Wrath and Bones (30 page)

The little bench in front of the throne was suddenly and anticlimactically filled with a small, grey figure – a tight, prim little goat-like man with a wretched gargoyle face and warped claws for hands. His beard seemed to be made of the same flesh as his face, an extension of splotched grey skin, gnarled like the exposed roots of a hawthorn. His bobcat ears were frayed at the tips, like matching bunches of wilted arugula. His legs were crossed tidily, though they were as twisted and knotty as aged, sun-weathered vines, interrupted by huge kneecaps of shiny grey bone, and ending in cloven hooves. His wee hooves swung in unison nearly a foot off the floor. In one hand, he held a thorny obsidian mace. The stink of brimstone began to permeate the massive, echoing hall as the jumble of voices drifted to a respectful and curious silence.

The feeling that pushed out from the wee figure was a gaping emptiness of personhood, not the revenant void where a soul had been, but the chasm where a soul had never existed, the calling card of the demon, something that had never lived and never could, something that had no right to exist on the Mother’s Earth with Her children. But here he was, a lesser demon, a tiny slice of Hell. It had been clear that the Lord High Treasurer in the Bitter Pass had been a creature of the light, and it was equally clear that this lesser demon was a being of pure and gleeful darkness, reveling in the heat of terrible, eternal suffering.

He was not alone. Beneath the wide, plain, mustard-yellow banner of the First Turned, there was a dark figure, lurking between the unhallowed throne and the line of cloaked guards, a portly three-headed phantasm that could only be the lesser demon’s puppet master; I smirked at my own observance and then forced that off my mouth. Lesser demon or not, this was The Stonecaller’s playground. At the very least, he was the representative of the king, and of Asmodeus of the infernal below, the Overlord of lost souls, master of the First Turned and creator of immortality. I glanced over my shoulder at Harry, but Harry’s concern was once again pasted on Batten. Was he sensing the subterfuge now and misplacing it to Kill-Notch? Or was Harry sensing some urge in Batten that I couldn’t?

Batten was doing a fairly good job of pretending to ignore the fir green banner of House Sarokhanian and the heavy chair in which Crowned Prince Aston now sat, but Harry was empathically picking up intent from Kill-Notch that had him on edge. Batten wouldn’t rush Sarokhanian across a throne room full of revenants, would he? He couldn’t be that ballsy. A move like that would be flat out stupid. I’d never known Mark to lose control like that, at least not with his pants on. If he started away from our house’s banner, Batten wouldn’t get two feet before someone would put him through the floor. Besides, I knew he’d never betray Harry and me like that.
Would he?

My stomach churned anew, the knots twisting, the acid bubbling up to burn my throat. I put my gloved hands behind me so I could squeeze them together hard and release, squeeze and release, attempting to calm down. I couldn’t worry about Batten’s intentions; I had my own plots to fret over.

I resisted glancing at Declan, and hoped Harry just read my nervousness as the typical anxiety I’d have felt facing a court of immortals for the first time, and not anything more. I felt the cool shadow of him on my right hand side and wished I could step into his the reliable shelter of my Cold Company’s arms and hide. After I said what I had to say, I knew a hug would not be forthcoming. I’d be lucky if he didn’t blow his top completely.

The little demon sat forward on his bench and gave the court a sweeping, expectant look. Then he went still and spoke, his screechy, pinprick voice like needles in my ear.

“You come to Skulesdottir to stand before the Unhallowed Throne under the watch of mighty Den, First Turned of the
Falskaar Vouras
, Blood King of Night, Death’s Adversary, Great Voice of the Fallen, Lord of the Undertide, to nominate a new ruling house.”

Harry moved a hair closer to me, and the reminder of his nearness settled a bit of my nervousness. This was not Harry’s first rodeo. He knew the drill. Though the king of the
Falskaar Vouras
was not on the throne, hearing his official titles (and his true name, at long last) set all my nerves to their tightest setting.
Den.
Such a small name for such a massive influence in my life and Harry’s. Through the Bond, I felt a push of calm and confidence from Harry, or perhaps from Wilhelm. I tried to reply in kind, but my worry bubbled to the surface yet again. Could Harry suspect what I was planning? He knew me better than anyone, could absolutely sense my being on edge.

