A Queen of Gilded Horns (A River of Royal Blood #2) - Amanda Joy Page 0,3

to her feet.

She wiped the tears gathering beneath her eyes and approached the guards. “Please, I need to speak with the Mother. It’s urgent.”

One of the guards opened his mouth, likely to deny her entrance, but his voice was cut off by a scream from within. Ysai shouldered past them, the whole of her trembling, as she ducked beneath the tent flaps. She could only assume it was by virtue of being the Tribe Mother’s daughter that the guards didn’t hold her back.

Inside, two healers knelt on either side of Moriya, who lay on a pallet of soft furs. Her stomach was exposed, the arrow having already been removed from her side. Yet the dressing on the wound was soaked in bright red blood.

“What is wrong? Why haven’t you healed her?”

“We are trying,” the closest healer, a jackal khimaer with liquid-black eyes, explained. “It resists healing. There is no poison in her blood, but the internal damage, it resists our healing.”

At Ysai’s approach, Moriya’s eyes flew wide, almost seeming to glow as they latched on to her daughter, pinning her in place. Her usually rich bronze skin had gone ashen.

“Oh, Ysai, yes, good . . . ,” she rasped. The hairs around her brow were soaked in sweat. She rose up on her elbows, managing to a firm look at the two healers. “Thank you for all you’ve done. Know you are not to blame for what is to come, children. Leave us.”

A gust of wind yanked at the scarf around Ysai’s neck as the tent flaps opened and closed upon the healers’ exit. Once they were alone, Ysai sat beside Moriya and began mopping the elder woman’s brow. Her softly curling silver hair was tangled around her horns. “I don’t believe you,” Ysai said. “Great-mother was wrong. We’ll call for more healers.”

Moriya frowned, pushing Ysai’s fumbling hands away. “Do not worry, child. We have little time now. The King is dead. The human Queen and her daughters may yet destroy each other and that will be our chance. You will be named Mother in the days after I am buried. You must promise me, Ysai. Promise me you will take us south and see a khimaer take the throne.”

When Ysai hesitated, Moriya caught her hand, squeezing painfully. Ysai was surprised her mother still had the strength with that pained, dying light in her eyes. She could tell her mother was using all her immense will to hold on to life a bit longer. Perhaps if she gave the healers a chance, they could extend the time she had left.

Ysai tried to pull away, but Moriya’s grip was tight. “Mother, how do you expect me to convince them? The Elderi still think I’m a child. It will take decades to gain the Tribe’s trust.”

“I know you will find a way, Ysai. Promise me,” Moriya repeated, eyes fervent.

And so Ysai of Ariban, who had hardly left this snow-blasted valley in the twenty years of her life, said yes.

Her mother fought the fever burning through her until finally she went peacefully at dawn. Not one of the many Tribesfolk blessed with healing gifts could root out the fever. They said it was as if her body had simply given up.

In the numb days that followed, Moriya was burned on a pyre. The morning after, when all the Tribe watched as two Elderi placed a headdress of crescent-shaped plates of gold over Ysai’s shoulders and swore their allegiance to her, the new Mother of the Tribe, Ysai thought only of that promise and a stain of blood.

Take the Tribe south. Lead them to slaughter or steal the throne right under the humans’ noses.

She added another task: Seek revenge on the soldiers that killed Moriya and obliterate all who stood between her people and the throne.

– I –

PRINCESS NO MORE

And so the Enchantress said to the maiden, I have stolen your magick. I will take your throne and you will wear my crown of horns. You can be Princess no more.

—Child’s tale, of human origin

Chapter 1

Eva

I dream of fire. A river of blood and a column of smoke rising so dark and thick as to blot out the sun.

I dream of gnashing blades and crunching teeth and the foul reek of viscera spilled upon marble floors. I dream of a knife buried in my chest and a crimson crown balanced atop Isadore’s golden brow. I dream of the Hunter in chains, eyes red-rimmed with sorrow, shackles wearing down his flesh to the bone.