Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Our barge slides into one of the slow-moving rivers that pours into the Central Sea. The Pillar is so close it looms over us now, scintillating and pulsing, reflected in the dark waters.
I’m drowsy, sitting huddled against one of the wooden posts on the deck. I’d waited for the convoy to pass for quite a long time, and the fear of not knowing if I could convince them to take me along has taken its toll.
My eyes keep closing.
I keep jerking awake.
Voices float above me, filtering through fleeting dreams.
“You have to admit it was weird to find her standing in that sinking boat, all alone, a pretty thing, soaked and shivering,” Red-hair is saying.
“Not so weird,” the other one counters. “There are any number of villages on the knolls in the lagoon. Lots of fish in the water.”
“And other things.”
Creatures grabbing unsuspecting fishermen and children playing in the shallows, seducing maidens and young men into the deep to feast on their still-beating hearts.
“True,” Pale-hair admits. “But the talisman didn’t shake. She’s clean. It’s obvious she was on her way to the anaktor for the festival when her boat sank.”
“And how come nobody else was with her?” Red-hair asks.
“Are you really asking that question in this infested lagoon?”
“Good point.”
I open one eye and find the redhead looking right at me. It’s interesting how people think that being mute means you’re also deaf. They forget. They speak loudly and don’t bother to censor their words.
Also interesting how they add details that weren’t there. I definitely wasn’t shivering. I have long gotten used to the cold.
And I don’t have to answer their questions, at least not right now. They may be suspicious, but I didn’t attack them, instead begging for passage. What eldritch lumina would do that? What water sylph would walk on two legs and show no sign of magic?
“She’s awake,” the blond says, hazel eyes twinkling. “What’s your name? I’m Tru. And that’s Arkin. Royal Guards accompanying the human sacrificial offerings for this year’s festival.”
I gaze back at him, not moving. He’s a handsome one, with that classic fae symmetry of the face, the smooth cheeks, and bright, uptilted eyes. Human girls sigh over fae boys, and human boys sigh over fae girls, and Tru would be one to sigh over if I had a heart left.
“Are you hungry, pretty human?” Arkin asks, smirking. He’s not bad-looking either, his eyes a merry blue, his smirk cheeky. “If you want food, you’ll have to work for it. Know what I mean?”
Not bad-looking, but a piece of work, that one. One best left ignored.
So I do precisely that, turning my back to them, curling on my side on the damp planks of the deck, ignoring the rumbling in my stomach. Tonight, I didn’t plan on eating anyway. My insides are still hollow. I feel turned inside out.
Tomorrow, perhaps. If all goes well. If I’m still alive.
While I may not shiver with cold, anticipation travels over my skin in a frisson. It will take a few more days to reach the Sea Palace, and then…
“Things are getting more dire by the day,” Tru is saying. “See how many lights are moving over the sky?”
“Eosphors,” Arkin spits the word. “They aren’t that many yet, but I’ve heard they keep crawling out of rifts in the firmament.”
“We have never seen so much movement before.”
Odd. The fae worship the Eosphors, those humanoid, winged beings whose purpose nobody knows. They keep to the sky, hanging from the firmament and crawling across it, causing debris to fall to the ground and forming glowing, moving constellations. They slipped through with the last Reversal.
I’ve never heard a fae speaking of them with such distaste.
“They won’t cause any trouble. They, or the Great Dara.”
“If you say so, Tru, but what do you know?”
“They won’t, I’m telling you.”
They also worship dragons, especially the Great Darako, usually called just dara. These enormous winged dragons fly high up against the firmament, rarely coming down to the ground.
All in all, the fae tend to worship all flying, winged creatures, which fits in with the fae’s affinity for the element of the air.
So why are these two guards talking about Eosphors and dragons as if they are a plague?
“Fine,” Pale-Hair says, “but what if Phaethon?—?”
“We don’t even know whether he’s in touch with them.”
And who is this Phaethon?
