A Curse of Blood and Stone Read online

  “And how did it end?”

  “That, we do not know for certain. The author of the texts gave us an account of what had come to pass, not the future beyond their words. Nothing else exists from that time. It is as if the record of these dark days was deliberately purged. Perhaps more scrolls are hidden within Shadowhelm, but we have not been made aware of them, and our access is limited by the ruler at the time and their desire for knowledge of our ancestors.”

  But twelve hundred years ago … “This tale of yours does not ring true. We have had casters escape to Islor during that time, and none have ever breathed a word of this history.” My voice drips with skepticism. “Even Wendeline, for all her duplicity, would have enlightened us.”

  “It is not discussed in Mordain, Your Highness. It has not been taught. There are those in the guild who would prefer that scripture showing the glaring failings of our creators not be dwelled upon. Some have called for their destruction. The scribes have protected the knowledge thus far. But very few are aware, and I can assure you Wendeline is not one of them.”

  “How is it that you, an elemental caster who has been locked up within Argon’s towers for years, are aware?”

  She smiles. “Before Argon, I spent my life running through those dark corridors beneath Mordain’s great hall, hiding from instructors and falling asleep with my face in dusty books. I was far more interested in hearing stories than wielding my affinities. The scribes could not keep me out, so eventually they stopped trying and chose to teach me instead. I value their knowledge like nothing else.”

  She has an answer for everything. Either she’s telling the truth, or she has prepared her lies well. “Hopefully, you also value candor, because I will not tolerate another priestess misleading me for her own gain.”

  She dips her head. “I can appreciate that. Especially after all you have faced thus far.”

  The scenario she has painted so far is grim. “And what of the Nulling? Would it be open to Malachi again?”

  “I would suspect so, yes. The Nulling is a space that exists between time and place, where the fates relegate creatures of various dimensions without need for their deaths, as transition to Azo’dem or Za’hala requires. If the ancient scripture from Shadowhelm is any indication, they use it to build a waiting army that will unleash when anyone dares tamper with the nymphaeum.”

  “Successful or not.”

  “Precisely.”

  Something pricks my memory. “Romeria thinks the husband of the caster who sent her is trapped in there. This woman—Sofie—her whole purpose is to free him.”

  “Into this world?”

  “Possibly.”

  She frowns as she considers this. “What are you up to, Malachi?”

  Nothing good. “If all this speculation is true, it could mean we would not only face Malachi as a ruthless ruler, but whatever crawls out of the Nulling and the wrath of the fates.”

  “And the chaos the nymphs can stir up. Yes. All that to put an end to the blood curse. If the nymphs could be compelled to do your bidding.”

  “What would compel them? Have the scribes ever speculated on that?”

  “Based on what the seers have seen”—she meets my gaze—“they barter in lives.”

  A sour taste fills my mouth. “Whose?”

  “It is difficult to say whose would suffice. Yours. Romeria’s. Both.”

  “‘At the tied hands of the Ybarisan daughter of Aoife and the Islorian son of Malachi.’ Can you truly not predict?”

  “Perhaps. Would you not sacrifice yourself to bring peace to your lands?”

  “A hundred times over. But what you have described does not sound like peace. It sounds very much like war and suffering.” Which we are heading toward, regardless. My gaze drifts toward the tent flap. Beyond it, surrounded by bruised and battered warriors, Romeria sits quietly, none the wiser about how formidable she is. “Could Romeria defeat a fate who is in mortal form?”

  “Some say yes, she would be powerful enough. And others say that opening the door will destroy her as the attempt did Farren.”

  My heart clenches. “She would be sacrificing herself for Islor, and it may not make a difference in the end.”

  Gesine sits silently while I pace around her, my mind desperately searching for the right path forward. Walking into this camp today, counting the remaining legionaries, the sense of defeat was a dark shadow trailing me. Nineteen of them against Atticus and an entire army has no chance of surviving.

  But could a key caster change our odds?

  Would it not behoove me to find out?

  “The more we speak, the more I am certain the door should remain closed. Romeria’s immense power should be used for means beneficial to Islor without the added risk.”

  “Beneficial, as in reclaiming your throne.”

  “So I can change the course of our future. Yes.” That is what a good king who can make hard decisions would do.

  A glimmer of something sparks in Gesine’s eyes. “You will work together, your hands still tied.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “As you see, there can be more than one path to prophecy.” She pauses. “Though I would be remiss if I did not tell you that the seers have seen the door opened in the age of the casters.”

  “Not by my will.” Or the will of anyone else who might try to use the key caster for their own benefit. I harden my resolve. “You are not to tell Romeria of what we have discussed.”

  She frowns. “If you are requesting that I deceive her—”

  “I’m asking that you not tell her more than she needs to know.” Not until I’ve had a chance to consider what telling her might mean.

  “She will have many questions. If she is to trust me and accept my tutelage, I must answer them.”

  “Then answer them. But not with speculation like the kind we just walked through. Not yet. It would be distracting for her.”

  Gesine considers that a moment. “Such knowledge might divert her from her focus with training, and we need her learning as quickly as possible so she can protect herself.”

