Power (Dark Scions Book 3)

by Anna Carven

  “Stay put,” someone growls. “Don’t move or we’ll put you in chains.”

  I look up into the rough, grizzled faces of around a dozen men, all sailors. The soldiers must be sheltering somewhere else. The men are drenched, and several of them start to strip off their shirts and trousers, revealing hard bodies decorated with scars and crude blue ink tattoos. I see hearts inscribed with the names of their lovers. I see skulls and daggers and serpents and the symbol of Elar; a simple circle with five rays of light radiating from it.

  The ship violently rocks to one side, sending the sailors scrambling for the walls, where they latch onto anything and everything that will anchor them in this maelstrom.

  This storm feels even worse than the hurricane I weathered with Enak, although we are on the open sea and not sheltered in a mangrove creek.

  A dozen hard eyes snap toward me, conveying anger and fear.

  “We got you down from there,” one of them, a silver-haired man with a short, pointed silver beard and a hook for a left hand growls. “Now make this cursed thing stop, witch.”

  I’m weary and cold and sick in my stomach from the violent motion of the sea, but I manage to summon a dark laugh. “I don’t hold any power over the gods,” I say quietly as the wind and waves slam against the hull. Well, apart from one… “The gods will do whatever they please, just as they’ve always done.” I twist my sodden hair into a long tail and squeeze out the excess water. Then I flick it over my shoulder. I’m tempted to peel off my supple leather vest and trousers so I can hang them up to dry, but there’s no way I’m exposing any skin in a room full of disgruntled sailors who probably haven’t seen a woman, let alone been with one for Celise knows how many moons.

  Besides, these clothes were a gift from Kaim. He personally chose them for me. I will wear them like a second skin until these Midrian bastards force me to remove them.

  Feeling strangely calm, I cross my legs and lean against the wall, bracing myself with one arm. I point to the crimson Mark around my right eye, glaring at the sailors as the cabin rocks and forth. “I didn’t ask for this Mark, but when you Midrians first came to my village, you made damn well sure I understood what it meant. But think about it. If I am truly Lok’s chosen, as you all seem to believe, then surely only a madman would try and harm me. Elar alone cannot protect you from the wrath of the gods. Who knows,” I lower my voice dramatically, “perhaps there are some gods that are more powerful than Light.”

  “Don’t you dare disrespect the Almighty, you heathen bitch,” someone growls.

  I raise an eyebrows at the speaker, a heavily tanned sailor with wild curly brown hair and a thick golden earring in one ear. He glares back at me and spits on the polished wooden floor.

  I frown in disgust. How filthy.

  “You’re Marked,” the silver-bearded man repeats dully, as if he just can’t fathom what I’m telling him. “You brought this cursed storm upon us. You said you would make it stop if we took you in. You lied to us, witch.”

  Angry murmurs ripple through the men. Their eyes are hard with fear and suspicion, and I sense they could turn on me at any moment.

  “I never said I have the power to stop this storm.” I say, surprised at how calm I sound. “Only the gods hold that kind of power.”

  The angry mutterings grow louder. The sailors loom over me threateningly.

  I raise my voice. “Wait. Before you do anything you might regret later, just wait and see what happens. Mark my words, the storm will pass.”

  All storms will eventually pass. The old Tieg saying echoes in my mind.

  As if to prove my point, there’s a sudden lull in the storm. The ship’s violent rocking turns into a gentle sway.

  The sailors go quiet, staring at me in a strange way, as if I’m Celise herself.

  They exchange knowing glances with each other.

  “Told you,” mutters the sandy-haired youth who freed me from my restraints. “Leave her be. S’not wise to anger the death god.”

  Before he can say another word, the storm heaves the ship to one side, forcing the sailors to tighten their grip on various handholds. I maintain eye contact with them as I brace myself against the wall.

  “It will pass,” I declare solemnly.