“She’s listening to us,” Tru, the pale-haired one suddenly says, warning in his voice. “Stop talking.”
Arkin clears his throat. “Well. You can’t speak, but you like listening in, huh? Eavesdropping on other people?”
I give him a little shrug.
“Look, as I said earlier, little human,” he says, and I can hear the smirk returning to his voice, “I’d share my dinner with you for some company, if you get my?—”
“I said, stop talking!” Tru barks. The thumping of his steps on the hollow wood of the barge has me uncurling from my fetal position. “Shut up and listen. There’s something in the water.”
“We’re almost at the outpost,” Arkin says, and as I sit up, I find him chewing on some jerky. “No way are we getting attacked so close to?—”
The barge rocks in a violent heave, sending the two guards stumbling sideways.
“By Zuma’s balls,” Arkin breathes as he finds his balance, though he takes the time to put the jerky away inside a cloth bag. “What was that?”
Tru shakes his head. “Look.”
Shouts and the sound of running steps fill the air. The guards are amassing at the front of the barge before me, lifting their spears.
Oh-uh.
Carefully, I turn to face what they’re facing, moving to a crouch, unsheathing and pulling out my dagger from the folds of my wet gown.
A dagger. Which is a long, sharp knife, even if it’s imbued with the salt of sea magic.
Against a water monster.
I laugh without mirth or sound.
Good thing nobody’s expecting me to fight. I’m not sure I could tackle any finnfolk creature now. Not sure I should even try when I’m without magic and saving myself for a far more important fight.
The water around the barge churns, rippling and frothing. Dark shapes swim under the glass surface, sleek and fast as a blink.
You need magic to fight magic. I hope the fae guards thought of that. Unless they have a giant hiding in one of the barges, or an Eosphor fallen from the sky, perhaps. Or a drak, huddling below deck.
This convoy crosses these dangerous wetlands every year for the Pillar Festival, so they must have appointed someone able to fight and protect the precious human cargo, they must have?—
“Make way!” a bass voice roars. “Move aside! Athdara, the King’s Sword, is here!”
Athdara. The title means Lord of the dara. Dragonlord. How strange.
Anyway, here we go. I was sure they had brought someone powerful along. It would have been monumentally stupid not to have done so.
The deepening pink-and-gold of the evening sky dims momentarily, as if a huge shadow has swept over it.
Shadows.
The shadows are real, I notice with a thrill. They slither and curl over the deck like snakes, preceding the tall figure of a man.
He steps in front of me, giving me his broad back.
I blink up as the men surge around him. Gods, he’s really tall, and those muscular arms and shoulders look wide enough to carry the firmament. His head is crowned by tousled black hair that curls slightly at his nape and brushes his square jaw.
An intimidating male, for sure.
“Be ready to fight,” he barks, and yes, I wasn’t wrong. Shadows. They curl around him, around his legs and shoulders, slithering like black mist, and twin swords materialize in his hands, pointing down. Their tips seem to be smoking, dissolving into shadow. “Draw your weapons!”
They are black swords, their blades glittering and yet lapping up the light, hurting my eyes. It looks like they’re made of nightgold alloy, the strongest metal in the world.
The guards lift their spears and swords. The barge rocks again. Shouts from behind me indicate that the attack is felt along the convoy, the impact rippling down its considerable length.
A moment of stillness surrounds us, as if the world is holding its breath. Somewhere above, at the distance, colorful draks dance against the sky, their great leathery wings seeming to catch fire, while higher up, the enormous dara are mere shadows against the firmament.
Then, a cry rings out. “Finnfolk!”
They rise to grab the barge, scaly hands tipped with black claws, webs between their fingers. Their faces rise over the side, lidless eyes dark and malevolent, skull-like grins stretching their mouths wide, showing all those sharp, yellow teeth.
