Courting War (Vicious Gods), page 3
Clutching Cecile’s wrist, War held her thumb to its center. Ink spilled from the fingertip and formed into a raven tattoo encircled by silver filigree and Theodic knots—looped infinity designs with no end or beginning.
It was the Godmark, connecting Cecile to the divine and linking their hearts. From now on, Theo would know when the mortal was in peril, and, if she wanted, she could send mental messages and commands. But the bond also created a fierce need in the god to protect and defend. It wasn’t something one did lightly.
“We are forever connected unless I decide to remove it.” Theo nodded at the tattoo. “And now, my first command is that you never make a deal with a god ever again. You will never let them control you.”
Cecile stared at her forearm—the kitten still perched on her shoulder—the feathers on the tattoo rippling and moving to its own volition. Godmarks were not stagnant. They shifted, changed, and sometimes communicated with the tattoo’s recipient. It was a living thing, much like War’s ravens. Theo commanded them, but they were separate from her and had their own personalities. That was the thing with god magic: it was always in flux, and sometimes it morphed in ways even the gods couldn’t predict.
The tattoo would protect Cecile. That was its one command, and it was up to the marking on how to achieve that mission.
Theo cleared her throat as the Goddess of Light, Andromache’s chariot left the sky, and the sun fell asleep. The country of Ertomesia was now under the rule of Night, who shot forth into the sky and danced among the evening stars.
“It is time that I see you all home. Line up and tell me where you’d like to be taken.”
The girls followed suit, and Theo refracted them to their homes one by one. Cecile was last in line.
“Where do you want to go?” Theo asked.
“Theoden,” Cecile said, storms in her little irises.
Theo creased her brow. “Why? Andromeda is your home.”
“Not anymore.” Cecile crossed her arms. “My parents don’t want me, so why should I return to them—to those traitors?”
Theo nodded, not wanting to know any more details. If her parents didn’t want her, that was their business, not Theo’s.
“Alright.” Theo clutched the girl’s wrist too tightly and refracted to the palace in Theoden.
Using her abilities to bend matter, Theo conjured a letter that read, Take care of the child. Give her everything she needs. If you don’t, you will deal with War’s wrath.
Theodra attached the note to the girl’s chest with magic and walked her up the palace steps. In her most terrifying voice, Theo said to the guards, “I trust you to get this child to the king and queen.” She plastered a smile as fierce as fangs on her lips. “I will know if you don’t.”
The guards nodded, fear caking their features.
The kitten still rested on the girl’s shoulder. Theo sighed. Bella would stay with the girl until she felt like leaving. After all, cats did as cats pleased. “Fine, stay with her then,” Theo whispered so low only the cat’s ears picked it up. It flicked its tail and nuzzled back into the girl’s shoulder.
Theo rolled her eyes.
As the guards moved to take Cecile to the royals, Theo grasped her wrist. The goddess turned her gaze to the raven bristling there. “You can use it to call for me. I will come. Be safe; for now, you’re a Servant of War.”
Without another word, the goddess disappeared into a cloud of angry ravens.
Chapter Three
KELLYN
Prince of Theoden
Present
RYFEL PALACE, THEODEN
Aconspiracy of ravens stalked the dawn.
Thousands of birds speckled the skies like a haze of locusts, their ink-black feathers glistening in the rays of the rising sun. A gust of icy wind ruffled the pleats on Kellyn’s tartan vest, highlighting his dark olive skin as he watched the horde forming below. The fog mingled with the bodies cramming together, all eyes fixed on the palace balcony, awaiting the prince’s speech. Camera shutters pounded with the frantic beats of Kellyn’s heart, and gramophones played the Song of War, mixing with the somber croaking of the birds circling above.
Anticipation licked the air.
