A Curse of Blood and Stone Page 5

  She nods once as if to accept his condolences.

  “Who will take his place as second?”

  “Jarek.”

  Zander makes a sound that I can’t pin as satisfaction or disapproval, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “They chased us to the border of the woods before retreating. It was the general himself who opened my leg with his merth blade.”

  “Adley’s son? I’ve never known him to withdraw.”

  “You’ve never known him without his head on his shoulders.” She hands her bow to a passing warrior. “It was Boaz who signaled the retreat, after we cut down half of Adley’s men. I’m sure he is now busy plotting his attack here. We’ll see if your treasonous brother is foolish enough to send a king’s army into the pass.”

  Zander greets a male who sits on a tree stump, shirtless and covered in dried blood, dragging his blade across a sharpening stone with methodical strokes. I shouldn’t be surprised that Zander seems to know every one of these warriors. Even as king, he learns the names and faces of those around him, from soldiers to stable hands. “My brother is many things, but foolish is not one of them. Securing Islor under his rule will be his priority. He knows how Adley schemes, and he won’t risk gaining the throne only to lose it in the chaos of the aftermath. He will be busy sending letters to all corners of Islor, announcing his claim and replacing the lords and ladies who died in yesterday’s royal repast with those loyal to him. But once that is done, he will come for us.”

  “Us, or Ybaris’s poison mill?”

  I don’t give Abarrane the satisfaction of a reaction, shifting my attention to the river where several male and female legionaries wash the blood from their sculpted bodies. One of them I recognize as the guard from the castle dungeon that day I visited Tyree, only his blond hair is free of braids and clinging to a body carved in hard muscle. He pauses to regard us, not a hint of modesty in his nakedness, in water that only reaches mid-thigh.

  I struggle to keep my expression as my cheeks flush.

  “Atticus will come for all of us with the full might of the Islorian army.” Zander’s words pull my focus back.

  “And we will be ready.”

  “We will be gone. Nineteen of you cannot hold off that army, and I will not have us sit here and wait for slaughter.” His words invite no argument.

  We’ve reached the largest tent. Abarrane wrinkles her nose. “I should insist you all bathe before defiling this tent.”

  “And I should insist you allow the caster to heal your wounds.” Zander pulls aside the leather flap. “But first, she and I must discuss a few things.”

  I make to move forward into the tent, but Zander’s free hand in the air, palm out, stops me.

  “Alone.”

  My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? I deserve answers as much as—ow!” A sharp prick against my neck cuts off my words. I flinch away and find Abarrane’s dagger aimed at my throat, cold fury in her eyes.

  “Your blood does not frighten me, Ybarisan,” she hisses. “I will be happy to discuss what you deserve while I make you bleed.”

  A warm trickle slides down my throat, the slice in my skin stinging.

  “Abarrane,” Zander scolds in a tone more appropriate for a child throwing a tantrum as he waves her blade away.

  The weapon lingers in the air for another three seconds, poised for attack, before she sheathes it.

  Satisfied, he shifts his attention to Gesine. “After you.”

  The caster flashes me a reassuring smile before ducking into the tent.

  “Elisaf.” That’s all Zander says before he follows her inside, dropping the flap behind him.

  5

  Zander

  “Yes.”

  I stare at the caster, sitting primly on the tree stump in the middle of the tent—a convenient interrogation spot, likely by Abarrane’s design. She’s an attractive woman, her black hair close in shade to Romeria’s, her pale green eyes striking as they observe with hawkish interest.

  The gold collar around her neck gleams from the single torch burning within the darkening drape of the leather canvas walls. A stark reminder that Gesine is not to be trusted.

  “Yes? You are freely admitting that I have been cursed to love Romeria?” I had expected her to dance around the answer.

  “In a manner of speaking. The princess was created on Queen Neilina’s sanctum altar, by the queen and her commander, and Aoife.”

  “Tiberius sired her.” Tyree had alluded to King Barris not being Romeria’s true father.

