A Curse of Blood and Power: A Chronicle of Fanhalen Page 2

  ‘You cannot predict what cost it will demand.’

  The young heir breathed out, and within a second schooled her features into icy royalty. ‘General, move aside. This is an order.’

  As she ran through the hallways of her home as fast as her feet allowed her, past the chambers where she grew up and retreated when her older siblings attended court, down to the red library in the catacombs, she could not stop but think of everything that had happened over the past two months that led to this moment.

  How could the world have gone so wrong in such a short amount of time? Maybe it was the price she had to pay for refusing to take up her duties, for her reluctance to fulfil the great obligations her ancestors had lined up for her.

  She stopped in front of the intricate, red-oak door. ‘Open the doors and leave me.’

  The guards obeyed, and Nepherym walked inside the room that had forged and destroyed empires, determined to save her own.

  Even if it meant surrendering her soul.

  Present

  Continent of Fanhalen.

  In the early morning of the first day of spring, whilst the sun still hid deep within the clouds, a wind rippled through all the land. From the deepest ocean cave, to the highest mountain top; from the hidden jungle hideouts to the fairest plains; from the abandoned kingdoms to the darkest corner of the warring ones.

  People and animals alike jolted awake, fell a step back, dropped to the floor, yapped as it stole a breath from their chests.

  It was a whisper, a current silent to human ears. But to all blessed with the gift of magic, it was a sliver of hope in the spreading darkness—the thinnest thread woven in the air that sent the blood in their veins careening to the core of their beings.

  It sent a warning, a murmur of a familiar presence, a call that it remained alive.

  To hold out, to hope, to fight.

  In a Mealdi field, a World-Walker crashed with a muffled thud.

  1

  Kingdom of Mealdan, Town of Covalis.

  Emmerentia dropped to her knees, her breath suddenly knocked out of her. The bag of vegetables in her hands fell to the floor.

  Fàaran, her twin brother, was upon her within a second. ‘What happened?’ he asked as he knelt next to her, depositing the jugs of milk he carried on the side.

  She coughed pointedly, pounding her chest with the side of her fist. She grabbed one of the milk jugs and swigged from it, getting the abrupt dryness out of her throat but then—

  It stopped.

  Emmerentia cleared her throat. ‘That was strange.’

  She balanced herself, picking up her discarded basket. ‘It’s like an invisible hand punched me in the sternum and sucked the air out of me.’

  ‘Has that ever happened before?’ Fàaran asked. They continued walking toward the cart they used to go to the weekly market and sell their produce.

  ‘No, not that I can remember.’ She shrugged.

  The twins hopped on the driver’s seat once the goods were safely tied to the cart and set out to the market, which had ironically become the most exciting part of their lives.

  As Fàaran coaxed the horses into a walk, Emmerentia couldn’t help but glance between her brother and eastward, far beyond the horizon towards Dartar and the Flatlands, where war was spreading like wildfire.

  She was a duelist, not a soldier. Fàaran, on the other hand, had served in their army. Although they did not discuss that situation, he was a protector, a defender. Regardless of his political abilities, he was a soldier at heart and, if she remembered correctly, his former general still commanded an army within the Flatlanders’ many tribes. Emmerentia did not know how long their forced isolation would last, or how long their self-restraint would hold before they snapped back to their respective selves. But she knew he suffered from being rendered useless through his loyalty to her, and the consequences it brought. His sacrifice gnawed at her daily, even if he never made her feel it. Her pain and impulsivity had ruined his life, and yet he stood by her side, unfaltering.

  Emmerentia blinked away the surging rush of hurt climbing its way up her throat and focused on the road ahead as the sun started to ascend.

  Another too ordinary, too quiet, too excruciatingly boring day awaited.

  The wind hissed in the distance as Fàaran wheeled the cart past her to hitch it to the horses. Emmerentia fed them before the journey back with some of the hay she had purchased that day and piled the rest at the back. She patted her mare and Fàaran’s stallion on the neck and hopped on the driver’s seat.

