The Storm Crow (The Storm Crow, #1)(45)

“I’ll be fine. Good night.”

He nodded. I smiled, and he returned it before I followed Ericen back to the carriage with a glower.





Fourteen


Ericen and I didn’t talk on the ride back, and I left him at the carriage the moment we arrived at the castle. I knew the way back to my rooms well enough to manage it on my own, but each Illucian soldier I passed in the halls, their bodies heavy with weapons, made me regret not having a guard with me.

Sealing my uncertainty inside, I kept my head high and met the gaze of everyone I passed. Their pale eyes burned with the same hatred that simmered inside me, but I refused to look away. Who knew what they’d been given permission to do or what rules they’d risk breaking.

With half my mind on my night with Ericen and the warmth of the Ambriellan boy’s body beside mine, I almost didn’t notice the voices drifting down the corridor. As I grew closer, they turned sharp and loud. I slowed. Someone cursed, a loud thud following, then the harsh ring of metal sliding against a sheath. My stomach dropped, and I dashed around the corner.

My door guards stood beside Kiva, Sinvarra drawn. Shearen and three other Vykryn faced them, hands on their weapons.

“The queen—” he began.

“Are you serious?” Kiva’s voice cut across his. “If you think your queen’s orders mean anything to me, you’re stupider than you look.”

“What in the Saints’ name is going on?” I hurried forward.

Kiva’s eyes didn’t leave Shearen as she responded, “He says Razel ordered your guards sent home.”

“That’s Her Majesty to you, Korovi dog,” one of the other Vykryn hissed.

Shearen smirked. “You don’t have enough soldiers to resist us.”

“We have enough to kill the three of you.” Kiva lifted Sinvarra.

I laid a hand on her shoulder, my mind spinning. Razel wanted my guards sent home. Tendrils of ice crept down my spine, but I pushed back my fear. If this fight started, it wouldn’t end until one side was dead or severely injured.

I couldn’t refuse Razel’s order. Shearen knew that. Razel knew that. I drew a deep breath and addressed my other guards. “Go with him. Tell everyone else to follow the orders they’re given. I’ll talk to the queen.” The words were knives in my throat, but I forced them out steadily.

The guards bowed. Kiva stiffened beneath my touch but said nothing.

I faced Shearen. “Bring me to Razel.”

He smirked and then nodded at one of the Vykryn at his back. She sneered as she pressed past me.

“Come on,” I said to Kiva. She sheathed Sinvarra, her movements stiff with frustration, and we fell into step behind the Vykryn. My mind ripped through options for what to say. Was this in response to Ericen taking my place in that fight?

We stopped outside two ornate oak doors, the dark wood carved with a pair of rearing horses. A Vykryn soldier stood on either side.

One soldier inclined her head, saying tightly, “Your Highness.”

“I need to speak with the queen,” I said.

“The queen is in council. No one may disturb her prayers.”

“Too bad.” I surged forward, but the guards closed the space between them, blocking the door.

The other Vykryn’s hand went to his sword, and Kiva’s went to Sinvarra. “Give me a reason,” the soldier growled.

Before I could respond, the door swung open. Auma appeared in the doorway, a fresh mark reddening her right eye. Kiva’s lips parted with surprise, then curled into a snarl worthy of a Korovi ice bear.

Auma hesitated, meeting Kiva’s gaze, before she bolted down the hall. One of the guards caught the door, holding it open as Razel stepped into view. Her lips twitched into a smile. “Thia dear, do come in.”

The two Vykryn stepped aside to let me pass but blocked Kiva once I was through. The door slammed shut.

Razel’s rooms dwarfed Kiva’s and mine. The lounge consisted of a single large square room of dark wood and golden metal. The left side of the floor had a shallow indentation in it, with two short, carpeted steps leading down to where a massive black desk stood before a hearth roaring with a fire taller than me.

Above the mantel hung a portrait of a young girl with golden hair and a beautiful black horse in an open field of long grass and wildflowers. The girl’s arms hung about the horse’s neck, a smile on her lips so warm, I almost didn’t recognize the young Razel.

A life-sized black stone sculpture of a rearing horse occupied the left-hand corner of the room. Several golden dishes lined the base, a small prayer cushion sitting before it.

My eyes narrowed. Was that blood in the dishes?

The queen glided up to me, her icy eyes outlined in kohl. She wore a beautiful black dress with a golden bodice, the hilts of her moonblades resting like wings on her back. My gaze snagged on a series of thin slices on the backs of her forearms. They’d stopped bleeding but still shone red in the firelight like bloody smiles.

My stomach turned as I realized what they were: sacrificial cuts. Illucians believed praying to Rhett gave you strength. The more you prayed, the stronger and more skilled you would become. But first you had to offer that strength to Rhett. The strength of your blood.

“Did you need something?” Razel’s tone twisted dangerously.

I forced my gaze away from her cuts. “Where did Auma get that mark?” It wasn’t the question I’d come to ask, but it spilled out nonetheless.