A Heart of Blood and Ashes

by Milla Vane

“Who has come?” she whispered.

  The warrior’s jaw tightened as if he would not answer. Then, “Zhalen.”

  Her father. Terror struck her heart. “How did he find us?”

  For the riders had been coming straight to the hollow, as if they knew where it was. But no magic had Yvenne felt before this morning. Not since the revenants.

  Banek shook his head. He gestured forward, and she crept with him, behind another tent. Figures raced through the smoke. Yvenne readied her bow, but she could not see whether they were friend or foe.

  Until two rushed out of the swirling smoke, helms gleaming. Instantly Yvenne loosed her arrow. One soldier fell dead, the other running two steps before realizing his partner had been killed. Then Banek was upon him, slicing open his gut before following through with the neck.

  Yvenne readied another arrow. Sour fear climbed steadily up her throat, her mouth watering and stomach clenching. They slipped past another tent, then another, and past the body of a warrior with an arrow through her chest.

  A breeze swept through, clearing the smoke in front of them—revealing a dozen soldiers gathered. Yvenne fired, then fired again, and then the smoke concealed the soldiers but she could recall where they stood. Another arrow. The soldiers rushed toward them. With a roar, Banek charged, his blade a striking snake, so fast and deadly. Yvenne loosed another arrow, then screamed as a soldier snagged her from behind. She fought, swinging her elbow, and heard the soldier’s grunt.

  “Don’t kill that one! She’s the one we take!”

  The shout came from another soldier, but Yvenne would not be killed or taken. Reaching down, she snatched her dagger and buried it in the soldier’s stomach.

  “My lady! More are coming! We have to run!”

  She could not run, but Banek could. Dragging her away from the dying soldier’s grip, he swept her up against his chest and ran. She clung to the dagger, shaking, before slipping the dripping blade into its sheath. All was chaos as they passed a bloodied warrior standing with his sword, snarling to Banek that he would hold them. Then an arrow caught that warrior’s throat and threw him back. Into the smoke they continued, deeper into the hollow, and Banek began to slow.

  “To the pool,” the old warrior told her, his words a gurgling wheeze. “Seri will be waiting.”

  “No.” In horror she clung to him as he stumbled. “Banek! Banek, my friend. We can make it, I will help you.”

  Holding her tightly, he sank to his knees. “I am your shield. But you must go on alone now.”

  No no no. Wrapping her arms around his thick torso, she tried to pull his heavy form with her—and felt the arrows in his back. So many arrows.

  Silently screaming through clenched teeth, Yvenne eased him down onto his side. Frantically she tried to see if there was a way to help him, yet there was not. And his breaths were slowing now, the sound of each one shallow and wet.

  She cupped his face. “Please, Banek. Stay with me.”

  His bloodied hand reached up to clasp hers. “Go, my lady.”

  She would not leave him alone. But so quickly silver-fingered Rani came for him, he was with her one moment and gone the next. Yvenne screamed against his still chest, her pain and rage all as one. Through the smoke she heard the approach of more soldiers, the soft clang and jingle of their armor. She reached back for an arrow—her quiver was gone. Lost when the soldier had grabbed her from behind and Banek had torn her from his grip.

  But a warrior made use of what she had. Jaw clenched, she yanked the arrows from Banek’s flesh.

  With burning heart, she waited until their shadows resolved through the smoke and she killed them, one by one, with the arrows they’d used to kill her friend.

  Then no more arrows she had, and there was no one to see her cry. Tears streaming, she kissed Banek’s still cheek. Then she did as he’d bidden her, and went.

  Pulling her dagger from its sheath, she crept silently forward, gaze searching through the smoke. A soft nicker from ahead lifted her heart.

  Then a breeze slipped through the hollow and revealed her father holding a blade to Seri’s throat. A dozen soldiers stood behind him.

  Zhalen smiled. “A fine morning this is, daughter. And you have a decision to make.”

  The young warrior lifted her chin as if daring him to slice, defiant tears in her eyes. “Save yourself, my lady.”

