Marai stepped through the portal and out of the desert, leaving behind her family and a portion of her heart.
Chapter 7
Rayghast
He crumpled the letter in his blackened hand. The bounty hunter’s words, etched across the paper, spoke of failure. More and more, piled on to create a mountain of mistakes and inefficiencies, all laid at his feet like bones in a graveyard.
The accursed “lost prince” evaded Rayghast’s grasp yet again.
Five of his bounty hunters were dead in Cleaving Tides. They’d been charged with capturing the young Nevandian prince, in order to bring him to Dul Tanen. There, Ruenen would face public execution by Rayghast’s own hand. But the hunters had failed. The sixth man in the group succumbed to wounds he’d sustained while on the mission, but not before he’d sent Rayghast the damnable letter.
The King of Tacorn used to have control over his emotions, but the iron cage around them grew brittle, the bars bent and crumbled.
Someone had to pay. But all those responsible for the failures were already dead. Rayghast had to make do with substitutes.
Magic roared in his brain and rushed through his veins. Feral darkness rippled under his muscles. A pounding pushed against his ear drums, throbbing in time with the beat of the organ in his chest. Rayghast tossed the bounty hunter’s letter into the pool of blood at his feet. He rolled his shoulders back. Flexed his fingers. Cracked his neck from side to side.
There were two Nevandian knights, fifteen thieves and criminals, and two traitors to the crown in the dungeons below the fortress of Dul Tanen. Rayghast had come down to the dank, filthy cells because he needed to touch something, kill something. Watch as dark magic consumed and ruined.
The first thief had already been disposed of. His limp body lay on the floor of the cell in a contorted position, eyes wide open from the fear and pain. Blood leaked from his many stab wounds into a large puddle where the bounty hunter’s letter now disintegrated.
The second thief was chained to the wall, and still very much alive. He struggled, howled, and begged as Rayghast approached.
“Please, Your Grace, my family is starving—”
Rayghast’s fingers twitched. The magic urged. He stabbed the thief through the gut with a dagger. Warm blood poured down Rayghast’s arm. The thief emitted an inhuman, pained shriek into Rayghast’s ear. The King of Tacorn shoved his other hand into the wound. Magic spilled out of his fingers in smokey tendrils as he injected its necrotic darkness into the thief’s body. Rayghast inhaled the acrid smell of blood, sulfur, and charred flesh. Blackness spread through the thief’s insides, infesting his organs, across his torso, up his neck—
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell.
Rayghast sucked the darkness back inside himself as the thief’s body burst into black flames, covering the signs of magic. By the time Cronhold and his page appeared at the cell door, the man’s body was charred and destroyed beyond recognition.
“Your Grace?” Cronhold asked, winded from the descent into the dungeons beneath the Dul Tanen fortress. The wizened and hunched old councilman leaned his full weight on the page, who’d turned a sickly shade of green at the sight of the two bodies and Rayghast’s bloody arms. The boy’s legs shook. “Lord Silex is here to see you.”
Rayghast didn’t bother with a rag. He exited the dungeon with his arms still covered in fresh blood.
Silex stood in the arched entryway of the castle, with three men, his personal retainers, behind him. Each man carried a large, ornate wooden chest. Silex grinned, his front incisors crooked, and bowed to Rayghast with an excessive flourish of his wrist.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I hate to interrupt you.” His eyes darted to the blood, but unlike Cronhold and his page, the sight didn’t faze Silex. He was known for similar acts of aggression. “I’ve brought more funds to assist in the capture of that foul Nevandian prince and the evil creature in his employ.”
Word of the Nevandian prince had spread from town to town. All of Tacorn knew. Varana somehow knew. It wouldn’t be long before the other six countries knew.
Lord Silex’s men opened the lids of the chests, revealing mountains of golden coins. In exchange for his “generosity,” Rayghast knew Silex would require recognition: a new title, new lands, a position on the counsel. Whatever it was, Rayghast didn’t care. The money was necessary to bankroll the army and bounty hunters, and he’d give Silex whatever he wanted to see this feud finished. Rayghast had raised taxes for all Tacornians to fund the war against Nevandia. The wealthy nobles were as eager as their king to take Nevandian soil; more land, more wealth, for all of them. Lord Silex, the wealthiest of the Tacornian nobles, tried to prove his worth to Rayghast any chance he could take.
A flash of deep blue silk and pale skin caught Rayghast’s eye.
Rhia entered the hallway, her cold eyes assessing Rayghast, Cronhold, and Silex, before she bowed her head. A jade and pearl diadem sat upon interwoven gleaming locks of black. Her four Tacornian ladies-in-waiting hovered over her shoulders, as always, wide-eyed and fearful baby birds.
“My King,” Rayghast’s wife said.
“Queen Rhia, you are absolutely breathtaking, as always,” Silex said with a slick sneer, giving her a slow once-over.
Rayghast didn’t mind the obvious flirtation. Men were always staring at his wife, and Rhia seemed to enjoy the attention. As long as they didn’t touch what was his.
“Lord Silex. You honor me.” Rhia’s voice took on a coy tone she never used with Rayghast. Her eyelids fluttered twice, putting on an act for the lord. Rhia might change her expressions and voice, but the one thing that never changed were her eyes. Those brown eyes betrayed nothing, impassive and always ice cold. She glanced at Rayghast’s bloody state, but didn’t react to the sight. Her gaze darted demurely back to the floor. Rhia was used to the carnage of his regime. “Still kidnapping Nevandian children?”
“Kidnapping is the wrong term, Your Grace,” Silex said. “I’m merely granting the children a better life with proper, devoted Tacornian parents. The children will want for nothing, and grow up to be grateful to King Rayghast for granting them this new life.”
Rhia didn’t react to such a claim, but Rayghast guessed she didn’t appreciate Silex’s endeavor. In a year’s time, he’d stolen fifty children from villages over the border.
“I’ve also brought ten of my retainers, Your Grace,” Silex said, turning his back on Rhia. She was only a woman, after all. “Strong, loyal, fighting men. I want to help you win in any way I can.”
“That is, uh, most generous of you, Lord Silex,” Cronhold said, giving the three retainers behind Silex an approving once-over.
“What are you still doing here, Cronhold?” Rayghast asked.
The old man stuttered, nonsensical sounds spitting out of him, before he managed to form a true word. “We should discuss in private—”
“Speak, then get out.”
Whatever Cronhold had to say, Silex had earned the right. Rhia, still lingering, probably wouldn’t understand, anyways.
“I have, uh, distressing news, Your Grace. There’ve been reports from some of the towns, from our soldiers, that there have been sightings of animals, uh . . . creatures. One of these things killed some peasants in the Boggs—”
“Why is this important?”
“Well, these creatures . . . uh, no one has ever seen the likes of them before.”
“What do you mean, my lord?” Rhia asked, interest rising in her voice. Her imploring eyes lifted to Cronhold’s face.
