The Heart Forger (The Bone Witch #2)(15)
Even here, the bone witch showed no respect for the deceased; her azi had carried the monstrous carcass away in its jaws, and now it lay on the ground before us. I was grateful for the heavy cloak spread over it to spare the others from the grisly sight.
“Are you still angry?” She sounded amused. “Despite your travels, you are unseasoned by war.”
Blighted or not, she intended to kill that man and for me to watch him die. “You talk like a recipe exists to accustom one to death,” I said, bitter.
“Oh, but there is,” she responded. “Take a girl and remove her heart. Add a touch of tragedy and a thirst for vengeance. Divide her into equal parts of grief and rage, then serve her cold. This is not the worst deed you will see before the week is out. If you have changed your mind about our mission, then leave. I am not yet done.”
“I will stay,” I said shortly, rising to my feet. “I will see this through, for good or ill.”
Most of the soldiers had fled, and those who remained were too injured to follow. Kalen saw to their wounds, moving from one to another to offer aid, though they shrunk from him in fear.
The asha signaled to me. I heard the crunch of marble behind me as the aeshma, the smallest among the daeva, followed closely behind, only barely able to fit through the palace doors, dragging the blighted corpse along with it.
The palace had long been deserted, servants and nobles having fled at the castle’s breaching. No bodies lay strewn along the corridors and hallways, which was some consolation. The asha did not waver and moved confidently from one room to the next until we arrived before the throne.
I was mistaken. The castle was not completely deserted. Someone sat on the golden chair.
I had always seen him from a distance, as one face in a sea of many, looking on when parades and processions brought the emperor through the busy streets of Santiang. I heard that most who throng those crowds were carefully selected, trained to kneel at a command, spurring the rest to follow suit. Dissenters were carefully culled from the herd by his loyal guards, sometimes never to be seen again.
But even guards can be goaded into betrayal, and the sycophants had long since abandoned the emperor of Daanoris. Without heralds to sing of his fine looks and proud form, he lost much of his appeal. His brows sagged underneath a face puffy from vice and arrogance. There was a lack of symmetry in his cheekbones and shadows over his dark eyes. It was an attractive face but one eroded by years of pride and avarice.
He awaited the asha’s approach, unmoving and unyielding. She stopped before him, so close that her skirts brushed against his bright throne. The aeshma padded after her, dropping the corpse before the emperor.
“My people will not suffer this indignity.” I was surprised to hear the emperor speak the common tongue. His still-powerful voice boomed, echoing across the chamber. “Whatever monstrosities you wield, you will fall. My allies will—”
The asha’s hand slammed across the emperor’s face, depriving him of both breath and strength. He crumpled against his throne, and my stunned cry bounced off the marbled walls.
“‘Your people,’ Your Majesty?” On her lips, his title sounded like a mockery. Her fingers moved through the air, and the emperor froze. “Your people are scattered, unburdened from the yoke you impose on their necks and call freedom. Your allies? The madman sniveling on the throne of Drycht tolerates you only for the money you exchange for their runeberry cloth and their soldiers. Even now, he has broken your treaty and allies himself with Druj. You are alone. Send him here then if you please. I shall cut out his heart and sup on it and leave the dregs for my daeva.”
Kalen stepped forward and grasped the emperor of Daanoris by the hems of his robe. The man’s struggles were futile; the Deathseeker dragged him to a corner of the room with little effort, discarding him there like a sack of old clothes.
The asha settled herself on the gilded throne of Daanoris.
“Where did I leave off, Bard?”
5
A Heartsrune ceremony was also a celebration: children received their first heartsglass in their thirteenth year. Nobles and commoners alike looked on while asha summoned runes to fill heartscases with various colors of red. Occasionally, a lucky child would see their hearts turn purple, singling them out for the artisan’s life, inexorably entwined with those of an asha’s. They would become apothecaries who create beauty, accessory makers who churn out zivar, and ateliers to cloth asha in the latest fashions—even village witches, like my sisters.
The unluckiest of the bunch would find their heartsglass shine silver and would be required to turn themselves over to the asha-ka association the following day, an asha’s apprenticeship awaiting the girls and a Deathseeker’s novitiate for the boys.
Drawing Heartsrune was a relatively easy task even for someone with Mykaela’s poor health. I would have preferred that she remained in bed, but I understood her need to be useful. Polaire had been just as hesitant. The brunette hovered close by like a mother hen in case Mykaela should falter. She did not.
Odalians were suspicious of asha but tolerated them for the historical ties Odalian royalty shares with the spellbinders. But Dark asha are a separate category altogether, and for them, the people’s hatred runs deep. Attuned as I was to heartsglass, I felt the differing emotions running through the audience. Their contempt for bone witches like Mykaela and me—the only two surviving in all the kingdoms—was plain to see, and they felt secure in the knowledge that, in crowds, it was safe to hate without repercussions. Not for the first time, I wondered how Mykaela managed to do this year after year.