A Soul of Ash and Blood: A Blood and Ash Novel (Blood And Ash Series Book 5)

I cut across the Citadel’s courtyard, where patches of grass struggled to grow, having been stomped out from years of training.

Lucky for me, only the new guards trained at the Citadel. The rest took part in daily sessions at Castle Teerman. I didn’t mind the training. I actually looked forward to it. The time spent in the yard gave me the opportunity to familiarize myself with the castle.

It also gave me chances to see her.

Kind of.

The Maiden wasn’t seen in public outside the City Council sessions. But I had caught sight of her watching from one of the castle’s many alcoves that faced the training yard. Usually, it was just a glimpse of the white of her gown or veil. I’d yet to see anything of her features beyond a slightly sharp chin and surprisingly lush mouth the color of berries. I hadn’t even heard her voice.

To be honest, I was beginning to think she had no vocal cords or that she spoke only in whispers like a mouse terrified of any loud sounds. Wouldn’t surprise me if that were the case. After all, the so-called Chosen had to be either a submissive, frightened creature to allow herself to be veiled and have every aspect of her life controlled, or she believed the bullshit the false Queen—the Blood Queen—fed her. The latter was the likeliest explanation for her willing submissiveness, especially since she had a brother who had Ascended.

I’d seen the Maiden in the alcove with the Duchess a few times, the Ascended watching the men training as if she wished to feast on their flesh more than their blood. Ladies and Lords in Wait did the same, usually tittering from behind silk fans between sending not-so-coy glances at those on the field. Attraction drove them to watch, but the Maiden’s presence was an intriguing mystery, and so very little intrigued me these days.

Everyone in Solis knew the Maiden was untouched in both the literal and figurative senses and was to remain so. I couldn’t even begin to fathom what kind of archaic reasoning the Ascended had to justify that or why. To be honest, I couldn’t give two fucks, but there had been absolutely no gossip indicating that the Maiden rebelled against the cage she had been placed in. So, I doubted she watched for the same reasons the Duchess and the others did.

Then again, there was no actual gossip about the Maiden at all, likely due to the fact that most were forbidden to speak to her. There were even stories of guards having been relieved of their positions or demoted to work beyond the Rise for merely acknowledging her presence with a smile or a harmless hello.

What I knew of her was minimal. The Maiden was supposedly born in the shroud of the gods, which was yet more Ascended bullshit. Those of the working and lower classes harbored a fondness for her, which was clear in how they spoke of her in the same reverent tones as Pence had the other night. And she was said to be kind. How they would know that since they weren’t allowed to acknowledge her was anyone’s guess. Their foolish superstitions likely drove their loyalty, not anything based in reality.

The Maiden was likely as unworthy of the people’s support as the Blood Crown she represented. Because at the end of the day, there was no way she was unaware of what the Ascended truly were—how the Ascension actually came to be and that they were responsible for the monsters that had stolen so many lives.

Shoving thoughts of the Maiden aside, I entered the back hall of the dormitory and hung a left, entering a staircase. I was tired, but even if I was headed to my chamber, I wouldn’t be going to sleep. It took several hours for my head to get in the right space to shut down, which usually occurred a handful of hours before dawn—if I was lucky. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept an entire night.

Tonight, I had a real reason for avoiding the silence of my single bedchamber and its bare, lifeless walls.

I took the steps three at a time, wondering what Kieran was up to. We’d made a point not to cross paths, especially since the Lieutenant was on my ass like white on rice. With Kieran planted in the City Guard, there weren’t a lot of chances for us to happen upon each other.

He had a bit more freedom to move about, but it also meant he saw far more shit than I did. Abuses I knew he wanted to do something about but couldn’t without drawing attention to himself. And the exploitation and mistreatment of the most vulnerable in Masadonia was only getting worse.

Because that was also how the Ascended kept the people of Solis in line and not asking questions. They used fear.

