THE SUNDERLANDS
World of Aureum Series, Book One
ANASTASIA KING
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Midwife of Souls
1. DEATH
2. ABSOLUTION
3. DARKNESS
4. THE HUNT
5. DAWN
6. THE BIRTH OF TERROR
7. CLAN RO’HALE
8. THE CORONER
9. THE FIFTH & THE TENTH
10. HARK! THE HERALDS OF WAR
Queen of Bones
11. DUTY
12. TEMPTATION
13. THE RIVER LIRI
14. A GOD BLEEDS
15. THE WEDDING
16. PILGRIM
17. HEIRESS
18. THE ORACLE
19. THE WIFE
20. THREE MAIDENS AND A BEAR
21. DESOLATION’S DAUGHTER
The Fate of the Sunderlands
22. DISCIPLE OF DEATH
23. TWO ARROWS
24. CONTROL
25. TO DRINK BONES
26. THE HUNTRESS AND THE WOLF
27. THE ACCURSED
28. THE ASSUNDERANCE OF CHILDREN
29. THE MAWS OF MEN
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgments
Copyright 2019 Anastasia King
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Cover: Micaela Alcaino
Editor: Chloe Szentpeteri
Formatting: Evenstar Books
This one is for the little girl who wrote in secret,
who burned her journals full of stories,
and grew up and got a “real job.”
It’s my pleasure and privilege to finally say…
Welcome to the
World of Aureum
Next title release in the
World of Aureum Series:
Kings of Stone and Shadow,
Book Two
Midwife of Souls
“Under the darkened skies
We lapse into our deepest thoughts.
Midnight’s canopy,
A question of truth or lie,
Is strung by stars
Witnessing our faults.
Then, interrupted by the dawn,
Our guilt is absolved
By the sun.”
-Keres
1. DEATH
Yesterday, they shook me out of bed with the news that one of the nine dying warriors was choking. I didn’t wash my face, didn’t dress. I ran. If I hadn’t left her side to begin with, it might have ended differently. The healers never abandoned the nine. Despite my exhaustion, I refused to walk away until a bent-boned elder told me to take a rest. Obeying earned me the overwhelming despair of cradling the warrior’s lax body in my arms until she died.
Tonight, the silence wakes me. The blankets caught me in their net as a current of eerie peace towed my mind from panic. At last, I’m not fighting for air. My mouth is gasping, but my rigid muscles are relaxing. My eyes adjust to the darkness. My mind chokes on the memory as I lay on the shoreline of nightmare and reality:
Water. There was nothing but water filling my head and lungs. I was sinking. Drifting in a relentless current. Kicking against the hand wrapped around my ankle. Was it pulling me deeper or to the surface? Was the chill in the water or in my blood?
My stomach uncoils as I sit up, careful not to wake my sleeping family. The eerie hush of the night moves neither my sister nor my father. A wave of bile washes away the dull ache in the back of my throat. I push the sweat-soaked blankets to the foot of the bed and shift to the edge. A headache splits my skull. Not enough sleep, not enough air. Every time I have that dream, I hold my breath. I dangle my pale feet for a moment above the black soil. The earth looks like an abyss, and I shake away the thought before touching down a toe.
The wind hisses against the tent walls. Did I imagine it spoke my name? “Keres.”
I wait until silence again fills my ears. The night air attempts to soothe my skin as I pad over to the washbasin. Memories of my dream splash around in my head. I try to drown them out, but the silence that woke me is less mollifying.
“Keres,” it says again.
That voice is as familiar as my own. It’s not the wind. I grip the sides of the washbasin and my stomach boils from the stress of hearing Him again. “Mrithyn,” my spirit responds. His call makes my blood sing in my veins, and a dull chorus fills my ears. His voice echoes in my bones.
I become keenly aware of Him. He’s no longer brushing his hand against the tent walls. He’s no longer outside, deepening the darkness. In the mirror’s reflection, I watch his shadow creep along the floor and walls. Its black limbs unfold and curl in unnatural ways. Its fingers grasp, and unfurl, stealing inches of the room. The shadow stands to its full height, taking up the wall and towering above me. My knees buckle as I realize why He’s here.
Whatsoever is in His hand, is still in ours.
He is in all and all are His.
All must pass from Life to Death.
So, we let go at the time He calls,
To rejoin those lost when Death’s claimed us all.
My knees falter but I cannot bow to Him. Tonight, the God of Death comes to take who is dear to me.
A moan breaks the silence. At the sound of breathing, the shadow melts off the wall into the black ground. My older sister stirs in her bed. I count her breaths, settling my own.
“Liriene?” I test the air.