  Some of the sailors actually looked relieved. They seem to read a lot into what I’m saying, but really, I’m just pointing out the obvious.

  It’s a storm, not a season.

  And I don’t have any secret mystical powers.

  The only one I know who truly possesses that kind of power is Kaim.

  My fierce god, who controls the flow of time.

  He will come for me, and when he does, these Midrians will understand that all their foolish superstitions and curses are meaningless.

  See, back there in the soundless place of his dreams, I tasted just a tiny hint of his anger.

  If he wasn’t on my side, I would be very, very scared right now.

  Treat me well, sailors, if you want to survive.

  When he unleashes it on the empire, it’s going to swallow everything in its path.

  Fifteen

  Kaim

  I’m in the dragon’s claws again, flying over snow-covered slopes and peaks until we reach the sheer cliffs of the Black Mountain.

  I catch sight of the Zaux river, which flows through the heart of the mountain and exits in a tall, spectacular waterfall. Even in the deep of winter, the Zaux flows at a steady pace, the water kept hot and steaming by underground hot springs that also provide energy to the Ven citadel at the top of the mountain.

  The dark peak is as massive and forbidding as ever. I stare down at steep slopes that are so smooth in places they almost look like black glass.

  The Ven citadel of the Black Mountain is probably the only truly impenetrable fortress in the world.

  There’s no way anyone could climb up there, not even me. Many times, especially when I was younger, I dreamed of infiltrating the Ven stronghold in the deep of night and slitting all their cursed necks, but to actually attempt such a thing would be a fool’s errand.

  The only way to enter the Ven stronghold is to sail down the river and through a vast cave that leads to the northern entrance, which is sealed by massive stone doors that can only be opened from the inside. Sentries with crossbows guard every entrance, every foothold, and every opening of the mountain base, and the river is so hot nobody could survive a plunge into its sulfury depths.

  What a diabolical setup.

  It’s the perfect assassin’s nest.

  Ancient Ioni lore has it that this place was built by the gods in a time when they actually walked this earth, before the world was split in two and the great rift appeared.

  But nobody really knows the origins of this cursed place. Like so much of the Rift Continent, it is shrouded in mystery.

  Vyloren banks and catches an icy current of wind that sends her swooping down toward the Nightstar Spire, the tallest of all the towers on the citadel.

  There it is.

  The Citadel of the Black Mountain. A structure hewn from black stone, built into the north side of the mountain. There are four spires, the tallest being the Nightstar, which faces toward the east, where the pink-hued star of the God of the Infinite Night shines.

  The sight of the dark towers of the citadel fills me with a strange emotion. It’s somewhere between longing and revulsion; dread and excitement.

  And of course, the anger is always there. It’s ice and fire burning through my veins.

  It’s deep yearning.

  Longing for her.

  Endure, my love.

  But now I have something I must do.

  The Black Mountain calls to me.

  Mak’tar.

  Mak’tar.

  Mak'tar.

  The ancient name is a steady pounding chant inside my skull; inside my chest, merging with the rapid beat of my heart. My heartbeat is too fast, a result of the sickness and the pain and the anger churning inside of me, but I don’t
care.

  They will pay.

  And the dark man in my dreams… well, I still have unfinished business with him.

  The next time I fall asleep or unconscious, he will tell me all about my cursed blood and why I appear as pale as moonlight itself.

  Why my natural human skin tone seems to be fading more and more, leaving me as white as snow and sometimes strangely crystalline.

  What are you?

  Amali doesn’t care. She accepts me all the same.

  My sweet forest witch.

  The only one who truly doesn’t fear me.

  I’m coming.

  I’m going in now. Vyloren’s voice resonates in my mind, breaking through my thoughts. Prepare yourself.

  At least she gave me some warning before angling her body and dropping toward the circular parapet of the tower. I peer through the gaps between her curved claws and see three black-garbed figures standing in the center of the tower.

