A Curse of Blood and Stone Page 4

  His frown deepens.

  “Tiny metal objects that fly out of a chamber and move through the air really fast. All you have to do is point and shoot. Anyone can do it.” Every horrific news story of a toddler stumbling upon their careless parents’ loaded pistols has proven that.

  “It sounds like any idiot can be lethal in your world.”

  “You have no idea.”

  He gives the belt one last tug. “All you need is a blade.”

  I nod toward the karambit at his side. “I’ll take that.”

  He reaches for it, but his hand stalls.

  “I know how to use it. Abarrane trained me.” For all of an hour, and not to her satisfaction. And all I want is to hear the daunting commander tell me what a useless fighter I am. I hope she survived.

  “It’s not that. It’s just, this won’t be enough.” A decision skitters across his face and then his hand drops to his hip to unfasten the scabbard that holds his merth dagger. The one he had thrust into my hand in those few frantic moments after Atticus declared the throne his and me the enemy. I returned it to him as we were leaving the castle.

  Zander affixes it to my hip. “This will seriously maim or kill any immortal in your path.” Collecting my hand within his, he closes it over the hilt. “It is now yours. Always keep it with you.”

  He could have given me any of the dozen blades he just strapped to his body, yet he’s given me the one I’ve always sensed holds value to him beyond its deadly composition. Warmth blooms in my chest at the gesture.

  Whatever else he might think about me, he still cares for my safety. He wouldn’t have shielded me from the arrows on the boat if he didn’t. And maybe that water shield I created to protect us—him—wouldn’t have been so strong if I didn’t care deeply for him.

  But why is he giving me this dagger now? Is it a token to ease his guilt before he abandons me?

  What’s going on inside that head of his?

  He studies me, and I know he’s trying to get a read on me too. The problem is, he’s far more skilled at it than I am. I’ve always thrived at hiding my pained thoughts behind a veil of indifference. I can’t hide them from him, though, and I hate it.

  “Thanks for the dagger.”

  He dismisses the act with a shrug. “It suits you better, anyway.”

  I smooth my thumb over the black stone on the hilt. “I thought so too. That’s why I tried to steal it that night in the tower.”

  “Yes, it certainly wasn’t to slit my throat so you could escape,” he murmurs dryly.

  “Even if I had succeeded, I wouldn’t have killed you. I’ve never killed anyone,” I admit.

  “By the way, what manner of larceny did Romeria Watts partake in, back in her world?”

  I can’t help my sly grin. “Jewel thief.” My truth may be unsavory to some, but it’s still my truth, not that of this wicked Ybarisan princess I’ve been forced to play.

  “Why am I not surprised?” The corners of his mouth twitch. “Dare I ask how good you were?”

  “Very good.”

  “I imagine you were.” His gaze drifts down over my lips where it lingers a moment before he seems to catch himself. He steps back, his expression hardening. “Are you strong enough to walk, or shall I carry you?” he calls out. The set of his jaw tells me he might enjoy throwing the caster over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

  Gesine lifts her head, her bleary eyes blinking several times, struggling for focus. She pulls herself off the boulder, and smoothing her palms over her damp, soiled cloak, takes wobbled steps forward.

  The morning sun is a blessing. By the time we reach the road, the chill from sitting in wet clothes for hours is gone and a thin sheen of sweat builds under my collar.

  Elisaf leans against the trunk of a weeping willow. Two horses graze on a lush patch of grass nearby. The second he spots us, he pulls his lean body upright. “I was beginning to think you’d taken a nap.”

  I can’t help my genuine smile. I’ve always felt safer with Elisaf at my side, but also I can’t fathom how Gesine is still on her feet, aside from sheer determination to avoid being tossed over Zander’s shoulder.

  She sways toward the brown horse closest to her, her fingers fumbling with the reins. “Would you be so kind as to help me mount?” Her request is breathless, her eyes half closed as her boot digs for the stirrup.

  “Certainly.” Elisaf grasps her slender waist and hoists her into the saddle.

