Chapter Seven

Naratha wasn't certain when she had become a monster.

She knew when the process had started; that was easy enough to pinpoint. Something had broken inside her in the War, in its penultimate battle, and it had healed like a poorly set bone. There was a hardness inside her now that hadn't been present in her girlhood and youth. Some would perhaps say it was all to the good, that a queen of a fragile coalition of city-states had to be able to make difficult decisions, that she had to be able to do what others would not to protect her subjects.

Of course, that logic had some inescapable problems when, in order to protect her subjects, she consigned one of them to death.

Naratha drummed her fingertips on the surface of the desk she'd seated herself at. She hadn't activated any of the magelights in the room; she was here for solitude, and even shedding light on the written words of other people would have felt like an intrusion on that right now, at a time when she needed to think. The only light in the room came from the moon through the balcony's open door.

It was curious that she felt no remorse, no twinge of conscience at her own actions. She would have expected something of that nature after ordering the death of a young woman who'd done nothing to earn it. But she felt nothing, and that fact disturbed her more than ordering the young woman's murder had. And it was murder; she wouldn't coddle herself by calling it a sacrifice or any of a dozen other gentler terms. It was murder, and she couldn't stir up the smallest iota of guilt or regret over it.

Perhaps, she reflected, it was simply the brutality she'd witnessed in the War. She would never forget the hatred she'd seen shining hard and bright in human eyes whenever the Sabrian forces had come face to face with a demon. Hatred that had been tempered in a forge of fear and contempt.

Demons were capable of hatred too, of course— she'd seen it in the few who managed to survive alone to adulthood outside of safe havens, escaping to the Shadowborn City later in life. But the demons' hatred was based on pain and fear and damage that humans had directly inflicted on them. It was very different from the hatred that she'd seen in the Sabrians' eyes, hatred that she'd even seen occasionally in her own subjects' eyes. That sort came from the demagoguery of priests crying about the stain the demons brought to this world simply by existing, or sometimes from the fear of being in the presence of a stronger creature. Still… in both cases, fear and pain naturally birthed hatred. Given that, perhaps Naratha shouldn't have been surprised to find its stirrings in her own heart.

Obviously, a queen shouldn't despise her own people. She knew that well enough. But at some point, she'd come to see her human subjects only as yet another danger, another possible threat against the survival of her kind.

It wasn't fully rational. She knew that, and she knew that the humans she ruled over were in fact the Shadowborn City's most valuable assets. But nonetheless, she couldn't dismiss the feeling that most would just as soon see her and her family— her and all of her kind— wiped from the earth. To the human subjects of this city, demons were a convenient shield to hide behind, and nothing more. If that dynamic ever shifted, she was certain that the rhetoric of her kind's unholiness would swiftly take root here, too.

A part of her had wanted to listen when Darius had suggested mentoring the young woman, ensuring that her path unfolded under their guidance. But another part, by far the greater, simply couldn't countenance it. The girl was a threat, and Naratha could not tolerate the thought of allowing a threat to live, let alone nurturing and protecting it. No, she had taken the correct path here. But it still disturbed her how easy, how devoid of regret, that decision had been.

A soft rush of wings sounded from the direction of the balcony, and she closed her eyes for a moment, knowing who it would be. Assigning this to Darius… that part she did feel some regret for. She knew he needed to be strong, to be hard enough to do what was necessary, but that knowledge was often at odds with her instinct to protect her child from the pains of this world. She wondered sometimes if he knew about those instincts, if he knew how badly she wanted to spare him the painful realities she had to face herself. Likely not; shielding him too much would mean he would never be prepared for the throne, and she was far too pragmatic to allow that.

And despite the fact that she wanted nothing less than to turn and face her son now, she was also too pragmatic to yield to that reluctance. She could hardly tell herself that what she did was to strengthen him and in the same breath allow herself the indulgence of shielding herself from the pain he would be feeling.

She stood, facing him. He hadn't entered the study, instead staying on the balcony, the entryway framing his winged form in the moonlight. Backlit as he was, she couldn't read his expression.

"Is it done?" she asked quietly.

In response, he threw something to the ground with a loud clang. A ceremonial steel dagger, its hilt inlaid with iridescent shell and gemstones. Its blade shone bright in the moonlight, the sheen interrupted by spatters of dark, glistening blood.

"Don't ever task me with something like that again," Darius said, his voice as flat and hard as the blade he'd just cast at her feet. Naratha didn't respond, but she forced herself to meet his gaze, keeping her own level and calm, and completely devoid of the pain she felt at his words.

They stood there like that for several seconds, the moment seeming to stretch interminably. Then, without a word, Darius turned away. With one powerful thrust of his wings, he was gone.

Tanitha, much to her own surprise, awoke.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she sat up slowly, disoriented at the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. She was in a luxurious bed, the cushions deep and soft. The frame was made of ebony, which was an extravagance beyond anything she'd ever even contemplated. The headboard was intricately carved with stylized flowers, trees, and animals that surrounded a pair of lovers in an intimate embrace. Sumptuous red curtains of a fabric she couldn't even name hung over her in a canopy.

