Page 64 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)
Chapter Thirty-Six
Samuel
S amuel stood on the edge of the lawn, snow crunching under his boots and flurries swirling in his face.
In the summer, Samuel was told, it would be a grand courtyard lined with rose bushes and other greenery, a perfect spot for outdoor galas under the light of the sun.
Now, it was little more than a field, the small bumps of the bushes reduced to ridges under the snowfall.
The cold was like nothing he had ever felt, somehow both sharper and deeper than the frigid nights of Dameral.
Here, nearly a full day’s hard travel from the seaside, winter bit with a harsh grip, reaching down to his very bones with a chill he hadn’t be able to shake.
He wore a thick wool coat, bundled with a scarf and a knitted cap pulled down over his ears, thick leather gloves stiff around the fingers bundled in his pockets.
It barely helped.
Still, he patrolled the perimeter with his King, forming a giant square between the wings of the house.
There were small lanterns of brass and glass placed every several feet, the soft burn of witch light protected from the elements in the soft morning light.
The King paced to each one, squatting down to drip one drop of blood into the waiting fire of each through a small funnel in the top.
Power burst out from contact, reaching for the next link in the chain, the ward in progress.
“It’s less reliable,” the King said as they moved to the next lantern, “than more permanent wards. You saw that little piece of ingenuity in the palace libraries, correct?”
“Yes, I did,” Samuel breathed, closing his eyes as the King attended to the next link.
Those meetings with Isaac, the electric touch of magic washing over Samuel’s skin, the brush of Isaac’s voice against his ear.
Hells, Samuel missed those days, when things were simpler.
When he still had hope for a better future.
“Well,” the King continued, leading him on, “while I am proud of that, the shifting of the earth beneath our feet is not conducive to maintaining the strong barrier of a ward, and this—” He stopped to fill the last of the line before turning to finish the circuit.
“This does have its advantages, though.”
“It’s portable,” Samuel said, the first thing that came to mind. On a different day, he would have appreciated the lesson, but with the weight of the last few weeks on his soul, all he wanted was for this to be over. “Adaptable.”
The King hummed in response. “Exactly. Once all this nonsense is handled, we’ll finish your education. You have such potential, Samuel, especially now.”
The King rarely alluded to it, and never discussed it outright, the way that Isaac had ripped Samuel’s gift from him, had taken the very thing the King had seen as most valuable.
It was a bitter thought, the darkness that stirred in his chest, that wondered if he would have been better off if Isaac had never cured him.
If it would have been easier to be a weapon of personal vengeance than a tool of the systemic oppression.
If he could have learned to live with blood on his hands, if it was the right person’s blood.
But it didn’t matter, not with the way things had turned out.
Not with his power creeping back into his body, an infection of ivy weaving itself up around him until he feared he would suffocate.
But the King couldn’t know about that, another secret.
He was getting nearly as good as Shan was, deflecting away from anything too dangerous with a simple shift in conversation.
“Might I ask what we need this protection for?”
The King didn’t respond, finishing with a final drop of blood as the ward flashed to life, a nearly invisible shimmer in the snow.
Samuel couldn’t quite see it, but he could feel the hum on the air, taste the magic on the back of his tongue.
Then the King reached out, pulling one of the lanterns out of place, and the whole thing shattered.
“There, we’re set, all we need are the pieces.” The King gave him that too cunning smile, bright white teeth flashing in the thin light of morning. “And why, this is a demonstration—a test—that my esteemed Councillor of Law should see.”
He grit his teeth, muttering a low curse. “I had considered inviting Dabney as well, as it would have greatly affected his work. But de la Cruz took that decision out of my hands. Clever bastard.”
Samuel didn’t disagree with the assessment but figured it wouldn’t be helpful to voice it, especially as the decision to target Dabney had been his own. “What will you be demonstrating?”
“Oh, it won’t be me doing the demonstration.”
And suddenly Samuel understood. It wasn’t the King or even the Royal Blood Worker, it wasn’t a display of power. It was something they had created, and he would bet everything he owned that the poor girl Shan brought the previous night would be involved. That the girl was a vampire.
Hells, Shan. What had she gotten herself into?