  They left the market in its descending cacophony, after having sold all their produce. The buyers had started leaving and heading back to their respective homes, and the merchants either smiled or cursed from the sales, sharing their content or frustration with whoever bothered to listen. Men and women shared laughter, argued, and tangled up in dark alleys. These people were...just being normal, so seemingly unhurried, unworried about the world blowing apart. But how long would they have if the war reached these borders?

  The situation had evolved badly since they had settled in Covalis.

  The Eineeri Queen had been gathering forces, training troops, preparing to launch her war before she even ascended the throne, Emmerentia was sure of it. The death of the queen’s mother, the fall of magic, the death of the Valàandari mages. It all conspired to give the Shadow Queen the advantage against an entire continent. Most kingdoms relied on magic wielders as part of their armies and, as much as it would have helped the Shadows to retain their own...abilities, they had been ferociously prepared.

  The Kingdom of Mealdan sat in the middle of north and south, on the western coast of Fanhalen. It bordered Orabel and the thick forest of Armagh in the north. The frozen wastes started at its southernmost tip—and luckily had kept the dark armies from even attempting to cross the forest, and Dartar to the east.

  If Dartar fell, unless the Sahrian King sent in his army, everything east of the Alanian mountains would fall to darkness.

  ‘What’s eating at you?’ Fàaran asked.

  Emmerentia brushed her ruddy, shoulder-length hair back, looking ahead.

  The sky slowly painted a scene of oranges and blues as the sun touched the tree line and melted into the green of the pines. They had a couple of hours to cross the forest before dusk crept in.

  She gave her brother a long look, words rarely necessary to transmit thoughts or emotions.

  He nodded.

  Their twin bond was powerful, and grew stronger by the day. They rarely required speech to understand what was going through each other’s minds. They felt a twinge when intense emotions coursed through the other and, on extremely rare occasions, when the other was severely wounded.

  After a long pause, halfway through the woods, Fàaran asked, ‘Would you rather join the lines?’

  Emmerentia choked on air. She countered, buying herself time, ‘I know you would.’

  Fàaran waved it off. ‘It has not been long enough.’

  ‘Machize has been swarmed and taken. Surely the Kazarians have bigger concerns than the bounty on my head.’ Emmerentia sighed through her nose. ‘I won’t hide forever. I look sufficiently different. Darker are the days ahead if Dartar falls.’

  She turned her head towards her brother, that worried crease drawn on his forehead. ‘Do you plan on guarding me for the rest of your life? Come on, that’s just a tad insulting.’

  Fàaran’s eyes flashed and he snorted, ‘It would take you less than a day to find yourself in life-threatening trouble.’

  She patted her brother on the shoulder. ‘What is life without a little rule-bending.’ She added, knowing she was fooling herself as the words left her mouth, ‘I am sure Freya would plead in my favour.’

  ‘Freya will defend her husband and her king, as any queen would. The little mercy she had within her wretched heart sh
e offered when we escaped.’

  The bitterness of his statement rested on her tongue as they broke out of the forest line and into the prairie leading back to the cottage, an open space that they used for archery training. It was beautiful in the summer with fields of flowers stretching on for miles, fresh herbs and plants that had been invaluable in the beginning, and a pond that drew in many animals. If Emmerentia had to pick a word for it, it would be tranquil.

  No one ever crossed this valley, at least she never saw anyone. The nearest villages were either on the other side of the forest, or an hour ride east from their home. But as they rounded the pond, a sprawled figure on the ground caught Emmerentia’s gaze. She pressed the horses toward the body, her heart suddenly racing, and jumped down to kneel next to the inanimate woman before she realised it.

  ‘Do you know her?’ Fàaran’s voice rumbled in the background. He sounded far away, even though he was right next to her.

