King of Battle and Blood (Adrian X Isolde #1)(40)

“Will this happen again?” I asked.

I did not know much about magic. Once a spell was cast, was it like a plague? Did it continue until it had nothing to consume?

“It is hard to say without knowing what kind of spell was cast or by whom,” Adrian replied.

So he was telling me there was no way to fight it. I swallowed the thickness gathering in my throat.

“We have to bury them,” I said.

“We’ll have to burn them,” Adrian corrected, and despite the gentleness of his tone, I still flinched.

Until corpses began to rise from the dead, burning was for witches and those who were caught using magic—not victims of it.

“Do you think they will rise again?” I asked.

“No, but since we do not know what killed them, fire is best. It will cleanse the ground.”

*

Adrian returned to camp with me, and I managed to keep my tears at bay until we were inside the tent. He left me to cry, for which I was thankful, and returned later after I’d composed myself. We rode to the clearing together, the cold air stinging my wet face, and as we approached Vaida, I could see several bodies piled in the center of town through the open gate, all covered in white cloth. Adrian’s soldiers had been hard at work in my absence, and I admired the care they’d taken to wrap and stack them, even if it was only so they could be consumed with fire.

We kept our distance from the open gate as the vampires dropped torches upon the bodies and made their way out, closing the gate behind them. It wasn’t long before the smoke rose, spreading the smell of burning flesh.

As I watched the smoke rise, I spoke, not looking at Adrian. “How did you know this was a spell?”

“I am over two hundred years old,” he said as a way of answering.

It meant that he had lived during the Burning.

I had questions for him—questions about magic and witches and the world that he had existed in long before I was born—but I did not ask them, because there was a part of me that wondered if I could trust his answers.

After a moment, Adrian turned to me. “I will leave one of my men behind to aid your father, but we must continue on to Revekka.”

I hesitated as he spoke, the hate I felt for him overpowered by a sense of gratitude.

He called to one of his soldiers. “Gavriel!”

A large blond vampire strode forward, his gold armor glinting in the firelight.

“Return to Castle Fiora,” Adrian said. “Take Arith and Ciprian with you.”

“Yes, my king,” he said and then looked at me. “My queen.”

The three wasted no time mounting their horses and setting off in the direction of my home. I worried at their return but hoped my father, at least, would accept their aid.

“Thank you,” I said to Adrian, though the words sounded strange in the space between us.

He did not smile, did not act as if the words affected him.

He crossed the field to his horse. It took me longer to move as I stared at the flames that were now consuming the wooden wall, effectively erasing Vaida from existence. I could not explain the grief I felt for my people or the guilt that burdened me as I prepared to leave them to face this unknown enemy.

But there was a part of me, a small one, that felt like it was some kind of retribution.

I relented and went toward Adrian, mounting his horse. He followed behind me, his body cradling mine as we continued through the darkness.

*

I had expected to relax more as the hours passed on our journey. Instead, I found that I was even more on edge, waiting for the next attack or to find the next massacre. It had only been a day since leaving High City, and yet those hours had been filled with a horror I’d never expected—something far greater than the arrival of vampires at our border.

“You are safe,” Adrian said, and I was conscious of how his hand pressed against my stomach.

“I am safe,” I said. “But what about my people? You said you would protect them.”

“I have given you all I can against magic,” he said.

I wanted to be angry at him for not being that powerful, but I couldn’t muster the energy. Instead, I asked, “I did not think there was anyone left who could speak spells.”

“Do you really believe a king let that kind of power slip through his fingers?” Adrian asked. I turned my head toward him, but with my back to his chest, I could only feel the brush of his jaw against my cheek. He was referring to Dragos, the former king of Revekka, whom he had killed.

“Is that why you murdered him?” I asked. “Because you wanted what he had?”

He did not answer the question. Instead, he said, “So you know my history.”

“Everyone knows your history,” I said. “You stormed the Red Palace and murdered King Dragos and his pregnant wife in their sleep.”

“I did not murder them in their sleep,” he said. “They were dragged from their beds, and when Dragos faced me, he begged for his life to be spared and offered his wife as a gift. I slaughtered him. His wife I spared, but she jumped from her tower window.” He paused and then added, “I did not know she was with child until after her death.”

“Do you think that somehow excuses your actions?”

“I am not seeking a pardon,” he replied.

I expected him to explain himself, to tell me that the murder was justified, but he didn’t, and after that, we did not speak.