  “Tiberius may have given his seed, but Aoife was the one who ensured what sprouted did so for the sole purpose of destroying Islor. Ianca witnessed it all.”

  I breathe through this revelation. “And so now what? Will I be tormented for my remaining days?” Fighting against my thoughts and the gravitational pull I feel whenever Romeria is near?

  “That is entirely up to you. Now that you know the truth without a doubt, you can make your own choices. The fates may control much, but they cannot control free will—”

  “I certainly didn’t have control of my heart!” I roar, thankful that I demanded Gesine shield this conversation to keep our voices from carrying.

  The torch flames flare to twice their size. It is so rare that I lose control of my affinity like that. In fact, I never do. Not since childhood.

  Gesine’s gaze never veers from mine as she gently says, “You did not know there was a choice to be made beyond the obvious. You were choosing peace between Islor and Ybaris and hope for your people. That the princess who arrived was pleasing in many ways—not the least of which was how she supported your ideology for Islor’s future—was an assumed blessing, not something to be suspicious of.”

  “You’re trying to appease me for my idiocy. I should have seen it.” A king undistracted by a beautiful face would have seen it. “And then she murdered my parents. Tried to murder me. But it all makes sense. How else could I have fallen back in love with the woman after she did such unspeakable things? How could I ever have toyed with the idea of making her my queen unless it was never my choice to begin with?” I pace as I rant.

  “Dare I say, you did not fall in love with the same woman twice, despite the physical resemblance.”

  “I do not see how that matters.”

  She purses her lips. “Your eyes are now open to Neilina’s deception. Doubt no longer hangs over what she has done, and any decision you make going forward regarding your intentions for Romeria is yours to make.”

  “If only I trusted that.”

  “You are not the only one who fell in love despite all odds, Your Highness.”

  “I also fail to see how that matters.” Regardless, those odds are no longer in our favor.

  Romeria has been trying to close herself off since last night. The moment I suggested we part ways, I felt her slamming the door shut on her emotions. She can’t hide the hollow ache in her heart that swells every time our gazes touch, though. Not from me.

  But what do I feel for this woman who has lied and deceived me in one form or another, first as Princess Romeria, and then as Romy Watts from New York City? Nothing that’s untainted by Aoife and Neilina’s designs, and nothing that can continue now that I know what’s at stake. There isn’t room for these emotions between us anymore.

  “And now I am to ally with this supposed key caster—”

  “It is very real, Your Highness. She is very real. Do not doubt that. The power that courses through her body is like nothing I have ever felt before. It will be like nothing you have ever seen before.”

  “Really? Because I’ve stood at the edge of the Great Rift and watched Ybaris’s casters level an entire battalion with their affinities.” A wall of them, attacking with an arsenal of elements, honed for war. They failed at invading our lands, but our army suffered catastrophic losses. “Are you saying she will be stronger than that?”

  In Gesine’s eyes is a spark of hope, but also something I haven’t seen from her yet—fear. “Yes. Possibly.”

  “Fates,” I mutter. “How does she not realize what is inside her?”

  “I suspect it will not remain hidden for much longer.” She smiles softly. “This Romeria, she is a curious creature by nature.”

  “Yes, a jewel thief who thrills in secret tunnels.” I continue my pacing around the sparse furnishings inside the tent. Had Abarrane had time to collect supplies, she still would not have. She prefers to curl up on the ground like a wild animal rather than sleep in a proper bed. “And how exactly are Romeria and I supposed to end the blood curse together?”

  “It is not clear. Perhaps it will become so.”

  “That sounds like more of Mordain’s lies.” My footfalls are measured as I circle her dignified form, her shoulders pulled back, her chin held high. “After what Wendeline has orchestrated, do you honestly believe I will accept such an ambiguous answer? Do you think I do not know you work to one goal?”

  “I am not Mordain—”

  “Perhaps we should discuss what the Legion will do to you if I grant them access?” The cloying aggression that rippled through the camp when we entered was enough to choke a horse, and only some of that was intended for the Ybarisan princess.