My eyes slide toward the other bed in the far corner. I wait for any sign my father still breathes there. A loud snore cracks the air, and I let out a short breath. The threshold darkens once more. Like a cloud passing over the moon, the phantom darkness crosses back over it to rejoin the shade of night. He’s not here for them.
I resist the urge to run into the night and chase His shadow. To throw myself at His feet, clutch the hem of His garment, and follow Him down to the land of the dead with the souls He’s harvested tonight. I should be amo
ng them. Instead, I turn my back on them and my guilt. Death passed over us. I should be grateful He isn’t greedy.
In the looking glass, a blank-faced reflection meets my gaze. I splash my face with water and grab a washcloth to scrub at my once golden skin. This past week has wearied me to the bone. I haven’t slept a full night since the day before the last attack. I push my hair behind my long, pointed ears.
The wind catches its breath. My eyes pinch shut as I count. One. Two. Three. The wind sighs, sated. It’s done then. The last of them have died. My shoulders drop under the weight of my realization. The washcloth splashes into the bottom of the basin harder than I intended.
If I hadn’t forsaken my duty to the nine, would it have saved them? The thought spurs me to dress up in my usual light undergarments and worn leathers. The barbaric weapons had devastated the ninth warrior’s armor. I remember her wounds and how her blood soaked their futile dressings.
I called for water for her and they gave it to me. I pressed it to her parched lips. I demanded magic and herbs, everything and anything to save her. Our resources were wearing thin, spent on the nine warriors who each bore horrific injuries. Our efforts did more harm, keeping them on the brink of suffering instead of letting them sink into oblivion and peace.
“They will pay for this, Katrielle.”
She couldn’t speak above a hoarse whisper, but her eyes held a desperate plea and a warning which I scorned. “Coroner.” Every breath hitched in her lungs, blocked by the blood in her throat.
I lost my temper at her calling me that. “You will not die.”
Someone spoke from behind us. “Coroner, Hayes is dead, we need you to give his rites.”
I ignored the healer, refusing to leave Kat even for a second now.
My fear and regret were the last things I could offer her. I demanded she live, but she wasn’t strong enough to resist Death. Blood filled her lungs, and she sputtered as she tried to tell me not to cry. I told her she was my best friend, my right hand, and she nodded her head, her eyes hanging low. I asked her how I could fight those who had done this to her and our comrades if she died. She smiled, and I knew what she’d meant by it.
“She’s bleeding inside,” I said as I supported her full weight in my arms. Her head rolled back, jerking upward as another fit of coughing arrested her body. More blood splattered my bare feet.
“They will shed more blood,” I told her. “You must be with me to fight them. If we don’t stop them, they will kill again. Stay with me!”
She smiled. “Tell, Liri–” her last words were interrupted by a sudden loss of air. Her lips turned an ugly shade of blue, her brown eyes bulged as her chest shuddered and deflated. And then her eyes closed, and her murderers’ fate sealed with them.
Tonight, Mrithyn will claim all nine souls, hers among them. The nine fought together, died within days and hours of each other, and now they go on to the next life together. I’m not sure what tomorrow holds for me without my comrades, but I know what tonight will.
Katrielle died in my arms yesterday, and the healer demanded I perform the rites for her soul. I’d put off performing all their rites of passage to the world of the dead, hoping to delay Mrithyn’s visit to their bedsides.
“Not until the last one takes his final breath,” I told the healer. A painfully futile attempt at dissuading Death from claiming them all. Their wounds had defeated their bodies. Their blood called to the God of Death and I could not mute it. Mrithyn comes now to take them to their rest. The agony, the life crawling out of the warriors’ eyes and gasping mouths... finished.
Footsteps shuffle outside the tent and it sounds like they’re hurrying toward me. I throw my bow over my shoulder, tripping on my belt as I push past the curtain into the night.
“Coroner,” An ancient voice whispers, catching me before I can run. She flings herself toward me, and I glimpse the silvery tears streaming down her weathered face. She grabs my shoulders and leans on my chest. Her hand-bones are curdled by age and dig into me as she weeps, “Oh, Coroner.” She crumbles against me.
I don’t extend a hand of comfort; I refuse to cry in front of her.
“Vigilant Chamira,” I say, straightening my spine so she’s forced to let go of my shoulders. We address all the healers as Vigilants, the same way I, the midwife of dying souls, am addressed as the Coroner.
She leans back and opts to hang from my shawl, pawing at me as she struggles to find words. Her clear blue eyes glow with pain and fury— two things I recognize but will not mirror.
“Mrithyn, blessed be His name, has claimed the last of the nine souls.” She dabs at her eyes with callused hands before gesturing for me to follow. “Come. It is time to say goodbye. Come do—”
“No.” I cut her off, pushing her aside. Doesn’t she understand what they meant to me? How many times did the ten of us sit in Chamira’s tent getting minor wounds cleaned and bandaged? Now they’re gone, and I’m left here, a lone warrior.