The little demon spoke again. “I am Aristoxenus, the Stonecaller. When I summon your house, each advocate will stand before me to nominate a revenant. The house that reaps the most nominations will ascend the throne. In the case of a tie, the DaySitters of each qualifying house will battle flesh to flesh in the Olmdalur to prove your worth and the worth of your house.”

Huh. Elm dollar?
I thought.
Is that like the hay penny after inflation?

Wilhelm’s voice cut into my thoughts.
Olmdalur, the wild valley.

Sounds like a nice place
, I thought.
Not too big on the flesh to flesh bit, though.

“The Olmdalur will challenge every facet of your Talents, be it your shared Bond, your ability to call upon the blessings of the Father, your physical prowess, or, in the event of your death, your ability to have attracted a competent Second. This will be a battle to the death. Only one house will reign at Skulesdottir.”

Cheerful thought. I glanced again at Batten. In an event like this, I didn’t doubt he’d be good physical backup for
me
, but if I died, how eager would Kill-Notch be to put his neck on the line to place House Dreppenstedt upon the throne? His loyalty was not to Harry, not to my prince. I looked past Harry to Wilhelm; Wilhelm did not wish to be on the Unhallowed Throne, and Carole Jeanne was probably not eager to be trapped in Skulesdottir for the rest of her life. I looked at my own Cold Company. Harry was doing a good job keeping a stiff upper lip, but beneath my own anxiety, I felt his dread thrumming through the Bond. Exalting Harry to the throne above his own prince was a possibility, and one that Wilhelm would approve of, but strapping Harry to the throne would be like trapping a moth in a gas lantern. He and I would both flame out.

Aristoxenus scanned the room before continuing. “All houses that do not qualify will throw their unwavering support behind the ruling house and will present a united front against all enemies of the throne. If there are no questions, I will begin the reading.”

I had questions. A million of them. I looked at the other DaySitters to see if they understood what was happening. I read some confusion, but in general they were ready for anything. Did the revenants know about the troll scout, the orc prophecy? Was this why they were replacing the king now? I heard BugBelly’s words in my brother’s voice once again:
The portal is slipping away. Away into madness and chaos.

“Call House Vulvolak,” Aristoxenus said.

Alastor Vulvolak’s DaySitter was also his wife, a tall, painfully slender brunette with a nearly concave chest and cheeks to match, with dark eyes recessed beneath hooded lids. Her gown was ankle-length, made of soft grey chiffon that swam in a cloudy drift around long, gazelle-thin legs. She passed under the white, green, and red flag of her house, as fearless and tranquil in her environment as a wolf in the forest, the timber wolves on the banner. Wearing white ballerina flats that made no sound on the marble, her agile swagger gave the impression that she could outrun every mortal in the room and give some of the revenants a real run for their money.

I reviewed what I knew of House Vulvolak, mostly limited to what Harry had told me over the past few days. The Vulvolaks always married their DaySitters, and marked them with a visible, possessive tattoo; Elana’s was a timber wolf smack in the hollow of her throat so that it faced you when she did, half white and half black. You couldn’t miss it. It matched the one on Alastor’s own throat. He was a Crowned Prince of the Blood, and looked every bit as regal as that sounded. I could easily picture him saving the Dacian people in the town of Dausdava from Mithridates, the last male manticore, more than two thousand years ago. He was a bald man with an olive complexion and a clean-shaven face. Large, dark eyes were soft and kind beneath heavy, dark brows that reminded me of Batten’s; I wondered if they had a tendency to quirk upward playfully the way Mark’s did. Alastor did not take his eyes off his DaySitter, but I felt his mind flutter across mine curiously when he felt my attention; his focus was a warm weight between my eyebrows before it moved away, and I got a brief taste of the age and power of him. 

The Speaker nodded with satisfaction as Elana approached his bench, as though he’d been expecting House Vulvolak to disappoint him, but they’d pulled it together at the last minute. He said, “Declare your intentions, Elana Vulvolak.”

Her voice was an interesting mix of soft and husky, and betrayed an age that was not reflected in her face. She offered a lithe curtsey and addressed him, “Greetings, Stonecaller. I am commanded to nominate Aston Sarokhanian and stand for him in contest. I name as my Second Lyubomir Yordanov.” She indicated a bored man with a long, pointy nose standing under the tri-colored Vulvolak banner.

