The Consort drew an impact ward in the air, and the stones at the Heir’s feet exploded, sending him stumbling as he scrambled for his crown. The puppet kicked the crown across the room, then attacked to stall the Heir just a few seconds more.
Turning, the Consort raised the stub of his tail, sending a spray of magic-dead feces to disable the wards.
He was about to dissipate again when the Heir cried, “Enough!” He slammed the butt of his spear to the floor, and a wave of magic knocked everyone from their feet. The Consort recovered quickly, dematerializing and moving for the gap in the wards, but not before the Explorer threw magic of his own, pulling back a curtain to cast dawn twilight over the gap in the wards. The day star had not yet crested the horizon, but already the light burned at his magic—unspeakable agony. The demon dare not approach.
The Hunter dissipated, re-forming with her wounds healed. She and the Explorer drew wardings in the air with practiced hands, sending shocks of pain through the demon’s cloud even as he fled the light. In his non-corporeal form, the Consort could not control the puppet, and the female drone quickly put him in a submission hold. The Heir recovered his crown, raising the shield, trapping the Consort once more.
There was no choice but to surrender and negotiate. They still needed him alive. The Consort solidified, claws retracted and teeth covered, arms held high in the human sign of submission.
The Hunter struck him hard in the side of his head, impact wards rattling his skull. She was impulsive. The others would be more restrained.
But as the Consort rolled with the blow, the Explorer struck him from the opposite side, cracking his skull and bursting an eye from its socket.
The demon stumbled, only to take a third blow from the shaft of the Heir’s spear, striking harder than a rock drone.
The beating continued, and the Consort thought surely they would kill him in their primitive savagery. He attempted to dissipate, but like the Hunter moments before, he found it impossible to focus enough to trigger the transformation.
Then it became hard to focus on who delivered which blow, and there was only the sound and shock as each fell.
And then it became hard to focus at all. Blackness filled his vision.
—
The Consort woke in agony. He attempted to Draw power from his inner reserve to heal, but there was little remaining. Unconscious, he must have Drawn deeply to recover from the worst of his injuries. The rest would have to heal naturally.
He remained free of the cursed chain. Perhaps they were rushing to repair it, even now. Perhaps they expected him to remain disabled for longer.
If so, they were greater fools than even he had believed. The curtain had been drawn, and the Consort could sense the darkness beyond the thick cloth. Escape again felt within reach. He raised a claw, siphoning a bit of his remaining magic to power a ward he drew in the air.
But the power dissipated before it reached the tip of his talon, and a shock of pain ran through his body, causing him to hiss.
Again he Drew, and again the power failed, even as his flesh burned.
The Consort looked down at his skin, realization dawning even as he saw the glow of the wards.
They had inked his flesh with needles, much as the Explorer had done to himself. He was covered with wards.
Mind wards, keyed to his own caste. The symbols put him in a prison of his own flesh, preventing him from dissipating or reaching out with his mind. Worse, if the Consort—or one of his captors—fed the wards with enough magic, they would kill him.
It was worse by far than the chain. An indignity beyond anything the Consort could imagine.
But every problem had its solution. Every warding its weakness. He would bide his time, and find it.
CHAPTER 1
BOTH
334 AR
The cramping startled Leesha awake.
Ten days on the road with an escort of five thousand Cutters had gotten her used to discomfort. She could only sleep on her side now, something the carriage bench was not designed for. She had taken to curling on the floor like Amanvah and Sikvah in their carriage full of pillows.
Waves of pain washed over her as uterine muscles tightened and contracted, readying themselves for the task to come. Leesha wasn’t due for another thirteen weeks, but it was common for women to experience this.
And every one of them panics the first time, Bruna used to say, thinking they’ll birth early. Even me, though I’d smacked dozens of squalling babes into the world before I grunted out one of my own.
Leesha began breathing in a quick steady rhythm to calm herself and help endure the pain. Pain was nothing new these days. The skin of her stomach was blackened and bruised from powerful fetal blows.
Several times during her pregnancy, Leesha had been forced to channel powerful ward magic. Each time, the baby reacted violently. Feedback from magic could grant inhuman strength and stamina. It made the old young again, and brought the young to primacy before their time. It heightened emotions and lessened control. Folk in the throes of magic could be violent. Dangerous.
What might such power do to a child not fully formed? Not even at seven months, Leesha looked and felt full term. She anticipated an early delivery, even welcomed it, lest the child grow too large for natural birth.
Or punch through my womb and crawl out on its own. Leesha breathed and breathed, but she did not calm, nor did the pain subside.
All sorts of things can bring a set of contractions, Bruna taught. Like the brat kicking a full bladder.
Leesha found the chamber pot, but relieving herself did little to ease the spasming. She glanced at the porcelain. Her water was clouded and bloody.
She froze, mind racing as she stared at the pot. But then the baby kicked hard. She cried out in pain, and she knew.
It was coming.
—
Leesha was propped on the bench by the time Wonda came to report. It was nearly dawn.
Wonda handed off her reins, rolling off her horse nimbly as a cat. She landed on the lip of the moving carriage and opened the door, effortlessly swinging onto the bench across from Leesha.
“Almost home, mistress, if ya wanna warsh a bit,” Wonda said. “Gar rode on ahead while ya slept. Just got word back.”
“How bad is it?” Leesha asked.
“Bad,” Wonda said. “Whole staff’s turned out. Gar tried to stop it like ya asked. Said it was like trying to pull up a stump bare-handed.”
“Angierians and their ripping ceremony.” Leesha grimaced. She was beginning to understand how Duchess Araine could walk past a cloud of bowing and curtsying servants while pretending not to see them at all. Sometimes it was the only way to get where you meant to go.
“Ent just maids and guards,” Wonda said. “Half the town council’s turned up.”
“Night.” Leesha put her face in her hands.
“Give the word and I can have a wall of Cutters shuttle you right inside,” Wonda said. “Tell everyone yu’ll see them when yu’ve had yur rest.”
Leesha shook her head. “This is my homecoming as countess. I won’t begin it by shunning everyone.”
“Ay, mistress,” Wonda said.
“I need to tell you something, Wonda,” Leesha said. “But you must remain calm when I do.”
Wonda gave a confused look, then her eyes widened. She began to rise.
“Wonda Cutter, you keep your bottom on that bench.” Leesha swung her finger like a lash, and the girl fell back.
“The contractions are sixteen minutes apart,” Leesha continued. “It may be hours before the baby comes. I’m going to be quite dependent on you today, dear, so I need you to listen carefully and stay focused.”
Wonda swallowed heavily, but she nodded. “Ay, mistress. Tell me what ya want and I’ll make it happen.”
“I will exit the carriage at a stately pace and head for the door,” Leesha said. “I will speak to one person at a time as I walk. At no time do we stop or slow.”
“Ay, mistress,” Wonda said.
“I will openly appoint you head of my household guard,” Leesha said. “If everyone’s mustered in the yard as you say, that should be enough for you to take command and send Cutter women to secure the royal manse. Once they have the royal chambers secure, no one gets in save you, me, and Darsy.”
“Vika?” Wonda asked.