The King pulled out a pocket watch, checking the time just as the doors to the estate opened, two of the King’s personal guard marching out yet another prisoner, someone that Samuel didn’t recognize.
He wasn’t dressed for the weather, wearing thin trousers and a threadbare jacket, wasn’t prepared for the cold bite of winter.
He blinked in the uncomfortable burn of sun against the snow, unable to even lift a hand to shield his eyes.
He was young, thirty at most, like so many of Aeravin’s condemned—pasty and thin and looking so under cared for that Samuel felt sick to his stomach.
Had the King claimed him from one of the many jails across the country, or did he have his own private collection to choose from, test subjects that he could pull from on a whim?
Shouldn’t something like that be one of the secrets that Samuel was privy to, as the King’s heir or as his Councillor of Law?
Or did none of it matter, because what was Samuel but one of the Eternal King’s many puppets?
The Guards unchained the man, shoving him into the courtyard. The King had returned the lantern to its place before the prisoner had even hit the snow. It was pointless—Samuel had seen that kind of hopelessness before. He wouldn’t have run. Not that there was anywhere for him to run to.
The King didn’t so much as look at the prisoner. “Tell the Royal Blood Worker it is time.”
“As you say, Your Majesty.”
Samuel watched them trek through the soft fall of snow, disappearing back into the estate.
Samuel turned his attention to the prisoner, shivering in the cold.
The man had his arms wrapped around his middle, head tucked in as he tried to fold in on himself, as if he could keep his body heat trapped.
It wouldn’t help for long, and though Samuel did not know the King’s plan, he couldn’t help but think this little added cruelty was a bonus.
Samuel forced out a question. “What’s your name, sir?”
The man looked up at him, dark eyes wide and mouth set in a thin line. Samuel thought he wasn’t going to respond—what difference did it make, anyway? But the man chanced a glance at the Eternal King, then swallowed hard. “Matt. I’m Matthew.”
“Matthew,” Samuel echoed. It wasn’t much, but he could at least remember this man. The absolute bare minimum, and still more than the King would offer.
The door to the estate opened once again, and this time it was Shan, fresh-faced and toasty.
She was draped in a cloak the same hue as her official robes of office, the hood up to protect her face.
It was a thick velvet, lined with what appeared to be real fur, and Samuel hadn’t realized she’d even had this outfit commissioned.
It wasn’t like they had even had snowfall like this in Dameral, and for what little business they had outside of the capital, it was a gross indulgence. A sliver of his old hate rose in him, disgusted by the casual and wasteful displays of wealth.
He couldn’t swallow it down, not completely. So, he took the ember and held it close, a cage around his too tender heart, before it got him into trouble once again.
Behind Shan came the girl from the previous day.
Unlike Matthew, she looked hale and hearty—strong and well cared for—except for the listlessness to her movements, the blankness of her eyes, as she followed mutely behind Shan.
She wore only a loose linen dress, her bare feet leaving indents in the snow.
But she didn’t seem bothered by the freeze.
She didn’t seem bothered by anything at all.
It was only then that Samuel thought to look for it, the low buzz of Blood Working on the air. Shan was doing something to the girl, keeping her calm and complacent, even if he didn’t have the skill or knowledge to understand how .
Shan came to a stop beside him, ignoring the questioning look he gave her, her brow furrowed as the girl moved towards the edge of the ward, Shan acting the puppeteer. The King deigned to assist, snatching a lantern back just long enough for the girl to step through, before placing it back.
Locking them both inside.
Matthew looked from the girl to the King and back again, confusion clear on his face, confusion that was mirrored in Samuel.
But neither King nor Royal Blood Worker would show their hand in advance, so Samuel ignored the burning curiosity and the sick fear that swirled in him, a disorienting mix that left him unmoored.
Shan broke the bridge, the magic snapping away as the girl blinked, slowly, awareness creeping back into her eyes.
She spun in a circle, her golden hair shining as the flurries swirled around her, a picture of ethereal innocence, a maiden in a snow-globe, turning her face up to the sky like she hadn’t seen freedom in months.
“Where…” she asked, her voice low in her throat, like the rasp of early morning, compounded by suffering that Samuel couldn’t even comprehend. “Am I?”