Queen to Ashes (Black Dawn Series Book 2) Page 11

  Moving with the line, her heart wrenched as she took it all in. This world was bred from the darkest of hearts, and yet...it was not all it seemed to be.

  “Miss?” She started at the voice, shaking herself back into reality. The woman stared at her with wide eyes, holding a magnificent plate in front of her nose. Smiling tentatively, the woman ushered the plate into her hands.

  “Thank you. I’m afraid I don’t have any payment.”

  “Dear, no one pays at the night market. Our king ensures we are graciously compensated.” Her shock was evident as the corners of the woman’s eyes crinkled, softening. “Enjoy the night.”

  The guard was her shadow as she drifted to a clear spot in between vendors, a small bench freed as the night became later. Two small wooden spears were tucked neatly beside the food, and assuming they were utensils, Emory dug in. Perching, she ignored the brooding man stationing himself beside her as she devoured the delicious food. The flavors danced over her senses, and she groaned in pleasure, not having such luxuries since being here. The king across the sea has one thing in order.

  Finishing her meal, Emory quelled the urge to lick her fingers.

  “Emory Fae.” Jumping at her name, she recognized the young woman from the instrument vendor standing in front of her. Her blond hair shimmered in the dusky light, reaching just above her shoulders. Her pale hazel eyes cut into hers. It was a calculated movement, how she held her body, her voice, everything.

  “Sorry. I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure of being acquainted yet.” Her words were careful, as she tried to keep the edge out of her voice. The woman took in the guard, before saying, “I was wondering if you cared for a drink? It’s not every day you meet a legend in the flesh.”

  Dipping her head, Emory tried to be gracious. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Following her, Emory clamped her teeth together as she noticed her guard tailing her, quiet and ominous as a shadow. The woman made it to the vendor first, smiling wolfishly.

  “Wren, two of your finest please.”

  The man took Emory in, stalling slightly. If her cheeks were flushed, they were a deep crimson now. A whisper of a smirk danced over Wren’s lips as he quickly poured the ale, the foam luscious as it settled thinly over the deep oak color.

  “Riona, you haven’t introduced me to your companion here.”

  Flicking a piece of her blond hair over her shoulder, she mused, “I doubt you need it. Emory, this is Wren.”

  Emory nodded toward him before taking a seat with Riona, sipping the ale generously. Deep notes of honey and hops rolled over her tongue, wiping her palate of the lingering spices. Riona followed suit, her gaze constantly lingering over Emory’s bodyguard, as her head bobbed along with the music.

  Emory’s curiosity nipped at her, but trying to smooth her hair out, she leaned forward. “You run the instrument vendor, right? Your craftsmanship is beautiful. I have never seen any instruments like them.”

  Riona flashed her teeth. “Yes, I do, and thank you. It has been my life’s passion, along with being a smithy.” Her admiration must have shown, as Riona leaned forward. “The best in Kiero. Though my people would beg to differ.” She smirked, as Emory’s mind spun.

  She treaded carefully. “And where did you learn such skill?”

  “It would seem, Princess, that I also find myself serving two kings, of two lands.”

  Wren averted his gaze, and ice ran through Emory’s veins at the implication, at the knowledge that tugged distantly at her past.

  Finishing her drink, Emory coolly stated, “I’m not sure what you’re getting at. I am here to serve my one true king.”

  Dipping her head, she mused, “Of course. No insult intended. Though, I have noticed that your blade needs tending to. My shop is open tomorrow, and I would like to see to it.” Finishing her drink, Riona’s eyes danced mischievously as Emory’s heart pounded. Friend or foe?

  Emory inclined her head, allowing herself the time and chance to decide for herself. “It would be my pleasure. I will come after my training.” And my trials.

  Placing the glass on the counter, she stood. The crowd had become thinner, the flames crackling down to embers, and exhaustion pulled at her mind. With a full belly of food and drink, the drowsiness made her feel clumsy, and turning, she whispered to the guard she knew was there, “Please take me back to my room.”

