Chapter 19
W e entered the courtyard at the same moment a wagon creaked across the stones. But it was unlike any wagon I’d seen in Ghedda.
For one thing, the horses pulling it were twice the size of draft horses. They also sported long black horns that curled backward into snowy white manes. The creature steering them possessed similar horns, although his face and form were otherwise human.
But the horse and driver were the least arresting thing about the wagon.
That distinction belonged to its cargo. An enormous wooden cage held dozens of creatures. A few stood, but most sat on the wooden planks. Some, like the voluptuous sirens and snarling werewolves, were familiar. Others ranged from majestic to bizarre.
But no one in the cage looked happy to be there.
A man with a head full of feathers wept openly, his knees drawn to his chest. The woman beside him bared pointed teeth as the wagon hit a rut, setting the cage rocking.
A pair of women with translucent wings huddled in one corner, their arms wrapped around each other and their eyes wide with fear as they stared up at the Drakhold.
A man with prominent ears, a bald head, and a single eye clung to the bars.
And two women and one man sat apart from everyone else, their eyes burning with rage above mouths covered with metal that integrated seamlessly with their skin. Manacles encased their hands.
“Whoa,” the driver said, one boot on the footboard as he tugged hard on the reins. The horned horses stopped, tails swishing as they tossed their heads and stomped hooves the size of dinner plates.
I stumbled to a halt, my blood running cold. The witches stared at me, the fury in their eyes hot enough to incinerate. If their hands had been free, I had no doubt they would have reduced me to ash.
Lorcan strode to the wagon.
“Well met, Your Highness,” the driver called, climbing down from his seat.
He landed with a good-natured grunt and hitched his trousers over his rotund stomach before offering Lorcan a deep bow.
When he straightened, his horns glinted in the waning sunlight.
Fangs showed between his lips as he hooked a clawed thumb toward the cage.
“Fresh supplies for the king. The lads and I had a good haul this day.” He patted the nearest horse’s flank. “Didn’t we, Orlyx?”
The horse belched a stream of fire.
I jumped. Beside me, Vander was still and steady, his features hard.
No, blank. He wore no expression. Gave no sign that a cage full of his countrymen, some bleeding and injured, bothered him.
Supplies.
“Excellent,” Lorcan said, flicking a look over the cage’s occupants. “His Majesty will be pleased.”
“Fuck that maniacal cunt!” a raspy voice shouted.
A gasp rippled through the prisoners. Seconds later, a diminutive, winged man shoved his way to the side of the cage. No larger than a cat, he nevertheless emanated menace as he locked eyes with me.
“Fuck you, too, bitch! You and your ginger bitch knight!” Snarling, he gripped his crotch and pumped his hips. “Get fucked!”
Recognition slammed into me. He was the pixie from the road. The one who’d insulted Vander before his female companion hauled him away.
Do you want your head to end up on a pike?
The wagon’s driver swung toward him and brandished a fist. “Oy! Shut the fuck up, or I’ll bash your teeth in.”
“Eat shit!” the pixie hollered. The feathered man on the bed of the wagon buried his head in his hands and sobbed harder.
“What is this racket?”
I froze as Rasimir strode from the Drakhold with Delphine at his side. She avoided my gaze as they approached the wagon.
Rasimir didn’t. A smile lit his green eyes as he came to me and kissed my hand.
“Daughter. How was training?”
“Good. Father.” The side of my face burned as the pixie glared at the edge of my vision.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Rasimir’s smile didn’t budge as he turned to the wagon. “I’m less pleased to hear such an unseemly display from our guests.”
Several of the wagon’s occupants shifted backward, making the wood creak. The horse the driver had called Orlyx snorted, twin clouds of black smoke puffing from its nostrils.
As Rasimir continued forward, Delphine stayed put, her eyes downcast and her hands folded in front of her. She could have been one of the statues ringing the courtyard. Vander remained just as still at my shoulder.
Lorcan turned to Rasimir. “Only three spellcasters, Majesty.” He fixed cold eyes on the driver. “You call that a good haul?”
The driver paled, his horns flattening against his head. “I…” He shot a nervous-looking glance at Rasimir. “The witches are difficult to catch, my prince. The powerful ones can kill with a flick of their little finger. I—”
“Shut up,” Rasimir said, his tone mild and his gaze on the cage. The driver clamped his lips together, but Rasimir paid him no mind as he approached the bars.
The pixie remained in place even as the Noctans around him continued shuffling back. His wings twitched and he lifted his chin, his bright eyes locked on Rasimir.
“Why so quiet?” Rasimir asked. “You had a lot to say before.”
Dread coiled in my stomach. Why couldn’t the pixie have held his tongue? Now Rasimir was going to drain him—or order me to do it.
The pixie’s wings shivered as he thrust his chin higher. Eyes glowing, he leaned into the bars. “I have just one thing to say to you.”
I held my breath. The courtyard was deadly quiet, not even a breeze disturbing the tension.
The pixie’s wings beat faster, and I realized they weren’t trembling out of fear. He rattled them like a snake poised to strike.
Rasimir’s smile stretched. Spreading his arms, he glanced around as if inviting an audience to listen for a punch line in a mummers’ play. “Well? Let’s hear it.”