  Gesine’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. “If such taunts bring you solace, you are welcome to continue, but there is no need to threaten me for information. I will freely tell you all that I know. If you will listen.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because if I do not, you will fail in whichever direction you choose. Of that, I am certain.”

  Her unwavering confidence gives me pause. Wendeline convinced me of much, but there was always a hint of nervousness swirling about her. I came to believe it was just her nature. Gesine, on the other hand,
has been steady since the moment we walked into the apothecary.

  “Continue.”

  “It is imperative we get to Ianca soon, and then to Venhorn.”

  “The seer.”

  “Yes. They see things we cannot. Traces of affinities woven and summonings answered, connections to talismans. There could be hints in that ring that offer answers. Being near Romeria may spark visions that help us understand more about Malachi’s plans.”

  “I will not lie. This seer piques my interest. I have always wanted to meet one.”

  “Ianca is not an exotic animal to gawk at.” Gesine’s face tightens. “And I fear she is fading fast. We will not have long with her.”

  “Fine. We will travel to Bellcross.” There are benefits to that plan. Namely, to learn if I have any allies left. “Though we have nineteen bloodied and maimed warriors, including a commander who grows weaker by the hour.”

  “I can help her. I can help all of them if they will allow it.”

  “I’ve seen legionaries suffer for weeks rather than accept a healing hand from a caster.”

  “They will accept aid if you order it.”

  “Their commander complying would surely help.” I shake my head at Abarrane’s stubbornness. Something else pricks at my thoughts. Gesine behaved as if Venhorn was one option for escape, but I’m sensing it’s the only route that has ever interested her. “Why do you push so hard for the mountains? There is nothing there for us but caves, saplings, and whatever Nulling creatures have survived the centuries.” Elisaf and I know the area well, having spent months there when I turned him all those years ago. And every legionary is required to live—and survive—there for a year during their training, so they are even more familiar with its challenges.

  “That is not true. There is a place where we will find assistance. I believe you may know it. It’s called Stonekeep—”

  I bark with laughter. “Is that what Mordain has taught you? Stonekeep is not a place. It is a sheer rock wall surrounded by deadlands.” A vast, flat expanse of parched soil where nothing thrives. It gained its name because of the peaks along the wall’s face—like that of a castle.

  “But there are carvings on its face, much like those in the nymphaeum, are there not?” She tilts her head. “Have you never wondered what it might mean for you and your people?”

  “No one can decipher that script.” I pause. “What do you know of it?”

  “For certain? Not much. It existed long before the rift tore Ybaris in two. We assume the nymphs created it, but we have never understood why. If there is a message within that design, the casters do not recognize it, but the nymphs’ methods of communication were not always as simple as the spoken word.”

  “Then why would you suspect there is assistance for us there?”

  “Because the seers have seen it in their visions.”

  I snort. More talk of prophecy. “And what have they seen? Let me guess, you cannot say.”

  “As I have explained already, foretelling does not work like that. But the seers have seen a token of the nymphs’ loyalty waiting for Islor when it needs it most. I would venture that day is now.”

  “A token?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of token?”

  “One of great value but beyond that, I am not certain.”

  Or will not share. I can’t deny that Stonekeep’s existence has been a source of many unanswered questions over the centuries for Islor. “And you are certain the nymphaeum door has nothing to do with this prophecy?”

  She falters in her answer.

  “Around and around we go.” My smile must look menacing through my gritted teeth. “Wendeline was more proficient at misleading me than you are.”

  She sighs. “I am not trying to mislead or deceive you. Where the nymphaeum door is concerned, all paths may lead to opening it. I cannot say anything for certain.”

  “Explain,” I press.

