Wicked Crown (Shattered Kingdom Book 2) Page 14

  Alvi skidded to a halt by the stables, making Gandrett’s fingers dig into the leather’s on Nehelon’s chest, her nails tearing on the rough texture as she struggled to keep on the horse.

  “I can still smell them,” Nehelon hissed as he slithered out of Gandrett’s grasp, focused on assessing the danger, the damage, the options with his Fae senses—a purebred warrior. “No burned victims. Only—”

  He whipped his head around the way deer did when they caught a scent, body like a statue in the midday sun, hair flowing in the wind.

  “What is it?” Gandrett jumped off Alvi’s back, legs a bit shaky from the wild ride across the fields and from the sight of a farm, just like her parents’, half incinerated and devoid of life. The smoke rising from the buildings spoke of the violence that had happened here, carrying the story into the skies, to the gods who, Gandrett hoped, would take mercy on the souls who hadn’t died but might have fallen into the hands of the Shygon cult.

  Nehelon crouched down on the ash-specked ground and ran his fingers over the blackened grass while Gandrett watched him with uncertainty whether or not she should be joining him or spying from a distance. She decided on the former.

  “Can you smell it?” he asked without looking up from whatever he was examining before his feet.

  Gandrett shook her head, well aware that he would take notice of her head bobbing from side to side even when he wasn’t pinning his focus on her. But the concern in his voice made her rush to glance over his shoulder and…

  And her heart missed a beat. Thick, crimson fluid was covering the grass. Unburned, looking more or less fresh.

  “This happened after the fire,” she concluded, earning a silent nod from Nehelon, who now dipped his index finger into the blood then lifted it before his face, rubbing it between two fingers. He sniffed before he turned to her.

  “They can’t have gone far after losing that much blood.”

  Gandrett didn’t know if that was a truth that was valid for both humans and Fae, but as she took in the size of the pool of blood that was seeping into the burnt soil, she thought that it was likely they’d find a body soon enough.

  She bent down to take a closer look, scanning the edges of the pool for a trail … anything that would give them a hint which direction to start looking.

  But Gandrett didn’t need to look far. A broad streak of blood led from the other side of the pool to about five steps from where she was standing and ended there. Instead of blood, the marks of wheels drew a clear line east, away from the farm. “There.” Gandrett pointed stupidly as Nehelon was already on his feet, following the blood to where it was cut off.

  “We need to ride now if we want to catch up with them,” he growled, his body tense as if he was about to draw his sword and attack the thin air before him. “Check around the buildings,” he ordered, and Gandrett turned around and went. “Careful,” he hissed from a bit behind her, obviously wanting to inspect the scene himself, too. “The stones might still be hot.”

  Gandrett knew just how long a rock contained heat once it had been in a fire. The Meister—Pete Nemey—had made sure she learned the hard way. She subconsciously ran her hand over her thigh where he had placed the stone in her lap, forcing her to sit and bite back the pain. An exercise that had resulted in a circular burn mark the size of her palm. She flinched at the memory and made sure not to touch anything as she stumbled between the stones that lay strewn across the yard, silent, steaming witnesses to what had happened here.

  The memory of finding her parents’ farm destroyed snaked its way into her mind, and so did the pain in her chest that came with the loss of her home and both her parents. The only flicker of hope was that Andrew had gotten away without leaving a trail of blood to follow him. She loosed a breath and bent forward to peek into the building where the last flames were dying out.

  “Nothing here,” Nehelon called from where he was checking the stables.

  Gandrett turned and glanced around the yard. “There is nothing nearby. No village, no other farm within view,” she analyzed. “A perfect target if they truly waited until the farm had burned down before slicing that poor person open.” She shuddered at the thought alone. Addie had been cut open when Linniue had carved the mark into her. She hadn’t lost remotely as much blood, but it would take her a long time to fully recover—even with the Dragon Water Armand and Joshua had applied on her wounds.