  By running? Or by killing Zhalen? Her grip tightened on the dagger. Four throws out of five, the pointed end of the blade found her target. She might kill him. But he might jerk in a death spasm, killing the girl. If her blade didn’t find the mark, for certain Seri would die. And she had not enough knives for all of the soldiers.

  But she was not helpless. She would simply wait for her opportunity—and endure whatever suffering was to come. Because she was stronger than she knew.

  Far stronger than Zhalen knew, too.

  Yvenne tossed her dagger to the ground.

  CHAPTER 41

  MADDEK

  Full dark it was when Kelir slapped Maddek’s face, yet barely did he feel it. So numb his cheek was. As if he were drunk. But never had Maddek drunk so much.

  “Maddek!” the warrior roared into his face. “Yvenne is gone!”

  The numbness vanished. Only pain now, filling his chest as he saw the bodies in the hollow, the burned tents. But Yvenne’s tent stood.

  Hope only lasted until Ardyl and Kelir dragged him inside. Her satchel was spilled out onto the bed. A breeze blew through a slit in the hide.

  “The wolves found her dagger,” Fassad said grimly from behind him. “And Banek.”

  “Seri?” Kelir asked, voice taut.

  “Taken with them, I think.”

  Taken. By Zhalen. And she would suffer.

  Maddek roared, strength surging through him, but it only carried him forward to the bed. There he fell to his knees beside it. Foam dripped from his mouth, and he wiped it away, gathering up silk that smelled of anise. Yvenne’s wedding raiments. He buried his face in them. His last breath would be of her scent.

  Crouching beside him, Ardyl gripped his shoulder. “Vela said—”

  “That I would lose her.” So he had. “And that she will suffer.”

  “And she said—”

  “That I won’t protect her. But I vow I will.”

  Ardyl gave a sigh. “Maddek . . .”

  “Do not kill me when I sleep,” he said raggedly, for he felt that darkness closing in now. “Aezil said that he gave the brainless beasts one thought. So I will have one thought—to protect her. Even after the poison takes me.”

  Brainless he might be, but his heart . . . that would still burn true. And belong always to a queen.

  Yvenne.

  Holding to the thought of her, he slept.

  CHAPTER 42

  YVENNE

  Behind her, Yvenne felt Seri shudder herself awake. “We still ride,” Yvenne told her softly, though she didn’t think the young warrior was in any danger of falling out of the saddle. Unlike Yvenne, Seri seemed as comfortable sleeping on a horse as riding it.

  A shaky little breath and sniffle followed. Though the girl was taller and bigger than Yvenne, she was not yet a warrior’s age—perhaps only twelve years. Only twice in these two endless days and nights had the girl cried, but Yvenne thought it more of exhaustion than fear.

  Not yet had they stopped or slept. They’d changed horses, but her father had driven them hard south—and nothing had Yvenne or Seri eaten or drank, though her father had made the offer. But Yvenne had given the same warning to the young warrior as she’d given Maddek before their dinner in Drahm.

  Now the girl’s stomach rumbled, loud and hard enough that Yvenne felt it against her back. Her own gave an answering growl, but the dull cramping below her stomach worried Yvenne more than the empty ache in her belly.

  So hard and so f
ar they’d ridden. And they were not yet done, though they might finally have rest tonight.

  “We’ve slowed?” Seri whispered.

  Yvenne nodded. “There is the Syssian outpost ahead.”

  “Will they keep us imprisoned there, do you think?”

  She heard the hope in the girl’s voice. Because the outpost was only two days’ ride distant from where thousands of Parsatheans were camped.

  But that was why Yvenne had no hope. “Perhaps a night. Either the soldiers from near the Scourge will already have returned or they will soon join my father here. Then we will travel to Syssia.”

  For a moment Seri was quiet. Then in a small voice, “What do you think happened at the Scourge?”

  Yvenne couldn’t guess, and she hadn’t seen. Her father had put a cloth over her eyes—to prevent Vela from helping anyone find them, he’d said. But he seemed not worried about it now, for a full day the cloth had been untied.

