When Ravens Call: The Fourth Book in the Small Gods Epic Fantasy Series (The Books of the Small Gods by Bruce Blake (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📕

open. The brush and trees around him blurred into unnatural shapes, creating the illusion they gestured and swayed. Outlines scampered amongst the woods, muddied and gray, dancing, darting.

Teryk shook his head, slapped his cheek with a flat palm. The world reconciled itself into focus and he sighed, moved to stand and head back to the fallen log and the uncomfortable but relative safety beneath it. His arms and legs refused to obey. He pushed against the ground with flattened palms, grunted with the effort, but neither achieved the desired effect, instead making his brain hurt, his vision blur again.

Leaves rustled, and he jerked his chin up.

The wind?

Shapes danced and darted, moving from shrub to tree, coming closer. Teryk scrambled back, fingernails digging into the loamy ground beneath him, heels kicking up swaths of moss.

The gray forms swirled about him, noiseless but for the whisper of foliage. His own breath and the hammering of his pulse in his ears nearly drowned them out. His hand hit a root, jamming his finger, and Teryk fell backward, his head knocking against the trunk of a tree hard enough for light to flash before his eyes.

When his sight returned, the gray shapes surrounded him, faceless, converging.

The prince threw his arms up in front of his face and screamed.

XX  Ishla - Denial

The queen stopped, breathed a lungful of air, then raised her hand to grasp the door handle. She knew she'd find her husband within the chamber, alone but for his guards. The rest of the council responsible for overseeing city affairs wouldn't convene until after midday meal, but Erral took his food in the meeting room, preparing to meet the others. Ishla might not always consider him a good ruler, but she couldn't ever fault his preparation.

She released her breath and pushed against the wide wooden portal.

"Wait here," she said over her shoulder.

No need to raise her voice for Strylor to hear her. In the three sunrises since the king gave him the queen's guard post, he'd proven himself dedicated beyond expectation. So much so, she often found him standing far too close for her comfort. The previous day, she'd exited the commode and walked right into him; he'd positioned himself in the middle of the doorway, leaving her no way around him, near enough he'd likely been touching the door.

Strylor grunted his agreement from where he stood behind her. She sensed that, were it deemed proper, he'd find any opportunity to put his hands on her in the interests of—and the convenient excuse of—keeping her safe. At another time, she'd have been entering the chamber to discuss finding a new queen's guard with her husband, but other intent drove her this day. Far more important things needed their attention.

She stepped over the threshold and the king's guards turned toward her at once, weapons leveled. When they saw who'd entered, they relented, returning to their ready positions. Erral looked up from the parchment spread across the table, a half-eaten chicken leg dangling between his fingers. His gaze held hers for an instant before his eyes returned to the document before him.

"What is it, woman? I'm preparing for council. The Horseshoe doesn't tend itself, you know."

For a moment before she responded, her mind flashed to the state of the city. She rarely found occasion to venture outside Draekfarren's walls but, when she did, she wasn't oblivious to the Horseshoe's slums, the poverty and crime, the grime and filth. The city did not take care of itself, but she didn't feel certain her husband did, either.

"The sun has risen three times since you sent Osis and his men, my Lord." She cringed at using a title but his guards in the room made it a necessity. "Our children haven't returned."

"I am aware."

He set the chicken leg back on the plate, continuing to scan the parchment. Ishla took a step toward the table, moving her lower jaw side to side, grinding her teeth.

"And what will you do?"

He ceased reading, rested his finger upon the document to keep from losing his place, and raised his eyes. "Await his return. Likely he'll arrive with the prince and princess in tow, both of them ready for the punishment they are due."

"And if he doesn't?"

The king pursed his lips, leaned forward. She saw his anger brewing below the surface, his grip on it tenuous. If his guards weren't in the room, he'd not bother concealing it, but appearances continued to be important to him.

"What should I do, my queen? Should I release the full strength of the army on our Windward Kingdom, sacking every house, overturning each rock and log until we find them?"

She cringed and bit down on her back teeth. He hadn't referred to her as 'my queen' out of respect or tradition but annoyance. The words themselves didn't betray his feelings—his tone did.

"No need for sacking and overturning, but yes. Send out the army. Empty the barracks. This is our children who are missing. Leave not a single man in the city until we find the prince and princess."

Errol shook his head, let his chin droop before pushing his chair away from the table, its legs scraping on the floor.

"If it was your job to rule, the kingdom would lie in ruins."

"It's not. It is my job to take care of our children."

"Then you haven't done your job."

His words penetrated her heart like a needle forced between her ribs. Angry tears threatened, but she fought them. If she let them go, instead of emerging as sorrow and anguish, they'd bring with them shouting and ire, a torrent of unexpressed feelings and frustration. She realized revealing what brewed within her would harden the king's demeanor rather than convince him to increase his efforts, so she blinked away the tears, bit back the stinging comments desperate to find