King Yevvar entered the dead city of Datrea to the sound of drums and hunting horns. The procession joyously cut through the bloody streets and the Brinn army watched and cheered as he passed.
Yethyr did not watch long. He turned away from the view and descended the stairs back down to the palace’s receiving chamber.
Soldiers had dragged the four seats where the First Spellsingers once sat forward to the edge of their stage. Below, they had laid long leather blankets along the floor and were in the frantic process of bringing out freshly roasted boar. Someone was playing a bone flute at the edge of the chamber. In that acoustically perfect room, they only needed that one musician to create an atmosphere of revelry. Brinn women wearing strips of fur and not much else were practicing a dance, much to the distraction of others.
In the crowd of onlookers, there was a Brinn hunter in emerald-encrusted, gold detailed blackscale armor and I felt Yethyr’s stomach flip. “Angel preserve me,” he muttered to Jaetheiri. “Father brought him.”
The man under discussion looked away from the women and beamed at Yethyr. I was startled by a strange warm emotion that rushed through the Prince, at once both anger and affection.
The man was oblivious. His smile could be seen from across the room as he sprinted across the hall. Jaetheiri did not stop his approach, but Yethyr wished she did.
“Brother!” The man clapped down on the Prince’s shoulder hard. The blow rattled through his bones, but Yethyr kept his face carefully blank.
“Yugrir.”
Yethyr’s “brother” barely looked like him. He was younger and taller. His eyes were more green than blue and the flowing curls down his back were the traditional Brinn dark brown.
I supposed, if I looked for it, there was something similar in their thin lips.
“Why have you come ahead of the procession?”
“To surprise you of course! Did you expect us to come?”
“No,” Yethyr said drily. “I did not.”
“I couldn’t imagine you in battle in earnest. I needed a visual! Imagine my disappointment when I get here and the fighting is over.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you with my efficiency.”
Yugrir looked him over. “But I still get to see you with a weapon! Since when does my big brother carry a sword?”
“I wanted songsteel, did I not?” Yethyr said evasively. He didn’t like his brother looking at me, but he had wrapped my blade well; my curse did not touch him.
“If Father only knew sacking a city would be all it took to make you want to play at being a hunter…”
Yethyr wanted to punch Yugrir in the face. He viscerally mourned his inability to do so.
“I don’t play at being anything.”
Yugrir leaned close and whispered. “Brother, I hope you know what you're doing. You shouldn’t carry if you have no way to back it up. The foolhardy may test you.”
Yethyr bared his teeth. “You may test me if you are so concerned.”
Yugrir’s eyes flickered to Jaetheiri and pulled back. “Venerated Victor.”
“My prince.” The title was the same as Yethyr’s and yet she said it so neutrally it might as well have been a different title.
“What happened to your hands?”
“Stupidity.”
“Challenging you would be, yes. Have there been many spoil disputes already?”
“A few, I’m sure,” said Yethyr. “I look forward to when such bouts settle down so that I may study Datrea’s arcane arts undisturbed.”
“Why study them? You crushed them all single-handedly. Clearly, our arts are superior.”
Yethyr wrinkled his nose. “Not superior. Our necromancy requires enormous prior preparation. We write or carve the divine songs on objects or within ourselves and then unleash their music all at once. The Datreans sing their songs in the moment; their powers are flexible, spontaneous, and deeply personal. They lived and breathed their music. Not two hours ago, I witnessed Steelsinger Daened laugh and the very iron in my blood trembled.”
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“Then how did you beat them in a battle of songs?”
“I didn’t. I crushed them in a battle of endurance. The strength of the Brinn way is that if we are prepared, we can unleash our will much faster. Once the Death Circle was complete, I only needed approximately 30 seconds uninterrupted to activate it. Datrea needed a choir singing night and day, never stopping for more than half a minute to negate any and all attempts to activate it. They had no way of knowing when I would activate it. I was free to sit back and save my strength while they exhausted themselves, in some cases to death.”
“So you didn’t fight them.” Yugrir frowned. “That diminishes the victory, does it not?”
Yethyr stared at him with bafflement. “Defeating an entire choir of necromancers nearly by myself through simple strategy is not a victory?”