  “Or they took their sweet time while the fire consumed the home of that poor bastard,” Nehelon offered, face cold—not inhuman, not evil, just calculating. A warrior, a commander readying for battle.

  He turned on the spot, slowly, a full circle, his eyes scanning the place and committing all details to memory. When he was done, he nodded to himself. “We ride now.”

  And that was that.

  Gandrett watched him get on the horse first before she took his hand to let him pull her up again. Alvi huffed under the weight of both of them but willingly trotted forward as Nehelon whispered something to her.

  All the time, Nehelon was bending sideways to follow the tracks of those wheels, making Gandrett wonder if she should lean to the other side to make the weight-distribution more comfortable for the horse, but at the prospect of having to lock her arms around Nehelon’s waist so she wouldn’t slide to the ground, she decided against it and resorted to riding in silence and relying on Nehelon’s expert-tracking. Relying on someone…

  How many years had it been since she had relied on anyone? Other than Nahir and her comfort-cookies, or Surel and Kaleb at the priory, her companions, who understood what it was like to be stuck at that gods-forsaken place? But rely on someone when it was about life and death—

  Gandrett couldn’t remember.

  She had been too young to think about life and death when she had left her home, and then, at the Order, people fought her, were her competition, not someone to partner up with on an epic quest. No. Epic quests were for princes and warriors. Not for Children of Vala. Their missions were silent and lonely.

  And yet, Nehelon had found her and pulled her out of that life at the priory, and here she was, no longer despising him for it. No. She relied on him to follow the tracks of that carriage and rescue whoever was bleeding out as she had experienced him save her when her magic had almost consumed her mind. When his magic had resonated within her and brought her own powers to life.

  Something tingled in her chest, an echo almost of that first time she had unleashed her magic on the Fae, how he had stood by her and let her burn him just to make sure she found a way to leash that power.

  “It leads toward the river.” Gandrett nearly did fall off the horse when Nehelon spoke and straightened all of a sudden, his tracking work obviously done.

  In reflex, her fingers grabbed onto the leathers on his shoulders.

  Nehelon didn’t comment. He didn’t order her to hold on or to let go, but he did let out a brief sound of amusement when he spurred Alvi and the horse darted across the fields, making Gandrett curse colorfully as she dug her fingers into his biceps.

  Fields flew by as they rode, the horses so fast that Gandrett wondered if they would break their necks before they’d reach their destination, and when they reached the riverbank, Gandrett wasn’t sure her teeth were still intact. After trying to balance herself inches away from the male before her and being smashed into his hard back every time Alvi leaped over a twig or an unevenness in her path, Gandrett had given in to the urge to just rest her chest against him and press her cheek onto his shoulder. Not for the scent that was clouding her mind as she climbed off the horse, dazed, but because she was sure at least half of her teeth would survive the ride that way.

  She hardly heard him as he called her from a couple of feet away, tone alert, but when she slowly turned, her hand wandering to her side within casual reach of her sword, Gandrett didn’t bother to wrap her fingers around the hilt, for in the water, right there by the lush, grassy riverbank at the beginning of the Eedpenesor, a body was floating. A bo
dy pale-skinned and lifeless, limbs moving in weird angles, driven by the current. Gandrett’s heart plunged to the bottom of her stomach. They were too late.

  Nehelon didn’t show any sign of emotion as he got on his knees, reached into the water, and fished out the corpse with efficient movements as if he had done this countless times before. Gandrett refrained from asking if that was the case. It was none of her business anyway. He would tell if he wanted to.

  When he had hauled the young man out of the cold wet of the Eedpenesor and sprawled what was left of him on the grass between them, Gandrett saw it—the same mark, the symbol that had been carved into Addie’s living skin weeks ago. Only, this man…

  She lowered her hand to close the man’s eyes, which were still gazing with horror … into the nothingness of what Gandrett hoped for him wasn’t Hel’s realm but the loving eternity of Vala’s gentle darkness. That was where she hoped she one day would ascend to when her time came in however many years her life as a fighting member of the Order of Vala allowed her. The fewer the better, a dark voice pointed out in the sorrowful depths of her soul.