Kellyn towered above the crowd. Truthfully, he towered above all mortals. He wasn’t a giant, but his height was said to be equal to a god, for on his natal day, he was blessed by both the gods of War and Trickery. One god publicly bestowed him with strength, agility, and wit, while the other secretly graced him with an affliction hindering the latter. He would be Theoden’s perfect warrior, impossibly tall, sculpted, and nearly unbeatable in battle—except he would struggle to read, impeding his wit so much he’d convinced himself of his stupidity. So, despite his commanding looks and stern face, Kellyn’s heart pounded, and a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. But he couldn’t let anyone see it because he was known as the handsome prince who made girls and boys alike swoon with his perfection.
And he would cultivate that image until death, his motto being: Never let the world see my weaknesses.
“I cannot do this.” Kellyn stepped off the balcony and ducked back into the safety of the palace walls. Trying to quell his nerves, he pulled a wooden carving block and knife from his pocket—etching calmed him, but it didn’t help today. Nothing was more unsettling than reading aloud, let alone in front of thousands of people. At twenty-four, he should’ve gotten over this fear already.
But he hadn’t.
“You don’t have a choice,” Cecile whispered. She was a girl with the looks of a goddess and the personality of a fox, and she was the only person outside his family who knew about his affliction.
“I can’t,” he said, sucking in a breath. Cecile’s black shadow cat, given to her by the Goddess of War, rubbed its head against his leg in a comforting manner. “I’ll forget the entire speech, and everyone will figure out my secret.”
It was Decision Day, and as the prince, he had to announce his country’s champion for the Sacrifice—a deadly game of tricks, fantasy, and deception that pitted nine human pairs against the gods. The Theoden champion was chosen by the three legislative branches—the Temple of Theodra, the Council of Warriors, and the Council of Scholars—but the Royal House held veto power and the final decision.
As the heir of Theoden, Kellyn confirmed the decision or vetoed it, choosing his own—which he would never do.
“Just breathe, Kel,” Cecile whispered, her eyes darting around the room of gathering council members. “You don’t want anyone to hear.”
Kellyn clutched his wooden carving so hard that his knuckles lost all color, and his fingers turned red, causing three yellow wind sprites to burst out of the air and feed on his worry. Kellyn swatted the little creatures away with a hand, and he dropped his voice so low only a god or Cecile could hear, “Pronouncing an unfamiliar name is impossible.”
Nearly impossible.
Kellyn’s affliction made it hard to differentiate words and sounds. When he read, none of the characters made sense, and he often reversed sounds, confusing letters or words that looked alike. During his time at the Agoge Academy—the seven-year military and scholarly training mandated for all Theoden children at age sixteen—Kellyn was called a big dumb brute by his peers. The worst label to give a kid in a country that valued strategy and wit above all else.
Kellyn’s reputation became so bad that his parents considered faking his death and stripping his inheritance.
They couldn’t have an unintelligent son.
Cecile’s shadow cat meowed and headbutted Kellyn’s leg. The magic little thing did not like it when he degraded himself—even in his head.
“Kel, no one will find out about your . . . struggles.” Cecile’s voice had an Andromaden lilt, and her comforting smile was like midnight lightning. Brilliant and spellbinding. She was like a painting of the Goddess of Love coming to life. “We’ve spent the past seven days memorizing the speech. There’s nothing that could go wrong.”
He peered over the balcony ledge. “I have a terrible feeling about today.”
“It’s only a feeling,” Cecile said as her ash brown curls bounced in the wind and sparkled in the morning sunlight streaming through the balcony, the blonde undertones peeking through.
“What are you two talking about?” Emmett Evans, the perennial rogue, and Kellyn’s best mate, asked.
“Kellyn’s nervous,” Cecile said.
“Don’t worry. All you have to do is say a name, and it doesn’t even have to be the correct one.” Emmett smirked, his russet-brown skin glowing with amusement as he slid his hands into his pockets. Bluntness was Emmett’s currency. He said what he wanted when he wanted, and he didn’t care about anyone’s reactions.
“Emmett, that’s horrible.” Cecile punched him. Hard.
Unnaturally hard.
And Kellyn knew it hurt. He’d been on the receiving end of her punches far too often in the Agoge.