  The girl was roughed up, but unharmed. Emmerentia brushed a strand of golden hair away from her face, then placed two fingers against her throat. ‘There’s a pulse.’ Her chest heaved up. ‘She’s breathing.’ The twin’s shoulders dropped, relaxing.

  ‘Do you know her?’ Her brother repeated.

  Emmerentia slowly shook her head, vaguely aware of the question and the answer. Yet…she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the young woman. She brushed a finger along her cheek, confusingly aware of her rising heartbeat. The girl’s chest roused once more at the touch.

  The twin blinked as the world blurred for a second and a barely perceptible, slow whisper slithered through her blood.

  Emmerentia turned to her brother. ‘I am taking her back with us.’

  B

  Kingdom of Amestris, The Court of Dusk.

  Hellion crossed his legs beneath the table, his wings slightly shifting with the movement. He speared a piece of cheese and brought it to his mouth, a lingering grin as his thoughts drifted to the ball happening that evening.

  The sun pierced through the windows of the dining hall, lighting up the front door as its hinges ground and Arel waltzed through. Her pale blue skin shimmered in the daylight. She made her way to her seat, piling her plate in a swift motion. When she sat down with a sigh, Hellion lifted a brow. ‘Good night?’

  Arel stretched, then plopped a piece of melon in her mouth. She side-glanced at him, the playfulness in her gaze a constant reminder of her late evenings. ‘Sufficiently satisfying, not that it is any of your business.’ She smiled, batting her eyelashes, and purred, ‘My Lord.’

  Hellion snickered, ‘The doey eyes don’t su—’

  His hand shot to his chest, to the heart that suddenly tightened. Hellion grunted, bracing himself against the table, his head falling forward. There was a cough in the room, then a rustle of clothes.

  A bright light. Then a soft wind.

  Then nothing.

  Hellion clutched his heart still.

  ‘It can’t be…’ Arel sputtered.

  Hellion’s sight blurred, his blood heating.

  The doors to the dining room flew open, steps echoing along the edges.

  ‘Have you felt it too?’

  ‘Is it possible?’

  The voices were blurred and distant.

  The Lord of the Court of Dusk slammed his hand on the table. Then raised his head and looked at the gathered company. ‘Sit down.’

  Arel darted a curious glance at him. The two males each pulled a chair on his right and promptly obeyed. Melianor leaned in and propped himself on his elbows.

  Kersel spoke softly, ‘You all felt the release, didn’t you?’

  Silent nods answered him. Melianor opened his mouth, but Arel raised a hand to shut him up.

  Hellion surveyed his closest friends, his inner circle. After having rubbed his temples, he let out a long sigh. ‘When the war began, a mind message was sent to me. I was reminded of’—a tug within him, at the core of his being—‘a forgotten promise.’

  Kersel’s yellow eyes narrowed, the small horns above his brows moving. Melianor cleared his throat. Arel’s eyes widened.

  ‘Do any of you remember?’

  Hellion locked eyes with his general. She angled her head, her midnight eyes scanning his intentions. ‘It will be washed away again if you pass the threshold.’

  ‘That is why you will all help me remember.’

  2

  She was floating in a place void of life.

  No scent. No light. No sound. No pain.

  Just...absolutely nothing.

  Was she even a body still?

  Had she gone to bed and simply died, and this was the result of it? Was this the afterlife, an endless expanse of white oblivion?

  She tried to move, or swim, or float, in this gigantic, lifeless cloud. If this was her new state of being, might as well discover if there was an exit tunnel to somewhere that reintroduced colours and things. After a moment, although she did not know whether she was actually moving or just paddling on the spot and how long it had been, a low and soft voice filled the space.

  This is not the end.

  She spun on herself, or would have, to find the voice.

  A beautiful woman appeared before her, her golden hair flowing across her shoulders. She was not real, her form not entirely physical, more like a thick mist.

  You do not remember, nor do they. Find your memories. Trust yourself.