  One, I recognize. That’s Djeru the Infiltrator, who once trained me. His once-black hair is now a shock of white, but he looks as hard and mean and wily as ever. His face looks surprisingly youthful. I thought he’d be old and decrepit by now.

  The other two, I don’t recognize at all. They look to be barely in their twenties; tall and lean, their faces betraying the kind of arrogance that only the young possess.

  The wouldn’t have even been born when I first started my training.

  Now they think they’re invincible; that nothing in the world can touch them.

  I should know. I was once like that.

  Three fully-trained Ven, all armed with the traditional twin swords of our order, waiting for me to arrive.

  Where’s that bastard Khelion Rel? He isn’t coming to receive me himself? Me, the only person in the world who has ever escaped the Ven? Who has single-handedly almost destroyed the sacred reputation of the Order?

  Is he too important nowadays or something?

  “This had better be worth it for whatever you’re trying to protect,” I mutter as she extends her wings and glides down toward the tower. We’re dropping fast, but as she nears the waiting Ven, she slows dramatically, angling her wings to catch the updraft.

  She swoops down low.

  Good luck to you, son of Nek’tem.

  Nek’tem? Who the fuck is that? It isn’t a name I’ve ever heard before.

  “Cryptic as always, dragon,” I growl. I am getting so sick and tired of these ancient ones and their cryptic nonsense. Before I can probe further, Vyloren gently drops me onto the floor of the parapet.

  Well, as gently as a swooping massive beast possibly can. I hit the hard stone surface with a thud, breaking my fall best as I can with my legs.

  Somehow, I manage to stay on my feet. I rise to my full height and stare at the Ven.

  The mountain wind rushes past, whistling through the crevasses, whipping my unruly hair around.

  I say nothing as Djeru studies me with his cold brown eyes.

  The fire coursing through my veins turns to ice.

  My anger turns cold.

  Even though I’m bound and helpless, I feel unusually calm.

  I feel the solidness beneath my feet. I feel the steady, ancient presence of the mountain radiating up through the stone.

  It’s familiar and strangely reassuring.

  After so many winters in the wilderness, I am finally home.

  It’s time to finish this.

  How?

  I don’t know yet. Behind my back, my nonexistent fingers itch for the wrapped hilts of my Inshadi steel swords.

  But my swords are gone.

  Djeru walks toward me, his soft leather boots perfectly silent on the cold stone floor. Despite his age, his movements are those of an elite fighter; graceful and stealthy. As always, he radiates a quiet kind of menace.

  A long time ago, he and I used to spar. I remember he enjoyed having me as an opponent. I was the first student to test him in quite some time, he’d said.

  “There might have been less painful ways for you to return, if only you’d co-operated,” he murmurs, coming to a stop just two hand-lengths in front of me. “But no. You never were good at surrender, Kaim, even though we are taught right from the beginning that our lives are worthless before the Cause.”

  I never really agreed with you on that point. I meet his dark gaze, and one corner of my mouth turns upwards, threatening to become a cold, bitter smile. “And what of your new master, Djeru? Is Khelion Rel’s life as worthless as yours, or does the Grand Master get an exception to this rule? You know, I always thought it would be you who would get to wear the complete Oraka first.” Of course, I am referring to the incomplete serpent tattoos that decorate our arms and back. Only the Grand Master is allowed to wear the completed tattoos. They signify that he is the embodiment of the Oraka, the serpent that swallows its own tail, the balance between life and death.

  Djeru remains as laconic as ever.

  If my little jibe gets to him, he doesn’t show it. His hard, lined face is as expressionless as ever. “I am a servant of the Order. Keep your mouth shut from now on, Kaim, or I will remove your tongue. Soon, you won’t need it anyway.”

  I briefly contemplate rushing Djeru and delivering a swift roundhouse kick to his infuriating face. I could do it, even in my current state. I’ve been faster than him for a long time.

  It would seriously piss him off.

  The proud, younger me would have done it.