Reaching the third floor, I walked out into the wide hall. It didn’t take long for me to find the room I was looking for. The stench of rot wouldn’t be noticeable yet to the others, but it was stronger. I continued forward, wondering exactly what in the wide realm of fucks I was doing.

The problem brewing in this hall wasn’t mine.

In fact, it was a boon. I could keep walking and let what would happen come to pass. After all, fewer guards made everything easier. And if I were smart, I would see every single mortal even loosely tied to the Blood Crown as an enemy.

But I could hear snores coming from behind closed doors and understood that most guards who served the Blood Crown knew no better. This floor was full of innocent men, and if I did nothing, half of them would be dead by the time the sun rose.

Or worse.

I stopped at the door, rapping my knuckles on it. There was silence and then a muffled, “Yeah?”

I reached for the handle and turned, finding it unlocked. Pushing it open, I stepped inside. My vision immediately adjusted to the narrow, dimly lit chamber, and I found who I’d come for.

Jole Crain sat on the edge of his bed that was barely more than a raised cot, his dark hair hanging forward, shielding his face as he clasped the back of his neck. Something about the way he sat reminded me of my brother after he returned from an evening of enjoying far too many spirits. A pain that was akin to a knife wound sliced through my chest. It had to be the hair. My brother’s was a bit lighter, a shade stuck somewhere between blond and brown, but it was the same length as Jole’s.

Thinking about my brother was the very last thing I needed at this moment.

I closed the door behind me as I glanced around the chamber. His armor had been left by the entrance, his weapons placed on the chest at the foot of his bed—all but one. A dagger lay beside him on the blanket, its blade the color of crimson in the low light. Bloodstone.

Jole lifted his head. Sweat dampened the wisps of hair at his forehead, a sign that the fever had taken hold. He squinted. Shadows had already blossomed under his eyes where the skin was thin and quick to decay.

And that was exactly what was happening to Jole. He was decaying. Rotting. He was already dead.

“Flynn?” he asked.

I nodded, propping myself against the wall. “Saw you return from outside the Rise.”

“Yeah?” He dropped his hand to his knee. His arm trembled.

“Thought I’d check on you and see how you were doing.”

Jole blinked and then looked away. “Feeling just…peachy.”

“You sure about that?”

He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a ragged laugh.

“You were bitten, weren’t you?” I asked.

Another laugh came from him, but this time it was shaky and harsh. I waited, and it didn’t take long for him to do the right thing. Silently, he lifted his left arm and shoved up the sleeve of his tunic.

There it was. Further confirmation of what I already knew.

Two jagged indents on his wrist. The torn flesh oozed an oily, dark substance. Reddish-blue lines already radiated from what should be a rather minor wound, running up his forearm and disappearing under his sleeve.

Jole was going to turn, becoming what he’d been dispatched to kill. A violent, rage-fueled beast with a hunger that couldn’t be satiated, and he would do it sooner rather than later.

Bodies handled the infection differently. Many made it a day or two without showing any obvious signs. Others turned in hours. He was one of the latter, and I bet that where the Craven had gotten him had a lot to do with that. It had likely hit a vein or nicked it at the very least.

Jole shuddered. “I’m cursed.”

“You’re not.” I tilted my head. “You’re just unfortunate.”

He turned his head to me. The hollows of his cheeks had deepened. “If you knew I was bitten while you were on the Rise, you should’ve reported me. It’s treasonous not to.”

It was.

 I pushed off the wall, glancing at the bloodstone dagger. The stone was fashioned from the ruby-red rocks that had littered the coast of the Seas of Saion centuries before I was born. As a child, my father had told my brother and me that they were the angry or sad tears of the gods left to petrify in the sun. It was one of the few things in the realm that killed a Craven or those infected by them.

It also killed their makers.

The Ascended.

“You were going to try to handle it yourself?” I nodded at the dagger.

He wearily followed my gaze. “I was going to, but I couldn’t. I can’t even touch it.”

The infection wouldn’t allow it. It was kind of awe-inspiring to think about—that the bite could seize that much control of a person, preventing them from ending their life.

