The Jack of Hearts (House of Cards Book 1)

Chapter 4 | The First Trick

((TW: descriptions of violence, blood, slight gore))

Forest of Bos, Lands of the People of Mazansti

For a breath, the silence filled the branches above Rosalyne. The roots of the cedar dug into her back and Euphemia's shoulder into her chin. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. Her hands wriggled out, searching for purchase against the damp ground. She braced her shoulders, ready to push out from under Euphemia when something struck the tree above her.

The bark splintered on the other side of the trunk where the perpetrator cursed in Cluvani. 

Her arms and lungs froze.

He roared up the side of the mountain where the ghost had faded into the shadow of the trees.

Another voice crashed through the undergrowth after him. "Did you catch him?"

"Yes, and shoved him up my ass," he growled. He punched the tree again, and swore enough to make Rosalyne press her back harder against the forest floor.

The other man panted and shuffled in the damp leaves. "What're we going to do?"

"I'll think of something." He did not sound defeated — only angry.

A branch snapped underfoot and the second voice spoke again, "Vrilli suggested—well, he said, since she's dead, we should just finish the rest—"

Rosalyne felt his fury like a strike across the face. "M'alak."

His companion's shame burbled as he backed away. He turned to leave, but he sniffed and walked around the trunk to find Euphemia's violet gown tangled among the ferns and stained with blood.

M'alak's voice dropped. "Damn it." He rubbed his face. "Another one."

The first voice bit off another curse and tramped through the brambles, peering over the body of Lady Euphemia just out of Rosalyne's view.

He looked back at Lord M'alak, and she almost didn't hear him over the roar in her ears. "Wolf, you think?"

Rosalyne's lungs burned for air as she begged the gods for mercy.

M'alak hesitated but craned over the bodies for a moment, "Canine. Probably naitani — but I don't know any of my kin that would do this—like this." His hand touched his own neck.

The first warrior tsked softly, shifting Euphemia's body from Rosalyne. "That's five clans — some iihamba — all fighting like they were under an Aerti curse."

Rosalyne heard his words without comprehension — Lord O'rian (of all men) hunkered over her, face shadowed by his loose locs. Any blood still in her cheeks drained away.

The gods had abandoned her.

M'alak dropped down next to the body, peering into the wound. "They used their teeth — they had to be cursed."

The edges of her vision blackened as her mind coiled, gathering her Will in case he recognised her and chose to finish what his countrymen had started.

Lord O'rian refocused his attention from Euphemia to the body underneath. "Then who the hell was cursing them? And why would they—" His eyes met Rosalyne's, and her arm shot out to grab his wrist.

He jumped. "Oh, sh—"

His surprise dropped and Rosalyne felt his concern run up through her fingertips. Her hand fell away and he reached out to touch her face.

«Are you well?» he asked her in Aertisian.

Rosalyne flinched away, and waited for recognition to spark in his mind. And waited. She peeked up at the two blank, concerned expressions above her. The smock, mud, blood, and foliage splattered on her face served its purpose.