“By the depths, Paxton, are you mad?” Tiern said with a scowl of disbelief. “You shouldn’t have followed! Look at you, bleeding everywhere!”
“Where is the beast?” he asked.
“It ran into the river and submerged itself,” Harrison said, shaking his head. “The beast dived in like a bear and we never saw it come back up. It took the man with it.”
He cringed. What an awful way to go.
“So, the beast can swim,” Paxton mused. Prints they’d found by the water had led him to believe it was a possibility, but he’d hoped the beast was land dwelling only. Now he knew why it was so hard to find and trap.
“Come on,” Tiern said. He lifted Paxton’s arm across his shoulder, making him wince. “Let’s get you back to the castle.”
“Daylight is coming.” Harrison nodded up at the lightening sky.
Samuel and the Kalorian ran ahead to inform the others of what had happened and help the injured back to royal lands.
“The beast has a weakness,” Paxton said. Ignoring his pains, he walked as quickly as he could, clutching his arm.
Harrison and Tiern both nodded and said, in sync, “Its neck.”
Problem was, the beast’s head was like a boar’s—it hardly had a neck to speak of. Its head slumped down to its shoulders and only raised slightly when it roared.
“One of the Kalorian men said they’d slashed across its throat when they first attacked it,” Harrison explained. “That’s why it was running. It’d been injured.”
“Good,” Pax said. The beast was stronger than he could have possibly imagined, but at least it had a weakness.
That, at least, was a start.
Chapter
16
Eight-year-old Stephon had learned to be the first one out of the schoolhouse each day, and to run like the wind through the soybean fields, all the way to their lean-to hidden in the forest. As the son of a registered Lashed in Rambling Brook of Lochlanach, it was never a good idea to dawdle. But this day he’d had to stay behind at his teacher’s request.
Her lips were pursed as they stood before the class’s small aquarium where baby rainbow trout floated belly-up. “Did you kill the fish, Stephon?”
The boy shook his matted head insistently. “No, ma’am.”
“You know the rules. You are not to touch any living thing in this class. Your gloves are to stay on at all times in this room.”
“I understand, miss. I promise I didn’t touch it. And . . . I’m not Lashed.”
Her lips pursed tighter. “So you and your mother say.”
The boy’s chest filled with the heat of shame and frustration. He dropped his head and mumbled. “I saw the other boys poking it with a stick.”
“It is not proper to tell lies and blame innocent people when you choose not to take responsibility for your actions. The other children told me they saw you.” Her voice filled with a scary sort of satisfaction. “Take off your gloves, Stephon.”
He knew what she wanted. She wanted to see lash marks. He slowly pulled off the threadbare gloves and held out his hands. His teacher backed away to a safe distance, then bent slightly to get a closer look. She frowned at the sight of his clean, unmarked nails, and stood tall again. “Leave. And stay away from the fish tanks from now on.”
Stephon pulled his gloves back on and grabbed his bag, rushing from the room. A quick glance around the schoolhouse showed that the other children had gone home. He ran through the long grass until he hit the village’s main path, which would lead to the soybean fields by his house. As he turned a corner at the Reefpoole farm, he slid in the gravel, almost crashing into two women in his path.
“Whoa, dear one, careful now.” The woman wore a light hooded covering that hid most of her face, and she talked funny.
Stephon scrambled to his feet and was set to keep running when a voice rang out from the rickety steps of the nearby house. Seas, no, the last thing Stephon wanted was to attract the attention of Farmer Reefpoole.
“Watch out, ladies, don’t let that boy touch you!”
The two women and Stephon both turned their faces up to the man on the steps, boots covered in dirt and face red from the sun. A boy from Stephon’s school was at the man’s side, scowling down at him. “His mama’s Lashed, and he’s trouble.”
The women’s heads snapped to Stephon, and he felt pierced by the icy blue eyes of the one who’d spoken. Her hood had fallen back a little to reveal shining black hair and the prettiest face Stephon had ever seen. But those eyes . . . they seemed to dissect him.