  He nodded as he stepped in front of her, and she followed. The music became a faint pulse, and she looked up, the expanse of the sky swirling far above them. The stars twinkled, nestled in the curtains of shadows as her imagination pulled at her.

  Riona’s cryptic words made her pulse hammer. Was it possible she could find an ally hidden within Adair’s people? Time was harshly slipping from her grasp. Maybe Riona would help her get word to the Rebellion, to this Marquis Maher, if she could be trusted. Emory’s plan sharpened and honed, the foggy threads becoming clearer.

  The survival of Black Dawn, and her own life was banked on her what ifs. Banked on her hopes. But she would make the world listen. And she would learn exactly what it meant to become a ruler of this wild country.

  It was a series of twists and turns before they reached her rooms. Shooting the guard a glare, she left him behind. The quiet of her room greeted her as she sighed. Ripping her clothes off and unbuckling her sword, she ran to the baths. The water couldn’t fill the tub fast enough as she paced. Had it only been this morning that she held her sword? That she had sealed that young man’s fate? Deja vu swept over her, and she screamed, biting into her knuckles to muffle the sound.

  What was she doing? Blindly dancing in the lethal game of kings and queens like her parents did?

  Looking in the mirror behind her, her bruises and wounds contrasted harshly against her pale skin. Her green eyes sparked as she whispered, “What would both of you have done differently?”

  Sighing, Emory limped to the steaming tub and submerged herself into the steam. She scrubbed herself raw, trying to free herself of the stains that weren’t visible.

  She drained the porcelain a few moments later and wrapped herself in a downy towel. Her mind roared at her as she shifted through her drawers, through the layers and layers of inky-black clothing. She opted for a loose-fitting shift and, donning it, flopped on the bed.

  Where were the rebels? Alive? Back in hiding? How long would they take until their next move? Azarius wasn’t the patient type. Worry ate away at her, and as the wistful grasps of sleep took her, she knew the tides of the world were changing. Where would she stand when the time came? Alone or with allies?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brokk

  The crescent moon hung high above them, nestled amongst the stars. Nothing stirred in the night, as if Kiero itself was holding its breath. The moonlight washed over the forest, illuminating their path in its silver wash.

  Staring ahead, Brokk’s silence turned into brooding, his brooding then into rage. Each step he took seemed to hammer into his heart as he tried to digest what had happened.

  Prince. Prince. Prince.

  He looked at Kiana. It had taken him hours, but he finally got a name out of her, instead of addressing her as cumasach. Sighing, he looked to her sword strapped to her back as she led the way, admiring the tiny details, a work of art, on both the blade and sheath. Her silver hair shimmered in the night, and he still couldn’t get over the living, breathing myth in front of him. His guide. His ally.

  “So, are we still at this silent stand off?” Kiana’s words were soft, but a challenge.

  He bared his teeth at her back. “Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”

  She shrugged. “You have questions.” Again, that soft understanding voice.

  He was beginning to think that the fey were annoying. “No, I just found out I’m a prince, that my family was murdered by thieves who pretended that they were my parents, only to steal my abilities. That this whole time you have been keeping tabs on me, watching our world get torn apart. Watching me get torn
apart. And did nothing but sit in your blissful, lost city.” A sharp ringing filled his ears as his blood thrummed. “My friends died for a rebellion that is broken. Died because of some of my choices. And now...”

  “If you think for a minute that you should have died alongside them, you’re wrong.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what and who is worth dying for.”

  Stopping, she turned, eyes narrowed. “Don’t stand there acting like I have known no loss. That I haven’t suffered just as much as you have. But this war is much bigger than both of us.”

  She glared at him before turning around again.

  The woods were thick, and Brokk wondered what borders they were crossing. On foot, the journey would take twice the time as it would in his wolf form: His mind churned, weighing his trust for Kiana. He barely had opened his emotions to Memphis who had known him most of his life. How could he explain to a stranger what was coursing through him? The grief that ripped through his heart after seeing he once had loving parents he would never get to know. The fear of trying to overcome the Oilean, the overwhelming impossibility of the task.

