Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2) by Carissa Broadbent (good english books to read .TXT) 📕

Siobhan looked at it with pinched lips.

“Put that away,” she said, at last. “You don’t have any room for more anyway.”

“But I—”

“You don’t. Put it away.”

I hesitated, then lowered my arm.

She wasn’t entirely right, but she was close. Every inch of my forearm was marked, a solid wall of black X’s, scars on top of tattoos. One X for every infraction, for every shame, symbolizing another piece of my skin that could not be occupied by tales of heroics.

That was, after all, the greatest punishment among the Sidnee: the erasure of a story, or worse, the potential for one.

Sometimes I looked down at my arm and the sight of it hit me like a physical blow. All of those little misdeeds had built up, every instance of emotional impulse or lost temper. All my desperate desire to be a part of a tale worth telling only ended up chipping away at it, in the end.

Jaw tight, I laced up my sleeve, hiding X’s beneath black leather.

“But soon, Aefe, these matters will be beyond my control,” Siobhan said, quietly. “The Blades cannot keep someone among their ranks who is so unpredictable. It is dishonorable, and it is dangerous.”

A spike of terror rose in my chest. I whirled to her, eyes wide. “I cannot be expelled, Siobhan.”

“Commander,” she corrected, sharply. “Address me properly.”

Her rebuke hung in the air, heavy and sharp, as I struggled to compose myself enough to speak. I could feel Siohban’s stare, even though I couldn’t bring myself to meet it. Of the Blades’ commanders, she was not the flashiest, the most accomplished, the most dangerous. But she was fair and steady, and that made her the most intimidating. If she judged you ill, that judgement was not based in the fickle throes of passion or pride, but earned through the careful weighing of a balanced scale. There were other Commanders who disliked me, and in my anger I could tell myself that they held some personal slight against me. But Siobhan? If Siobhan decided that I was worthless, the only possible reason would be that it was simply the truth. Perhaps this was why I so sought her friendship and her respect — because I knew it was worth something.

Siobhan’s gaze softened. “There is a part of me that wonders if perhaps you have no interest in being a Blade.”

“Of course I do,” I shot back. “I need to be.”

“Why?”

“No one is more important to the royal family than the Blades,” I said. “No one serves them more loyally. No one better deserves their trust.”

I could have sworn that I caught a glimpse of pity in Siobhan’s eyes. “You do not need to serve the royal family, Aefe. You are one of them.”

“We both know that is not true.”

“It is true. No matter what your father says.”

Mathira. I didn’t understand why it hurt, to hear it said as if it was so simple. I was torn in two, one half touched that she saw it that way, and the other wanting to rise to my father’s defense. It was not his fault, after all, that I was unsuitable for a throne.

But maybe there was a fragment of truth in her words. Maybe I had no interest in being a Blade, and all I wanted was a way to prove myself. Like I was a cat laying dead rats at my father’s feet: Look at what I brought you. Do you love me yet?

I pushed the thought away.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I cannot lose my place. Tell me what I need to do to keep it.”

“It’s not my responsibility to save you from your bad decisions. And even if it was—”

But then, something caught my attention. My eyes snapped towards the forest, to the wall of dense green before us.

“—I cannot force you to reform, or tell you how to do it.”

“Sh,” I whispered.

“You can’t shut this out, Aefe—”

“Commander, listen.”

My brow furrowed, ears straining.

And there it was again: a sound I hadn’t been sure I heard. A low, gargling voice, far enough away that the forest nearly swallowed it. The faintest sounds of movement. Siobhan and I exchanged a glance, our hands falling to the hilt of our swords.

We did not need to speak. Slowly, we slid from our horses. When we pushed through the thicket, every footfall was carefully chosen to be utterly soundless.

The noise grew louder. It was, unmistakably, a voice. Saying what? I couldn’t string the sounds into words.

“Suh-tah-nah…gah…Suh…”

Another two steps.

All at once, I realized.

“Satagana,” I breathed. “They’re claiming satanaga.”

Satanaga, a claim of help, of sanctuary, mutually understood and accepted between all Houses… and called upon only in the most dire of tragedies.

Siobhan’s eyes widened. She whirled around, caution discarded in favor of urgency. “Speak!” she bellowed. “We announce ourselves! We are Sidnee Blades! We hear your claim!”

She leveled one mighty strike through the blanket of thicket and we pushed through to a clearing of swamplands. And I drew in a ragged gasp.

Laid out before us were bodies.

A dozen of them, if I had to guess, or maybe more — sprawled out in the swamplands in a macabre, bloody trail. Male, female, a few children. None moved, except for the one closest, a copper-haired male. One hand was outstretched, as if trying to claw himself farther. The other clamped around his middle, covered in violet blood.

His face lifted, just barely enough to meet our horrified stares.

“Satanaga,” he whispered.

“Mathira, are they dead?”

The words flew from my lips before I could stop them. I dropped to the man’s side, kneeling beside him while he gazed up at me with glazed-over eyes.

He shook his head, weak but desperate.

“Get back to the Pales,” Siobhan barked. “Go to the base, bring help. Now. If these people aren’t dead yet, they will be soon if no one intervenes.”

She was already knee-deep in water, yanking bodies out of it. I began to stand, but shaking fingers clutched at my sleeve. I looked down