  The girl had seen the Scourge fall. But Yvenne didn’t know if that meant the monster had been defeated, or if her brother hadn’t been able to maintain such powerful magic . . . or if Aezil had crushed the Parsatheans as intended and had no more use for the ruins.

  That her father had removed the blindfold told Yvenne what he believed: the Parsatheans posed not as much threat now. Yet she couldn’t accept that. “The warriors likely defeated it.”

  The girl released a soft, relieved breath. “That is what I hope.”

  Yvenne only prayed it wasn’t a false hope. “If you have opportunity in the outpost to escape, take it.” Seri was strong and quick and clever, a warrior through and through. “Do not wait for me or try to rescue me.”

  “But—”

  “Do not,” Yvenne said firmly. “I will try to negotiate your release. Most likely my father will force a promise from me, or ask me to give him something in trade—and I will agree to it. You may hear me speak lies, but it is only to save your life.”

  Because as long as the girl was here, Yvenne dared not defy him.

  “I am your Dragon,” the girl whispered thickly. “I will stay with you.”

  “You will not. Instead memorize all that you can—how many soldiers, how many horses, how fast we ride—and carry that information back home to Maddek. Swear this to me, Seri.”

  “He will come for you.” Absolutely certain she sounded. “And I swear it.”

  “I may carry his child,” Yvenne told her. And for that possibility alone Maddek would come. Perhaps also because he’d vowed to choose her as his bride, and she had been chosen to build a new alliance. Yet she was certain he would come for the child. “That will also be my first lie, when I say that I cannot be pregnant.”

  The girl nodded, then tensed as the outpost gates opened ahead.

  “Be brave,” Yvenne told her softly. “Have hope. Let them think you are beaten and defeated, if you must. But whatever happens, do not give up.”

  “I will not,” the girl whispered, her voice trembling. “I will not give up.”

  Neither would Yvenne.

  * * *

  • • •

  Or perhaps there would be no lie. In a sparse room, Yvenne was given clean robes and linens and a pitcher of water. Faint crimson stained her inner thighs.

  With trembling fingers, she washed the blood away. Nothing did it mean. Just because they had ridden hard—so very hard—and she’d eaten nothing for days did not mean she would miscarry. And some women bled a little, even with child.

  Or perhaps she had not been with child to begin. Never had her menses been regular.

  Yvenne had believed she was pregnant, though. Perhaps it had only been wishful thought . . . yet she’d hoped so much.

  Though she would persuade her father that she was not.

  She requested rags from a female soldier. If her request reached her father’s ears, more likely he would believe her.

  Dressed, she was taken past a chamber where Seri sat at a table with Rugusian soldiers. The girl ate hungrily—from a bowl served by the same stew pot from which the soldiers ate, Yvenne saw with relief. The young warrior had listened well.

  No Syssian soldiers did Yvenne see, though this outpost contained so many signs of home. Small moonstone carvings decorated the mantel in the chamber where her father waited, and against the wall hung a tapestry depicting Queen Nyset’s victory over the twelve-faced Galoghe demon.

  Her father appeared haggard, the lines in his broad face deeper than she had ever seen them. Tall and as solid as an ox, always he’d seemed to her so strong—especially in comparison to herself and her poison-weakened mother. Not so much now, and not only because she had Maddek to compare. For so long Zhalen had been a terrifying figure who ruled over her life. But so much more of the world she’d seen since leaving her tower, so many more of the people in it. How small he seemed now.

  And as always, the ragged scar on his throat filled her heart with sheer vicious pleasure.

  “Sit, Yvenne,” he said, pouring wine into her goblet. “We await your brother’s return.”

  The hot, grassy scent of roasted boa on her plate made Yvenne’s stomach growl. She sat but made no move to drink or eat, though her tongue was parched and her belly aching.

  Only a spoon sat beside her plate. No knife.