“I…I was going to go to the Commander,” Jole added, his shoulders shaking. “But I sat down to take a breather, and I…I thought I’d have more time. I really did. I was going to turn myself in.” His watery eyes met mine. “I swear.”

I didn’t know if that was the truth. Probably wasn’t, but I couldn’t blame him. Turning himself in meant a horrific death since the Ascended liked to make a public spectacle of executing the infected. They burned them alive, which was one hell of a way to respect and honor their sacrifice. If I reported Jole, his very last memory—if he were even still himself by then—would be his screams.

I came to stand in front of him. “Do you have family?”

A breath shuddered out of him as he shook his head. “Ma and Pa both died a few years back. It was something like a…a cold. They were fine…one moment and not the next. Died the same night.” He looked up at me, looking older with each moment that passed. “I have no brothers or sisters.”

I nodded, thinking that was at least fortunate. It was always better when no one was left to mourn.

“If I did, I would’ve gone to them,” he continued. “They…would’ve known what to do. She would’ve…come for me. Given me dignity.”

Was he speaking of someone who answered the silent call of the white handkerchiefs hung on windows and doors? It had taken a godsawful long time to learn what they represented. Half the people asked behaved as if they had no knowledge of their existence. Once I found out what those scraps of white that sporadically appeared—only to then quickly disappear—meant…I understood why. They signified that a so-called cursed resided within, one likely infected by a Craven in the same manner as Jole Crain had been. The piece of white cloth was used to alert those throughout Masadonia who risked treason to provide quick, dignified deaths to the infected.

The fact that the act was even considered treasonous and therefore punishable by death blew my mind but did not surprise me. The Blood Crown excelled at senseless cruelty.

“She?” I asked.

He nodded, swallowing hard. “The child of the gods.”

The Maiden. The people believed she was the child of the gods, but I had no idea why he thought his family, if they’d been alive, would’ve gone to her. “And how would she have done that? Given you dignity?”

“She…she would’ve given me peace,” he told me.

My brows lifted as another coughing fit hit him. Given him peace? I wasn’t sure how that was possible. The infection was addling his mind.

“What are…you going to do?” Jole wheezed, his breath rattling in his chest.

Crouching in front of him, I smiled. “Nothing.”

“W-what? You have to do something.” Confusion and a hint of panic filled his now-sunken features. “You—” He twisted his neck to the side, the veins standing out starkly as he closed his eyes. “You have to—”

“Jole,” I said, clasping his clammy, feverish cheeks. The young man’s entire body jerked. “Open your eyes.”

Lashes fluttered and then lifted. His irises were blue. No hint of red appearing in them. Yet. He started to lower his lids again.

“Look at me, Jole,” I whispered, my voice dropping even lower as the elemental power of my ancestors—the gods themselves—spread through me, filling my veins, washing over the room and Jole. “Don’t close your eyes. Keep looking at me and just breathe.”

Jole’s gaze met mine.

“Be calm.” I held his stare. “Just keep breathing. Focus only on that. Inhale. Exhale.”

A long, steady breath left him. Tension eased from his rigid body. He relaxed. He inhaled.

“Tell me, Jole, what is your favorite place?”

“My dreams,” he mumbled.

His dreams were his favorite place? Fucking gods, what kind of life was that? A ball of anger lodged in my chest, but I didn’t let it grow. “What is your favorite dream?”

There was no hesitation. “Riding on horseback, going so fast it feels like I have wings. That I can take to the air.”

“Close your eyes and go there. Go to your favorite dream, where you are on horseback.”

He obeyed without hesitation. His jaw slackened beneath my hands. The rapid flickering behind his closed lids stilled. His breaths evened out more, becoming deeper.

“You’re riding so fast you have wings. You’re in the air.”

Jole Crain smiled.

I gave his head a sharp twist. Bone cracked, severing the brain stem. He died in an instant, as himself and with his dreams instead of screams.