She reaches for my shawl again; her lips tremble and hold back a response. I grab her hands and place them on her own chest. I note the ferality of my green eyes reflected in her wide brown ones.
The silence in the air shouts at me, screams at me to go to the deathbeds with Chamira. Her faltering mouth utters everything she wants to say without a sound. Since the attack, the sounds of Kat and the others dying had polluted the air. The cries of loved ones; groans of agony, healing incantations, and prayers to every God in the Pantheon for a miracle. It was the worst attack yet. Now, silence buries the camp once more. The same wound gaping open in my heart widens Chamira’s eyes, but I push her aside.
They will shed more blood.
Hurrying past the nine bodies of my comrades, I spare one last glance in their direction and force myself not to search for Katrielle’s face among them. Not to check whether her hand is dangling off the bed instead of folded against her empty chest. Chamira hobbles after me, sniffling, and an icy breeze reaches for my back. I spin on my heel, startling her to a halt.
“No, Chamira.” I point to the ground, ordering her to stay like a dog.
Somebody behind her draws my eye. For a second, I fear our voices have woken my sister or father. But now the presence is gone. I pause, searching the shadows of my tent entryway for the tall, cloaked man. A black hood hid his face, but I felt his eyes.
“Why do you run, Keres?” Chamira grabs at my attention again, “Your responsibility—”
“Don’t you lecture me now,” I say.
“You’re in pain—”
I grip her shoulders and shake her. “You’re out of line!” My voice carries into the shadows.
I see the cloaked figure again behind her. I look up and it disappears. Focusing back on her, I sense eyes on me.
“I will not kneel at her deathbed, fold my hands, and do nothing.”
“The rites are no small thing.” She argues. “There is nothing else except the rites, Keres.”
“Call me by my name once more and I’ll send you with the nine.” I shake her again. “You will call me Coroner. That’s who I am. Do you understand?”
She whimpers and nods.
“This is what I do. My power, my responsibility. You do not decide what I can and cannot do. You have your role and I have mine. Perform the rites yourself.”
She shakes her head, dropping her gaze. Tears follow it. “Coroner, your very bones could tell you what Mrithyn chose you to do, your duty.”
“Enough,” I snarl, releasing her but stepping closer so fast she flinches. She recoils, drawing her brown shawl around her chest. “Don’t tell me how to do my duty, healer, when you failed at your own. You didn’t save them. How effective was praying when she coughed up blood?” I ask.
Chamira breaks down, turning from me back to her own tent where the corpses decorate her front yard.
“Do your part and I’ll do mine,” I add.
She returns to the deathbeds and although I will not help, I watch her shoulders quiver as she goe
s. I shake off the tension making my own muscles tremor with adrenaline from the argument.
I move deeper into the shadows and track her every movement. The flush of heat under my skin succumbs to the chill of the night as I watch her pace between the cots, the rows of bodies. She waves incense over them and mutters her prayers with strangled sobs. The smoke from the burning incense rises into the sky, soft and swift as souls on the wind.
She was right. I turn and leave. I should be with the old bat, performing the rites, choking on tears and that fragrant smoke. Its scent follows me, and my stomach hardens as I point my eyes ahead. I lose my appetite and choose not to stop for breakfast rations. An owl’s voice in the distance echoes the thoughts in my head. “Who will pay? Who else will die? Who?”
Home becomes foreign when those you love go into the ground beneath your feet. Every step away from Katrielle’s body rings into the earth and my mind, reminding me of a lesson I gleaned from my studies of Mrithyn and his realm of eternal rest: the dead become the earth the living walks upon. Tread in memory.
As the Coroner, I must fulfil my duty to the nine tonight. Not the way Chamira was begging me to. My way. The nine should be alive. Mrithyn should not have had a claim on them. The Humans should not have given me a reason to do what I’m about to. They will regret it.
It doesn’t take many steps for me to reach the outskirts of the camp. It doesn’t take much effort to put distance between myself and the task of praying for my dead friends as their souls pass into eternity.
The walls and its vigilant watchmen are all that stand between me and my other duty. I tighten my belt and scan the walls for a guard who stands a certain way. Back straight, neck tall, and legs apart— that’s him. Shoulders set with determination to protect those sleeping behind these walls. Bow at the ready and helmeted head aimed at the forest beyond the camp.
I remember his blind spot and creep into it. Tonight, of all nights, sneaking past him proves difficult, and he coughs low in his throat when he notices me. I draw up my shawl over my stark white hair, realizing my head is a beacon at this blackened hour. If only covering my unnaturally white hair could mask the fact that Death marked me as His child.
The Sunderlands Page 1