I dug at the bark around it, first with a knife, then with my nails, until I’d loosened the bark enough to pull the crystal needle free. As I held it, it lengthened from a needle to a blade, a hilt forming at its base. A dagger.
The soul-eater’s key.
I kept my mind shut, afraid of what I might see if I opened myself to the key’s memories, but its power slithered over me, hissing at what it found—the lingering essence of the gods it had trapped. Inside my veins, the gods hissed back.
“What is that?” Quinlan asked.
“Salvation,” I answered. For the Fallen Ones. For Glasnith.
For Reyker, wherever his soul had gone.
CHAPTER 9
LIRA
It was barely past dawn the next day when a band of heavily armed riders was spotted heading across the plains to Taloorah. Bog Men, their clothing and skin streaked with mud. Kelpies, dressed in armor etched like fish scales. Ravenous, their heads shaved and painted with red stripes. Warriors from the mercenary tribes.
The nomad infantry formed lines on the outskirts of the village, with Zabelle commanding on horseback from the front. I waited with Garreth in the rear cavalry lines. It chafed my brother not to be at the head of his army, but this was what he’d agreed to after quarreling with Zabelle.
From the ranks of mercenary riders, a man rode forward. Brown hair and eyes, medium build—ordinary, but for the malice in his expression and the crown on his head.
Madoc. Unappointed, alleged king of Glasnith.
“Nephew,” he called, searching the crowd. “A word, if you please. Stone to Stone.”
Garreth motioned for me to stay in the back, hidden from view. Madoc assumed I’d burned to death in the cells he had set fire to. Better to keep it that way.
The nomads parted to let Garreth through. Zabelle joined him, his steadfast protector, and a large Kelpie was glued to Madoc’s side as well. They met in the center of the field: the false king and the Ghost Prince.
I squinted across the distance until my acute vision kicked in, tugged at my ear until it obeyed and let me listen from afar.
“What’s your business here, Madoc?” Garreth asked.
“Lovely to see you alive again, and only slightly maimed.” Madoc’s eyes fixed on the vambrace and gauntlet on Garreth’s right hand. “My business is this is my kingdom, yet there are rumors of another man calling himself royalty and amassing an army.”
“I’m not pretending to be royal. My people know who I am and named me their prince as a term of endearment, not an imperial title. Glasnith is no kingdom. It’s a land of chiefdoms, and always will be. Those of us in Taloorah are merely forming our own clan to defend ourselves, which we have every right to do, especially considering how the other clans have denied us aid and alliances.”
“Alliances.” Madoc grinned. “Tricky things, those. You must know I made one with the mercenary clans of the south, and they, in turn, allied with the Dragon.”
I glanced among the mercenaries. How could they follow Madoc? What had he promised them?
A Bog Man among them shifted restlessly. There was something strange about his eyes—for an instant, it seemed like spider legs were crawling out of his pupils, then they were gone, and I wasn’t certain I’d seen anything at all.
“Do I know that you betrayed our family’s clan, its warriors, and your own kin? That you sent my father and his men to their deaths?” Garreth’s hand twitched, no doubt aching to reach for his sword. “Yes. I’m aware.”
“I came here as a courtesy to you, my brother’s eldest and only living spawn, to warn you to disband this pathetic tribe of stragglers before you force your king’s hand. Heed my command, or there will be a reckoning.”
Garreth leaned forward. “Oh, there will be a reckoning. On that you can bet. But not today. Keep pouring lies into the ears of the clan leaders. When it catches up to you, I’ll be there, waiting. Until then, stay out of Taloorah. This village is mine.”
As one, Garreth and Zabelle turned their horses and rode away.
Madoc tapped one finger against his chin, an odd gesture. No—a signal. I caught movement from one of the mercenaries behind Madoc. The fidgeting Bog Man raised his bow and nocked a venom-tipped arrow, aiming it at my brother’s back. My mind reached for the horses. The assassin’s mount tossed its rider a half-second too late—he’d loosed his arrow, and it sailed straight for Garreth. But I’d already sent Garreth’s horse dancing out of the way.
The arrow passed within an inch of Garreth’s shoulder.
A second arrow flew, this time from Zabelle’s bow. It struck the assassin through the neck. She trained her next arrow on Madoc.
The false king’s mercenaries raised their weapons in a tide of silver.
Garreth’s eyes traveled over the rival army, then over his own, assessing the possibilities, the gains and losses. The cost of killing Madoc. It could be done, but not without bloodshed on both sides. And if Garreth let Zabelle take her shot, she would be the first to die.
The Prince of Ghosts raised his hands. “A rogue assassin, acting alone,” Garreth declared. “The threat is ended. There’s no need for further retribution. We shall leave the body to your disposal and return to our village.”
Madoc inclined his head. “As you say, nephew. Until we next meet, Gwylor keep you.”
Zabelle lowered her bow. The prince and the false king dared to turn their backs to each other, but their guards rode sideways in their saddles, ready to protect their leaders.
The nomad army parted once more to let Garreth and Zabelle through. As he got closer, I noticed the tremble in my brother’s muscles, the lack of color in his skin. It was his birthright to be a commander, to lead warriors, but this was the first time the balance of hundreds of lives had been on his shoulders.
As his horse passed mine, Garreth touched my arm, whispering, “Thank you.”
The power Veronis gave me had saved my brother. If I could keep those I cared about safe, I would embrace these gifts. And hope I could keep them under control.
That night, I lay awake in the tent I’d set up inside the temple ruins. A sanctuary where I could feel close to my lost sisters. A place where no one heard me cry out when I woke from dreams of Reyker.
Or when I screamed against the claws scratching at my mind—the Dragon, searching for me. Always searching.
The crystal dagger I wore at my hip, hidden under my clothes, vibrated with power. Impatient, just as I was. I had to find a ship and a crew that could get me to Iseneld—a feat that took resources I lacked, especially when the port I’d need to sail from belonged to the warlord. And there were many unfinished tasks left in Glasnith, most importantly to save the Daughters of Aillira. My loyalties were torn, indecision cleaving me in half.