“Is that right?” the woman crooned in that strange accent. “Are you dangerous, boy?”
It took him a moment to register her words, then he shook his head. Half a second later he felt a sting as something sharp bashed into his arm. The woman gasped and looked up at the steps. The farmer’s son threw another rock, this time hitting Stephon in the chest. He grabbed his rib in pain.
“Get away from those ladies!” the boy yelled. His father smirked.
Stephon stumbled as he spun and then ran, not looking back.
After watching Stephon disappear into the fields, the woman stared up at the man, a small smile gracing her lips. “Thank you for . . . saving us.”
The man tipped his chin down. “Our pleasure. You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
The women moved closer, to the bottom of the steps. One still kept her face hidden under her cloak’s hood.
“We are traveling through from the lands of Kalor, looking to trade spices.”
“Ah.” The farmer nodded in appreciation. Trading was his livelihood. “Never been to Kalor. Heard they haven’t fared well since the wars of Eurona.”
The woman eyed the farmer’s shanty house. “It seems most lands have not fared well, sadly. Rocato left quite a lot of damage in his path.”
The man growled at the name Rocato, crossing his arms. “That he did.”
“We have many tales where I’m from.” The woman slowly made her way up the steps, pulling her hood back to reveal her full beauty. The man and his son stared, relaxing their stances as she neared, as if enchanted by her voice. “They say if Rocato had had a better plan, and had not been so impulsive, he would have succeeded in taking over the kingdom.”
“Well,” the man breathed, mesmerized by her eyes. “That’s a frightening tale.”
She continued. “And they say Rocato had a son who few knew of, that he has descendants who have been carefully planning how to succeed in all the ways he failed. For the Lashed to have power and respect once again.” She smiled in amusement. “Can you believe such tales?”
“More like nightmares!” The boy sneered.
The woman bent and patted his cheek, smiling. “Indeed.” She stood. “Thank you again for saving me from that horrible boy. I don’t know how helpless people like me could survive without capable people like you.”
Neither the man nor boy objected when the beautiful foreign woman reached out to grasp their hands in apparent thanks. Yet three short beats later, both fell to the porch in a pile, limbs limp with death. The woman stared down at her fingers, her heart accelerating in thrill as she watched a new line rise beneath her nails to join the many others with scarcely a space between them.
“We will burn this disgusting hovel.” She glanced down the steps at her companion, who hadn’t moved during any of this. “Make certain no one’s coming.”
“Yes, Rozaria,” the girl said. She pulled back her hood, revealing a jagged scar across the side of her olive-skinned face. The two women looked up and down the empty path before bending and taking hold of the wood beams of the porch with their hands.
That afternoon, young Stephon watched as flames rose to touch the sky from the other end of the vast soybean fields. An acrid breeze blew past. His mother lay a bony hand on his shoulder.
“That looks like Mr. Reefpoole’s house.”
Stephon nodded, but he didn’t understand. He’d been there twenty minutes before
, and there’d been no sign of fire.
“He’s not a nice man, but I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone,” his mother murmured. Again, Stephon only nodded.
“Good day, Lashed One.”
Stephon jumped and his mother let out a startled noise at the sound of the foreign woman’s voice. She must have come through the forest, rather than the fields, staying hidden. The other traveling woman remained a short distance away, her face shrouded behind a draping hood.
Sudden trepidation filled Stephon. His mother shoved him behind her, voice shaking. “We don’t want any trouble. I’m clean. Look.” She held up a trembling hand to show her unmarked nails.
“What a pity.” The foreign woman moved closer, running her ice blue eyes over Stephon’s mother. Even though the woman seemed nice enough, something about her felt strange to Stephon. He picked up a stick and held it up, ready to use it.
The woman cocked her head at him and gave a low laugh.
“Stephon!” His mother snatched the stick away, but kept it in her own hand at her side.
The woman ignored the stick and focused on Stephon’s mother’s face. “You should be using your magic. You should be living in a proper home and have meat on your bones. Your son should have the honor of his peers, not their judgment.”
