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The guards who had just murdered their colleagues stood tall and proud. In a time like this, anyone with half a brain should consider that they shouldn’t obey such a gruesome order, should consider that it could just as well have been them standing in the front, but no. They were busy either being relieved they hadn’t been chosen to die or proud that they were among the winning group of guards, unable to see that all it meant was that the king saw his men as expendable and worthless. They were probably under the illusion that their position as killers meant they were considered worthy. And that was how atrocities were carried.
The king turned around and faced the men. “Your sacrifice will be noted. For blood and sacrifice are the nourishment for a strong kingdom, are the essence of magic. You honor Ironhold with your bravery, and we won’t forget your blood.”
Blood? They hadn’t shed any—yet. Oh, had they been smart, they would be running away as fast as possible, instead of taking these venomous words as a compliment. The king reached out to a staff leaning by the box. Not a staff, a lever.
Once he pulled it, part of the floor moved. It was actually a huge trapdoor that had been camouflaged by the dirt covering it. All the guards, regardless of whether they’d been dead, hurt, or standing, fell a compartment with long, sharp iron spikes. They were impaled instantly.
River wanted to retch. He understood dying in battle, dying to protect someone, and even understood that kings sometimes had to see their armies facing losses, but this was pointless. Pointless death, which was a reminder that for King Harold, these guards meant nothing, life meant nothing.
From his vantage point, River looked at the spikes and remembered the interrogation room in the Ancient City, except that those spikes had been made of wood, for ironbringers. Funny that Naia had been its first prisoner. King Spring, king of the Ancients, didn’t value life either.
But there was a reason why they were killing so many men here—it was probably a magic ritual or something of the sort. Whatever power they were kindling, it had to be something so dark and heinous that had never been mentioned in any Ancient book. A chill ran down River’s spine as he watched and waited.
King Harold took a black dagger from his pocket and moved it towards his son’s face. To kill him? It wouldn’t be sad to see Cassius dead, but it was still odd to see a father doing that to his son. But all the king did was touch the young man’s forehead with the dagger. River felt strangely relieved not to witness any more gruesomeness.
Harold’s voice echoed in the hall. “Sacrifice. For death shall bring life. From their blood your blood will run.”
Queen Kara looked at her son with a calm expression, without any of the hope, anxiety, or fear one would expect a mother to have in that situation. A few long seconds passed, then the king pulled back the dagger.
At first nothing happened, then something caught River’s eye. The queen had a necklace with a large red stone—a ruby or a garnet. A light in it pulsed, as if it were coming to life. That had to be a magical object, but of which kind, River wasn’t sure, except that if it was bright when surrounded by senseless death, it couldn’t be anything good.
The king moved the dagger, as if to put it on Cassius’ forehead again, but the queen stopped him. “Wait. We need to follow the rules and wait.” Her voice wasn’t strained or worried. There was something about her that River couldn’t quite understand. Perhaps it was just that he expected more feeling, more emotion. That and the creepy necklace was signaling to something strange.
The king cleared his throat. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Let’s just wait,” she whispered in a gentler tone.
Cassius’s face was pale and he wasn’t moving, not even breathing. His parents watched him in silence, the queen composed, while the king was fidgety. After a while, the woman’s necklace shone brighter.
At that moment, the prince exhaled, coughed, then sat up, his eyes wide.
The voice that came from his body was coarse, strange. “Where is she? Where is she?”
“Hush,” his mother cooed. “It’s all right. You’ll be fine.”
He glanced at his parents, then looked around. “Where am I?”
The king replied, “We’re in the Iron Citadel, son, down below, and you can return to your room.”
Cassius’s eyes were still scanning the chamber, almost as if he were searching for something, perhaps trying to find the girl who had killed him.
King Harold extended his hand to his son and helped him climb out of the box, then they headed to the door, which the king opened with his iron magic. At no point did they spare a single glance at the guards’ bodies.
They walked towards the metallic box that moved up and down throughout the castle. River was able to enter it with them. When they were in the upper levels of the castle, the queen turned to her husband. “I’ll be right with you. I’m tired and I need to rest.”
The king kissed her cheek. “It’s been an ordeal.”
She left the box and smirked once the king was no longer looking. River was sure she was planning something. The question was whether he should follow the king and see what kind of resurrection had been done on the prince, or follow the queen and see what that mysterious necklace was. As if to answer him, the red stone pulsed again.
A sign. Something was amiss, and this queen wasn’t as innocent as she looked. As she retreated to her room, River followed her. He was going to figure out what was happening.
5
The Boundless
Arry had brought Naia a plate of food and good news, telling her that most of their wounded men were healing. The casualties had been almost none, but it still hurt. One dead soldier was too many.
He left her alone, though, which was good, as she needed time to process everything, time to organize her thoughts. And yet, she couldn’t even touch the food or think straight. All she kept thinking was about River. River with the enemy, River hurt, River captured. Dreadful images came to her mind and she couldn’t shut them down.