  Gesine slumps forward, her body sprawling against the horse’s caramel-colored mane.

  “I suppose this one is ours, then.” Elisaf swings himself up and behind the exhausted caster, surveying her draped form from various angles, as if assessing how likely she is to tumble off.

  Zander greets the black horse with a gentle stroke across its muscular flank. “What news from Cirilea?”

  “Nothing that has reached the village yet.”

  “And that?” Zander gestures toward Elisaf’s forearm.

  I notice the hastily wrapped strip of cloth, soaked in blood. He didn’t have that when he left.

  “Oh yes. This.” Elisaf studies it a long moment, as if deciding on his answer. “I had an interesting conversation with Saul’s keeper.” The dangerous gleam in his brown eyes is so contrary to the kindness I have seen. But it’s a reminder that, for all the gallantry my night guard has afforded me over the weeks, he is deadly with a blade.

  Zander sighs with resignation. “Come.” He beckons me with a hand. “Our pace will be hard, and I need full control. You will ride behind me.”

  I’m too weary to shrink from him. Hauling myself up, I edge as far back as possible, gripping the saddle.

  “We’re doing this again, are we?” He climbs on.

  “Isn’t that what you want? Distance?” I attempt an aloof tone, but resentment slips out.

  “We will certainly have it when you fall off this horse, which I suspect will be within seconds of departure.”

  With a glower, I shift forward, molding my thighs to his, focusing on all the reasons I don’t want to be this close to Zander.

  He half turns, showing me his handsome profile. “As unappealing as holding on to me may seem, I promise you that breaking your neck will be much more so. And Gesine doesn’t appear to be of any use to fix that for you at the moment.”

  Reluctantly, I slink my arms around his waist, entwining my hands. His body tenses against mine.

  He nudges the horse’s flanks, sending her off at a gallop that rattles my teeth.

  4

  Romeria

  “Whoa.” Zander’s fists tighten around the reins. The black mare slows to a canter, releasing a lengthy sigh, frothing at her mouth. We haven’t stopped in hours. She’s in desperate need of another break.

  Same, horse, same. After galloping across the hilly terrain at a relentless pace, avoiding the road as much as possible, every muscle in my body aches, and the insides of my thighs feel raw.

  “How much longer?” The dense forest of Eldred Wood is closing in around us.

  “We are almost there. From this point forward, assume these woods have eyes and ears.” Zander scans the trees.

  I see nothing. “Friendly ones?”

  “Loyal ones.”

  Elisaf follows as Zander steers our horse along a narrow and rocky trail. Gesine is conscious again and sitting upright, some of the color returned to her face.

  The path grows more treacherous the farther we travel. “This is Gully’s Pass?” It was one of the route options the day of the king’s hunt. Atticus said it was safer for the horses. As I observe the vertical drop to our left, I fear what the other option looks like.

  “Down there.” He points toward the valley. “But the Legion will have made camp on a plateau ahead. It’s a defensible vantage point and one of Abarrane’s favorites for hunting. She keeps supplies there.” He sounds so sure that the Legion will have made it out, yet a slight waver betrays his confidence.

  The trail has grown too narrow for the
horses to pass. I hold my breath and cling tighter to Zander’s waist, trying to ignore the loose stones skittering out from beneath the horses’ hooves to plunge down the cliff, bouncing off tree trunks.

  Thankfully, the trail veers away from the gorge, cutting through the densely packed trees. My ears catch the rush of moving water a moment before we break through the forest and into a small clearing where a river meanders ahead.

  Zander leads us to the riverbank. Rabbits hiding in the leggy grass dash away from the horses, their white tails held high. The horses don’t pay them any heed, focused on their next drink.

  I struggle to dismount, gritting my teeth against the chafing of my wool pants against my skin. Where my thighs held a death grip for hours feels raw. In contrast, my backside is numb. I smooth my palms over it with a sigh that earns Elisaf’s chuckle.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “It’s a little funny,” Zander says absently, but his attention is on the trees.