  “That’s what happens to those who aren’t as lucky as Addie to have you rescue their asses,” Nehelon said from the other side of the mangled body, voice almost solemn despite the mockery in his words.

  She watched Nehelon inspect the cuts along the man’s forearm and the gashing wound on his abdomen where the shirt had been cut open in haste, his face clouding with dark shadows as he assessed each and every slice with centuries of experience and training. “This was certainly not a peaceful death,” was all he said, and Gandrett had nothing to add. She hadn’t seen bodies like this. She had heard of them, though. Of ritual sacrifices. Not only from Nehelon but from the Meister, in the history lessons at the Order.

  This body was those nightmares given flesh—dead flesh.

  Gandrett swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and stumbled to her feet to put a couple of feet between her and the dripping, cold shape that had had a beating heart a while ago and now, very much like the latter had been ripped out through his abdomen alongside the rest of his organs. She tried and tried to control it. Control was everything. The Meister, whom Nehelon so adored, called a friend even, had taught her that. And failed as she heaved onto the grass a good distance away from the water.

  Again and again, her stomach emptied itself as they flooded her, the memories of those hours in the temple of Shygon under Eedwood Castle, of the time of darkness in the dungeons when Joshua Brenheran had attempted to rid the world of her and send her back to Vala. It might have been a small mercy, given all the moments of pain that accumulated to call themselves her life. She heaved until nothing was left and all she did was spit bile and saliva.

  Nehelon didn’t disgrace her by pitying her or asking if she needed help. He gave her space to get over it, to regain hold of that thread that held her together. A thread she wasn’t sure was strong enough anymore.

  As she looked up, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she found the Fae male watching from a couple of strides away, his powerfully built body like a statue of grace before the river.

  He didn’t move as she collected herself and scrambled to her feet, cursing at the taste of bile in her mouth and the smell of death that slowly crept from the body behind her under the midday sun. And she couldn’t get herself to turn and look. Not yet. Gandrett Brayton had found her limit.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mckenzie’s bright laughter made Brax shake his head at the tunic in his hands.

  “Out of the question,” she snorted, managing to make even that seem noble. “It will only make you look like a duck with hair.”

  He chuckled as he examined the fabric, metallic green with a blue collar and a white stripe where the two parts connected. Like a duck.

  “With hair?” he challenged and tossed the finery aside to pick up the next one on the stack, a light blue thing that made him pity whoever Mckenzie was going to give a speech about it later. He dropped it for that anonymous who’s sake and pulled up a black tunic of finest making. “This one?”

  Mckenzie got up from the couch where she had been sprawling, her legs dangling over the rolled armrest, and swaggered over with a fake frown. “You know it won’t kill you to wear anything else than black for a change.”

  He snickered. “No, it won’t.” With quick hands, he reached behind his neck and pulled off the white shirt he had been wearing as if to prove a point and tossed it at his twin, who caught it and stuck it under her arm as she picked up more tunics and jackets from the stack, examining them with expert eyes.

  The black tunic fit, the fabric soft and flowing, allowing for enough movement that he would even be able to raise his sword hand in it. He tried some moves.

  “No one is going to try and spear you during the celebrations,” Mckenzie commented as she held up a burgundy jacket. “Try this.” She pushed it into his hands without waiting for an answer before she sat in the chair beside the one with the heap of clothes.

  He obeyed. There were few people whom he obeyed. Mckenzie was one of them. Probably the only one who got him to change course once he had set his mind to it. Not even Joshua could do that. Not his father. And ever since he had found out his mother was trying to sell off his sister, certainly not her.

  With a sigh, he donned the jacket over the tunic and, with surprise, realized that it wasn’t horrible to wear.

  “Nice.” Mckenzie studied him from her chair and played with the sleeves of his white shirt a bit absently. “Now we match.”