  Resentment reared up and burned, pooling within his gut at the acclaimed title. Prince. He was Brokk Foster, rebel, not some pompous king that would lead them to greatness. He didn’t want it. Emory was his hope in that she was strong enough to lead them out of the darkness. To lead him out of his darkness, if he could just explain how he felt to her. Swallowing hard, he almost didn’t hear her at first.

  “Nehmai was once a great city. Our people, under your parents’ rule, flourished. The Warriors were an esteemed guard. Our training and ability was unparalleled to anyone else. And we were tucked away, the fey only having knowledge of where the city lay, magic protecting us.

  “Centuries ago, the world was a dark place, split into two as your legends tell you now. Dark magic was unharnessed, breeding nightmares and unleashing them. We fought it, trying to quell it. And eventually, we did, by feeding our magic into the world. Into people.”

  “So, it’s true then, that people of ability are gifted with fey magic?”

  Chewing her bottom lip, she nodded. “In a manner. Nehmai was built to harness and nurture the magic of our world. And we were the protectors of it. When the dark ages ended, the fey lived in peace for a long time. The Warriors keeping to the city, the threats of the world having been pushed back. They were my family. And I...their captain.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “That night... I cannot even put into words the horror. We are immortal, a kingdom built on magic, our leaders producing a miracle. Fey children were practically unheard of. And you defied the odds. But even immortals can be killed. And conquered.”

  A chill snaked down his spine, settling into his core.

  “We weren’t prepared to face an enemy of old, but that night we did. Peyton had harnessed the dark magic that had once split Kiero. An essence of something we had fought before. I watched my friends fall; my leaders get killed. That magic... I recognized it. And I fled.”

  She took a shuddering breath. “I’m not proud of what I did. But I can’t take back the past. I returned the next day to a city ridden with death. My family, gone. I was a coward. That was the day I left my title of captain behind. I vowed to myself I would find a way to right my wrongs. To avenge my friends.

  “Centuries ago, the Oilean didn’t have a form but an essence, trying to deplete the magic and us. But we won that war, and that dark magic was banished from this world. We had lived in a time where the Warriors fled the borders, the city was free of fear, and our existence bled out of reality and into legend.”

  “Until that night,” Brokk said.

  She stopped, sorrow flooding those ancient eyes. “I have lived a lifetime watching the sinister hearts of this world thrive and conquer. Have watched old enemies return by means of witches and portals. I have watched and waited to find you. To bring you back to your bloodline. I’m not asking for your sympathy. I’m not asking for you to accept your title. I’m asking for your help to destroy the forces that have taken away everything I held close. My life. My dignity. And to make sure the same doesn’t happen to you.”

  Emory. Memphis. Alby.

  Fear drowned out every other emotion as he imagined his life without his friends—his family—in it. He would fight for them until his last breath, and steeling his heart, Brokk set his intention. There were so many things he still didn’t understand, but this was war. Had always been a war.

  He nodded, and the shadows that danced across her face lessened slightly into a grim smile. Kiana continued into the heart of the forest, picking up her pace.

  “We have to make sure the Oilean don’t get to the Book of Old. Once, I didn’t believe that such dark magic could exist, but I was proven wrong. Even in Nehmai, the Book was a story that always ended in death.”

  Brokk cursed under his breath.

  “My thoughts exactly. Now, let’s talk about lighter things, for the time being. How many ways do you know how to fight? I’m sure I can fill you in on some secrets in that department,” Kiana said.

  And so, he started to fill her in, Kiana only interrupting to show him new techniques or how her people were trained. His people: He pushed the thought aside, locking it away.

  They walked deeper into the heart of the forest, Brokk swearing he could hear whispers on the wind, calling them back.

  ***

  Dawn broke over the horizon, painting the world in soft golden strokes, just as Brokk stalked lower, making himself flush to the ground. Pinning his ears back, he became very still. In his wolf form, life was simpler. No fey princes or the politics of war. Just the predator and the hunted.

