The Shadow Queen (Ravenspire, #1)(15)
The wall loomed in front of her. Soldiers were running behind her. Sasha surged upward seconds before a thin black arrow streaked through the sky, just missing the gyrfalcon.
Danger. Flee. Lorelai willed the bird to obey as she approached the wall without slowing. She aimed for the corner, the joint that marked the meeting of north and west.
“Stop in the name of the queen!”
“Kill her!”
“Forget the bird. Shoot the girl!”
The shouts rose behind her as Lorelai gathered herself. Planting her left foot, she launched her right foot toward the wall. The second it touched, she kicked outward, gaining height and leverage. Her left foot hit the wall, and she kicked outward again, forcing herself upward, defying gravity. Using the corner for additional leverage, she reached the top of the wall in four leaps. Slapping her palms onto the edge, she pulled her legs beneath her, touched her toes to the wall, and then leaped for the closest tree.
Sasha landed hard on her shoulder, talons gripping tight, her mind filled with furious worry for Lorelai.
Watch our backs. Lorelai took off running for the northeast corner where Gabril and Leo were finishing the job of emptying the garrison’s storehouse. The wagons gathered in the forest were laden with bags of grain, beans, apples, dried vegetables, and spices. Gabril took one look at Lorelai’s face as she sprinted around the corner of the wall and barked a command at those around him.
By the time the soldiers secured the horses and opened the garrison’s gate to search for her, Lorelai, Leo, and the rest of the robbers—along with over half the food kept in the storehouse—were gone.
SIX
“BRING ME ANOTHER.” Irina stood outside the castle’s dungeon, a pile of bodies at her feet. “A younger one this time.” The dungeon master hurried to comply.
The air was damp and chilly, but the queen was warm beneath the weight of the coat she wore. She ran her hands over the coat’s thick gray-white fur and felt the hearts of the wolves, who’d given their pelts, surge against the magic in her palms.
Magic that still flowed easily through her veins, but that left her drained and weary at the end of every spell. Magic that caused her heart to stutter and her chest to ache with the strain of it.
“Your Highness.” The dungeon master stepped out of the doorway, pulling a skinny girl of seventeen or eighteen behind him. Her dirty brown hair brushed the sharp edges of her collarbone, and her eyes were dull. The dungeon master yanked the girl forward until she stood in front of Irina.
The queen grasped the girl’s chin and examined her face under the fading light of the early evening’s sun. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“And what crime sent you to my dungeon?”
“I was hungry.” There was a thread of defiance in the girl’s voice, though she wouldn’t meet the queen’s gaze.
Irina’s long, polished red nails dug into the girl’s face. “Being hungry isn’t a crime. I will only ask you this once more.” Her voice was hard. “What was your crime?”
“Stealing food,” the girl whispered.
“And whom did you steal from?”
The girl swallowed audibly but didn’t answer.
The queen’s nails punctured the girl’s cheek and tiny crescents of blood bubbled up. “Answer.”
The girl’s voice shook. “From my lord’s kitchen. I was a maid in the Ranulf household.”
Irina let go of the girl’s face and rubbed a drop of blood between her thumb and forefinger. “Ungrateful peasant. If you steal from my nobility, you steal from me.” She leaned close, her mouth a breath from the girl’s ear. “Do you know what I do to those who betray the ones to whom they should be loyal?”
The girl’s body trembled, and her knees gave out, but the dungeon master held her firm.
A thief. A betrayer. A girl who deserved her fate. And one whose heart might be strong enough to save Irina from her own.
The queen’s open palm slammed into the girl’s chest, her nails curving over the space that held her heart. “Ja`dat,” she whispered, and the power burned in her hands. “Take what is hers and give it to me instead.”
Irina’s palm, wreathed in brilliant light, pressed hard against the girl’s chest.
Her heart surged to meet Irina’s magic, and the queen could feel the strength of her remaining years stored inside her like an apple ready for the plucking.
Her magic leaped into the girl and surrounded her heart. The girl cried out in agony and resisted, but Irina’s will was fierce. Indomitable. Stronger.
Irina was always stronger.
The queen threw her head back as the girl’s youth poured out of her. It was a flood of heat and need and restless ambition that abandoned the girl and rushed through Irina’s veins instead. The girl’s face aged, her hair grayed, and then she collapsed in a heap beside the other bodies.
Irina stood panting, her hand still outstretched, and waited for the band of tension around her chest to dissolve. For the weakness, the ache, to wash away.
The pain still throbbed dully along her sternum. Her pulse still fluttered like a bird trying to break free of its cage.
Nothing had changed.
If anything, the pain was worse—the heat of the girl’s youth turning from something that energized into a poison that scalded the queen from the inside out.