  “The power of the nymphs may grant Malachi what he wants, but it also might give you what you want. It is hard to say. Much of what we know about the nymphs is understood through vague foretelling and a few ancient texts that have survived the ages. We know for certain that the nymphs existed long before the casters, and for whatever reason, the fates felt the need to quell that power by locking it up within its own little box of sorts, never to be unleashed again. All four agreed to this, and they agree on so very little, which tells us they had a compelling reason. And there is only one reason I can think compelling enough. One thing that the fates hold above all else.”

  Power. “The nymphs were too powerful.”

  “Even now, locked behind that door, their ties to this world are potent enough to give life to so many of you. Have you never pondered that?”

  Too often. “Are you saying the end of this blood curse may require that Romeria open the nymphaeum door?”

  She pauses. “Will you allow me to share conjecture, knowing it is based on nothing more than hallucinations rooted in madness?” A tiny smile curls her lips. She’s echoing my bitter words from last night, and she’s enjoying it.

  With a heavy sigh, I fold my arms across my chest. “Proceed.”

  “Some scribes believe the fates banished the nymphs because their connection to this world allowed them to unravel the fates’ meddling and return existence to its original shape at conception. With the age of the casters, this became a glaring problem.”

  “Return it to before a summons is answered.” I see where she’s going with this. “You think the nymphs can reverse Malachi’s blood curse.”

  “It is possible. If they chose to. As I’ve said, it is only conjecture, but it would explain much. The fates see themselves as the highest of judges in the highest of courts. They do not appreciate anyone interfering. To have these nymphs roaming freely, causing chaos by negating their powers, overruling their schemes …”

  It would explain everything. “And how does one open the door?” Farren tried and failed.

  “There is a way we are almost certain was Malachi’s intent.” She gives me a knowing look.

  “A key caster taking the stone on Hudem.”

  “With an elven as powerful as you are, yes.”

  The stone that is deep within Cirilea and now inaccessible to us. We couldn’t reach it on a normal day, forget on the holiest of days. Atticus will have guards next to every secret passage in and out of there. He knows them all as well as I do. All except for the one deep below the castle, meant only for the king.

  But even if we could get to the nymphaeum on Hudem, I can’t expect Romeria would willingly go along with this option, and I would never force her. “Is there no other way?”

  “There may be. We would need to find it. I don’t know that it matters how the door is opened. What matters is that it is opened. And once that happens, Malachi will get what he wants as well. To reign over these lands.”

  Another king vying for power. “Would it be so terrible?” It’s a glib question, without much thought.

  “History would suggest yes.”

  Her words stop me in my tracks. “What history? I have a full library of texts, and I have read them all.” Some, multiple times. “None hold mention of the fates ever ruling these lands.”

  “As there was no mention of it in Mordain’s vast archives either. Not until twelve hundred years ago, when the ruler of Shadowhelm, Queen Bodil, sent word to Mordain, requesting an emissary. They had found scripture deep within a tomb. They could not read it, or access it. It had been preserved, it seemed, by elemental power.”

  “I thought Skatrana had no love for your kind.”

  “It comes and goes with each new ruler. Mostly goes.” A faint smile touches Gesine’s lips. “Fortunately, Queen Bodil was pragmatic. She could see that whatever had been hidden within her realm had to be important. As mortals, they would never have the means to interpret or even touch it. So she asked for our help, and we gave it. And we learned much from these preserved accounts.

  “Aoife and Malachi once reigned these lands, long ago, assuming the forms of a king and queen who held the throne. It resulted in war and famine as the two fates could not coexist, each demanding that the other relent and for all to bow. More than once, both the humans and the elven dared rise against the thrones, only to be crushed. Malachi used his daaknar to punish any who challenged him while Aoife turned rivers red with the blood for all those who did not kneel before her. Crops rotted under the scorching sun and froze in the frigid air as Vin’nyla and Aminadav expressed displeasure with their fellow fates’ antics. It was a dark time. Merely uttering the names of the fates inspired fear, and tearing down sanctums previously erected in their honor became a cornerstone of rebellion. The suffering and destruction went on for centuries.”