Who was this woman and why was she saying these dangerous things to his mother? Stephon peeked up at his mother’s gaunt face. Her mouth hung open wordlessly.
“You are like so many I have encountered,” the foreign woman continued, her eyes sad yet fierce. “Frightened into shameful submission. This is not a life, my dear.”
The woman walked to the dead garden beside their house, the vegetables that rotted in an overabundance of rain. She crouched beside a wilted squash vine and took a stem in her hand. Stephon watched in wonder as a trail of green moved from her hand up and down the stem, down into the ground where the roots lived and into the large, spiky leaves. Bright yellow flowers budded, then bloomed, falling off as the flesh of a yellow squash pushed outward, oblong and perfect. In minutes, she’d grown food with a simple touch. It was the most beautiful thing the boy had ever witnessed. Stephon’s mother raised a trembling hand to her mouth.
“See what you could have?” asked the woman. “What you should be enjoying? Your magic can defy seasons and weather. It can defy disease and poverty.”
Another breeze danced across their skin, bringing choking scents from the fire. The woman stood and put her hand out to touch the wisp of smoke. “Can you feel the winds of change? Will you grasp it, as I have?” She closed her hand around the air and smiled. The fervor in her eyes sent a jolt down Stephon’s back. And then he noticed her purpled fingernails. His mouth and eyes gaped open, his heart hammering in fear at her nearness.
“I—I’m sorry, miss,” his mother stuttered. “I can’t. . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
“Soon, you will.” The woman continued to give his mother a knowing smile. “Be ready.”
Stephon’s mother pulled him close as the strange women turned, walking into the path of smoke.
Chapter
17
Paxton was taken straight into the infirmary wing of the castle, along with four other men. Several refused magical treatment. Eight had been killed that night. Six Kalorians, one Lochlan, and the youngest Zandalee. Paxton considered himself lucky, though his injuries were worse than he’d first assumed.
The gash on his arm gaped, filled with dirt. A path of now-dried blood had run down to his hand, soaking his tan tunic, so he removed it. His back, chest, and stomach were bruised. And on his left side he had cracked ribs and several severe scratches where the beast had kicked him.
But he was alive.
He leaned against the wall on the cot in the infirmary room where the guards had left him alone. The room was small and clean with only a cot, a side table, and a chair. He’d cleaned his wounds and now sat waiting.
Without a knock, the wooden door opened and an old woman stepped in pushing a cart with a covered plate. She had a long, gray braid across her shoulder. Her eyes were wise as she approached Paxton. Perhaps it was in his imagination, but he could have sworn he felt static in the air. Energy. Immediately, he knew the woman was Lashed and he felt a strange feeling of peace and tenderness—something he hadn’t felt since childhood.
She came to his side without smiling. “Don’t be afraid, Paxton Seabolt. My name is Mrs. Rathbrook. With your permission, I will heal you.”
“I don’t fear you,” he said. His voice sounded reverent to his own ears. Paxton openly stared at the woman. He had expected the royal Lashed to be much younger. He’d never seen a Lashed person of her age, or one in such good health. Mrs. Rathbrook had to be in her sixties.
Emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for many years rose up and overflowed his system. The words poured out against his will. “My grandmother was Lashed.”
He’d never said those words out loud. A pang of fear for his family tightened inside his chest, until Mrs. Rathbrook took his mangled hand in her own. Looking down at his injury, she said, “I know. I knew Margaret Seabolt well.”
Paxton’s heart kicked. “You . . . you knew her?”
“Sh. Let me work.” The woman held his hand, touching his skin around the injury on his arm without brushing the torn flesh. “You’ll feel heat. It will be uncomfortable for a moment. Stay still.”
Paxton nodded and the woman closed her eyes. His heart went erratic . . . but it had nothing to do with the magic pouring into him.
She knew his grandmother.