  “Exactly.” Atticus may not be on our heels right now, but it won’t be long before he’s hunting us—her. “I will enlighten her when it makes sense.” If it makes sense. It means we’re back to keeping secrets from each other, but that has always been the case. “I am willing to lead us to Venhorn for shelter within the caves and because I want to root out the Ybarisans. We will pass Stonekeep on our journey, and you can see for yourself that no tokens are waiting for us. But you will not speak of this to anyone. If the Legion thinks we are following one of Mordain’s schemes, I will lose their loyalty, and that is far more important to me than anything these nymphs could offer. Is that clear?”

  Gesine bows her head. “As you wish, Your Highness. Is there anything else?”

  I pull back the edge of the tent, effectively breaking the sound barrier Gesine constructed. Noise erupts instantly, with shouts carrying and blades ringing. I seize the flame, intent on laying waste to any enemy, only there doesn’t seem to be one. The legionaries hang back as Abarrane marches toward Romeria and Elisaf, her dagger gripped within her palm, water dripping from her braids.

  Clearly, Romeria has done something to irritate the commander. Again.

  I sigh. “Yes. Train her well.”

  6

  Romeria

  “He wouldn’t have found Gesine if it weren’t for me.” I yank a plump green berry off the vine Zorya tossed at me on her way past. They may look like grapes, but grapes they are not, their sourness bordering on unbearable.

  “Many things would not have happened, if not for you,” Elisaf reminds me, adjusting his position against the tree we’re both using for back support as we watch the camp’s activities.

  The Islorian guard who used to pace outside my wallpapered prison, ten steps to the left, ten to the right, hasn’t left my side since Zander’s abrupt dismissal at the tent. Not even when I had to squat behind a bush to relieve myself. I’m not sure whether he’s stuck to my side as my friend, my guardian, or my captor. Was that simple call-out earlier Zander’s order for Elisaf to watch me? He can’t think I’d run, not without Gesine. And if any of these legionaries decided to go against his order and sacrifice their lives and their honor for the greater good of Islor … I’ve seen Elisaf go toe-to-toe with Zander in the sparring square, and he knows his way around a blade, but could he stand long against these hardened warriors?

  My mouth puckers around the tart berry.

  Elisaf chuckles. “I will wager Corrin’s stew does not seem so bland anymore.”

  “Is this really the only edible thing that grows around here?”

  “What do you think?” He smirks, telling me my suspicions are accurate and this was Zorya’s way of telling the Ybarisan princess to go fuck herself. “But at least your stomach has taken a break from growling. I’m sure they could hear it across the camp.”

  The gathering around the boar grows as warriors finish their tasks and venture over to carve off a hunk of meat. How much sustenance will they get from that animal?

  Abarrane’s earlier threat to Gesine has me questioning it. “What will they do when, you know … they need to feed?” No humans live in Eldred Woods. How long can they last before they grow weak?

  Elisaf seems to consider his answer. “These warriors have built up a tolerance and can go several weeks between taking a vein if needed. It is a requirement as a legionary, and as you can see in present circumstance, an important one. But mortal blood also speeds up the healing process.”

  And so many of them are injured.

  “Regardless, we will all have to seek tributaries, eventually.”

  I don’t miss the we in that statement. The legionaries, Elisaf.

  Zander.

  He says he only uses tributaries when necessary, but it will become necessary soon enough. It’s been weeks since I spied him feeding off that woman. How long will he be able to hold out before he disappears into a room or tent with a human?

  “Where will you find them?”

  “In the towns and villages that we move through once we leave here. We will request the use of them from their keepers.”

  “And if the keeper refuses?” They own these humans. They feed, clothe, and shelter them, the cuffs on their ears branding them.

  A faint, amused look crosses Elisaf’s face. “Refuse a request from the king or his right arm?”

  “It isn’t much of a request, then.” These tributaries will undoubtedly be young and willing and eager to impress the king—exiled or not. My jealousy flares with the thought of Zander that close to another woman, despite the act. Despite the reality that we are all but estranged now.

  My attention drifts to the large tent in the back, my fingertip skating over the tiny cut against my neck. It feels like forever since Zander shut that flap door in my face and sent me away. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

  Elisaf lifts an eyebrow. “I think you have a very good idea what they’re talking about.”

  Me.

  Princess Romeria.

  This curse.

  But what will happen when Zander gets the answers he wants? What will he decide?

  The legionary from the castle dungeon strolls toward us, a hunk of cooked meat speared on the end of his dagger. He’s dressed in leathers and strapped with weapons, his hair pulled back with three fresh braids that Zorya plaited with swift hands earlier. From my angle huddled on the ground, the brawny warrior may as well be a giant.

  He stops a foot away from us and holds out the meat for Elisaf, who collects it with a murmur of thanks.

  My mouth waters as I watch Elisaf sink his teeth in, the juice dripping down his chin. What I would do for a taste of that right now.

  “I’ve never understood Ybarisans, living off twigs and berries. It only weakens you,” the warrior says, his voice deep and gravelly and laced with ridicule.

