The Deathsinger: Book 2

Ch. 47: Soulless

Keres Bedisa, King of Araphel and rumored god of Death, held court in a building that amounted to little more than a crumbling stone tower. His throne was a wooden, ladder-backed chair with broken rungs and obvious rot. The crown upon his head was fashioned out of grapevines, seashells, and obsidian, and the black hair it sat upon had lost much of its luster. Deep hollows were carved into his cheeks, and full lips, once so ready to smile, flattened into a thin line.

Cethin spoke true. This was not the elf I remembered.

I entered the room slowly, wishing Remiel could be at my side. Cethin had decided against allowing him to accompany me, too worried that it would set the king off. After all, the Reapers had been his personal soldiers, and he had abandoned them in the battle of the Vesper. It didn't matter that Remiel was not old enough to have fought in the war. My father saw it as one of his many failures.

"Come closer," Keres called out.

His right elbow rested on the arm of his chair, and he propped his face up on two slender fingers. Eyes a pale lavender like my own watched me with feigned disinterest. I might have truly believed him to be indifferent, if not for the way his body tensed the moment I entered.

"You are young, Deathsinger." He straightened, then leaned forward. The chair groaned beneath him. "How many sun cycles are you?"

Licking my lips, I worked moisture into my mouth before answering with a rasp, "I have seen twenty-two sun cycles, my king." Father. "My twenty-third is nearing."

"That is not possible."

Keres stood. As Keres stood, he pulled the sword belt tight to the last hole around his hips. Despite his efforts, it was still too loose and threatened to slide down as he walked toward me. His black cloak, made of the same shifting material as Remiel's, made looking at him difficult as he flashed in and out of the shadows with every step.

"I assure you. It is true."

"You would have been a child when Araphel fell."

"Twelve, in fact."

Arms folded across his chest, he circled me. Death magic washed over me in waves that threatened to drown me or drag me to my knees. No matter his outward appearance, it was clear his power remained.

"When Cethin told me of your arrival, she did not mention your age, and now I know why."

"Oh."

My heart clattered against my ribs. Did he recognize me? I hadn't realized until just now how badly I wanted that to happen. To feel his joy and be embraced.

Instead, he grabbed my arm and jerked me toward him. "Deathsinger births are carefully recorded. The children are tested. Every child of your age is accounted for, which means either you are lying, or—"

"A mistake was made," I finished, forcing my fingers beneath his where they painfully dug into my skin. Using the Puca magic I'd stolen, I made them bigger and strong enough to pry him off. Father or not, I could not abide being grabbed like that. Not after the things I had suffered.

He shook out his hand, suspicion creeping into his expression. I touched the spot beneath my ear where white hair grew and prayed it was not visible. As unhinged as Cethin made him out to be, I didn't want to imagine what he might do to me if suspected me of being a Banshee.

"You have to feel it," I said in a rush before he could speak again. "You can sense the power I carry."

I loosened the grip on my Death magic, letting it rise to the surface. My senses sharpened and stretched out. There, in the forest beyond the stone walls, I could hear the stuttering heartbeats of a wounded animal. Once. Twice. Three times it fluttered before ceasing, and then the sweetest release. It didn't have a soul–not the way elves did–but there was a unique essence that escaped when it drew its last breath.