2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
A FEW DAYS LATER—Nemos’s Pass, approaching the Steel Court’s Border
W aking up in a pool of blood isn’t how I imagined starting my morning.
Yet here I am.
If I’d have just ridden my horse with the guards—like I wanted to, all along—then I wouldn’t be in this predicament. No, I’d have sensed the ambush, and ambushed whoever was so bold as to attack us before the attacker even had the chance to strike.
But no. Viridian, damn him, had insisted that I take a carriage. Typical male behavior. And then, in the luxurious cabin, with plush cushions beneath my rear, I’d gone and fallen asleep.
Asleep.
Not that I’d be able to sense much inside the carriage, even if I had managed to stay alert. How Viridian and Cryssa suffer this superfluous bundle of plush is beyond me. It’s enough to soften a person’s resolve with one ride.
Ceren’s voice echoes in my mind, reminding me of her teachings. “You must always be aware of your surroundings, Lymseia. If you listen closely enough, even the walls can tell you something.”
Clearly, I was not listening closely enough. If Ceren was here, she’d be scowling at me with her hands on her hips. She wouldn’t be angry with me, of course. Just disappointed. I’ve always thought that was worse.
Fully conscious now, I’m able to tell the blood’s not mine, thank the gods. Still, blood isn’t a good sign.
Blood means fighting.
Blood means there’s a threat.
Alert, I lower myself from the seat and into a crouched position. I’m still in the carriage, so I can’t rise to my full height. My head throbs, and my knees are wet, slick with blood. How this much got inside the cabin, I don’t know.
The jagged rock walls on either side of the carriage tell me that we haven’t made it out of Nemos’s Pass—the narrow route through the Kjos Mountains, which act as a border between Keuron, Inatia’s capital city, and my home Court, Steel. I creep forward, careful not to slip in the blood that coats the floor, the weight of my steel short-swords at my sides bringing me comfort. With them at my disposal, I’ll be able to make quick work of whoever attacked us.
All the same, I’ll need to be cautious. Whoever my enemy is, they’ve likely come prepared. It’s unwise to strike before counting how many guards I have left. Which wasn’t many to start with. My journey home to Illnamoor is a diplomatic one. And, given the tight, rocky terrain in Nemos’s Pass, named for the God of Death himself, few dare to cross. I brought enough guards to hold off a minor skirmish with some lesser fae bandits or disgruntled humans.
I thought that would be enough.
I was wrong.
Inching closer to the edge of the carriage, I poke my head out. Bodies lie scattered across the road. From what I can tell, all of the guards accompanying me have been taken out. Sounds of a struggle echo some distance away, but after a moment or two, they go silent.
I move my hands to my swords’ hilts, but my movement is sluggish. Slow.
Too slow.
I’ve been sitting on my ass for however many hours. I shouldn’t be tired. The pain in my head drones on, pulsing in waves. It’s so strong that I wince.
Something’s wrong.
My guards are dead, and I didn’t hear any of it. Come to think of it, I didn’t hear anything at all. How could they have been slain without me hearing?
I used to sleep like the dead, back when almost nothing roused me. But Ceren trained that out of me. Over and over, she’d wake me in the middle of the night. First by pounding on my door. Then by opening it normally. By the end of our sessions, I’d wake the moment I detected even the softest footsteps outside my bedchamber. Now, even the slightest hint of movement wakes me.
Yet I somehow slept through six of my guards being slaughtered?
Moving forward, out of the carriage, I slowly touch my feet to the blood-soaked earth below me. Instead of finding my footing, I wobble. Dizziness clouds my vision, giving me the unsteady sensation that one might feel when traveling by water.
The horses whine, straining against their collars. Behind the carriage and coming toward me, footsteps slop through mud.
Instinctively, I stand and pull my swords from their sheaths. The steel blades sing softly when I do. The sound should bring me comfort. It usually does.
But now, I wish they were quieter. In this kind of silence—dead, heavy silence—I fear they’ll give me away.
I pause, cocking my head a little.
The footsteps slow ever so slightly, squishing in the soggy dirt. I’m not able to make out how many there are, but I know there’s more than one assailant headed my way .
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head as if that simple motion will somehow clear the fog from my vision.
It doesn’t.
“Fuck it,” I grumble. Blades swinging, I launch myself forward and round the carriage, past the back set of wheels. Without it to shield me, I’m exposed without cover.
The closest assailant—a lean fae male with cropped, chestnut brown hair—dodges back, his throat just barely missing my swords.
But I’m slow, and my movements are sloppy. It takes me too long to readjust after attacking, so he lands a strong kick to my abdomen in response. The blow has me staggering backward in a daze.
Recenter yourself , Ceren’s voice urges in my head. Find your balance.
I try, but I can’t seem to shake the dizziness that keeps thwarting my attempts.
I lunge again but miss.
One of the assailants moves to my left, while another blocks my right side.
I keep my twin blades drawn, eyeing them. The short, coppery-haired female on my left wields twin hand axes. Her muscular build makes up for what she lacks in height. The male on my right has his sword drawn. His curly golden-blond hair falls over his forehead, but it doesn’t spare me from the pointed look in his light green eyes.
I peer over the chestnut-haired male’s shoulder. Not far in front of us, stands a female with silvery-white hair that’s cut just below her chin, framing her face. Her brows are pinched tight—with focus or anger, though I can’t tell which—and she points the arrow that’s strung in her bow at me.
Angling down a little, I turn my head so that my chin is almost parallel with my shoulder and use my peripheral vision to see what’s behind me. Unsurprisingly, there’s another body at my back. A male with shaggy jet-black hair about a step’s length away. His arms are wrapped with swirls of black ink that go from his wrists, all the way up to his shoulders.
I can’t see his weapon, but the sharp edge to my back tells me he has one.
“There’s five of us, and one of you,” the chestnut-haired male says, leveling his stare. “And something tells me that by now, you can’t even walk straight.”
“You don’t know anyth—” I step forward, but wobble, losing my balance yet again.
My assailants move closer on all sides, making my head spin.
What in the gods’ names is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be so lightheaded. So dizzy, so disoriented. It feels as though I’ve been drinking, even though I haven’t touched a goblet of wine in months.
Perhaps years.
Something else is to blame.
Gods, I’ve been drugged.
That’s why I didn’t hear the bloodshed. Why I slept for so long. How did I not realize this sooner?
I swing one of my blades, but the male to my right grabs my wrist, holding my arm in place. I struggle against his grip, but he squeezes tighter, forcing me to drop my sword. The motion has me swaying toward him, and my other sword slips from my hand.
Hands grip my shoulders from behind, and I unwillingly go limp. Anger boils in my chest, but the disappointment that sinks in my stomach is much stronger. I should have been smarter. More careful. Somewhere along the line, I let my guard down, and now, good, loyal members of the Guard are paying the price for my carelessness with their blood.
How could I have let this happen?
The chestnut-haired male takes another step closer. The last thing I see is his fist quickly approaching my face before everything goes dark.