“Watersprights!” the cry comes around, and the guards rush to the edge of the barge, rocking it so hard I roll away from the protection of the post. Lifting their swords, they start hacking at the merfolk who snarl and claw at them, some lifting green blades that strike sparks off the guards’ swords. A mermaid pulls one of the guards down into the water, his scream cut off suddenly.
The barges rock and I struggle to sit up, clutching my dagger in one hand as I scrabble with the other against the raised edge of the barge hold.
Someone yells an order. Another yells a curse. A green-hued merman is crawling toward me, eyes malicious, the claws on his hands gouging holes into the deck, his long fishtail sliding across the planks.
Ignoring him, ignoring the fighting taking place a few feet away from me, I concentrate on getting up. My feet burn, my legs are still too damn weak. I’m not used to legs and feet or generally to standing, not anymore. Gravity is dragging me down, but these are risks I had to take, a discomfort I will gladly tolerate to be here.
Just as I finally manage to stand, my drenched gown clinging to my thighs and shins, making movement difficult and turning my already clumsy balance more precarious, I find the shadow warrior, Athdara, approaching, sheathing his twin swords over his shoulders as he walks, freeing his hands.
Then he grabs the merman by the tail and swings him away and overboard.
As if it’s an annoying fish that landed on his deck.
I’m staring. I mean, the merman was easily larger and much heavier than Athdara. Perhaps twice his weight. And he tossed him off the boat as if he weighed nothing.
But he doesn’t seem to notice me as he unsheathes his swords once more and goes back to swinging them, hacking at the merfolk climbing onto the barge, then shoving them and kicking them off.
He’s a whirlwind, a storm, black hair flying as he swings his swords over his head and around, slicing through more mermen and mermaids and other watersprights climbing onto the barge. The shadows whirl with him, twining about him like clingy pets, occasionally breaking off to grab and drag a creature off the deck and back into the sea.
It’s breathtaking.
He ’s breathtaking.
Like a force of nature, powerful and graceful at the same time. I see so much raw strength and skill in the way he wields his weapons. His every motion is precise and clean. Nothing flashy. Nothing unnecessary. Dealing death as if he was born for the task, created for it.
A death messenger. Aides , the divine king of death reincarnate.
He has this under control, I think, under wraps. He’s tearing the attacking finnfolk apart. We’re almost good to go.
Just then the barge tilts and slides from under me.
The surface of the slow-flowing river shatters with a mighty splash and a roar, and a great crested head on a long, scaly neck rises.
“Sea drak!” The ululation runs over the barges like a rising wave. “Sea drak!”
Sea drak? Well, what an honor.
As the deck tilts more, I scramble to keep my feet, my dagger still in my hand. The sea monsters, huge dragons living in the ocean depths, rarely venture this far into the shallow lagoons, unless they are hunting, and they certainly aren’t hunting me.
The dragon rises higher and higher, rivers of water sluicing down its serpentine neck, over moss-green and bone-white scales, the crest on its head and the ridge on the back bristling and rattling.
Holy Wights , it’s immense. It’s clearly an old one.
These sea draks sometimes hunt near the shores, but usually it’s where the coast is rocky and the water dark and deep. They prey on sharks and other big fish, sometimes on dolphins and small whales, too.
Not on barges slowly drifting by.
A deathly quiet has fallen on the deck. The guards take a few steps back. To their credit, that’s as far as they go, their weapons still raised, spears and swords and daggers. A couple unsling bows and grab arrows.
But the only person left at the front, facing the leering sea drak, is this Athdara person, with his writhing shadows and black swords.
Watch out! I want to shout as the dragon’s massive head dips down, but no sound leaves my lips. The enormous mouth opens, displaying rows of yellowed teeth and those long fangs full of venom.
Athdara isn’t caught by surprise, though. He yells something and bows out of the way, trailing shadows, swinging his swords in an upward arc. The blades strike sparks off the dragon’s gemlike scales, and then… the dragon goes still.
The huge head turns, a yellow eye the size of my head regarding us.
