She didn’t say a word, simply took the little girl as Roland handed her over. She lifted the baby to her breast, and Roland released a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding when the child began to nurse.
It was done. Only four people knew the truth—the wet nurse, the midwife, Bella, and Roland himself. And he’d done everything he could to ensure each woman’s silence.
He’d made sure the young girl now holding the baby at her breast understood that she and her own newborn child would be well looked after as long as she kept her position at the manor. She was a smart, practical girl; he was confident she wouldn’t risk that future by revealing their secret.
The midwife was even less likely to talk. He’d paid her to remove the body of Madam Wyndham’s dead daughter, then paid her extra to keep silent. Besides, a woman whose livelihood depended on birthing had no reason to let people know she’d delivered another stillborn infant.
Bella was the only one he wasn’t sure of. He’d offered her a very generous sum in exchange for the child and a vow never to speak of what had transpired, and he’d promised to steer Madam Wyndham’s wrath away from the witch-woman and her work. He’d never heard of the white witch reneging on a deal with one of her clients, yet he couldn’t bring himself to fully trust anyone who practiced the dark arts. So to seal the deal, he’d warned Bella that if she ever betrayed his trust he’d do everything in his power to bring the wrath of the Order down upon her.
The threat was mostly hollow, but the witch had accepted his offer. The money would have to come out of his own accounts; it was the only way to keep Sir Wyndham from asking questions. Roland wasn’t a rich man, and Bella’s price had been high. But looking down into the babe’s brilliant green eyes, so vibrant and full of life as she suckled, he knew he’d made the right choice.
Chapter 4
A gust of wind leapt over the parapets and tore at the Queen’s cape, fluttering it out from her shoulders. Here in the Northern capital of Ferlhame, protected by leagues of thick and ancient forest on every side, the winds were never fierce. Yet the evening breeze that swept over the high walls of the castle carried the dampness of a reluctantly fading Eastern winter, and the chill seeped down to her very core.
Rianna Avareen, the reigning Monarch over the Danaan people in her husband’s absence, wrestled her cape back down and pulled it tight about her body, instinctively shielding her full belly and the unborn child within. She felt the baby kick inside her, as if in protest against the rush of cold air.
Soon, she thought, very soon.
Would her husband be home to see the birth of their firstborn child? Would the King ever return home again?
“My Queen, you will catch a chill.”
She didn’t need to turn to know who spoke; she recognized Drake’s voice as well as her own. They had known each other almost twenty years, sharing their childhood: she a prophet and princess, betrothed to Llewellyn Avareen, firstborn son of the noble House of Avareen and heir to the Danaan throne; he the son of a decorated general who served in her father’s armies, destined to one day lead the Queen’s Personal Guard.
A chill is the least of my fears, she thought. Unbidden, her eyes turned up to the blood-red moon that hung in the sky above them. The Burning Moon, a portent of Chaos.
“There is no word from your scouts, Drake?” she asked, stubbornly pulling her gaze down to once more stare out over the castle walls.
“None, my Queen. Nor from the hawks.”
Drake stepped forward to stand at her side and share her vigil … and to partly shield her from the wind, she noted. She wondered if it was intentional, or if he had done it simply on instinct bred from a lifetime of protecting and watching over her.
He was a tall man, thin but with broad shoulders. Like the Queen, he wore a cape to ward off the chill: a deep, rich green; the color of House Avareen. The garment set off the hue of his skin; like all the Danaan people, his greenish brown complexion reflected the blood of the forest that ran in his veins. His dark, shoulder-length hair flew out behind him with every gust of wind, wild and untamed.
Rianna’s ladies-in-waiting often talked about how handsome Drake was, though she had known him far too long to think of him as anything but a friend. But she was glad to have a friend with her in this blackest of nights; she took some small comfort in his mere presence.
“We shouldn’t worry,” he assured her after a few moments of silence. “It’s too soon to expect an answer from the King’s party yet.”
She nodded in mute acceptance. He was right, of course. The King and his company had left a full week ago. They had a large lead over the messenger hawks that had been sent after them three nights earlier in response to the Queen’s dream.
The King is surrounded by nearly twenty mounted men, half armed with long, thin blades, the others with short but powerful bows. On either side rides a court sorcerer—one male, one female. A small army, all hunting a single foe.
The horses shy and rear, but are brought under control with soft yet firm words of command. The King signals to his wizards, and they begin to scan the forest for the beast. Their expressions fade to blank stares as they channel their power and cast out with their minds. Suddenly their faces twist into masks of terrible pain. The woman slumps forward in her saddle; the man cries out and falls from his mount.
The creature explodes from the nearby undergrowth with a terrible roar, a brutish monstrosity unfit to dwell in the natural world. The massive feline head spits searing venom, burning the flesh of rider and horse alike. The animals panic and several riders are thrown. In the carnage a volley of arrows are released only to shatter harmlessly against the thick, scaled hide of the monster’s body.
And then the beast is upon them, battering them with bat-like wings, tearing at them with a lion’s claws, savaging them with the jagged spikes of its twin tails as the vision is lost in an orgy of blood and screams.