Her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of this. Then her gaze fell upon the tunic she was wearing. It was plain white linen, finely woven but unfamiliar to her. She sniffed once, frowning. The fabric was giving off a faint scent of smoke. Smoke and juniper.

Her body went rigid as recollection flooded her. Looking around wildly, she flung the blankets away from herself, running her hands over her own body. There was a shallow cut on the back of her left arm that she didn't remember, but aside from that, there were no wounds. No pain anywhere. Not so much as a bruise.

Slowly, she sat back against the lush pillows. Despite all the evidence, the facts were so unexpected that she had a hard time believing the inevitable conclusion.

The demon lord… the demon lord hadn't harmed her.

Slowly, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The tile was black marble streaked with lines of gold and red minerals, and it was surprisingly warm beneath the soles of her feet. She looked around warily. Tapestries bearing intricate geometric patterns in bold colors that bespoke Ithari origins hung on the walls, and a large wardrobe, ebony like the bed, guarded the wall to her right. The room was large, with two sets of heavy wooden doors directly across from each other on opposite ends. Peculiarly, there were no windows, but she could still see well; across from her was a large fireplace, a low blaze crackling inside of it. A purer golden light emanated from floating spheres of pulsating magelight overhead.

She found herself extremely reluctant to move for several seconds. At first she thought it was just the unfamiliarity of the brazen displays of wealth around her, but that wasn't the true source of her discomfiture. The luxury of this room was beyond anything she'd ever seen, yes, but the deeper unease came from the burning question of why she was still alive.

There were, of course, some possibilities she could imagine. The most obvious of these was that the demon lord who'd come for her had simply desired her and brought her here rather than completing the sacrifice. But she had difficulty supposing that to be the case; if the gods had demanded her death, it was a foolish being indeed who would flout that for a few moments of carnal pleasure. The demon rulers of the city, for all their power, had never shown that level of hubris that she'd heard.

But… had the gods demanded her death? Such a fate was reserved for either those who had offended the gods— she couldn't imagine that any of her actions could ever have had enough significance to manage such a thing— or those who were truly superlative in some way, be it in beauty or skill. And while she knew she was attractive enough to catch most men's gazes, she wasn't one of the great beauties who worked in the pleasure halls of some of the temples. But if there was no reason for her to attract the attention of the gods, why had she been drugged and bound as a sacrifice?

The other possibility, she supposed, was that someone powerful had needed to make a dire request of the gods, and the priests had told them that only blood could serve as an acceptable entreaty, and so she had been selected by mortals rather than divinities. But… a sacrifice was meaningless if it didn't hold value to the one who offered it, and she meant nothing to anyone who would be in a position to demand her life. None of it made any sense.

She stood. Her feet were bare, and she padded silently across the black marble. The fire crackled in the grate, radiating a pleasant warmth. Tanitha frowned as she looked at it— it wasn't the season for such a large fire, even accounting for the size of the room. It wasn't the season for any fire, really. A suspicion suddenly gripped her, and she crossed to the first of the imposing sets of double doors. With a grunt of effort, she lifted the bar holding the wooden doors closed and pushed them open.

An icy blast of air struck her with such force that she gasped, skipping back several steps. She threw her arm over her eyes against the sudden brightness of the sun, tears rising from the blinding red glare of it setting over the mountains. She took several seconds to allow her eyes to adjust, then stepped out onto the marble balcony, holding herself close against the swirl of wind and snow. Though still dazzled by the brightness, she looked around in astonishment. She was surrounded by severe, snow-swept mountain peaks, the landscape dramatic and stark.

With a violent shiver, she retreated, shoving the door closed again behind her. The shivers faded quickly in the warmth of the bedroom, though she still held herself tight. Unless she'd been unconscious for far longer than she'd thought, she had to be in the Angara Mountains. Reaching their peaks overnight would normally be impossible, but… well, her jailer was apparently capable of flight.

She took a shivering breath, though the shock of the cold had retreated. Jailer . Was that the right word? This place was absurdly luxurious, but given the circumstances, was it anything other than a comfortable prison to her? Could she even leave this room?

She glanced down at herself. The sacrificial tunic's flimsy material hardly offered more coverage than a shift, and she felt very much exposed despite its length. Unsure of herself but suddenly desperate to feel even a little bit more secure, she crossed the room to approach the heavy wooden wardrobe. When she pulled on the golden handle to open it, she gasped— it was filled with dresses of fabulous fabrics, rich silks and embroidered linens, as well as several elegant fur-lined shawls.

She hesitated. Most of the garments were tailored, and though they looked as if they would fit her well, she couldn't imagine that she was their intended recipient— for one thing, how could they have been made so quickly? They were too high-quality for the likes of her, anyway.

Borrowing a shawl, though, felt less risky, so she pulled one from its hook. It was a deep, rich blue with white trim of an incredibly soft fur. Feeling strange to even be holding something of such quality, she almost put it back, but her need to feel less exposed won out. She draped it over her shoulders.

Now, to find out the borders of her prison.