He became so engrossed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the intense heat rushing through his veins, straight to his hand where the magic flamed, stitching his skin and muscle back together. He watched in awe as purple lines fused in the tiny space of white at the bottom of her nails. Her entire fingernails were purple with the exception of two paper-thin white lines near the top. Mrs. Rathbrook let out a hum of satisfaction.
Her cool hands moved across his chest. He closed his eyes as she worked, and allowed himself to fully remember his grandmother for the first time in so long. Her tiny cottage on the ocean where she lived by herself after his grandfather’s passing at sea. While Tiern ran about in the sand, picking up shells and terrorizing crabs, Paxton gravitated to his grandmother’s side. He’d known she was special before he knew she was Lashed. He experienced that same static energy in her presence.
Their grandmother Seabolt had looked after the boys during the day while their father fished and their mother haggled with vendors.
He recalled the summer morning when he was eight and a woman round with pregnancy came bursting into his grandmother’s cottage.
“It’s not moving! Something is wrong—I can sense it. Please, help me, miss!”
Paxton had been confused by the woman’s frantic pleading. He couldn’t understand what his grandmother could possibly do to help.
His grandmother had gone an ashen shade of gray. “I cannot help you. I’m so very sorry.”
“Please!” The woman had begged, her shaking hands splayed across her belly. “I know you’re Lashed! My own mother told me. I know you can feel for its heart and . . . and . . .” She began crying. “This is my sixth pregnancy. None have lasted this long. Please . . .”
Paxton had hated the sad feeling that overtook him at the woman’s desperate sobbing, and the way his grandmother’s eyes filled with tears.
“If I help you, I will be killed when they do the census. I have grandsons to care for. I cannot risk it. Please . . . you must go.”
Paxton’s eyes burned as the memory faded and a hot bout of flame overtook the skin at his waist. He hissed and watched in awe as the bloodied claw marks sealed themselves between the woman’s splayed fingers. Mrs. Rathbrook’s creased forehead relaxed and she opened her eyes.
“There now. Good as new.”
“Thank you.” He slowly pushed himself up, marveling at the lack of pain. But the woman placed a hand on his sho
ulder and urged him to lie back.
“Magic can take a toll on the body. You’ll need to rest for a bit and eat something.” She pushed a cart to his side filled with sliced fruit, bread, juice, and dark coffee, a delicacy imported from the forests of Kalor.
“Thank you,” he said again.
Mrs. Rathbrook gave him a small smile and pushed his hair out of his face. When she turned to go, he called out, “Wait.”
She faced him again, her head tilting.
“She wasn’t very old when she died,” Paxton said. He felt like a child, unable to hold back the words, remembering. “Her health declined so quickly.”
“Aye.” Mrs. Rathbrook nodded solemnly. “As do all Lashed who do not use their powers.”
Paxton sat up, wincing, and the woman gently pushed him back down. “Easy now.”
He propped up on his elbows to see her face better. “So the two are linked? A Lashed One’s health to their magic?”
“Aye. How do you think I’ve lived this long?” Indeed. It was just as he’d feared.
“I thought perhaps Lashed had shorter lifespans by nature, or that some were sickly from a lack of nutrition. I hoped it was coincidence.” He felt like a fool for not acknowledging the truth of it sooner. He lay back, staring at the ceiling. “I miss her.” Deep seas . . . he hadn’t spoken of her in years. He expected to feel weak after vocalizing his feelings, but he didn’t. He felt only loss and regret.
“I’m sure you do,” the Lashed woman murmured in return. She gave his cheek a fond pat. “I hope you’ll visit me whenever you’re in the castle, Paxton Seabolt.”
And with that, the woman with magic hands left him, and Paxton fell back, rubbing his eyes, chest burning with familiar anger. His grandmother could have lived longer had she used her magic. He could still have her today if it weren’t for the law of the land.
Chapter
18
Princess Aerity woke with a start as she remembered the hunters leaving for last night’s hunt. She untangled her long nightgown from the covers and ran to the window, heart racing as she threw aside the thick curtains. Her eyes squinted against the bright morning sky as she scanned the people below.