Queen of Extinction Page 3

  Raith knew exactly what Father referenced. “Taking from Lila is why Jorah killed her.” He spat the name as if it were poison.

  “Jorah,” Father grunted, lowering himself into his high-backed chair. “Now that is a man with true power. A man made of steel. He killed Trojean for killing Lila—and yet you remain here, breathing the sea air and whoring through every worthless woman in this Maleficent-forsaken city instead of avenging your own sister. He was more of a man than you’ll ever be.”

  Cold wrapped itself through Raith’s insides, and a shallow buzzing pushed through his skull. He wished words would come out, anything to drive Father into the dirt, but his mouth remained limp.

  Carian’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he rose. He placed his hand firmly on Raith’s shoulder. “Come,” he said under his breath.

  Raith allowed Carian to direct him toward the door, trying not to stumble.

  “That’s right,” Father snarled. “Run away. Let yourself be babied, you worthless boy.”

  Carian pushed the great door open and shoved Raith through it. Carian was better at hiding his feelings for Father. But his shame at being powerless manifested in other ways. Carian was built like a mountain, with muscles showing through his fitted tunic. He made up for his lack of Magical power through physical and mental strength, although they both knew it would mean nothing against Jorah in Warrendyte.

  Carian was partially the reason why Trojean had left for Warrendyte. In one of the many scrolls their great-grandfather had smuggled from Ryferia, Carian had found a piece of ancient magic that spoke of transferring magic to a human. Trojean had wanted more for her brother than the menial, mediocre life of a human and had gone to Warrendyte in search of answers.

  Her quest had taken her life.

  They reached Carian’s bedchamber. It was filled with shelves stacked with books and scrolls of every kind.

  The door closed behind them. “Raith, you can’t let him get to you like tha—”

  Raith pounded his hand into the wall. On the fifth hit, he finally felt the pain that shot through his wrist and up into his arm. He backed away, flexing bleeding fingers.

  “Are you done?” Carian eyed him.

  Raith wasn’t ready to say yes. So he said nothing.

  Carian kicked a chair over to him. “Sit down.”

  Raith obeyed. “I just can’t take it anymore. At least when Trojean was here, we could fight him together, but now . . .”

  “That’s why I want you to listen. I’m working on a plan to destroy him, avenge Trojean, and defeat Jorah in one majestic move.” Carian cocked his head. “Interested?”

  “Am I ever. Let’s hear it.”

  Carian’s lips pulled up in a half smile. “Patience, brother. Unlike your whores, this will take time to bed.”

  FIVE

  Aurora

  Eyes taut with unshed tears, Aurora crouched at Lazard’s bedside. Fever had hit him like a summer storm while she had brewed a potion for him. She’d wanted him healthy and conscious again. She’d wanted to tell him she loved him and that she regretted their last argument with all her heart.

  As desperate as she’d been for it to work, however, her hastily brewed antidote had proved worthless. Like embers through paper, the fever had burned on Lazard’s brow throughout the night before the calm finally washed over him and his eyes glazed over for the last time.

  Shock and pain at his loss shuddered through her like a wave crashing on the rocks. Despite all Lazard’s efforts to keep her safe, it had been he who had stared into the eyes of a murderer—and lost. Nothing else could have stopped his heart as effectively as digitalis. And digitalis was not an herb consumed at a feast.

  Lazard’s murder placed her and Artemis on a collision course over who would claim the Ryferian throne.

  Knowing her uncle, Artemis would already have stacked his deck for the fight—a fight that started when he no doubt slipped Lazard the poison at the feast.

  Who else would want—benefit—from Lazard’s death?

  Certainly not her. The Able Intelligentsia would see her in hell before they willingly let her take the throne.

  That left Artemis in the prime spot.

  “You realize what this means?” Artemis asked.

  He was already gearing up to tussle with her over the succession?

  Unconscionable.

  Still, a cold hand of dread gripped her—even colder than death, which now embraced Lazard.