Huh,
I thought, keeping my expression blank and my attention on the being before the throne as Harry had instructed.
So Vulvolak and Sarokhanian are buddies. Good to know for future reference.

Speaker Aristoxenus nodded, and excused her with a little brush of his hand through the air. She returned to her immortal companion, who was oddly more interested in the sky of stakes covering the ceiling than the proceedings. His long pianist’s fingers on both hands drummed the armrest of his chair, and only when his DaySitter returned did he draw his gaze back down from the stakes.

“Call House Prost!”

The large, winged chair beneath the black-on-grey Prost banner was empty, and there was a rumble of condemnation around the room. Of course Prost had disobeyed the summons. Jeremiah Prost was a psychopath; he wouldn’t enjoy being told what to do by any authority figure, not even his king. But his prince had also not attended. Perhaps the psychopathology had been a trait inherited down the bloodline, or an environmental factor, with Jeremiah. Perhaps Jeremiah, as a mortal man, had been just a regular dude before being turned.

The Stonecaller did not look pleased, but he also did not look surprised. The shadowy form behind him muttered something.

“House Prost is absent, and will be reprimanded. Call House Van Solms!” the Stonecaller said.

Hendrik Van Solms looked like he’d been about a hundred when he was turned, stuck as an old man forever, and he’d clearly never heard of a razor. His beard was bundled on his lap in a black nest streaked through with grey. It matched the hair sprouting from his large, square ears and sticking out from under a red woolen cap that looked like it had seen better days. Everything about the revenant looked like it had seen better days. A frail black man, he had giant brown eyes buried in sunken hollows bordered with crow’s feet, like they were sinkholes dragging the skin inside his skull; he wasn’t the withered, washed-out, grave-wax horror that Malas Nazaire was, but he was certainly no spring chicken. The deep color of his skin and the Dutch last name gave me a couple solid clues as to the date of his turning, though; revenants, including the First Turned, often used wars and invasions to mask their own movements and activities. Could Hendrik Van Solms have chosen his name and his declared ancestry sometime during the Dutch invasion of Angola? If I remembered my African history, that would put his turning around the middle of the seventeenth century.  He’d be at least three hundred sixty years old, much younger than Malas, even younger than Harry, despite looking like someone’s great grandpa. It was impossible to guess at his body shape, as he was bundled into his throne with a pile of green and burgundy wool blankets. I knew nothing about House Van Solms, and that included their Talent. Their banner gave no clue to this: an innocuous-seeming pair of gold and red distelfink birds on white silk.  

His DaySitter, Lisa Pivratsky-Churchill, was a little person, blonde and angel-faced; wearing strapless, white, brushed velvet and a touch too much make-up, she left the banner and seat of House Van Solms to have her moment before the court, accustomed to attracting more attention than average-sized people, comfortable in her own skin. Lisa had what I suspected was achondroplasia type dwarfism, taking in her long waist, short stature, and shortened upper limbs. A swath of lacey jewelry in gold began as a choker around her throat and draped across to cap both shoulders before spilling in ropes down her bare back. A gold band sat on her ring finger, and a diamond engagement ring that was easily double the size of any I’d ever seen before. I wondered if
Mr
. Churchill was still alive, and if so, how did he feel about his wife being a DaySitter? Was he here? Did he live with them? I scanned the hall and then realized with embarrassment that I’d been ignorantly looking for another little person.

I waited for Speaker Aristoxenus to make a cheeky remark, but the two of them exchanged familiar nods; Ms. Lisa had spent time at court before. She didn’t look around the room in awe the way most DaySitters did, and I felt nothing from her that indicated that she was intimidated by the ancient immortals crowding the room. I wondered if Hendrik Van Solms preferred to stay at his stronghold on Svikheimslending, and if they were regular guests at Skulesdottir.

“The Distelfink is indebted to the Raven of Night in so many ways that my master could not hope to list them,” Ms. Lisa declared, raising her voice politely for the other DaySitters in the room. “I am told it would please the Crowned Prince of House Dreppenstedt if I should nominate Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, Lord Baldgate, and stand for him in contest with my Second, Sweyn Llewellyn. Hereby, I do.”