Emmett held his arms up in surrender. “I’m just saying it’s an option. But we all know I should be this year’s champion.” He tilted his black top hat in a false salute, mocking Cecile. His style matched his flippant, extravagant nature. The double-breasted midnight suit had his house tartan stitched into the vest and was woven from the most expensive spider silk in the world.
Cecile balked. “A terrible option. We all know whatever name Kellyn calls is a death sentence.” A Theoden champion hadn’t won the Sacrifice—or survived—in over 500 years.
“It is a death knell, true, but it’s also a chance to claim the highest honor imaginable and get a guaranteed ticket to the Valysian Fields,” Emmett said.
“But you’ll be dead. The Fields are for heroic and virtuous dead souls.” Cecile crossed her arms.
It was a common argument between them. Cecile never fully embraced Theoden culture. Honor was everything. Potius mori quam foedare. Death before dishonor. To die an honorable death was more valuable than any worldly riches. But Cecile was Andromaden at heart, and honor, while still significant, was less critical.
“I’d rather die with honor than lead a meaningless life. Besides, it’s only a death knell because our venerable goddess can’t seem to show up,” Emmett said, poison dripping from his tongue.
Kellyn sighed and turned back to his lovespoon carving, which he would sacrifice to Theodra at his altar later that night. “Careful, Theodra might hear you.”
“She doesn’t listen, and if she did, she would’ve come down to smite me long ago.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t smite you because I’ve asked her not to.” Cecile clutched the balcony railing and leaned her head out as if basking in the crowd’s excitement. A wind sprite landed on her shoulder and played with her hair—feeding off her emotions.
“I forgot I was talking to her Godmarked, and most loyal male devotee.” Emmett rolled his eyes dramatically. He wasn’t wrong, Kellyn and Cecile were among the Goddess of War’s most dedicated followers.
Cecile loosed an exaggerated sigh and turned her attention to Kellyn. “You look like Death ripped out your heart.”
Kellyn sucked in a breath, and nerves rattled his bones. The anticipation was the worst part. He just needed to start the speech, and it would be fine. It was the waiting that might end him.
“Anyway, have you seen Kellyn’s royal fan club today?” Emmett said, nodding at a group made up of six girls and three boys—the prince was popular with all young people who found men attractive.
Kellyn’s eyes tracked to them, and he swore one of them let out a soft feline sigh. He forced a smile and an awkward nod. How did one ever get used to that type of attention?
“Do you think it’s your abs or your face they like more, huh, Kel?” Emmett asked, trying to distract Kellyn from his nerves.
“My face has scars.”
“Oh, that just makes you look more rugged and handsome. It really works with the ladies . . . and gents.”
“Right . . .”
Cecile shook her head. “What do you like better, Emmett, his face or his abs . . . or is it his ass I find you ogling the most?”
“I ogle your ass just as much as his. I can’t help it; the two of you are so attractive. I do have eyes, even if I’d never fuck either of you.” The sides of his mouth tilted up, and he oozed smooth charm like enchantment and wore it like his breathtaking smile. “Speaking of fucking, have you tumbled in the sheets with any of them?” He gestured once more to the “fan club”.
Shame rippled up Kellyn’s throat because he didn’t know, and he really should have. He’d had so many lovers. After all, that’s how everyone made it through the deadly Agoge—fucking like they might die the next day. It was very possible he’d slept with one of his admirers—if not many of them.
“Uh,” Kellyn grunted.
“You can’t remember, can you? No worries, brother, I’ve fucked nearly all of them for you. They weren’t that memorable, except for the blond at the end. Oh, and the beautiful redhead next to him was great too . . . and at the same time, you can’t imagine their—”
“—Emmett, we get it, you’re quite skilled, but can we—” Cecile was interrupted by a footman approaching and handing over a message. “Miss Declare, you have a telegram from Andromeda.”
“A telegram?” Emmett asked.
Cecile unfolded the letter. “It’s probably a notice telling me who Andromache picked as her champion for the Sacrifice.”
Each country had a different way of choosing its champion. In Andromeda, Andromache, Goddess of Light, selected her champion and blessed them. Because of this, the Andromaden champion almost always survived the games.