  Gesine is quiet as she kneels at the river’s edge and scoops shaky handfuls of water. She brings them to her mouth for a drink.

  “Feeling better?” I wince as I bend down to mimic her. The cold water is refreshing, especially beneath the afternoon sun.

  “Yes, much,” she says through a breathy laugh. “Though I am not anxious to get back in that saddle.”

  “Same.” Louder, I ask, “How much farther?”

  Zander adjusts a harnessed blade at his ribs. “This is the meet spot.”

  I look around the meadow, empty save for us and the rabbits. “Shouldn’t Abarrane be here by now, then?”

  I’m not the only one worried. Deep lines etch Elisaf’s forehead. “They should be here by now, if they escaped the city when they needed to.” He’s answering my question, but I know he’s talking to his king.

  Zander scoffs at the unspoken suggestion. “There is no way any common soldier would be able to stop them. I’ve seen Abarrane cut through fifty men on her own.”

  “But five hundred? And injured by a nethertaur?” Elisaf asks gently. “I did not sense them anywhere along the path. Abarrane would have had a perimeter set.”

  I watch as the words settle on Zander’s shoulders, their reality weighing down his posture and his hope. Did we backtrack all this way just to confirm that the Legion is dead? That we’re on our own against an army that was once his to command?

  “You could not sense us because you smell like a latrine,” a familiar voice calls out, followed by a faint hiss a split second before an arrow grazes Elisaf’s arm and spears the soft ground behind him.

  Zander’s body sinks with relief as Abarrane emerges from behind a boulder, her bow slung over her shoulder, her sword gripped in her palm. The warrior limps through the long grass toward us with a confidence that defies the gashes marring her sinewy body and the caked blood that has turned her wheat-colored hair dark. A tourniquet holds a ghastly wound on her thigh closed. Will it be another scar to add to her collection, the most prominent being the long, thin one that trails her hairline from her forehead to her earlobe?

  I never thought I’d be happy to see the brackish Islorian.

  “That is for doubting me.” She taps the shallow cut on Elisaf’s bare skin with the flat of her sword blade, smearing the bright red line of blood.

  Elisaf winces. “Lesson learned.”

  Zander assesses her injuries with a quick head-to-toe glance. “How many of you are there?”

  Her expression turns grim. “Nineteen, including myself.”

  I have no idea how many were in the Legion originally, but the muscle in Zander’s jaw ticks, telling me there were significantly more. “Where are they?”

  “We’ve set up camp a mile south, ready to pick off any enemy who ventures in.” Sharp eyes swing to me, and I can’t help but shrink at the way they harden. Abarrane has always terrified me, from the first moment I faced her in the king’s war room, when she threatened torture to exact answers I didn’t have. But she also didn’t flinch at defending me as we ran from a charging army in the square. But that was because Zander ordered her. Where Boaz was for the crown, Abarrane and the elite guard she commands are for the man whose head it should adorn. Her unwavering loyalty to him is admirable.

  But she’d also skin me alive if Zander asked it of her, and a very dark part would enjoy doing it.

  Whatever reservations Abarrane may have for me, when her attention shifts to the river’s edge, raw fury collects in her features. “What is one of Queen Neilina’s witches doing in Islor?” she spits, her hand gripping the pommel of her sword. It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone use that name for a caster, and it’s obviously not meant as a compliment.

  “This is Caster Gesine,” Zander introduces. “As for what she is doing in Islor, we will learn the truth of that soon.”

  As we close in on the Legion’s camp, I see why Abarrane prefers this area. The canopy of looming trees grants shelter while the river provides ample water for horses and warriors alike. Sheer rock walls drop along the west and south sides, limiting ambush opportunities and allowing a clear view of the valley below, so they can kill their enemy with arrows one by one.

  A curt whistle sounds, and Abarrane responds with one of her own.

  Movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention to my left where a legionary stands not twenty feet away. The nocked arrow he had aimed at us is leveled toward the ground.