The pixie spat in his face.
Gasps went up, along with a few shocked cries. Vander shot forward, lodging himself between Rasimir and the wagon. He thrust a hand through the bars, gripped the pixie’s throat, and hauled him into the air.
“You’re a dead man,” he growled, fangs descending past his lips. The pixie kicked his legs, his eyes bulging as Vander’s fingers turned white.
“Stand down, Captain,” Rasimir said.
Vander released the pixie at once and stepped back. The pixie dropped to the wagon bed and collapsed on his side.
“Get out of my way,” a voice inside the wagon said, and prisoners lurched aside as a second pixie—a female—emerged.
Blood dripped from a deep cut on her cheekbone, and the side of her head looked like someone had kicked it hard enough to leave a dent.
Tears streamed down her face as she knelt at the male’s side and stroked his hair away from his face.
“Your mate?” Rasimir asked, wiping spittle from his cheek with a black cloth.
The woman, who was nowhere near as fierce-looking as she’d been on the road to the Drakhold, looked up.
“My brother.” She blinked, her brow furrowing like she struggled to keep Rasimir in focus. As her brother coughed and struggled to suck in air, she bowed her head, her posture deferential. “Please…Majesty. He wasn’t thinking.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Rasimir said. He crouched, putting his head at the same level as the gasping pixie. “We’re all intemperate sometimes. Life is stressful. It’s important to relax whenever possible.”
The woman’s wings shuddered, the tips turning blue. “Yes, of course, Majesty.”
Rasimir stood. “Then again, sometimes, it’s important to know one’s place.” He flung a hand toward the prone pixie. “ Apa .”
The pixie seized, his mouth stretching on a soundless scream.
Veins plumped under his skin like blue caterpillars.
Several prisoners cried out. Against the back of the wagon, the trio of witches sat with burning eyes as the pixie thrashed and jerked.
After a second, his face…deflated. The rest of his body followed suit, his limbs sagging like damp clothes pulled off a line.
His sister scrambled back, her eyes wide. “What’s happening? What have you done?”
Pale blood gushed from her brother’s mouth and ears. More spread under him. It coursed from his body like rapids released from behind a dam, the color all wrong to be merely blood.
Because it wasn’t. As his body continued to deflate, his eyes rolled from their sockets and joined the river of blood, bone, and fluids. Rasimir had liquefied his insides, turning his skeleton and organs to pulp.
Bile burned my throat. The stench of rotting meat joined the sweeter, tempting aroma of blood. The wagon rocked as prisoners tried in vain to escape the spreading pool of waste. But the pixie’s sister remained on her knees, her lips moving although no sound emerged.
What have you done?
What have you done?
I started forward, only to stop when a hand caught my elbow.
“Don’t,” Delphine whispered, releasing me swiftly. She moved away as screams echoed around the courtyard and blood dripped over the edges of the wagon.
What have you done? The accusation echoed in my mind.
Nothing. I’d done nothing while Rasimir tortured and killed.
But I could do something.
A pair of claws here, too , Ruvien’s voice said in my memory. But perhaps more cleverly hidden.
The elves couldn’t lie. Which meant I could do something .
I had to. I’d been honest when I told Rasimir I didn’t want his throne.
I didn’t want to rule Nocta. But I couldn’t stand by and let him terrorize and murder its people.
And I wouldn’t. I wasn’t at all certain how I was going to accomplish it, but I was going to end my father’s reign.
If that meant taking his throne, so be it.
From the hobflies to the centaurs, glomarids, and pixies, Nocta and its people would be free. I was going to make it happen.
Finally, the sickening river ceased. The pixie was a flesh-colored sack on the bed of the wagon, his face folded in half, wings limp, blood stained against the boards. His sister stared at his remains with dull eyes.
Rasimir turned and beckoned to Delphine. When she rushed to his side, he motioned her toward the woman. “Fix the damage.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Captain Vander,” Rasimir said, “help Delphine secure our guest.”
Vander sprang forward. Reaching through the bars, he dragged the woman forward. She came alive, hissing and fighting, but he held her easily by the scruff of her shirt.
Delphine stepped beside him and smoothed her thumbs over the cut on the woman’s cheek and the injury on her head. For a few heartbeats, the wounds appeared on Delphine before fading.
“Bitch,” the pixie woman growled when Delphine stepped back. “I wanted to die.”
“You will,” Rasimir said. He swept his gaze over the other prisoners. “Don’t bother with hunger strikes and other nonsense. Delphine will heal any injuries you encounter in the dungeon.” His smile returned. “Most of you possess useless magic, so your time as my guests will be short.”
Delphine had folded her hands again, her beautiful face blank as she stared at a spot on the ground.
Rasimir turned to Lorcan. “See this group to the dungeon.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
My skin prickled. When I looked at the cage, all three witches stared me down.
“Corinthe,” Rasimir said.
I tore my attention from the witches. “Yes, Father?”
He offered his arm. “Come. I wish to speak with you.”
His unspoken alone hovered in the air like a ghost.
Refusal was unthinkable. Not when he held the power to turn bone to liquid. The gods only knew what other powers he possessed. With every eye in the courtyard fastened on me, I went to him and rested my fingertips on his forearm.
“Yes, Father.”