  She glared up into opaque gray eyes. As much as she hated Artemis, and as much as fear gripped her gut whenever he was near, she wouldn’t let him see it. She’d glare and snap until her eyes dried out and her tongue went limp.

  “What does it mean, Lord Artemis?” She made a point of sneering his name.

  Artemis sat in a wing-backed chair pressed against the leaded window. He had opened the drapes so that the early morning sun shone behind him.

  She winced as pain lanced through her head. Lazard had told Artemis on more than one occasion that the sun hurt her eyes, but Artemis didn’t care. Giving her pain gave him pleasure. Almost as much as giving him grief gave her joy.

  He stood, looming over her as she crouched at Lazard’s bedside. “It means that you are now first in line for the throne.” A snort of derision. “An ugly mere slip of a girl, one too sickly to navigate the stairs to her chamber, let alone walk outside with the other girls.”

  Her skin burned. “I am not a girl. I am nineteen. And I doubt being pretty has anything to do with ruling. But I couldn’t know. I’m just a little, helpless girl.” Her vision burned red. “And it’s not my fault I’m Infirm.” Her voice spiked. “And I’m not alone in that. Half the people in Ryferia carry the same blight.”

  That, sadly, was true, and no one, not even the best physicians in the land, knew the reason. It would be one of the things she would work on when she became queen—a goal she would pursue with wild fury despite Artemis’s plans to the contrary. It was what Lazard and her parents would have wanted. It was what she wanted, too, to be a caring monarch to all her subjects, both Able and Infirm.

  Too soon to be thinking that. I haven’t even put the protectors on Lazard yet.

  She lumbered to her feet. Her knees ached; she’d been at Lazard’s bedside since she’d administered the antidote. The pain was a small niggle compared to the hollow ache in her chest. She longed for the relief of tears, but not in Artemis’s presence.

  He started to the door. “The Intelligentsia will need to be told of the king’s death.”

  Yes, their nobles did need to be told, but not before Lazard had been warded against magic.

  And Artemis would have known that. It fed his miserable soul to taunt her like this.

  She grabbed his flowing cloak and yanked hard. “Not before we protect Lazard.”

  He hesitated. “Very well. But get it done.”

  A tiny smile threatened to break through her grief at the victory. She wanted to rub his nose in it, but this was not the time or place. And it did not serve her for Artemis to see her pleasure; it would just make him more vicious later, when she wanted to concentrate on Lazard’s passing.

  Face neutral, she opened a small wooden chest containing the funereal protectors the servants had brought into Lazard’s chamber hours before, when it had become obvious that neither she nor his physicians could save him.

  On a bed of red velvet lay two small chunks of coal, two coins wrought from iron, and a wreath of agrimony. The golden flowers had wilted overnight, but that didn’t matter. Combined with the coal and the iron, the agrimony would ward off any magic that tried to claim Lazard after death.

  Everyone in the city, poor or rich, Infirm or Able, would be treated with coal, coins, and agrimony after death. Without them, not even the grave was enough to keep them safe from magic’s grasp.

  She fingered each item, aware of Artemis watching her. All through her vigil, she had wanted to bring up the truth of his poisoning, but had waited until the physicians and m
asters had left the bedchamber to level her accusation. Now, she couldn’t stay silent any longer.

  She glanced up at Artemis through slit eyes. “The physicians intimated that my brother had been poisoned. I happen to agree with them.”

  “Of course they do.” Artemis’s voice dripped disdain. “A man gets ill at a feast, so that is their only answer.”

  “I told you to have his plate set aside for me to examine. Did you do it?”

  An impatient wave of Artemis’s hand. “Enough with this nonsense, Aurora. You are now heir to the throne. You do not have time for brewing potions and messing with herbs. Now, place the protectors so that I can meet with the Intelligentsia.”

  “I asked you a question, Lord Artemis.” She wanted to argue. More than argue, she wanted to shout out exactly what she believed: that Artemis had poisoned Lazard to snatch the throne.

  But she didn’t.