  Aimed at me, I realize, as I take in that cold, predatory stare, reminding me of Sofie’s henchmen, the two men who slaughtered Korsakov’s entire security team on the night that started all of this. Does this legionary agree with Atticus that Islor would be better off without me?

  How many of them feel the same?

  In all my time in Cirilea, I’ve only met a few of these fierce warriors, trained by Abarrane herself. While the encounters were brief, everything inside told me that if one of them ever had reason to kill me, I was as good as dead.

  The poison coursing through my veins is plenty reason to make it happen. What would they do if they knew what else thrummed in this body, waiting for release? Would the order of an exiled king be enough to stay their blades?

  Zander’s earlier warning—to assume everyone is an enemy—has me shifting closer to his side as we head into camp.

  “Zorya,” Elisaf says in soft greeting, handing off our horses’ reins to a warrior with lengthy auburn hair tied off in braids and a bloody rag secured diagonally across one eye. “How bad is it?”

  “Merth blade.” Her voice is emotionless.

  Elisaf grimaces, his pat of comfort landing on the female warrior’s shoulder. “I am sorry.”

  “He paid for it with his life, though I wish I could have had more time taking it from him.” Zorya’s good eye shifts from Elisaf to Zander. She bows her head. “Your Highness.” She peers at me but offers no greeting. The narrowed gaze she gives Gesine before she leads the horses away is downright menacing.

  “That is unfortunate. She was one of our best fighters,” Zander says somberly.

  “Zorya is still one of our best fighters.” Abarrane glares at him as if daring to suggest otherwise is a personal affront. She leads us past a bearded warrior who wipes blood and gore from his sword. Her limp grows more pronounced, the cloth bandage glistening with fresh blood despite her attempts to stifle it. That injury is far more serious than she’s letting on.

  The smell of roasting meat teases my nostrils, stirring the first hunger pangs I’ve had since yesterday. A wild boar is trussed over a firepit, manned by two warriors. A handful of simple tents—stretched leather over tent poles—are scattered throughout, the nearest sheltering a warrior who lies on the ground while another stitches a gash across his stomach. Others lounge, checking their bandages and cleaning their wounds. Those who are mobile are busy running the camp, chopping wood to stoke the cook fire, sharpening weapon blades, hauling buckets of water.

  All wear leathers drenched in blood and countless scrapes and cuts.

/>   And every one of them stops what they’re doing when they notice Gesine. Zander was not exaggerating about their feelings for all things Mordain. I can practically taste the loathing and distrust in the air.

  “Nineteen,” he echoes, more to himself, his jaw hard.

  “Are there many grave injuries among them?” Gesine surveys the warriors. There is no way she can’t feel their hatred, but if she’s apprehensive, she hides it behind her tranquil mask.

  Abarrane watches the caster as if deciding whether to acknowledge her. “Most will heal on their own, given time—”

  “I will help speed things along. I will heal as many as I can. If you will allow it,” she adds, bowing her head to the war commander.

  “If they will allow it, and I promise you, most would prefer to … stay far from your kind.” Abarrane glares at the gold collar that marks Gesine for what she is. “Then again, we are without tributaries here.”

  Feeding off a caster might sustain an Islorian, but it’s an instant death sentence for the former. I know that much.

  The subtle intimidation has the desired effect. Gesine blanches.

  Abarrane’s responding grin is wicked.

  “What happened in Cirilea?” Zander shifts the conversation from threats that are likely not idle.

  Her amusement falls off. “The city was taken almost immediately as word of Princess Romeria’s duplicity spread. I have never seen that many soldiers within the walls, not even on your wedding day.” She scowls. “Do not tell me that was not Atticus’s intention.”

  “I cannot be sure of anything anymore.”

  “He must have suspected our plans to escape because he had the north and west walls under heavy guard, and he used Kettling’s men to set an effective trap at the bridge.”

  “Kettling’s men were intentionally left outside the walls. We agreed we didn’t want Adley with too much influence inside.”

  “Or so your brother claimed.” She hesitates. “I lost Gorm.”

  “I am sorry, Abarrane,” Zander says, his voice bleeding with sympathy.