Blood Runner: Book Three of the Empress Saga

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

     Krayson opened his eyes to find King Cathis the Algara staring down at him. The king's expression was cold, a deep frown beneath his neatly-trimmed goatee. The slit pupils of his eyes were contracted, focused on Krayson's face.

    Rising from his blankets, Krayson hopped down from his cot. The king stepped aside and watched him toddle towards the door of his bedroom.

    Krayson paid the king no more mind. He set his tiny hand against his door and grunted as he pushed it open. It had been sticking lately. Papa said he would send for a woodworker once one was available after their work on the palisades surrounding the estate. In the hallway, Krayson grinned as he caught the scent of mushrooms and bacon. His stomach growled, and he took off in a run for the kitchen.

    Dimly, he was aware that a king followed.

    "Uncle?" a voice whispered. It echoed strangely, as if from the depths of a canyon.

    "A moment, Tarlus," the king said. "I wish to see this."

    Krayson ran into the kitchen. The floor was dug an extra hand into the ground. Hard-packed dirt surrounded the sigil-powered stove and oven, but the rest was lacquered hardwood. Mama often complained about the span of bare dirt, but the cooks insisted it was necessary. What good would their food be if it couldn't receive the blessings of the earth spirits?

    Tafti was at the stove, her skillet scraping over the glowing fire sigils. Bacon sizzled, and a pile of brown mushrooms was already plated next to her on the counter.

    Krayson waited for the head cook's customary scowl and snappish greeting. Tafti might have had a fangblade or two in her tribal lineage, but Krayson never thought she meant anything by her acerbic manner. It was just her way. She didn't say anything now. It looked like she hadn't noticed when he came in.

    Climbing his way up to sit in a stool, Krayson waited for her to slide a plate of breakfast in front of him. It would be accompanied by a scolding for some perceived failing and a demand that he wash his hands in the basin before eating. Still, Tafti was quiet. The bacon in her skillet began to burn.

    "I am losing his imprint, Uncle," the voice said. "He dreams, but he is ill at rest."

    The king snorted. "Seems the Krayson is a light sleeper."

    Krayson heard the voices as he would the buzzing of a fly in the next room. Unimportant, but irritating. He was hungry, and Tafti still hadn't seen him.

    No, it wasn't Tafti anymore. Krayson's eyes widened. A woman with long black hair stood at the stove. Her face was lined with age and hardship, but still beautiful. She was slender, even dainty, and her dark and narrow eyes leaked tears.

    Flames and the stench of charred meat rose from the stove.

    "Something is happening," the distant voice said. "Winds, I think..."

    "Tarlus?" the king asked.

    "It's the blood magic, Uncle. A spell woven into his blood is trying to wake him."

    "A defensive ward," the king said. "Can you overpower it?"

    "I think so, but not for much longer."

    Krayson scrambled off of his stool. The flames in the skillet caught on the sleeve of his mother's dress. She didn't seem to care. Fire took her arms and spread over her body. She didn't cry out. She didn't try to escape. Krayson wanted to warn her, but she simply stood there as she burned.

    He lunged to save her, but a hand fell on his shoulder and held firm. He turned, expecting to see his father, but it was the king who restrained him.