  The woman opened her palms and a kaleidoscope of images filled the space, accompanied by an overwhelming surge of emotions.

  Love.

  Ecstasy.

  Betrayal.

  Pure beauty.

  Enthralling power.

  So much to grasp and create and destroy.

  So much to love and hate and fight for.

  Images powered through her, invisible, yet echoing through her heart, through her soul, and the shadows lurking beneath her skin. She clutched at the tightness in her chest.

  Find your memories. Trust yourself.

  The woman smiled. Welcome home, darling.

  She was nowhere again. In her mind, perhaps. But then warmth, light—hues of yellow and white—hovered over her as she slid back into her own body. How long had it been since she had dreamed of that shining figure? Whispers floated at the back of her head, a vague conversation vanishing by the second.

  Then the pain returned, hissing its name again as it washed over her body, slipping around her bones, and holding strong. She choked on the tightness in her chest as she tried to breathe, the lancing ache along her legs and in her lower back intensifying, the hammering inside her skull screaming. She tried to fling her eyes open—and failed, as though they had been glued shut. Then a burning set of images flashed before her mind’s eyes.

  A woman of light guiding her through the woods. A door to nowhere. An endless fall. Confusion and blinding pain.

  She blacked out again.

  B

  Emmerentia looked the young woman over as she pressed a wet cloth to her feverish forehead. It had been four days since they had found her unconscious in the prairie outside the forest line. Emmerentia had nudged the cart towards that side of the clearing although it was slightly out of the usual path. She did not believe in signs, yet something had pulled her toward that body, and she was bored enough to poke around to try and figure out why. After probing for any broken bones, Emmerentia had decided to bring the inanimate body back to the cottage until she woke. Fàaran had frowned upon the idea, arguing that they were no healers and taking her to the nearest village would be wiser. They had argued for a moment, and she had won.

  The girl shivered at her touch, mumbling nonsense in her sleep. Sweat beaded her face, her lips trembling. Emmerentia applied some salve behind her ears and underneath her nose.

  Fàaran’s head poked through the door. ‘Are you
going to eat dinner? There’s rabbit stew on the table.’ He shot a glance at the sleeping woman, his brows furrowing. ‘Any improvement?’

  Emmerentia stood up, leaving the cold cloth on the girl’s face. She waved her brother out and followed him. ‘I think the fever is dropping.’

  His shrewd face showed his disapproval.

  ‘May I remind you that leaving a lady hurt on the side of the road is bad manners?’

  He poured the stew into two bowls as they sat at the table. ‘I have a bad feeling.’

  It was not the first woman landing injured on their doorstep after all. And the last one had been...something. Something they still did not discuss.

  She winked at him, bringing a spoonful to her mouth. ‘Just because she is not to your liking. Not everyone can have horns and death oozing out of them.’

  Emmerentia bit down her lower lips as he shot her a deadly glare.

  But then Fàaran snorted, something between a laugh and a dismissal.

  She stared at her twin beneath lowered lashes as she ate her dinner.

  He had gone silent since they brought the woman back, only speaking when strictly necessary. She had let him be quiet, let him brew over the thoughts that wheeled inside his head without invading. Not that he had ever been overly talkative.

  The youngest twin broke the silence as she pushed her bowl away. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘What?’

  She raised a brow, quirking her lips to the side.

  Fàaran propped his elbows on the table. ‘You have your gut instincts, I have mine, dear sister.’

  ‘What is the trouble? It is not the first stranger we let in our home.’ Emmerentia pointed to the dented circle next to the chimney. ‘And this one looks a lot less…dangerous.’

  He rolled his knuckles and cracked his neck. That subject was to be avoided at all costs if she desired peace with her sibling, but she was not going to let him snub her without explanation. Melting into the crowd at the market was one thing, having someone at proximity for a time might give details away. Although she had learned to be overly cautious, she doubted she was of bigger concern to either the Machizean king or any potential head-hunter over their sacked kingdom.