  Reminding me that, as far as anyone here is concerned, I’m still Princess Romeria, a Ybarisan who doesn’t consume “animal flesh,” as Corrin put it.

  I force my head back to meet soot-colored eyes. He’s attractive, his jawline square and prominent, his lips full, despite their sour pucker. But I learned long ago not to let good looks distract me. My irritation—or maybe my hunger—flares. “I’ve never understood Islorians, living off innocent humans. Then again, it’s because your craving makes you weak.”

  His gaze narrows, a challenge within it. I doubt most people are stupid enough to taunt him.

  Elisaf clears his throat. “Romy, this is Jarek.”

  I make the connection. “Abarrane’s new second.”

  “So I’ve been told.” The warrior’s lips twist as if tasting something unpleasant.

  “Not happy with the promotion?” Interesting.

  “I’d be much happier with the simple task of killing Ybarisans.” His attention grazes my neck, and I can’t be sure if he’s noting the cut Abarrane gifted me or imagining his fangs sinking into my jugular.

  “I’m sure you’ll get your chance, eventually.”

  “I plan on it.”

  I struggle not to shrink from his steely stare as he seems to dissect me under it.

  “You want more of that boar, come and get it yourself.” He turns and saunters away, his steps slow and leisurely, dripping with the confidence of someone who knows his skill and doesn’t fear any opponent.

  My unease stirs. “Do seconds-in-command normally deliver food?” Maybe things work differently in the Legion.

  Elisaf watches Jarek’s back. “They do when they’re coming to take a measure of someone.”

  That someone being me, obviously. “What do you know about him?” I didn’t see so much as a scratch on him—and I saw most of him earlier—which means none of the blood he washed off that sculpted body was his.

  “He is a fierce warrior, as brutal with his blade as Abarrane. His lineage comes from Skatrana. Ancestors who happened to be in these lands when the blood curse ran rampant and the Great Rift tore Ybaris in two. He hails from Lyndel, born to an army officer.”

  “His affinity?”

  “I’ve heard it is to Vin’nyla.”

  “The goddess of air.” I picture the stone statue in the sanctum, the curvy woman with butterfly wings. “How strong?”

  “I hazard it’s as ineffective as most affinities granted under the blood moon.”

  Parlor tricks, as Annika once called the Islorians’ affinities. Except for Zander, it seems. He could engulf half this camp in flames with just a spark from that cook fire.

  “Regardless, he would never use it. None of these warriors use their affinities. They consider relying on the fates a weakness in battle.”

  Another warrior watching me says something to Jarek. The second-in-command tips his head back and laughs. It’s a boisterous and yet vicious sound, and it makes my cheeks flame, knowing I’m at the butt of their joke.

  “I think it’s safe to say he doesn’t like me.”

  “Jarek’s father died in the Valley of Bones, battling Ybaris and Mordain in the last great war when Jarek was just a boy. He holds a passionate hatred for both. Be careful of that one.”

  “You think he’d go against Abarrane’s order?” Assuming Abarrane has told them I’m off-limits, and if she refrains from killing me herself.

  “No.” Elisaf’s headshake is firm. “He will follow her orders to his death, even before the king’s, as will all legionaries. But he is second-in-command now, which means he will replace Abarrane should she fall, and I fear his loyalty to Zander isn’t as infallible.” Elisaf tears another strip of meat off with his teeth.

  “Does Zander know this?”

  “There is very little Zander doesn’t know. Though, that seems to be changing lately.” When Elisaf notes how I’m eyeing him, his chewing slows, realization dawning. He swallows. “I don’t suppose Romeria Watts from New York City lived off twigs and berries.”

  “No, she lived off Quarter Pounders and street meat, and she would kill for a bite of that right now.”

  “I will not pretend to understand what you just said, but you devouring wild boar would certainly stir unwanted questions.”

  “But I’m so hungry.” I lean in and inhale.

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you really want some, I will bring you a piece once we are in the privacy of a tent,” he promises, adding, “though I doubt Princess Romeria’s body will appreciate it later.”

  “Yeah, well, she better learn to adjust because I’m tired of living her life.”

  “And yet Zander is right. She is the best cover for you right now, given recent revelations. Unless you’d like Abarrane to test her dagger on your skin again.”

  My focus veers to where the commander stands at the river’s edge, her back to it, her head swiveling between the camp and her tent. A sentry on guard, ready to spring at any second, despite a still-oozing wound. There is one other person in this camp she might trust less than me, and that’s Queen Neilina’s elemental caster.

  As if sensing my attention, her sharp eyes dart to me and narrow, assessing.

  Whatever ground I gained with her that day of the royal hunt is lost, leaving us at odds again. I doubt she’ll be willing to train me to fight, something I’m in desperate need of learning if I’m to survive in this world.

  I need to remind her of that day we fought together against the nethertaur. She needs to remember that I’m not the enemy, that I can be a powerful ally. How powerful, she has no idea, but neither do I. I need to—

  The surge of adrenaline floods my body a second before a wave rises from the river’s surface and sweeps over Abarrane, drenching her from head to toe.