Wait, why—” But Hunter did not turn to her. This was bigger than a human girl. This was bigger than her realm. This was everything.

  There are games in the winds, the virago had said.

  The king would have them killed. The king would risk that once Hunter was gone, the power would revert back to him. Malkyn had wanted an execution. Hunter had given him a fight to the death.

  Amid the noise of the crowd, the king’s gaze floated to Mackenzie. Hunter was certain Malkyn could not possibly hear the girl’s agitated voice, but Hunter finally allowed his own gaze to fall to her as well.

  Her face was flushed, cheeks a hot crimson and hair a mess of waves. Krea had draped a long cape over her, the thin white fabric clasped at one shoulder, the block letters of her faded tee-shirt visible at the other side.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed. “Did you just—did you just claim me?”

  Hunter held his shoulders high, turning no more than his gaze in her direction, expression still. Under his breath, he said, “They were going to execute us, Mackenzie.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by execute?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, unsure exactly how they were even having such a ridiculous conversation, how he’d just named her his queen and risked the entire realm if both he and Malkyn were killed. “It is this or death, Mackenzie.” And then, because he couldn’t seem to stop himself, added, “Can being claimed really be that bad?”

  She pursed her lips, as if actually considering whether death trumped being tied to him, and Hunter’s jaw tensed, stare going back to the king.

  Malkyn’s mouth twitched, sending a pulse of alarm through Hunter’s chest. Was it a smile?

  The expression was gone in an instant, the king’s hand raised to silence the crowd. “Upon these days of the reaping, I shall stay my hand against the King’s Son.” Malkyn’s eyes burned blue. Hunter couldn’t seem to find his breath. “For the protection of the realm, we shall resume this matter at the turn of the earth-bound moon.”

  Malkyn’s chin lowered, meeting the beast’s massive chest as he leveled his gaze on Hunter. “The dying lands will retain a gatekeeper. At the least until a new son is born.”

  The words hit Hunter like a bolt in the chest. He and the king were the only two gatekeepers left. One of them would die. Malkyn planned on fighting Hunter, days after the reaping, so that at least one with that power remained. At least one of them could close the gate.

  And the king thought it himself.

  He expected Hunter to die. By a king’s hand.

  He expected to be alive for the next son’s birth. A chosen he could actually control.

  The cacophony rose again, but Hunter didn’t hesitate. There was no waiting to be released. He’d been given a stay… on his death sentence. He grabbed Mackenzie by the arm, glaring at Krea in the process, and stepped to the edge of the podium, pulling Mackenzie against him as their feet lifted from the ground.

  Mackenzie’s pulse was racing, fingers digging into Hunter’s bare skin. “What’s happening?”

  “The king has granted us a stay,” he said.

  Her boots pressed against him, climbing her tighter up his side. “A stay, so that’s—so it’s a good thing?”

  Hunter sighed. “He still may kill me in my sleep, but at the very least, we’ve got some time.” At the very least he could hide Mackenzie on her side. At the very least, he could be certain the gateway was closed.

  Mackenzie stared up at him, her cheek pressed hard against his shoulder. “In your sleep?”

  “Not to worry,” he said. “I won’t rest until we get you to the other side.”

  “Yeah,” she muttered, staring back at the shouting crowd of Iron Bound as they cleared the arena walls. “Me either.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Hunter returned to his rooms, not settling Mackenzie to the gray stone floor until the doors were shut behind them. She took a deep breath, and then slid her fingers free of their grip. She stared up at him, and Hunter had the unfamiliar sensation of being laid bare.

  Everyone in this world had known of his birth, of his duty, of how their fate was dependent upon his life. But no single being in the human world had ever been more than a passing stranger to Hunter.

/>   And no one in either world had ever held his concern the way this girl did.

  Mackenzie’s hand raised to his skin, hovering over the faint glow of the marks crossing his chest and shoulder, a question. Hunter’s ability to speak was lost, caught beneath that same hitch in his throat, but he gave her permission with his eyes. Her touch was feather-light, the faintest stroke across his skin, and impulses warred inside Hunter, wanting him to reach out to her, to close his eyes, to do, to be. But he did not.