  But now I decide against it, because I am older and wiser, and because there are two lean, arrogant wolves standing behind him, just waiting for the slightest provocation.

  My invisible hands tremble, but I force myself to be still.

  I can’t afford to do anything reckless now. Normally, I would destroy them with ease, but incapacitated as I am, these two Ven would easily take me.

  I won’t give them that satisfaction.

  “Just answer me one thing, Djeru,” I say quietly, deliberately ignoring his threat. I know he will answer me this, because once I was his best student. “Why not just kill me? Why go through all the trouble of taking me alive, even though I have killed so many of yours. It is not the Ven way.”

  The cracks at the corners of Djeru’s eyes tighten. “You have something that no other living creature in this world possesses. I would have killed you if I had a choice, but you are far more valuable to us alive.”

  I hazard a guess. The secretive power of the long line of Grand Masters of the Order has its origins in blood. “You want my blood.” Good luck with that. With a dragon’s fire poisoning me from the inside, I doubt my blood will give them much satisfaction, but stranger things have happened.

  “The problem with you, Kaim, is that you don’t know how when to turn that curious head of yours off and accept your fate.” He turns to his subordinates. “Take him down to the cells. Don’t let your guard down. He’s just as dangerous as he looks.”

  One of the young Ven gives me a disdainful look. His hair is shaved close to his head in the style favored by the Order, and he possesses the sharp, angular features of the Ioni mountain people. “Let our guard down? He’s bound. He has no hands.”

  “He isn’t human,” Djeru says simply, turning and walking away as he leaves his soldiers to deal with me.

  As I look the young warriors up and down, an evil smile curves my lips. I start to walk. The warriors tense, hands dropping to their swords.

  I chuckle softly.

  “Don’t be so tense, young disciples. I won’t bite. If you refrain from needless brutality, I might even spare your lives when I get free.”

  The other guard, a red-haired, freckle-faced man with a lazy left eye—no doubt damaged from the Morningstar he was forced to consume as a child—stifles a disbelieving laugh. “They didn’t tell me you were mad as well.”

  I ignore him and walk past them, following Djeru’s shadow as he disappears into the ancient stone stairwell at the southern end of the tower. “No need to show me the way,” I sa
y dryly as they fall into step beside me, trying to assert their authority. I was walking these stairs long before you were out of swaddling cloths.

  “Not another word out of you,” the shaven-haired one growls as we descend a narrow, winding flight of stairs. “Or I will make good on Djeru’s idea of removing your tongue.”

  How predictable, I muse, silently contemplating a thousand and one agonizing ways that I might kill the young upstart.

  But it would be pointless to try right now, because there are hundreds more Ven where these two came from, and I cannot fight them all.

  They’re watching me from the shadows right now. The Black Mountain is full of hidden vantage points and mirrors and traps.

  Even I don’t know all of them.

  And these young, loyal disciples probably don’t, either.

  Poor, cocky young bastards.

  So arrogant. So sure of themselves. So convinced that the Order is the be all and end all of their existence.

  They’re probably just hoping to be to ascend to one of the coveted Trainer positions. I can hardly despise them for the way they are. They just don’t know any better. If they are anything like I was at this age, then they have a lot to learn about our cursed Order.

  I suspect I will soon be learning a few more delightful little facts about the Order of the Ven myself.

  I don’t care what they do to me. As long as I can walk through the soundless, colorless world in my dreams, I have a chance of getting my black hands back.

  And when I do…

  Khelion Rel will pay.

  The new emperor of Midria will pay.

  The Inshadi that betrayed me will pay.

  I vow that Amali will never be made to suffer like this ever again, because I will carve out a piece of the world for us and build a fucking fortress for her.

  Sixteen

  Kaim

  They lock me deep in the stone heart of the mountain, in a cold, lightless cell with no food and water and only a cold stone floor for my bed. It’s so dark in here that even with my Morningstar enhanced vision, I can barely see.