  The beast he watched was magnificent, its towering antlers curling toward the sky. Its kind brown eyes roaming lazily at its surroundings, dipping its head down to graze the sparse blades of grass covered in fresh dew. To Brokk, the fia had always been innocent, gentle creatures.

  He dug his nails into the moist ground and exploded from his hiding spot. He was a golden streak across the terrain, the fia not having time to react before his sharp teeth found their mark. It was fast and clean. He wished no pain would befall the creature as the light faded from its eyes. Instinct took over as he dragged it to where Kiana sat. The rhythmic hiss of the whetstone flowed over her blade as she flicked her gaze up.

  They had talked all night. Brokk had soaked up every word, every motion she explained, and the feys’ war tactics. It was a beautiful strange language, that of swordsmanship, but one they found common ground on. One that helped him avoid addressing how he felt about the current situation.

  On a constant replay, he said their names until it was as constant as his breath, as his heartbeat. Emory. Memphis. Alby.

  Shifting back in one motion, he had the broad knife in his hands and started separating fur from flesh, preparing the meat.

  “You know I could have done that much faster with magic,” Kiana said.

  Stalling, his hands shook slightly as he replied, “I know.”

  With arched eyebrows, she sighed and continued sharpening her blade in silence.

  He worked with intention, separating and weighing. Fatigued, he walked to their makeshift pit, and his annoyance flickered to life at the sudden crackling of flames crackling. The smoke curled toward the sunlight and he growled. “I was just about to start the fire.”

  Kiana said nothing, her luminous hair glowing in the light. He swore from the corner of his eye he saw her smirk. Arrogant warrior.

  He had agreed to help, but he was drained. Yearning for sleep, his body ached: Instead he skewered the meat on his blade, rotating it through the slow cook, portion by portion. It wasn’t fancy, but it would nourish them, and he was starving. Never in a million lifetimes did he envision himself cooking breakfast with an immortal. That he would be tied to them. That the answers he had craved his entire life had been answered swiftly in a radiant city and then explained in the shadows of the night. His lips turned
down at the thought, as Kiana silently maneuvered over to him.

  Settling in, she grabbed a few cooked chunks of meat. “Thank you. What will you do with the rest?”

  “The other predators of the forest can enjoy it and leave our trail alone.”

  Nodding, Kiana smiled softly, but from behind them, a twigged cracked. Stalling and having no reason to, dread ran up along Brokk’s spine as Kiana stiffened—as the feeling overwhelmed him that they were being followed.

  Resuming chewing contently, Kiana kept her features in that cool mask. Whether human or not, they couldn’t stop, not with the risks so high, even with Kiana. She had said herself, the fey may be immortal but they could be killed.

  And they were the last.

  Quickly having their fill, Kiana stood, glaring at the fire, and it ceased to be, the pit vanishing.

  “Do fey usually have the same...gifts with their magic?” he asked.

  “No, not usually. Like abilities, it’s a wide spectrum, the magic binding with the person and feeding into their soul. Our power comes out in our personality, each unique to the person.”

  “And what is yours?” Brokk asked.

  “Well...” Stopping mid-sentence, her eyebrows pinched together.

  Suddenly, there was a snap of branches, and he was reeling, blade in hand. Kiana was right there, a phantom to have gotten beside him so fast. The hairs on his neck stood on end as the world stilled. He didn’t dare look at her as he stepped forward, his human senses trying to catch anything amiss.

  Another snap; a flash of light.

  He was thrown back, his limbs colliding and breaking, healing and re-healing as he shattered through tree after tree.

  Move, Kiana. Move.

  His thoughts were disjointed as he felt the slow trickle of blood run down his nose, his breath quick. Blinking, the world swirled, colors becoming a grey mass as they blended. Staggering to his feet, he snarled before falling. The moss was damp underneath his shaking hands, and he panted, lurching forward, panic clutching at his heart, ice running through his veins. The tinkling laugh was as clear as tolling bells.