Total pages in book: 208
Estimated words: 209645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1048(@200wpm)___ 839(@250wpm)___ 699(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 209645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1048(@200wpm)___ 839(@250wpm)___ 699(@300wpm)
“This is not loyalty,” the priest sneered.
“There was naught but you,” Rupert whispered.
The priest stared.
“He will…he will consume you,” Rupert wheezed, spasming into himself. “And you will…you won’t…have that first ally. You will…be alone and he will…be master.”
The priest’s corporeal form in Firenze felt a frisson of fear trace up the back of its neck.
“Emerald oil asps?” Rupert rasped. “You fool,” he whispered.
And these were his last words.
His chosen one’s eyes open, the priest saw the light of life blink out.
But Rupert was correct.
Rupert’s chamber was in his manor in Airen.
There were no emerald oil asps in Airen. They were only in Firenze.
And they had a particular bite, a bite that left a unique mark. One that, if observed by someone knowledgeable in the subject, was easily recognized.
If those bite marks were identified …
And then there were those asps that had killed the Dellish prince’s intended that very night…
And if these were connected…
“Blast!” the priest cried, spiriting the asps back to their realm and speeding his way through the astral plane to his body, his eyes opening with a snap.
He stared at the walls of his cell, his body unmoving.
He could jump atop a horse and ride like blazes, but it’d still take at least two weeks to get to Rupert’s manor.
His body and perhaps the nature of those bites would be discovered long before.
The priest could send no bird. There had probably already been dozens of birds and messengers dispatched, sharing the news the Dellish prince’s betrothed had perished to the venom.
If the connection was made, if inquiries into Rupert commenced, all before they’d brought the Beast to the surface, it could be disastrous.
Not to mention, the others would be furious at this juncture in the raising of the Beast that he’d taken one of their own. They were close, but they couldn’t know how long it would take to complete the rising.
They’d need to replace Rupert.
Train the replacement.
This would take weeks.
More likely months for the priest was weeks away from even bloody getting to them.
And the priest did not wish to even consider what Thom would say about all this.
“What have I done?” he whispered.
There was naught but you.
“How could that be?” he moaned.
No.
No, he had been betrayed.
You did not betray your master.
This was naught but a setback.
And the prophecy had fallen with the death of Farah.
They had time.
All the time they needed.
He would leave that day.
They would advance a new conspirator. It did not take long to train a man to rape and kill.
At such, they were naturals.
All would be well.
A delay.
They had no one to fight them now.
When the Beast rose, all would be theirs.
Or his.
And the Beast would be his new chosen one.
He did not need Rupert.
It was as it should be.
Or it would be.
Soon.
38
The New Queen
The People of Firenze
Fire City
THE DAY OF THE MAJESTIC NUPTIALS OF THEIR KING
On their way to the pits, Silence of the Dellish sat before their king on his steed known as Hephaestus, a horse revered as one of the strongest, fastest, most graceful mounts in the realm, as his father was, as the mare he sired was.
The mare, known as Epona, having been given to their future queen by their king.
She was the one who trotted beside them as she did to the parade, riderless.
Silence of Wodell was bloodied, shockingly so.
But her chin was up, and her eyes remained straight, her shoulders squared, as their king held her tight to his body, protection in his grip, pride in his bearing.
She entered the necropolis with no apparent trepidation.
And all who saw her watched.
Closely.
Her skin was so pale naturally, it could not be known how she fared when she left the necropolis hours after.
What was seen, as the people of Fire City crowded the stands around the tarpits to watch the death march of the latest traitors, was King Mars taking the royal podium with his bride.
He then lifted her—arse to the stout railing that guarded the podium from the tar, her back to the pits.
But he moved into her, sliding his arm around her waist to steady her on her perch, pressing his hip to the side of her leg, and she cuddled into him, twisted to face the tar.
While all others stood—for there were no chairs anywhere around the pits, the stands, or even on the royal podium—their king found a way to make his bride comfortable.
This, many thought odd.
Some thought it sweet.
Though others did not.
However, they would eventually discover why he did as such.
She showed no emotion as the four men walked (or more aptly limped, trudged or dragged themselves) into the pit.
She continued to show no emotion as they sunk, so very slowly, and writhed, awkwardly, and eventually cried out as the tar burned and their desperate, useless struggles pulled them deeper.
Until the blackness covered their faces, the last part of them to disappear, as they frenziedly tried to draw in air before their lungs would be filled with nothing but pitch.