Forcing her stride to be less timid than she felt, she walked to the doors on the far side of the room, opposite the set that led to the balcony, ignoring a smaller one that presumably led to some sort of washroom. The main door was unbarred, though this didn't encourage her— it wasn't as if it couldn't be locked from the outside, after all. To her surprise, though, the door swung open easily at her touch on well-oiled hinges. Bracing herself, she stepped out.

The first thing she noticed was the silence. The hallway she had entered was still and so quiet that it was almost eerie. Magelights brightened overhead, their light illuminating beautiful mosaics that ran the length of the hall. She trailed a hand over one, an intricate work of tiny tiles that formed scenes of fire and water, awed at the craftsmanship. She would have liked to have lingered over it longer, but she had a mystery to solve. Putting her shoulders back in a false show of confidence, she walked down the hall.

The hall soon opened to form an interior balcony that overlooked a large central room, running entirely around its circumference. She laid a hand on the banister, which was carved from a smooth polished stone that she didn't recognize. In the room below, there was a long wooden table laden with food. All at once, the scents reached her, tantalizing and rich, and her stomach chose that moment to clench painfully. When had she last eaten? Not since before noon of the day before, and the sun had been low in the sky over the mountains when she'd stepped out onto the balcony, which meant that she'd been asleep for a good portion of the day.

Slowly, still watching and listening to her surroundings carefully as she walked, she crossed to the sweeping staircase that led below and began to descend. As in the room she'd awakened in, its black marble steps were strangely warm beneath her feet. The silence was unnerving— shouldn't there have at least been the sounds of servants and such in a manor house like this?— but she forced herself onward regardless.

She paused upon coming to the base of the stairs. A tantalizing blend of the scents of spices and savory meats hung in the air, and she swallowed once, reminding herself that she needed to be cautious regardless of her hunger. But… her captor had already had ample opportunity to harm her and had not taken it. Taking a woman who was doomed to die, rendering her unconscious, and spiriting her away to an unreachable estate only to later poison her with an elaborate feast seemed too convoluted a possibility to seriously entertain.

She crossed to the table. It was over twelve feet long, but despite that, there was only one chair. It had an elaborately carved wooden frame and a deep blue, well-stuffed cushion, though its back was peculiarly narrow. Hesitantly, Tanitha gripped the back of the chair, then skittered away in alarm as the chair slid back several inches of its own accord.

Construct . The thought took several seconds to register in her mind, but when it did, her heart rate slowed considerably. She'd heard of such things but never encountered them. Some of the city's wealthiest citizens were said to hire elementalists to create invisible magical servants, constructs that could perform simple tasks. She closed her eyes for a second, reaching out with her senses.

She straightened in surprise; there were dozens of hot flares of concentrated magic in the room, tightly wound balls of elemental enchantments. She opened her eyes quickly, blinking several times in astonishment. Such things were incredibly difficult to create, even for extremely skilled elementalists. The sheer extravagance of it, of that number of constructs, dwarfed even the material wealth that surrounded her. But at least this explained the absence of servants.

Still tentative, she slowly sat as the chair slid into place beneath her, then looked more carefully at the offerings on the table. Bowls of dates and nuts, fresh fruits, and some sort of roasted fowl all immediately caught her attention, but she was still wary. She made a quick gesture with her left hand in the traditional ward against evil, then took one of the dates from the bowl. Nothing happened, and she placed it in her mouth, paying close attention to its flavor and texture, though her determination to assess if anything was amiss was nearly lost to the divine sweetness that suddenly coated her tongue.

She chewed and swallowed the date, forcing herself to wait for several breaths while closely monitoring the sensations of her own body. Nothing, except for the aching hunger that had been stoked to nearly unbearable levels by the first promise of food. Finally, her resolve to be cautious snapped, and she practically lunged forward, loading food onto her plate.

Once she had eaten enough to sate herself, but not so much that she felt sluggish or dull, she entertained a brief moment of self-chastening that she hadn't paused while eating to appreciate what was undoubtedly the finest food she'd ever tasted. In her defense, though, she had many other concerns rightly occupying her.

She looked around the room. It was lit by soft warm magelight contained in lanterns hung from the columns that lined the perimeter of the room, and there was a faint magical glow from the recessed, deep blue ceiling high above as well. Looking closer, she realized with a start of pleasant surprise that the glow came from small golden orbs arranged to mimic the constellations she watched every night. This realization, strangely, set her slightly more at ease, though she knew it was only a magical imitation of something she found familiar and comforting.

She brought her attention back to ground level. There were several beautiful doors in the recessed area behind the columns, though she wasn't sure where they might lead. To an outside balcony, perhaps, or to gardens? She was sure nothing would grow of its own volition in these peaks, but whoever lived here clearly had access to magical assistance. But was it safe for her to try to go outdoors? The isolation of the estate's location still indicated that she might be a captive. She settled back into her chair, biting her lower lip in consideration.

All of the lights in the room began to dim.

Tanitha leapt from the chair with such force that it skittered backward several inches, teetering precariously on its back legs for a second before clacking down against the tile floor. She grabbed the knife she'd used to carve meat from the roasted bird, folding her arms to hide it beneath the shawl. She turned toward the sweeping staircase that had led her into this room just as the light receded to full darkness.