  Mackenzie looked up at him, dark eyes glittering with some emotion he couldn’t quite name. She swallowed. “Is it…” Her lip drew in. “Is it magic?”

  Hunter laughed, the tension between them suddenly broken, and Mackenzie’s hand slid down his chest. It rested there for a moment, and then she snatched it away when she remembered she was touching his bare skin.

  “It is a kind of storage, I guess.” He reached for her shoulder, unclasping Krea’s long silk cape. Mackenzie stepped free of the material, seemingly grateful to be back in only tee-shirt and jeans. “For the reaping.”

  She nodded, though he doubted she could fully understand. The Iron Bound were painted in her world, an eager group of rangers and guards. But this was their own realm, and they wore only the capes and furs of their homeland. The embellishments were for her, for the humans and the excitement of the hunt. The Iron Bound apparently hadn’t realized they didn’t need them; flying beasts with horns would have been more than enough. And Hunter’s marks were something else entirely, a symptom of the power running beneath.

  “Krea said—” Mackenzie paused, glancing the room for any sign of the other woman, but her eyes came back to his. “Nightsbane?”

  Hunter’s voice dropped, though the likelihood of anyone listening was probably low. “Nightsbane is the name the king bestowed upon me. My true name, from my true father, translates roughly to Hunter in your tongue.” In truth, it was closer to one who searches, but Hunter had chosen his translation years ago, finding something that worked within her world.

  Mackenzie’s brow drew together, and he was sure she was remembering his words. He is not my father, but he is king. And I am his possession. “Your real father…”

  Hunter shook his head. “The king doesn’t allow for lingering questions of ownership.”

  Mackenzie paled. “I think—” She waved a hand in front of her face, though the room was neither hot nor stuffy. “Is there some place to get some air?”

  There was a balcony outside Hunter’s window, but the city rested beneath, swamped with Iron Bound. What Mackenzie wanted was a breeze, the wind she’d left behind.

  She wanted her own realm.

  “I’ll take you to the forests,” Hunter promised. “As soon as the crowds have had a chance to clear out.”

  “When are they going?” Mackenzie asked. “When will the gateway open and those… men take all the people back?” She shook her head. “Take them here. Whatever. The reaping,” she said. “When will it come?”

  There was a pained look on her face, and Hunter could see the deeper, more cutting question beneath: Why?

  He took her hand. “Perhaps it would be better to show you.”

  He held his arm wide, the first time he’d been able to ask permission to carry her, and Mackenzie stepped close, pressing into his side. They were quiet as they flew out of the castle, Hunter purposefully staying low. Now that the king had called him out publicly, Hunter felt safer than he had the whole of his life. But it wouldn’t be for long, and there was no reason to bring more attention.

  He took her past the far reaches of the city, to the outlands where signs of energy and life ended. The city was light and concrete, the constant buzz of power beneath his skin. But the outlands were silent, a grave. Hunter dropped lower, their feet coming to rest where the bracken fell away. It was strange to even him, a shore of moss and leaves that met this ashen sea.

  Hunter sighed, letting Mackenzie free of him. She pushed her hair away from her face, the waves Krea had made only bringing more notice to an absent breeze. She stepped forward, her hand sliding into her back jeans pocket, palm out. She was looking for a horizon. One that did not exist.

  He reached down, plucking a leaf from a fern, and moved to stand beside Mackenzie. Her gaze fell to the frond, its blue-green hue having already faded to gray, and Hunter rolled it to his open palm. “This is what happens,” he said, “when the magic is gone.”

  It wasn’t magic; it was a different form of energy. It was life. But Hunter could not bring himself to use the word. Because in this case, the opposite of life would have only been death.

  He drew the energy from the plant, pulling what little remained inside, eyes on Mackenzie as she watched it turn to ash. She didn’t understand at first, until he turned his palm, until the powdered gray fell like dust among the other below.

  Its brethren.

  Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t speak. She could only turn once more to the endless gray beyond. To the sea that was the resting place of all being and life and existence in his realm. To the death of his world, constantly encroaching.

  “This,” Hunter said over her shoulder, “is the why of the reaping.”