“What did Andar call this creature?” she asked, struggling to push the memory of her dream aside by recalling the words of the High Sorcerer.
“A manticore, my Queen.”
“And he is certain?”
“There is no way to be certain,” Drake admitted. “But he has compared the reports with descriptions from the ancient texts.”
There was a long silence, and the Queen felt the chill of the wind reaching down into her belly yet again. Once more her son kicked in response. The King had known their child was a son before he had left to destroy the abomination stalking the forest of his people, just as she had known. The Sight was strong in them both. They had decided to name him Vaaler.
“Andar tells me the manticore is one of the weaker Chaos Spawn,” Drake said at last, hoping to bring her some reassurance.
“How could he possibly know?” Rianna wondered aloud.
“I … the ancient texts, no doubt …,” Drake stammered.
The Queen turned slowly to face him, a wan smile on her lips. “Drake, I know your words were words of comfort. But I am not a fool. For all his wisdom Andar knows as little about this beast as you or I.”
Drake bowed his head in acknowledgment of the truth of her words.
“These are dark times,” Rianna whispered, her gaze pointedly ignoring the ominous moon above them.
“We have seen dark times before,” Drake replied. “We have survived them.”
She knew he was referring to the Purge. Twenty years ago, when Rianna had been but a child, the Order—self-proclaimed guardians of the Southlands—had declared war on the wielders of Chaos. Nazir, the Order’s bloodthirsty Pontiff, proclaimed the practice of magic to be a crime punishable by death. And, as had happened so many times before in the history of the Southlands, the Seven Capitals bowed meekly before the Pontiff’s will.
Court mages were stripped of their positions as guides and advisers, replaced by Seers sent out from the black walls of the Monastery. Those who still dared to dabble in what had suddenly become the forbidden arts—wizards, witches, t
raveling conjurers—were seized and charged with the crime of sorcery. Anyone even suspected of having Chaos in their blood fled or faced imprisonment without trial. Any citizens foolish enough to protest the atrocities of the Purge were branded as heretics and suffered a similar fate.
Within a year the so-called purification of the Southlands was all but complete. Those who practiced magic had renounced their ways or disappeared into hiding. Hundreds had been executed by the legions of fanatical monks who served the Pontiff. Nazir’s own loyal followers were strategically placed in every royal court, the power behind the throne in each of the Seven Capitals.
The Danaan kingdom had prepared itself for battle, certain Nazir would now turn his army of monks against the heathens of the Great Forest. The power of Chaos flowed freely in the blood of the Danaan monarchy; surely the Order would see their entire nation as an affront that must be destroyed. But the atrocities of the Purge never reached the Great Forest. They barely even left the Southlands.
In the Free Cities of the North people dared to speak out against the Order. Those who lived on the borders of the Great Forest bowed down to no one, not even the Pontiff. For a year the armies of the Order lay siege to the walled towns, with little success. Faced with their fierce independence and steadfast refusal to accept his will, Nazir had two choices: drive the entire Southlands into battle against the united armies of all the Free Cities, or end his holy war.
The Order’s influence in the Seven Capitals was greater than it had been in three hundred years. The wizards and mages of the royal courts had been scattered and forced to live as outcasts, bereft of their former political power. The Order had little left to gain and much to lose, and in the end the Pontiff chose the path of appeasement.
To placate the Free Cities the brutal laws restricting Chaos wielders were relaxed. Two years after it had begun the Purge was over, though within the courts of the Seven Capitals the Order’s Seers kept their recently appointed positions of power. That fact alone was enough to make the Danaan kingdom wary.
Over the past two decades an uneasy peace had settled over the Southlands. Magic was tolerated, but only grudgingly. Briar witches and traveling magicians could once again practice their arts in the open, though they were often shunned or feared by the common folk. And for Chaos wielders there was always the threat of retribution, the ever-present fear of being executed for heresy should they overstep their bounds and interfere with the business of the Order.
Rianna knew all this despite never having visited any of the Southern lands. In fact, she had never even met anyone who was not of her own people. Outsiders were forbidden on pain of death from entering the Great Forest, but the Free Cities eagerly welcomed the steady stream of merchants, diplomats, and explorers pouring forth from the Danaan kingdom. Among these adventurous subjects were a number of spies and agents of the Danaan throne, providing a constant flow of information about their neighbors to the south.
“The winds are cold up here, my Queen,” Drake murmured, gently interrupting her thoughts. “You should retire to the castle.”
Accepting his offered hand, Rianna let him escort her along the battlements to the nearest tower. Drake was right: They had survived the Purge. But it was not the armies of the Southlands that terrified Rianna these nights. The true threat lay far to the north, at the very edges of the world. A monster that had not been seen in centuries had reappeared, waking from some ancient slumber to terrorize the mortal world once again.
“I should never have let him go,” she said as they reached the bottom of the tower stairs.
“You could not have stopped him,” Drake replied, opening the door that led out into the courtyard between the castle walls and the enormous, hundred-room stone mansion that served as the residence for the royal family.
“The signs, the visions of our prophets, my own dreams … it was too dangerous. I should have begged him to stay.”