That malevolent gaze slides off me and focuses on the shadow warrior.
What in all the hells is happening? I’ve never seen a sea drak stay still, observing.
Any dragon.
And this dragon is so still I can see the pattern of the interlocking blue-and-green scales around that yellow eye, the iridescent skin forming the branching crest on its head, the wicked saber-like teeth gleaming in its open mouth.
Then, a giant claw smashes into the side of the barge, and the guards take another step back.
Athdara remains planted in front of the monster, swords pointing down. The shadows have stopped moving, but they still hang around him like a dark mantle, pulsating.
“ Leave ,” Athdara says at last. Just that one word.
The dragon’s head turns and rises, a hiss like a million insects filling the air, the giant fangs dripping clear venom—and Athdara lifts and crosses his swords over his head.
I watch, my breath caught somewhere in my throat, as the dragon hovers there, his claw gouging a deeper wound into the barge.
Then it pushes off us and slowly sinks back into the water, without another sound. The ripples of its dive send the barge pitching and tossing like a dory.
The silence stretches on for a few more heartbeats— my heartbeats, my heart banging inside my chest like a darakin trying to escape a cage.
A cheer goes out over the barges, a reverse wave, rocking me forward, toward the amassed guards. I barely stop myself from plowing into their leather-covered backs.
“Dragon speaker!” they call out.
“Dragon summoner!”
“Dragon marked! He will open the gates for us!”
The gates? Are we talking about the gates between worlds? Why would the King’s Sword be able to open them?
Then again, he is apparently a dragon speaker. I’ve never heard of one before now. The drak squadron riders of the fae king’s army don’t count, as they don’t talk to their steeds, not as far as I know, either raising them from dragonlings and teaching them to obey certain commands, or capturing and compelling them with spells, by force, to serve.
Interesting… As if he needed more mystery about him.
They part, and I see him, still standing where the sea drak had faced him mere moments ago. His tall form looms, narrow hips and broad shoulders wrapped in that black armor that seems to swallow the light, his black hair tangled and curling at the back of his pale neck.
He looks so… human, but that doesn’t mean anything. Fae may have that eldritch about them, that otherness, almost human but not quite, yet they hide it most of the time. Hooves for feet, tails, scales, fur, slit-pupil eyes, even bark for skin sometimes… You name it. You can see an echo of that in the lesser fairies that roam the wilderness.
The world they came from has to be the weirdest place.
I wonder what sets him apart, aside from the rare ability to command dragons—and apparently, to open gates. Then I remember the shadows…
The awe of the amassed guards is infectious. They are still cheering and shouting, clapping each other on the back as if they were the ones who sent the dragon away.
To be fair, they did fight the merfolk to the best of their abilities. It was a decent battle.
But all my attention is on that black-clad back, and when Athdara turns around, he doesn’t look jubilant or proud.
Gods, his beauty is raw and dangerous like a fine, naked blade. A perfect face, achingly handsome. A hard jaw, soft mouth, dark eyes under straight black brows, and black hair tumbling on his brow… and dark designs under his eyes, staining his cheekbones like black tears smudged on his pale skin.
His clothes consist of dark armor, a black breastplate with the symbol of the world tree embossed in silver, epaulets, and vambraces, then leather pants, boots, and greaves covering his knees and shins.
He’s still holding his twin nightgold swords.
The guards’ shouts become whispers, but he says nothing, still as a statue, his gaze roaming over the barge… and stopping on me.
His stillness is otherworldly, though his dark brows inch closer together, shadowing his gaze. “You…” His mouth forms the word even if I can’t hear it. “Hells, no.”
Whatever that means.
Without another word, he sheathes his swords over his shoulders, crossing them at his back, and strides past me, heading down the length of the barge.
Oh, nice. I scowl at his vanishing back. Nice to meet you, too.
My heart is still pounding, though, as if I’ve barely escaped a grave danger—and I’m not talking about the sea drak.