Cecile’s eyes traced the message, and her smile faltered, her fingers shaking. Visibly gulping, she folded the paper and slid it into a pocket in her dress.
“What is it?” Kellyn asked. Something was off. He knew her expressions better than his own.
She flashed a false smile. “It’s nothing. We should focus on your task.”
“That isn’t nothing,” Emmett said as he tried to snatch the paper from her pocket.
She was far too quick for him. Twirling out of his reach, she thrust her fist up and grazed him on the chin. Cecile was by far the fastest—and most vicious—of his friends. “Try it again, and I’ll break your perfect little nose.”
The royal retinue and council representatives in the ballroom flashed their eyes to the warriors but immediately lost interest. Sparring among the warrior class was so frequent no one batted an eye.
“Fine.” Emmett let out an intentionally dramatic sigh. “What would I do if I weren’t the most beautiful one among us?”
“Probably grow a pair of—”
“—Cecile,” Kellyn chided. “There is no need to attack his masculinity. We all know he is our pretty princess.”
“You two are merely jealous that I look better in a ballgown. It isn’t my fault that I have far superior confidence, taste, and style than you two and far superior luck with the ladies . . . and gents.” Emmett winked at them.
Kellyn turned to Cecile. “He’s wearing your ballgowns again?”
“My periwinkle Vorthe gown was loose the last time I tried it.” She narrowed her eyes at the boy in question. “Buy your own dresses already. I know mine are spectacular, but you aren’t wanting for money.”
Cecile flattened out a wrinkle in her glimmering scarlet Andromaden-styled dress. Like most Andromaden citizens, Cecile had ostentatious fashion choices like the diamond encrusted crimson flowers raining from her bodice like blood-red tears. It was the polar opposite of the simplistic and functional style of Theodenites.
Emmett opened his mouth to make a retort but was cut off by the commanding entrance of Gallagher Healy.
Oh gods, just what Kellyn needed.
Gallagher spoke with a soft, pixie-like voice, but she had the presence of a praying mantis seconds before killing its mate. She dominated every room she entered, despite her petite stature. She was like a termite, whittling her way into power and prominence. She wore a deep purple pinstriped dress, highlighting her tawny skin, and her silver-blonde hair was sculpted into an elaborate chignon.
Spotting the trio, a vicious smile danced across her ruby lips, and she nearly bounced across the room to reach them. “Are you ready for your big speech?”
“Yes, of course.” Kellyn smiled through his teeth, with all the arrogance and dominance of a god.
Gallagher never had an ounce of concern for anyone other than herself, and she certainly didn’t care now. She was up to something. Gallagher had unusual, often inappropriate, and sometimes vile tastes and tendencies. She adored tricks and watching things burn . . . sometimes literally. During the Agoge, she nearly killed Cecile and sabotaged her at every turn.
“Your speech is all prepared?” Gallagher asked.
“Yes, of course.” A muscle in Kellyn’s cheek twitched.
“Oh, good, I am glad to hear it. I must confess, I was worried you might soil yourself from all the pressure.” Gallagher smiled like a tiger. “We all know how you get sometimes.” She spat out the last word like hydra acid.
Did Gallagher know about his affliction? Kellyn felt the blood drain from his face, and his heart thudded, but he squared his shoulders in a battle stance.
Never let anyone see your weakness.
There was no way Gallagher could have found out. Kellyn has been so good at hiding it. He learned to pick locks and steal assignments to memorize them so he wouldn’t stumble over the reading in classes. Moreover, he pretended to be an arrogant, dominant asshole to keep most people at bay and away from his secrets. He was excellent at hiding his shame. Gallagher couldn’t know. Emmett didn’t even know.
Kellyn rubbed his left pectoral muscle for comfort, where his three house sigils were etched into his bronze skin with black ink. He was an heir to three important family lines in Theoden and the greater world.
“Gallie, go prance off to somewhere you’re wanted.” Cecile used the nickname, knowing the girl hated it, and shooed her away with a careless gesture.
“I’m a council aid,” Gallagher said, smugness pouring from her pores. “I’m more than wanted here.”