  He hadn’t seen her gown but had helped her pick the fabrics. He remembered the burgundy velvet and tulles. The jacket he was wearing now was made from the same texture. He stepped in front of the mirror and studied the embroidery that ran around the collar to the shoulders and halfway down the sleeves.

  As he was checking down his side, his gaze fell on the movement in the yard. Riders and carriages were snaking their way toward the sheltered entrance of the palace. He stepped to the side of the window, careful to stay out of sight if anyone looked up from the yard. If he had learned one thing from the stealthy bastard of a chancellor his father had appointed, it was that knowledge was an advantage, especially if you didn’t know if the people you were dealing with were friends or enemies.

  He didn’t miss the warrior-chancellor. Sterngrove belonged on a battlefield, not in finery. It had always been Brax’s opinion from the moment he had seen the man train. But he did have a bad feeling about him leaving with the Child of Vala. There was something different about him when he was with her. An edginess that the usually even-tempered man displayed as if he was worried she might pick up a sword and slit a random someone’s throat. From that very moment he had spotted him surveilling her as he showed off his purchase to the Lord of Ackwood in the great hall, Chancellor Sterngrove had been different.

  Brax shook his head and glowered at the black carriage adorned with white, ornate patterns.

  “Aucrosta,” he spat and pulled off the jacket, then the tunic, holding his hand out for Mckenzie who gave him a questioning look as she handed him the shirt, too disturbed by the mention of the royal house that held the throne of Lapidos to throw the shirt at him like she normally would.

  With a few flowing strides, she was next to him, fashioning a look that would have made anyone but her brothers run. “They are early,” she said with an atypically dark tone. A tone that the outside world usually didn’t get to hear.

  Brax donned his white shirt and picked up the black jacket he had been wearing before the fashion show, readying himself for the call that would certainly be coming within the next minutes.

  The carriage halted, and the guards at the door saluted as, clad in the breezy colors of summer, Brax and Mckenzie’s mother strode forward, a servant hurrying ahead to open the carriage of the king and queen of Lapidos.

  “Why can’t they just stay on the other end of the Fae lands?” Mckenzie asked no one as she straightened out her skirts and t
hrew open the windows, fashioning the smile their court demanded.

  Breakable and yet a mind to break everyone else, Brax thought, stepping into view just in time to see not the king and queen emerge from the carriage but two women who couldn’t be much older than his brother, along with a man who, from a distance, reminded him of a desert storm—he couldn’t tell why.

  “Oriel, Muriel, and Leonidas Aucrosta,” Mckenzie chanted lowly, her smile not faltering even as Brax noticed her ball her hands into fists at her sides, “the three heirs of Lapidos.”

  “In that order,” Brax added and watched their mother incline her head at the three royals before her as she welcomed them to Ackwood palace.

  It was impossible to make out words from up where they were standing by the window, but while the first of the three heirs seemed already engaged in conversation with their mother, Leonidas Aucrosta let his gaze wander over the yard and eventually up, up, up to where the twins were standing by the window.

  Though it was impossible to tell whether or not he recognized them, Leonidas lifted a hand in greeting, making the Lady of Ackwood crane her neck to find them side by side, Brax in black, now buttoned up to his throat, and Mckenzie in Brenheran burgundy, her blonde waves floating in the summer breeze and a wicked grin gracing her features.

  “Coming, Mother,” she trilled as if she were a five-year-old who had been called for teatime and been promised strawberry cake.

  Brax stifled a laugh and followed her to the door, looping his arm around hers as they descended the stairs, too fast for how much she had been complaining the other day, and watched the grin on her face spreading.

  “I assume you have a plan,” he murmured as they, at last, stepped out into the yard.

  “You can bet on that.” She ran a hand through her hair and stepped out the door.

  She grabbed his arm a bit harder as they swaggered forward, her chin wandering higher, her stride assured. His sister, a force of nature. Brax stifled a grin as he already pitied the Prince of Lapidos for making the acquaintance with Mckenzie Brenheran.