XXXII. THE ACOLYTE

  Asho’s thoughts were consumed by the nameless acolyte that hovered at the White Jarl’s side. At meals, the White Jarl accompanied the Conqueror, his food growing cold before him. Not once did the Thrysian leader of the boy eat or drink. Asho wondered what kind of Goddess would forbid her subjects to nourish themselves. But perhaps, to be close to the Rose Maiden, her acolytes needed to be as close to the veil as possible. Like a shade still breathing. Why else would the sickly boy be constantly barefoot and only wear the most threadworn tunic?

  Mostly though, Asho wanted to know how the acolyte was able to tap into the wyrd of the Skytops? Why was it that a peasant was able to do what should have been his by birthright? By legacy? He was the direct descendant of the Gods— and yet as every day passed with Thrysne’s gift illuding him, Asho felt his confidence crack a little more.

  Kohl and Morgaine helped eagerly, offering themselves for Asho to pierce their skin and find their fears. But Asho found no terror as he stared into his best friend’s gaze. He grew warm and distracted whenever he met Morgaine’s pine green eyes. As always, Asho would eventually grow self-loathing as the siblings grew bored while the Conqueror looked on.

  Asho worried that the Conqueror had tired of him. Since he reported the incident with the hunting hounds, the Conqueror had chosen not to call upon him. As letters began arriving from Ker, Asho feared the worst. Admrilia was succeeding, and he was not.

  Asho folded within himself. Tonight, even the stars eluded him, hidden behind thick autumn clouds. At the first raindrops, the prince was forced to retreat to the warmth of the Ironoak. The centori was waiting for him at the bottom of the ladder to the rooftop. “The Conqueror requires you.” The soldier greeted.

  Asho followed the grizzled older man through the Governor’s halls, his heart hammering. The Centori deposited Asho outside of the Conqueror’s temporary quarters. Asho sobered at the crowd waiting for him inside the Conqueror’s office. The Conqueror, the White Jarl, his second in command, and the red haired acolyte. “Good Evening, Conqueror.” Asho closed the door, ignoring their guests.

  “Prince.” The Conqueror clipped. “I’ve summoned you to provide aid to our neighbors. It seems that the White Jarl’s guard had broken their arm falling from their horse this afternoon.” Asho finally noticed the person sitting down, cradling a broken wrist. Asho narrowed his eyes. IT was the same guard who had shoved him to the forest floor and held a knife to his throat when he had stumbled upon the guards.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know how to sprint a wrist.” Asho said, his apprehension already building.

  “That won’t be necessary, Prince Asho.” The White Jarl rasped. “My acolyte is the most excellent healer. Let’s begin, shall we?”

  Begin? Begin what?

  The guard yelped out in pain as the acolyte grabbed their broken arm. Asho’s own eyebrows rose when the acolyte wordlessly beckoned him forward. The boy’s hand was cold; his small, thin fingers barely able to encircle Asho’s wrist. Asho bit into his lip as the boy’s dirty nails dug into his veins. His blood sprung from the punctured skin.

  The acolyte bowed his head. He hummed low in his throat, beginning a chantlike incantation. “O Rose Maiden, guide my hand as I form the vein between life and death.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Asho grew weak in the knees. He was powerless to stop what was happening as the acolyte tapped into the wyrd. His consciousness thrashed as an unfamiliar presence invaded the salt and sea of his veins and fed.

  Images flashed beneath his eyelids.

  Boys, teeth-clattering in stiff rows deep beneath the earth. A blizzard stills upon the surface of the mountain and a wolf’s howl pierces the clearing. A towering figure looming overhead with roves as white as snow. Atop the ice a five sided die spins like a top. It spins, and spins, and spins…

  He was elsewhere, but nearby. He climbs deep into the earth, but he is not alone. The catacombs are filled with the flesh and bone of the dead. All is dark as he spends the night under the inescapable eyes of the Rose Maiden…

  Asho stumbled into the arms of the Conqueror. The Emperor steadied him as his knees threatened to buckle. He met his eyes, begging for answers. The Conqueror’s attention was on the guard. They sat on the floor, their sweat slicked head thrown back against the Conqueror’s desk. The White Jarl’s second in command was examining their arm, gingerly bending the healed limb. Silver eyes met Asho’s gaze and scowled.

  Mark. Asho thought immediately. Their name is Mark. He knew it in his bones. His next thought was far more unsettling. What horrible memories had the guard been privy to? Mark wrenched their gaze away. Certainly, the wyrd that had been flowing between them now bound them together, for better or worse.

  “As you can see,” The White Jarl said in his bone chilling rasp. “My acolyte has successfully siphoned the wyrd between living subjects, demonstrating his great promise and ability. He is the pride of the priesthood.”

  “He certainly is.” The Conqueror said thinly. “As you can see, the Prince has shown his impressive vigor. He has hardly broken a sweat. The future of the Ashiphiex line is ten times blessed by the Stormlord.”

  The White Jarl dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed. We thank you for the demonstration.”

  “As we do you.”

  The White Jarl excused his party. When they were finally alone in the study, Asho sank to the ground. The whole experience had made him feel dirty, as if he was as expendable as a pawn. He pressed his head between his knees as indignation made his body shake.

  Drink prince.” The COnqueror demanded, placing a pitcher at his feet. “You must regain your strength.”

  “Why did you force me to do that?” Asho croaked. He weakly brought the pitcher to his lips. The cool liquid was a relief to his dry throat.

  “The Thrysians wished to learn about us. Their diplomatic party has been spying on us the entire time, attempting to learn of our empire's weaknesses. It was only fair we returned the favor.” The Conqueror walked behind his desk and sat. “Drink.” He ordered gently. “And tell me what you learned.”

  “I didn’t see much. Just snippets of memories. The boy mostly.”

  The Asho sat in contemplative silence as Asho recounted the memories he had gleamed. “I see. And what is it that they fear?”

  “I don’t know what they fear.” He said frustratedly. “That’s not what I saw. The acolyte wants to please the White Jarl. He wants it more than anything, more than life itself. The guard is a hunter, they crave freedom.”

  The Conqueror leaned forward in his desk, excitement lighting his features. “Prince.” He said quickly. “What else?”

  “I just can’t shake this odd premonition. In the myths, the hunter kills the stag and presents it to the maiden.” The Conqueror’s eyebrows knit together, but he didn’t interrupt as Asho continued. “The hunter presents the stag to the maiden.” Asho whispered under his breath. “The one with the silver eyes. The guard. They’re the hunter. And the boy, the boy is connected to the Rose Maiden.”

  “Then who's the stag prince?” The Conqueror asked quietly.

  Asho looked up and met the god-like eyes of the Conqueror. “Isn’t it obvious? You are.”