A hunting horn sounded much nearer than before.
“Father is nearly at the palace,” Yethyr said. “Go rejoin the procession, Yugrir.”
Yugrir shrugged. “I’d rather just stand with you.”
“No.” I was startled by the flash of fury that ran through Yethyr. “This is now my city and you shall enter it properly.”
Yugrir rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He stepped away and slipped back out the smashed doors of the palace.
Yethyr watched him leave with a sigh. He climbed up to the stage where the First Spellsingers had once presided over the city. Now there were four empty thrones. One of carved bone, one of sculpted stone, one of warped steel, and one of smooth obsidian.
Yethyr took the one of steel. It irked me—that monster sitting where my father once sat, but I didn’t have long to dwell on it.
King Yevvar entered the palace. His retinue was a river of black armored warriors more eclectically decorated than any I had ever seen. Some shoulder pads were spiked with red needle-like teeth. Some wore furs or jewels or gold. The King himself was easy to distinguish.
He wore a crown of antlers, bigger and grander than the shattered skull curled around Yethyr’s brow. Black pearls hung like black stars from each antler, singing songs of dead river monsters that Yevvar had left in his wake. Everything on him sang the dead songs of creatures he had defeated—a cloak made of massive gray feathers, the gold detailing of his black scale armor, even the spikes protruding from his boots were the claws of something very dead.
Yethyr carefully stood. He stepped off the stage with the gravity of ceremony and made his way to stand before his father.
Up close, King Yevvar had those same pale gray-blue eyes. Besides his dark brown curls, now streaked with white, he was the spitting image of his son.
Yethyr fell to his knees. The motion made him see white from searing agony, but he kept his voice chillingly even.
“My king. The city of Datrea is yours.”
There was a pause. The Prince held his breath.
“My son,” the King’s voice boomed, so much louder than his son’s soft rasp. “What a feast you have laid before me.”
Yethyr looked up at his Father and I was suddenly struck by the heady concoction of warring emotions. Yethyr loved his father. He resented him. He blamed him. He owed him a debt of gratitude he could never repay. He would etch a Death Circle around this world twice over for his pleasure. And yet, he could barely stand to be in his presence.
“For you and Maethe. Always.”
“What of the demon worshippers that made this place their nest?”
Yethyr swallowed. His bones were aching, but he stayed on his knees. “All slain, taken or routed, Father.”
“Routed?” The King frowned. “Who escaped?”
Yethyr braced himself. “Much of their Council of Songs made a deal with a demon to escape through Hell.”
“They escaped? What are you doing feasting? Your hunt is not over.”
“This feast is to honor you, not me,” Yethyr said flatly, “and my hunt was Datrea, if you would recall.”
“Datrea is not dead until those hellish choirs are silenced.”
“They will be found, Father. We have time.”
“Time? You must hunt them down now.”
“Now?” Yethyr suddenly felt his own exhaustion. He wanted to rest; he wanted to root around Datrea’s burned archive; he wanted to stop kneeling on this hard ground. “Datrea has just fallen. The spoils still need to be divvied up properly and the captives—”
“Yugrir and I will handle administration while you finish your task.
Tender shame. Bitter rage. So much rage. I was blindsided. How was he keeping his voice so level?
“This city remains dangerous for those without arcane training.”
The King nodded reasonably. “Flavrir may remain here if you are concerned by it.”
Yethyr’s heart sank. “Father, are you denying me the pleasure of my own spoils?”
“I could never take a Tezem’s spoils.” Yevvar softened. “Is this about your research? I would never touch your libraries or your forges or your bones or whatever it is you do. You may enjoy them to your heart's content after their previous owners are hunted down.
In the midst of Yethyr’s despair, I could hardly contain my joy. This was exquisite! This was perfect! I wanted to thank this king of these people I despised. With one command, he had ensured I would be pointed at the very treacherous council I had sworn to kill. All without leaving Yethyr’s hand.
I could bloody that hand and bind him closer to my will, all while hunting down Deathsinger Zasha and her wretched ilk.
I thought of Erjed and the stolen future of Malinda; I thought of all those who died to Aztomag’s maw.
Through Yethyr, I would have my vengeance.
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Who's the source of the family drama?
