Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices, #2)

“As if I would speak of it,” snapped Erec. “And it is no use threatening me—it would be worth my life to tell you.”

“Believe me, I’m tired of threatening you myself,” said Julian.

“Then let me go,” said Erec. “How long do you plan to keep me? Forever? For that is how long you’d have to use me for protection to keep my father and his knights from finding you and cutting your throats.”

“I said I was tired of threatening you, not that I was going to stop doing it,” said Jules, tapping the knife blade. They’d come to the edge of the forest, where the trees ended and fields began. “Now, which way?”

Erec set off into the field, and they followed. Kieran was leaning more heavily on Mark. His face was very pale in the moonlight. The stars picked out the blue and green in his hair—his mother had been an ocean faerie, and a little of the shimmering loveliness of water remained in the colors of Kieran’s hair and eyes.

Mark’s arm curved around him unconsciously. He was angry at Kieran, yes, but here in Faerie, under the brilliant polychromatic stars, it was hard not to remember the past, not to think of all the times he’d clung to Kieran for warmth and companionship. How it had been just them, and he had thought perhaps it always would be. How he’d thought himself lucky that someone like Kieran, a prince, and beautiful, would ever look at him.

Kieran’s whisper was a light caress against Mark’s neck. “Windspear.”

Windspear was Kieran’s horse, or had been. He had come with him from the Court when Kieran had joined the Hunt.

“What about him? Where is he?”

“With the Hunt,” said Kieran, and coughed, hard. “He was a gift from Adaon, when I was very young.”

Mark had never before met Kieran’s half brothers, the dozens of princes by different mothers who vied for the Unseelie Throne. Adaon, he knew from Kieran’s tales, was one of the kinder ones. Erec was the opposite. He had been brutal to Kieran for most of his life. Kieran rarely spoke of him without anger.

“I thought I heard his hoofbeats,” Kieran said. “I hear them still.”

Mark listened. At first he heard nothing. His hearing was not as sharp as Kieran’s or any true faerie’s, at least not when his runes weren’t working. He had to strain his ears to finally hear the sound. It was hoofbeats, but not Windspear’s. Not any one horse’s. This was a thunder of hoofbeats, dozens of them, coming from the forest.

“Julian!” he cried.

There was no keeping the panic from his voice; Jules heard it and turned, fast, his grip on Erec loosening. Erec tore away, exploding into motion. He streaked across the field, his black cloak flying behind him, and plunged into the forest.

“And he was such awesome company, too,” Emma muttered. “All that ‘Nephilim, you will die in a welter of your own blood’ stuff was really refreshing.” She paused. She had heard the horses. “What’s that—?”

Cortana seemed to fly into her hand. Julian was still holding his dagger; Cristina had reached for her balisong.

“The King’s cavalry,” said Kieran, with surprising calm. “You cannot fight them.”

“We must run,” Mark said. “Now.”

No one argued. They ran.

They tore through the field, leaped a stone wall on the far side, Mark half-carrying Kieran over. The ground had begun to tremble by then with the force of distant hoofbeats. Julian was swearing, a low steady stream of curses. Mark guessed he didn’t get to swear all that much back at the Institute.

They were moving fast, but not fast enough, unless they could find more woods, some kind of cover. But nothing was visible in the distance, and looking up at the stars told Mark little. He was exhausted enough that they dizzied him. Half his strength felt as if it were going to Kieran: not just dragging him along but willing him upright.

They reached another wall, not high enough to stop faerie horses but high enough to be annoying. Emma leaped it; Julian sprang after her, his fingers lightly brushing the top of the wall as he sailed over.

Kieran shook his head. “I cannot do it,” he said.

“Kier—” Mark began angrily, but Kieran had his head down, like a beaten dog. His hair fell, sweat-tangled, into his face, and his shirt and the waist of his breeches were soaked in blood. “You’re bleeding again. I thought you said you were healing.”

“I thought I was,” Kieran said softly. “Mark, leave me here—”

A hand touched Mark’s shoulder. Cristina. She had put her knife away. She looked at him levelly. “I’ll help you get him over the wall.”

“Thanks,” Mark said. Kieran didn’t seem to even have the energy to look at her angrily. She scrambled to the wall’s top and reached her hands down; together she and Mark hauled Kieran up over the barrier. They jumped down, into the grass beside Emma and Julian, who were waiting, looking worried. Kieran landed beside them and collapsed to the ground.

“He can’t keep running,” said Mark.

Julian glanced over the wall. The hoofbeats were loud now, like thunder overhead. The leading edge of the Unseelie cavalry was in view, a dark and moving line. “He has to,” he said. “They’ll kill us.”

“Leave me here,” said Kieran. “Let them kill me.”

Julian dropped to one knee. He put a hand under Kieran’s chin, forcing the prince’s face up so their eyes met. “You called me ruthless,” he said, his fingers pale against Kieran’s bloodied skin. “I have no pity for you, Kieran. You brought this on yourself. But if you think we came all the way here to save your life just to let you lie down and die, you’re more foolish than I thought.” His hand fell from Kieran’s face to his arm, hauling him upright. “Help me, Mark.”

Together they lifted Kieran between them and started forward. It was a blindingly hard task. Panic and the strain of holding up Kieran threw off Mark’s hunting senses; they stumbled over rocks and roots, plunged into a thick copse of trees, its branches reaching down to tear at their skin and gear. Halfway through the copse, Kieran went limp. He had finally fainted.

“If he dies—” Mark began.

“He won’t die,” Julian said grimly.

“We could hide him here, come back to get him—”

“He’s not a spare pair of shoes. We can’t just leave him somewhere and expect him to be there when we get back,” Julian hissed.

“Would you two stop—” Emma began, and then broke off with a gasp. “Oh!”

They had burst out of the small patch of trees. In front of them rose a hill, green and smooth. They could climb it, but it would demand digging in with hands and feet, scrambling over the top. It would be impossible to do and keep Kieran with them.

Even Julian stopped dead. Kieran’s arm had been looped around Julian’s neck; now it swung free, dangling at his side. Mark had the distant horrible feeling he was already dead. He wanted to lay Kieran down in the grass, check for his heartbeat, hold him as a Hunter should be held in his last moments.

Instead he turned his head and looked behind them. Cristina had her eyes closed; she was holding her pendant, her mouth moving in silent prayer. Emma held Cortana the same way, her eyes watchful and glittering. She would defend them to the last, Kieran too; she would go down under the hooves of the dark cavalry.

And they were coming. Mark could see them, shadows between the trees. Horses like black smoke, blazing eyes like red coals, shod in silver and burning gold. Fire and blood gave them life: They were murderous, and brutal.

Mark thought he could see the King, riding at their head. His battle helmet was etched with a pattern of screaming faces. Its faceplate covered only that half of the King’s face that was human and beautiful, leaving the dead gray skin exposed. His single eye burned like red poison.

The sound of their coming was like the sound of a glacier breaking apart. Deafening, deadly. Mark wished suddenly that he could hear what Cristina was saying, the words of her quiet prayer. He watched her lips move. Angel, provide for us, bless us, save us.