“I am he,” Lazarus said, his voice gruff from the time in disuse. “Tell me who has sent you.”
“Your brother, Emperor Nero XX, first of his name, commander of the Trienian militia, savior of the sick, defender of the poor, and god among men.”
God among men, Lazarus thought. If those were the titles Nero chose, he was right to believe that nothing had changed.
That was good. It would make this easier for him.
“And what is it that my brother has sent all the way from the Empire of Triene?” Lazarus asked.
The boy shifted to hold the box with his forearm so that he could lift the lid with the other hand.
That rotten scent washed over him. He knew what it was before the boy spoke. After all, he’d been given a gift like this before.
“The head of the traitor, Amelia Reinhart, Your Grace.”
Despite his youth, he did not appear all that bothered by the decapitated head he lifted from the box. Long dark hair hung in greasy clumps. Her face that had once been beautiful no longer showed what she truly was. Bits of bone and blood and pus stuck out from the stump that dripped of wretchedness.
His court gave an audible gasp, and it didn’t miss Lazarus’ notice when both Draeven and Dominicus exchanged a glance.
Interesting . . .
“And my message?” Lazarus asked softly.
The boy began to shake again, and the souls grew excited. They sensed what was coming.
“An eye for an eye.”
Lazarus exhaled softly.
Nero had taken Quinn from him, and so he gave Amelia in return.
Some might think it an apology. Others an olive branch. And even still, there were the fools that would not see the treachery in his words.
“Is that all?” Lazarus said, his voice colored with midnight and shadows and death.
“I-it is,” the boy stammered. He took a step back and bowed his head.
“Very well,” Lazarus murmured. “I shall send him an invitation, then.”
“Your Grace?” the messenger asked, not understanding.
Lazarus lowered his hand to the side of the throne.
From his skin, the kuras came forth.
Its form was twice the size of a wolf but coated in light gray feathers instead of fur. The animal lifted its head and snarled once. Icy blue eyes zeroed in on its dinner.
The court didn’t even have time to react as it leapt at the boy.
“Leave his head,” Lazarus commanded the creature. A slight rumble was the answer he received, but he knew it would obey. Crimson coated the steps and Amelia’s horrendous head went tumbling down. “I’ll be sending that to my brother.”
Nero thought he could take Quinn.
He sent the head of Amelia to challenge Lazarus.
In turn, he was going to receive an invitation of war.
Chapter 5
Betrayal on Bitter Winds
“Loyalty given is the greatest of gifts. Loyalty taken is the worst of crimes. For it isn’t loyalty at all, but slavery by another name.”
— Quinn Darkova, fear twister, walker of realms
The sound of doors hitting stone startled her into awareness.
Quinn opened her eyes and immediately knew that this was not the dark realm, but the plane of the living. A cold wind slapped her in the face as if reminding her of her senses and self.
Quinn looked down at her form as it drifted between intangible black wisps and flesh. Mazzulah had told her the truth. In coming back, she would not be as she was. Quinn liked that. For all that she gave up, she had gained so much more in death.
Scales slithered along her side, mauve in color.
The god of the dark realm hadn’t just allowed her to return, but the beast of her soul as well.
A cruel smile curved her lips as she extended a hand. The snake lifted his head to her fingertips.
“We have much to do,” Quinn whispered to him. Neiss bobbed his head before slithering beneath her skin. His presence comforted her.
Quinn sat up and then pushed herself to her feet. Bare as they were, the stone wasn’t so cold as she remembered it. She’d existed in the dark realm for so long that she’d become a part of it and grown accustomed. Even the frozen winds couldn’t bother her now.
Dressed in only the two swaths of black fabric and a silver chain around her waist, Quinn walked out of the desecrated temple. The statues of the dark gods stood on their crumbling pedestals as she continued past them without looking back.
Eyes followed her, and she could sense those very gods watching as she started to descend the steps that would lead her back to N’skara. She didn’t intend to stay for long, but if she were to return to Lazarus, she was going to need a few things for the journey.
It occurred to her that the last time she walked this path, she carried her sister. Risk had climbed these steps again for her, but she was not returning with her.
Quinn pressed her lips together as she thought about that.
Risk had done the impossible. What no one else could do. She ventured into the dark realm for Quinn, and then chose to stay so that she could leave. Quinn wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone, but her sister had changed yet again in that time.
She’d grown stronger. If not more sure of herself, then more certain of her decisions.
Quinn didn’t like leaving her there, but if her time in the dark realm had taught her anything, it was that Mazzulah would keep her word. She would train Risk into her ascension and then release her. And whether Quinn wanted it or not, the truth of the matter was that Risk’s fate was sealed the moment she opened those doors. Even if she hadn’t agreed to stay, Quinn had a feeling Mazzulah wouldn’t have let her leave.
It was better to have her there by choice, however, than against her will.
Quinn reached the bottom of the steps. Whether it was morning or afternoon, she couldn’t tell beneath the gray sky. The clouds were so thick and the snow falling so heavily it was impossible to tell.
At the end of the staircase, the lantern that had once signaled its whereabouts lay broken in pieces. Quinn stepped around them and continued on, her footprints disappearing beneath the next layer of snow.
She trailed through the old parts of Liph. The streets here were cracked. The buildings nearly as decrepit as the ancient temple she’d woken in. These things were normal. They were as she remembered.
The thing she didn’t recall, however, was the laughter.
Hearty chuckles that could only come from men chased her as she walked through the alleyways.
How long have I been gone?
Quinn wasn’t sure, but the answer to that question was becoming more important with every step. Footprints from heavy boots indented the snow in these parts. Sections had turned to slush, despite the constant downpour.
As she neared the edge of the ghettos where it bordered the main city of Liph, Quinn paused. Two men had walked into the alley and stopped dead. Their eyes roamed her cream-colored skin, drinking in the flesh on display.
Quinn was unbothered by their attention. That wasn’t what made her stop.
It was their appearance.
Black hair and brown skin. They dressed in thick coats of fur and carried weapons at their waist. Boots that were heavier than that made in N’skara covered their feet.
These men . . . they were outsiders.