  Her father appeared in no hurry to eat his own meal. Sitting back, he regarded her steadily for a moment before averting his gaze . . . though pretending that he wanted to avert it. Idly he stirred his fantail soup, breaking the fat yellow yolk into the cream with the edge of his spoon. “If you truly wish to build an alliance, you should join with us, daughter.”

  “And bow before the Destroyer? I will not.”

  “Bow before him?” His brows shot upward. “We intend to stand against him.”

  Yvenne scoffed.

  He smiled thinly. “Little choice will I have. Once, perhaps, I would have bowed before him. It would be the only way to survive him.”

  “You survived him before.”

  “Did I? Or after I held the line at the Four Ridges, did he come with the intention of killing me—and only let me live because I vowed to complete a task for him?”

  A dull ache constricted in her gut. “What task?”

  “He wanted a bride—a woman of the same bloodline that severed his arm. And a virgin, but your mother was not. So I was to get one upon her.” He put down his spoon, his gaze critical. “Imagine my panic when she whelped a sickly, weak heir. I was to present you to the Destroyer on his return? He would kill me.”

  “You lie,” Yvenne said. “You sent me to Toleh to be married. Did you expect that king to leave me a virgin?”

  “That was only after Aezil found his power—and I found a new use for you.” He lifted his goblet, looking at her over the rim. “Not all of my children are worthless. You think an alliance between the western realms will stand against the Destroyer? He ripped through us like paper. But if Aezil courts the same power, the same god? Then we will be victorious.”

  “By being no different than him?”

  “The difference is that we will not be crushed. Instead we will do the crushing. That is the only difference that matters, Yvenne, though you are too naive to see it now. One day you will.” Her father shrugged. “And if Aezil fails, then perhaps the bride will be the child you carry. I do not think the Destroyer cares how young she is.”

  Vomit shot up the back of her throat. “I carry no child.”

  “Do you pretend that barbarian did not rut upon you night and day?”

  “No. But his seed has not found root. Even now is my bleeding time. Do you wish to see my rags?”

  “Rags that you have bloodied with a prick of your finger?” He gave her an amused look, then glanced to the door when a soldier appeared there, face filthy with travel and sweat. “Captain! You have arrived. Where is my son?”

 
“Your Highness.” Eyes darting nervously to Yvenne, the Rugusian captain came into the room. “Our king is dead.”

  Yvenne burst out with a laugh. So much for his plan to conquer the Destroyer.

  Zhalen cocked his head. “What do you say?”

  Face so bloodbare it was gray, the captain repeated, “The king of Rugus is dead. Slain by a barbarian.”

  Knuckles white, her father demanded, “Which barbarian?”

  “Their king. Maddek.”

  Grinning broadly, Yvenne sat back. Her father said nothing more for an endless time.

  Then a quiet, “Bring the barbarian girl.”

  Yvenne’s grin vanished. “You will not hurt her.”

  “I will not,” her father agreed easily. “Instead I will release her, so she might send a message to Maddek.”

  “What message?”

  “Something that will keep him from coming for you. You’ll say that you no longer want to marry him. And you no longer wish to have his child.”

  Her heart twisted painfully. “He will believe the first. The second will not matter. There is no child. He knows this.”

  Certainly not a child that her father might make a bride, to save his own skin now that Aezil was dead.

  “You do not think he will come for you?”

  “Maddek has told me that he will never come to my rescue. He will not risk his warriors’ lives for mine. And that he would kill me himself if any warriors died while attempting to save me.”

  As Banek had. Sharp grief closed her throat.

  Her father gave a short laugh. “A loving suitor you have, daughter.” He lifted his goblet as if in a toast, then downed a long swallow.

  When he set it down, Yvenne picked it up and, careful to place her lips where his had been, thirstily drank the wine. It tasted sickly sweet, but she had no care as long as something was in her belly.

  Her father gave her a bemused look, and then his gaze moved to the door. “Take her to the next chamber.”

  Seri, looking uncertain and afraid. Yvenne gave her a reassuring smile in the moment before the girl was led away.