A Queen of Gilded Horns (A River of Royal Blood #2) - Amanda Joy Page 0,22

ass.

Even keeping that in mind, the sheer wall of the estate made me nervous. At ten feet, my palms were slick. At fifty, my claws driven so deeply into the stone that my fingertips bled, I looked down at Falun and Aketo. They wavered in and out of sight like motes of dust, the glamour warping my vision, and for the first time I wondered if these walls might just be too high, too sheer for me.

At sixty, panting and every inch of my skin damp with sweat, I drove the first spike into the wall and grasped a second, stretching to my full length as I hauled my body up and up.

Using the picks as proper footholds, I moved quickly, knowing the steel wouldn’t hold my weight very long. When I was within arm’s reach of the arrow slits, I heard Aketo and Falun shouting below.

I must have gone out of range for Falun’s magick. No matter. I was close now.

Balanced on a single foot, I hissed as my hand caught the edge of the narrow window, the rough stone drawing blood. Groaning, I dragged myself up until I was even with the window.

I tried to force it open, but suddenly the window swung outward, slamming hard against my claws and ruining my grip.

I caught a brief glimpse of a feminine face—dark hair braided to her scalp in florid patterns and eyes with a core of blazing crimson—her expression turning sharply from confusion to horror. Her hand shot out, reaching for me, but it was too late.

A scream escaped my mouth, but the wind snatched it away.

I forgot my sister and all my assurances that the Entwining would keep me safe. All I knew was that if I reached the ground, I would die.

Instinct sent me barreling into my mindscape, searching for magick. My thoughts quested inward until I stood at the lake of magick in my mind. It defied all logic—in the past, seeking my mindscape was slow and awkward, but not anymore. In an instant, I was diving into the lake’s dark waters, kicking toward the bottom, but panic seized me as I realized there was nothing here to help me. No magick of blood or bone could slow my descent.

At once I could feel the sun on my face, the wind yanking at my clothes, sensed the ground rushing, rushing, rushing toward me—and in the same instant, I felt the cool, dark water slipping over my skin as I kicked up, past glowing blood magick, and shot through the water to find golden light filling the air, gold like the sun on my face.

I knew instinctively what it was: my khimaer magick.

My fingertips slipped into the golden light, and searing heat tore through me. It was the same mind-ending pain from when I’d broken the binding on my magick, but only for the space of a breath before a new warmth enveloped me.

A warmth of creation and remaking.

A hoarse scream brought me back to my body. Not my voice, but Aketo’s, yelling and too close. Too soon the ground was rushing up to meet me.

A whimper escaped my mouth and I shut my eyes. There was a strain in my back and a strange gust of wind that seemed to lift me aloft.

Then I struck the ground and did not feel anything at all.

Chapter 4

Baccha

Baccha, first of his name, last of his kind, tipped back a cloudy glass, savoring the bitter dregs.

It was a foul brew—a blend of kaffe and whiskey and a splash of ewe’s milk, flavored with cinnamon—that these northerners called firemilk.

The rest of his meal, a steaming plate of eggs, pork belly, and peppered lentils, had gone fast.

Truth was, he’d always preferred the cuisine in southern Myre, but the Sister Citadel boasted the best inns and serving halls in the Queendom. In all the centuries he’d been visiting the Loom, it had never disappointed him.

The inn had changed little, likely because in all that time the innkeeper remained the same. Various panels of wood covered the walls—from blackwood to pale, buttery teak—each carved with eerily lifelike renderings of plants. Creeping vines and flowering trees and more. Even the wood of the floor was carved from a great baobab tree, though that was hardly discernible in the tight space.

Baccha set down his glass and began counting.

Not the sweat-soured humans and fey crowding the bar. Not even the piles of sawdust where men had emptied their stomachs last night. And not the women manning stalls