  Not when she now stood in line to be queen—in line to have her food poisoned so he could take her place. To alert him of her suspicions would forewarn him. The only way to ensure her safety was to play dumb. Her fiery tongue and quick temper would not be an asset.

  His eyes flashed with irritation. “Yes, Princess.”

  She ignored his condescending tone and tore her eyes away to place the box on the ornately carved table next to Lazard’s canopied bed.

  So different from her, Lazard was as beautiful in death as he had been in life. Whereas she had always been quick to anger, he had been thoughtful, careful, and courageous. She spoke without thinking, and Lazard had often told her that she didn’t know the difference between brave and stupid.

  She kissed his brow and whispered, “I will miss you forever.”

  Reverently, she lifted the two lumps of coal from the box. Rigor mortis had not yet set in, so it was a simple matter to slip one into each of his fists. She wrapped his fingers tight around them.

  Next, she closed his eyes and laid an iron coin on each lid. Last came the wreath of agrimony. Skinny and weak as she was, it was a struggle to lift Lazard’s head, but she’d be damned if she asked Artemis to help. Or anyone, for that matter. By the time she slipped the lemony-scented wreath on Lazard’s brow, she was out of breath.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered more than Lazard being protected from magic.

  She wiped her sweaty face with her sleeve. “He’s ready for his send-off. I checked the tides. They are at their lowest at midday.” She suppressed a shudder; that meant she would have to brave the heat of the sun, which always seemed to burn hotter in the city, amongst the honey-colored stone and sparkling canals. It was into one of those canals that Lazard’s gondola would be placed. The tide would carry him out to sea.

  And she would never see him again.

  She swallowed her tears and then turned to face her uncle. “Then I will be queen.”

  A twisted smile. “You forget, my dear Aurora, that you are as yet unwed.”

  She clenched her fists, resisting the urge to stamp her foot in fury. “That doesn’t matter, and you know it.”

  Lazard had been in the process of changing the law that required a princess to be married before assuming the throne. How convenient that he should die before it had been confirmed by the Intelligentsia.

  “My dear, what I know doesn’t matter. For you to claim your throne, you must be wed. By law, you have a month to win the heart of a suitable prince or lord.”

  Her blood chilled, more at Artemis’s smirk than his words. She was no beauty. No one had come seeking her hand. It was unlikely any would come beating on the door now, either. Not when her kingdom was weak. And men tended to want gentle, accommodating women. No one seemed to want a thorny wife.

  Another smirk from Artemis. “If you fail, then the throne is mine.”

  SIX

  Aurora

  Aurora swayed on her heels as Artemis swept from Lazard’s chamber. Peckle jumped soundlessly onto her lap. Had he slipped past Artemis into the room? Too intent on gathering the fickle Intelligentsia to his side, Artemis must not have noticed. If he had, he would have kicked Peckle for sure.

  Peckle rubbed his face against her cheek, his whiskers tickling her chin. If it weren’t for him kneading her legs, she would have leaped up to fling a vase across the room in her rage, sorrow, and despair.

  The cat’s unusual affection was grounding.

  Her first tears brimmed, and she snickered through them. “Why all this affection? Have you come to watch me cry? Well, I’m not going to.” She brushed away the scalding tears and looked defiantly at the door. “The Intelligentsia and the other courtiers already think I’m a weakling. I won’t be throwing any more kindling on that fire.”

  The cat fluttered its eyes as if it agreed.

  She groaned at the effort it took to appear calm, stoic, then gave in and buried her face in his soft fur. Her mass of red hair, her only redeeming feature, draped softly over Peckle’s body as she sobbed.

  Peckle held still, every muscle taut, but did not protest.

  Aurora did not prolong his torture. She pulled away and raked her hand across her nose and eyes. “If things aren’t bad enough, he said that I have to marry within a month.” A mirthless laugh. “Who would marry me?”

  The lines on Peckle’s face twitched, much like a challenging stare.