  Her hand came free of her pocket, sliding against her stomach, and he knew she understood. She could see how it was dying. But he needed her to come to terms with all of it, even if they were taken by his king in the coming days—he needed her to see.

  “All the hundreds of thousands inside that arena, Mackenzie. All those and hundreds of thousands more.” His palm felt thick with ash, but it was clean. “Every single man, every woman, every beast, every last sentient vine. They will all die without the reaping. They will wither to dust and scatter to the earth and never rise again. This is it, Mackenzie. This is our kingdom. A land of ash and death.”

  She didn’t turn to him for the longest while. She simply stared into the empty distance, taking in the truth of this world. Hunter had seen her watch her own realm on the brink, knowing how close she was to losing it, past a point it could never come back. And now he’d seen her watch his world’s fate, understand that the magic and light and beauty of it would also be gone.

  When she finally spoke, it was an apology.

  “I get it,” she said. “Hunter, I see, I really do. But it doesn’t make me okay with what’s happening at home.”

  He nodded; he’d not truly expected it to. He’d just needed her to understand. “The reaping is closer now,” he said. “I can take you to the forests and as soon as the alignment is near, I will try to get you through. I can’t make any promises, Mackenzie, but I’ll do my best to get you to your world before the others are pulled across.”

  “What’s happening there?” she said. “How will—I mean, will they know? Will they be scared?”

  “The worst of it is over for them,” he answered. “The Iron Bound who were left are rangers and rebels. They’ve only got power to do the same small things they’ve been doing these past few weeks. Once the gateway opens, those humans who are chosen will be drawn through. All of them, from all over your world.”

  She pressed her fingers hard against her heart, at once wincing and ill. “The chosen,” she whispered. “Drawn through.”

  “It won’t be as painful as it was for you, Mackenzie,” he promised. “They will be under our control, a kind of… thrall. They won’t feel it. The gateway will bring them here, and the influence of the energy will keep them calm until their bodies and minds have had a chance to acclimatize. They won’t be scared. They won’t be anything until they are safely within the dying lands.”

  Mackenzie’s face contorted and he had the strangest sense she was about to cry. It was possibly the worst thing he thought could happen.

  “They’ll be happy here, Mackenzie. They’ll be strong. Alive.”

  She took a shuddering breath, flicked her hand loose from her chest and shook herself out. “It’s fine,” she said. “I can do this. Tell me more. If this gateway brings the humans, why do
so many Iron Bound go to our world during the reaping?”

  “There are other things,” he said gently. “The vines and the trees and silks and furs. They don’t last as long on this side, but the others go as gatherers, to collect the things that cannot be called.”

  Her jaw clenched, fingers running hard over the base of her thumb. Hunter kept talking. “The lesser Iron Bound can’t come through by themselves. Most, actually, should have only been able to cross with someone there to pull them through the gateway.” He was still uncertain about that aspect himself. Azral and his men had attached themselves to Hunter, fighting him as they were all drawn through. But the others…

  “So the rangers,” she said. “They’ll be just like the ones who were already there? Azral and the others. Nothing else, nothing more dangerous?”

  Hunter schooled his features. “They are all very dangerous, no matter how things may seem. But the rangers are generally the youngest, those who were pulled from your realm during the prior reaping, a few thousand years earlier.” Hunter didn’t mention Azral. Azral’s choosing was done; without the raven claw he could draw no more humans to this side. If he played any part, it would only be to lead his kingsmen, manage what Iron Bound he could.

  “What about the big ones?” Mackenzie asked. “That thing that looks like a dragon,” she shook her head. “Or a giant horse with wings.”

  “The virago? No, she doesn’t pose any danger to your kind.”

  “She’s the one who got us off the pedestal,” Mackenzie said, suddenly taking a far-off look. “What’s her name?”

  “The virago doesn’t have a name,” he answered. “She did once, long ago, but she’s forgotten who she was.” It happened sometimes with the older ones, as if they’d not only lost their names, but their selves. It was why the virago spoke of herself in third person, because she was not that thing she once was. She was free from thought; she was only the now and the doing. “As you might imagine, no one has risked giving her a new name.”

  “Oh,” Mackenzie said. “That’s too bad. I like her.”