A Queen of Gilded Horns (A River of Royal Blood #2) - Amanda Joy Page 0,48

scent of the Tribe’s heavy warding. He might very well sail right past the path to Ariban, the mountain the Tribe called home.

Because of those worries, he missed the telltale frisson to the air that meant he and Meya had made it beyond Ydara and into the Tribe’s territory. All four wards were set in concentric circles, with twenty miles between them. They were designed by the fey of the Tribe—with his help—to sew deep aversion in anyone in the area.

Half a day later, Baccha rode through the second warding and his skin grew tight and itchy. Meya snorted and stomped his hooves, tendrils of black and blue shadows rising off his skin like steam.

Baccha made camp that night and set off early again in the morning, when sunlight danced through the clouds. The next day, snow began to fall—fat, wet clumps that soaked into his clothes—and building a fire to dry himself was impossible. When they reached the third warding after riding for days through dense forest, Baccha knew something was wrong. Tribe sentries patrolled the wards and chased down anyone who came close to their home on Ariban. But as the Hunter rode through the final ward, instead of the clap of hoofbeats he expected to greet him, there was only stillness. Even the wind fell silent. No creatures stirred, no pine boughs snapped.

“An ambush,” he muttered. “Brilliant.”

The back of his neck prickled and Baccha turned, directing Meya with his knees. A delicate face peeked out from behind one of the trees. He caught a flash of white hair and drew two throwing knives.

One blade caught between his teeth, he and Meya spun, searching for their would-be attackers.

Then a young woman stepped out from behind a massive pine, its branches heavy with snow. Her hair was bone white and fell to her waist in dense coils and curls. Her skin was a deep chestnut, and proud, ice-white horns sprung from her brow.

She smiled at Baccha and he began to feel sluggish the longer he stared into her glittering black eyes. He knew that smile but not the face. Still he knew the woman that had once bore it was gone from this world. This was her daughter.

“You’re Moriya’s girl,” he called. Even his tongue felt thick in his mouth. “I’ve returned—”

Another young woman appeared beside her, armed with a bow trained on his horse. A boy slunk from the trees to stand behind them, softly caressing his ax handle. They looked to be twins, and both were no more than sixteen years, but that was no reason to relax. Children raised in the Tribe went on their first raids at the border at thirteen, and began weapons training much earlier than that. Shit.

He might survive an arrow through the neck, but Meya, older than even Baccha, might not.

Moriya’s daughter guided her horse forward, one hand outstretched. She cut a small nick in her finger, and all Baccha could do was watch as her blood dripped into the earth. He knew this moment was his only opportunity. Just the scent of her bloodline—wildfire, magick, burnt clove—weakened his resolve, but he could still resist, as long as he hadn’t yet ingested it.

“Baccha, Lord Hunter.” The girl dismounted in one fluid movement, as if she were born on a saddle and rarely left it. A smirk gave way to a shallow bow in his direction. “I am Ysai, new Mother of the Tribe, and I order you not to resist me.”

Baccha tasted blood before he noticed he was biting the inside of his cheek, hard. At least it was his. “Why would I resist you, Mother? This is my home.”

She returned the knife to a pocket, and accepted a tin cup from one her companions. She held her finger over the cup until three fat drops of blood spilled into it. In five long strides, her hand was pressed to Meya’s tangled mane. She held up the cup and Baccha accepted it.

She waited until he downed it to answer. “I am arresting you for treason and assisting the Usurpers.”

He dismounted and knelt in the snow, pressing his forehead to wet ground. Shit.

* * *

Baccha could feel Ysai watching him from the saddle as he stumbled forward, wrists tied to the young man’s horse. She called the two Iriki and Enki, but Baccha wasn’t yet sure who was who. Or how he’d find a way out of this situation.

He could barely manage his usual swagger, yanked forward as Ysai suddenly kicked her