  “Yes, I know. I’ve always said I didn’t want to marry, and I still don’t.” She scrunched up her face. “A husband will not want me spending hours a day with Niing, Keahr, and Zandor. He won’t like me getting so engrossed in my potions that I skip meals. Or coming to bed at night smelling of what I brewed that day. And no one wants a bad-tempered wife.”

  She scoffed; these were not the real reasons she didn’t want a husband.

  She touched Lazard’s rapidly stiffening face. Even with the iron coins on his eyes, he looked peaceful. She tried to commit the angle of his nose, his dark stubble, the little scar above his left eyebrow to memory. She never wanted to forget that he had loved her despite her Infirmity. She loved him just as deeply.

  “He knew I would never find a man willing to love me for what I am.”

  And that was the only basis on which she would ever agree to marry.

  The cat continued to stare at her. If anyone were to see her talking to Peckle, they would think she was mad. Not at all suitable to be queen.

  She sighed. “If I have to forfeit the throne to him, he will do nothing to help the Infirm. And I can just imagine his smug face when I lose.”

  In truth, she had no idea how she would help the thousands of Infirm subjects in her kingdom born each year.

  But no matter what, she had to try.

  Lazard had devoted much of his reign to studying the problem but, like so many monarchs before him, had not made much headway in finding solutions. It seemed every family was blighted by the curse of Infirmity. A curse that had beset the land for almost one hundred and fifty years.

  Some people, like her, just never thrived, no matter how much nutritious food they ate. Others were born blind or lame. A few, like Keahr, struggled to breathe.

  No matter the affliction, all were outcasts, despised and marginalized by the Able.

  The Infirmities and the resulting divisions in society had weakened the kingdom. It was only thanks to Ryferia’s coal mines and iron forges that they still held their own in the world.

  “That could be the answer.” She held the cat’s gaze, almost forgetting to blink. If she didn’t break eye contact, Peckle would scratch her and then lope off. She needed to talk too much to risk that. She could never confide like this to anyone else, maybe not even her best friends. The idea of letting that wall come down was terrifying. And it would give them yet another reason to treat her like a fragile little girl.

  “Maybe I can find someone who will be interested in forging an alliance just for the sake of our industry.”

  The cat scrunched its nose.

  She almost laughed. “Sometimes I really do think you understand me.”
>
  He remained still. Peckle’s disdain was not ill placed. Theirs was the only kingdom that put any store in industrial progress. The rest of the world seemed content to live without steam. Part of the problem was that Ryferia shunned contact with the outside world. Hidden behind the Guardians to defend its people from magic, Ryferia had limited trade with the rest of the kingdoms in the known world. Many of the other monarchs and their people probably didn’t even know about Ryferia’s technology.

  “Maybe Niing will have some ideas. He always seems to know everything.” At the risk of being mauled, she scooped Peckle up and made for the door.

  A yowl of outrage, and Peckle scrambled out of her arms.

  It didn’t really matter; he would follow her like a shadow if she headed to Niing’s underground cavern. Peckle loved nothing more than curling up in front of the pot-bellied stove Niing kept burning all year.

  Aurora shuffled to the door, more exhausted by her deathbed vigil and the loss of Lazard than she wanted to admit.

  Two musketeers liveried in bright blue stood guard outside Lazard’s chamber. From the sorrow etched on their grizzled faces, she guessed that they had heard the news.

  The senior of the two bowed to her. “My sincerest condolences, Your Highness.”

  One of the Able, kind to her? It surprised her, although she tried not to let it show.

  “Thank you. Your kindness is appreciated.”

  Zandor peeled away from the tapestry-clad wall. The only time Zandor had left this spot since Lazard had taken ill was when he’d accompanied her to Niing’s cavern to brew Lazard’s potion.

  Showing no sign of exhaustion, Zandor glared, first at the musketeer and then at Peckle.

  The cat glared straight back. The musketeers ignored him.

  Zandor’s brown eyes searched her face. If he noticed the traces of her tears, he gave no sign of it. “Is there anything I can do?” He doubled up with an attack of sneezes. “Other than drown the cat?”

  Peckle hissed, then rubbed his wiry frame against Zandor’s leg.