Argo shoots across the sky while I pant in shitty, ineffective inhales. It feels like the roots are wrapping around my chest like a boa constrictor, not letting me take in a full breath. The lines are cutting through my neck, clamping down on my jaw and snapping down my collarbone.
With sweat beading at my brow, I tap Argo with my heel and direct him to land. I don’t want to go too far, but I also can’t be too close when I let my magic out. I need to be far enough away from the village and to also get this over with as quickly as possible so I can get back to Auren.
Argo lands in the middle of nowhere, the snowstorm just as harrowing. I jump off his back and give his hindquarters a tap. Knowing exactly what to do, he launches back into the sky, circling beneath the clouds.
I look around the sparse white landscape, but visibility is down to maybe thirty or so feet. Rolling my shoulders back, I quickly take off my gloves, shoving them in my pocket, and then I shake out my arms and close my eyes, focusing on my power. It’s pent-up and overwrought, pushing against me with irritation.
Forcing myself to breathe in and out, I make sure I’m centered enough to grapple control over the monumental force pumping through my veins.
Then, I let it out.
Rot ruptures out of me like a spewing volcano.
My knees hit the ground as violent torrents shoot through the snow like demonic roots come to poison the earth. And that’s exactly what it does.
Power flows from me in waves, and I feel every inch of it as it pours from where I’d kept it dammed up.
Now unleashed, it rumbles from my feet and spreads from my hands, delving into every inch of ground it can get to, rotting, decaying.
Destroying.
In a matter of seconds, there is no untouched snowy ground. Streams of toxins have spanned out in all directions, while I stand in the center of the wicked timepiece, counting down the seconds until the power stops pushing, stops punishing.
My body shakes from the amount of magic expelling from my body, and when it finally ceases its endless torment and I feel like I can breathe again, I close it down. Like a fist around a straw, I strangle the flow until the rot drips out its last drop.
Exhaustion drapes over my limbs and scours down my back, leaving me raw and heavy. I blink blearily around me as the roots in the ground settle and stiffen, their movements finally going still.
With shaky hands, I try to curl my fingers, noting the roots of power on my skin have receded and I no longer feel them crawling up my neck or down my back. A hefty price, considering the fetid and impure land I’m standing on that’s now dead and desecrated with an awful stench.
After taking in several labored breaths, I have enough strength to lift my head and let out a sharp whistle. Argo comes down within seconds, feathers frozen, maw covered in patches of snow. He kneels down more than usual so I can heave my body on top of his back. Once I’m buckled, he takes off, not once chattering at me for my slumped over position. He’s carried me in far worse postures.
It’s dusk now, and I look down at the land as he lifts us into the air, seeing the stretch of rotted lines polluting the ground like venom spread through the earth. He carries us up above the clouds, cutting off my view, and even though I’m tired, the relief of expelling all that pent-up power is immense. I can finally take in a full breath now, and all my rot has retracted back to the thin, painless lines that I can feel around my chest.
I barely feel the wind or the snow as Argo flies us back to the village, but by the time he lands and steps back into the Perch, I’m frozen through. When I slip off the saddle and land at his side, I give him a scratch on his muzzle, and he nudges my arm for another. “Good beast,” I murmur.
Although I no longer feel like a dam about to burst, shoving out that much power at one time is debilitating. I do my best not to look as drained as I feel while I start to unsaddle Argo. Just as I’m doing the first buckle, the caretaker, Selby, hurries over, though I hadn’t even noticed him in here. “I’ve got it, Sire. Just brought in a fresh feast for them as well. He’ll be eating good tonight.”
With a grateful nod, I start to walk out, but his voice stops me. “Did Captain Lu or Captain Judd find you, then?”
Slowly, I turn back around. “Find me?”
A confused look crosses his face. “Oh, beg your pardon, Sire. They saddled a couple of timberwings just a minute or so ago. I thought they’d gone to meet up with you.”
Dread fills my stomach, and I don’t even answer him before I turn and sprint from the cave. They wouldn’t have gone out in this storm to look for me unless something was wrong. My steps slip and slide as I rush downhill, but I don’t stop until I make it to the Grotto, with fear and worry biting at my heels.
Hojat nearly barrels into me as soon as I step inside, his brown eyes wide, scarred face gone pale. “Thank Divine you’re back.”
A shot of adrenaline surges through me, spikes ready to burst through my back. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Lady Auren.”
Panic drives through the center of my heart.
I knew I shouldn’t have fucking left.
“Is she awake?” I demand, already stalking down the hallway.
“Not her,” he calls after me, making me stop in my tracks to pin him with a fierce gaze. “It’s her gold.”
CHAPTER 11
QUEEN KAILA
At the very heart of Ranhold City, there’s a gleaming white building with a portico two stories high. The pillars are the width of a tree, solid and presumptuous, though the building itself isn’t as impressive looking. It’s here that the funeral processions take place for every monarch of Fifth Kingdom who has ever died, which is why I find myself standing with my brother on the second level, overlooking the gathering below.
From my spot on the pillared balcony, I have a spectacular view of the city itself, plus the castle’s turrets just beyond the wall. On the ground level, Fifth Kingdom’s advisors are carrying out the passing rites for the deceased Prince Niven.
Citizens from all throughout the city have gathered in droves to spectate, though most of them can’t see a thing since they’re too far away. Still, they’ve come, their figures buried beneath mounds of purple tapestries with Fifth’s sigil of jagged icicles embroidered on them, erected like awnings up and down the streets. I don’t believe they even realize the symbolism of the royal crests casting them in shadows.
Beside me, I feel my brother, Manu, shiver. “Why in the Divine do the people of Fifth Kingdom have to hold their passing rites outside?” he whispers between the teeth he has clenched to keep from chattering.
“I do believe that we are simply less acclimated to the weather here.”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “And yet here you sit, not shivering in the least.”
On the contrary, my skin is raised with chills even beneath the thick layers of my gown and cloak, but I would never shiver in public. Even something so small as that innocent gesture could be taken as a sign of weakness when it comes to a widowed queen.
Looking to my left, I catch the eye of a few Fifth nobles, one of whom keeps pretending to dab her eyes with her handkerchief anytime she hears the rite bell toll from below. There are six rows of benches, all of them full, where the nobles are sitting straight-backed as they try to catch a glimpse of the proceedings in the promenade where Prince Niven’s body is set upon a sarcophagus.
But in the front row with us, sitting a few paces down, is Hagan Fulke. Only twenty years old, with a pudgy face and washed-out blond hair, the man keeps yanking on the front of his high-necked collar, obviously unused to wearing such formal garments. Though he might not look like much, he’s the first kin of the late king, and heir to the throne.
Well, he is now.