“It would not have helped. He would have gone no matter what you said.”
As they crossed the courtyard she admitted to herself that Drake was right. Her husband had the Sight, just as she did. His visions had shown him a terrible future, one where the Legacy had fallen and armies of Chaos Spawn were unleashed upon the world.
When scouts first brought reports of the manticore, the King knew what he had to do. If Llewellyn was to lead his people safely through the coming war he would need to understand the enemy they faced. The historical chronicles were not enough; the King would have to see the manticore for himself.
Rianna had understood and accepted all this. But that was before she had the dream in which she saw her husband’s death. And by then he and his entourage were already four days gone.
The reached the doors of the royal quarters without further conversation. Lost in thoughts of her husband and what fate might befall him, Rianna barely noticed the soldiers standing guard at the entrance. But years of practice compelled her to wave her hand in a gesture of acknowledgment as they tilted their heads down at her passing in a silent show of respect.
She paused once she was inside the building, uncertain where she should go now that she was safely away from the wind. In truth she was content to simply stand in the entrance hall and let the hearth-warmed air of the great castle envelop her. Drake gently took her by the arm and led her through the corridors and rooms, then up the stairs to her private chambers.
“You must preserve your strength for the birth of your heir. You should sleep, my Queen.”
There was no arguing with Drake on this point. She had spent far too much time the past few nights pacing the castle walls worrying about her husband. The strain was made even greater by her pregnancy. Yet even exhausted as she was, she knew rest would not come easily.
“How can I sleep? I cannot bear to face the dream of my husband’s death night after night.”
“Your dream shows only a possible future. One of many. It is a vision of what may be, not what will be. Perhaps the hawks will reach the King in time.”
The Queen smiled, amused at Drake’s efforts to explain the Sight to her, of all people. “You sound like Andar,” she said mildly.
“I may not understand magic or Chaos, my Queen, but the High Sorcerer knows much about these matters. I am only sharing with you the wisdom he has shared with me.”
“But how does his wisdom help me to sleep? Knowing the dream may not come true does not keep me from witnessing its horrors when I close my eyes.”
From his belt Drake withdrew a small vial and presented it to her with an outstretched palm.
“Andar asked me to give you this, if I thought it necessary. He says it will shield you from the dreams. For this night, at least.”
Rianna picked up the delicate vial and drained its contents in a single draught. Immediately the world began to list, slowly turning on its side. Drake caught her as she stumbled, his strong arms holding her up.
“Andar should have warned me it worked so quickly,” he grunted as he half carried her over to the bed.
As she lay back into her pillow, Rianna felt the world become steady once more.
“I will be all right, Drake. Leave me. I’m certain Andar’s tonic will help me sleep until morning.”
With a final glance to assure himself of her safety and a curt bow Drake was gone, shutting the door behind him.
Alone in her bed the Queen closed her eyes. Sleep washed over her in a gentle wave, and the heavy veil of Andar’s potion slipped down to cover her Sight in utter blackness.
The pains of labor woke her several hours later, blissful unconsciousness ripped away by the agony of impending childbirth. She cried out, and suddenly Drake was bursting into the room. Through the haze of her suffering she realized he must have stationed himself outside her door, determined to keep watch over her all night if need be.
“Summon the doctor!” he ordered one of the guards as he knelt down beside the bed and grasped her hand, placing his other palm on her forehead.
“She’s bu
rning up! Open the windows!”
Rianna clenched her eyes shut and moaned as another contraction tore through her, clutching desperately onto Drake’s hand until it passed. When she opened her eyes again she saw the drapes had been pulled aside and the shutters thrown wide to reveal the Burning Moon, now hanging low in the gray sky of the predawn.
Against her will, her mind’s eye conjured up the final gruesome image that haunted her dreams: the King’s broken body at the manticore’s feet beneath that same blood-red moon. The vision was shredded by the next wave of contractions, the pain driving everything else to the fringes of her awareness.
Yet even as she fought to bring her son into the world, Rianna she knew she would never see her husband again.
Chapter 5
Nazir the Righteous, forty-third Pontiff of the Order of the Crown, didn’t move when the visitor entered his chamber. He remained kneeling on his prayer mat, a worn cloth garment so thin it did nothing to ward off the chill seeping up into the Pontiff’s body from the stone floor. His hands rested palms down upon his thighs, the customary position when meditating. Apart from the mat there were no other furnishings or ornamentations in the room; as befitted a man of true religious conviction the Pontiff’s chamber was a small, undecorated cell within the Monastery where he slept, ate, and prayed.
There was no need to look up with his blind eyes to recognize the woman who had come to interrupt his meditations; as with all members of the Order, Nazir’s mystical second sight gave him a complete awareness of the physical world around him.
“The prisoner has spoken?” he asked in a calm voice.
“I always make them speak,” Yasmin replied.
Nazir nodded in acknowledgment of what was a mere statement of fact.
Yasmin was a tall woman; taller, even, than most of the men in the Monastery. She was a far cry from the little girl who had been taken away from her parents nearly twenty years ago during the early days of the Purge.