Bloodsinger, p.1
Bloodsinger, page 1
Table of Contents
BLOODSINGER
COPYRIGHT
CONTENT WARNING:
DEDICATION
VALGARD
TALHEIM
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
THE LAND OF ICE AND WAR
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE SPECTER OF BLOOD AND SNOW
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE MEMORY OF WIND AND SHADOW
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
A GUIDE TO OLD VALGARDAN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Read On For a Sneak Peek at
CHAPTER ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY R. DUGAN
BLOODSINGER
THE STARCHASER SAGA
BOOK V
R. Dugan
BLOODSINGER
Copyright © 2021 by R. Dugan
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact:
R. Dugan
PO Box 1265
Martinsville, IN 46151
reneeduganwriting.com
Cover design by Maja Kopunovic
Map by Jessica Khoury
ISBN: 978-1-7339255-6-3
First Edition: December 2021
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains scenes of prolonged fantasy fighting/PTSD, wartime peril, and discussions of pregnancy loss/miscarriage.
Discretion is advised for readers sensitive to these themes.
DEDICATION
To Dustin
Who first traveled the world of Valgard
and believed in the cabal.
And to Mom and Dad,
For coming behind him and reminding me
it was still an adventure worth having.
TALHEIM
CHAPTER ONE
IT MIGHT HAVE been a lovely day, bright, full of thawing spring sunlight and birdcall melodies. But inside the princess’s mind, it was always smoke and scarlet skies, a warmth which did not belong in winter and sickness festering in the air.
This is one of those moments. One I’m going to remember the rest of my life.
Me, walking away from Valgard?
You, walking toward me with love in your eyes.
A kiss that blinded. Shadows that consumed.
I would’ve loved you for a hundred years. Two hundred. However long the gods gave us.
They had none of that time. Because she had walked away—because he begged her to.
Anything for you, Starchaser.
Wildheart.
Wildheart…
“Cistine?”
She jolted, head rising from her fist, focus returning to the Citadel’s council chamber. It was indeed a bright day, the meeting table splashed with gold dapples tumbling through the glass roof, and a league of councilors stared at her—lords and ladies of Talheim from estates far and near. Plainsmen and desert dwellers, fishers and mountaineers.
Cistine felt like she’d been all of them, in another world her mind stole away to whenever she wasn’t careful. On days like today, the heat of the room’s twin hearths and the monotony of the reports lulled her back to a dream where there was never too little to do; when she was the fulcrum upon which meetings like this hinged. When it was only her standing for Talheim’s interests—not her and her father, whose voice drew her back to this meeting.
Cistine sat away from the table, smoothing her hands down the scarlet dress spilling across her knees. It was still difficult to wear gowns like this, even with long sleeves and high collars, at a table full of men; but each time she did, it was to honor Mirassah, her bright-eyed and sharp-witted counselor. She could only imagine how Mira would smile to see her now, dressed in trousers under a full dress, a tiara woven into her hickory hair…conducting royal business like the future queen she was. How proud they would all be. How Thorne—
The thought of him was a blade driven straight through her, wrapped in vines of slick darkness, dread and despair and illness tunneling deep into the very bones of the world itself.
Nazvaldolya.
Clenching her molars against a surge of bile that never lessened no matter how many times that sensation came and went, Cistine forced a smile. “I’m sorry, the warmth has me drifting. You were saying about the southern border forts, Lord Petr?”
The elderly lord flashed her a cautious smile. “That there’s been no sign of unrest. So far, King Jad remains within Mahasar’s borders.”
“He’d be a fool not to.” At Cistine’s left, King’s Cadre Warden Rozalie Dohnal cinched her arms and tossed her honeyed hair over her shoulder. “I think we proved well enough in Middleton we won’t stand for provocation.”
“Be that as it may, we keep the watch on the southern border.” Queen Solene Novacek leaned against the table’s edge, the softness of her face not in the least belying her piercing green eyes. “We don’t need Jad seeing a lapse in our attention as an excuse to start prodding again after the harsh winter we had.”
It had been harsh, the worst Cistine could ever remember. She wasn’t certain if she was simply too distracted to notice them before—wrapped up in books and tea and suitors—or if the vicious snowstorms and shortage of game and plants was a creeping down of the blight from the north, an echo of far more perilous dangers beyond their borders. Whatever the case, she’d spent much of the last three months helping ration out supplies to the neediest towns in Talheim…when she wasn’t researching fortifications and sieges, or writing in the tooled leather journal tucked into her belt, never far from reach.
She traced the dimples of horses artfully etched into the cover now, and her heart clenched. If the boy who gave it to her were still alive, he’d either take faint at the words within, or beg to be part of everything she was plotting. Perhaps she was better off not knowing which it would be.
King Cyril Novacek cleared his throat, bringing every eye at the table to him—including Cistine’s, to whom he spoke: “Suggestions?”
The direct solicitation no longer made her palms sweat. This was a dance they had mastered by now. Trapping her hands together on the table, she held his stare. “I agree, we don’t give ground at the southern forts. But I think we should offer the Wardens there a well-deserved rest. Pleasant as the southern warmth must be compared the snow we’ve had, I’m sure they’re missing their families.”
Cyril nodded curtly. “Viktor, see to it.”
Viktor Pollack, the acting Commander of the King’s Cadre with Rion Bartos retired back to his estate in Practica, dipped his head and offered a fleeting glance to Cistine from the Queen’s right. She held that stare when she added carefully, “I think it may be time to offer the Wardens at the northern barracks a reprieve as well.”
A hush gathered up the table, as it always did when she mentioned the north. She tried not to blame them—for two decades, her kingdom was mandated to keep silent about Valgard, and none were as comfortable discussing it now as her—but it was an effort not to bristle at those uneasy looks.
“The North has been quiet,” her uncle Filip mused, “aside from that gods-forsaken storm. We’re left weakened at both sides if we rotate our ranks all at once.”
“But the ranks haven’t changed in nearly three months.” At Cistine’s own behest, but Filip didn’t need to know that. “It’s long past time those Wardens saw their homes again.”
“I agree.” The shock at Viktor’s flash of support was nearly enough to rend Cistine’s focus. “Most are exhausted, homesick, and restless, especially at the northern barracks.”
All her doing, because Cistine had insisted they be kept there from the moment she returned to Talheim. She shoved away a prickle of guilt that sizzled in her fingertips, reciting a silent mantra to herself: Wartime necessity. Wartime necessity.
The chant floated like words off a musty page, ink and old paper soothing her frayed senses. When her focus returned, her father was nodding—both to her and to Filip. “I agree, a rotation in the north is necessary. But it’s also true we don’t want to change shifts at the borders all at once. We’ll compromise—move the southern ranks now, the north in a fortnight.”
Cistine fisted her hands in her skirts.
Another fortnight. She could endure it.
When both Cistine and Filip dipped their heads, the King rose, bringing the rest of the table with him. “It’s been a long day, my friends. Let’s reconvene in the morning, and I’ll see about having the hearths stoked less often tomorrow.”
A few chuckled, and Cistine shot her father a dry smile he met with a wink—carefully covering for her distraction.
The room slowly emptied, Solene escorting a flock of ladies to the tearoom with a parting kiss blown to Cistine. She returned it, glanced at her father’s face again, and stilled; he had that look in his eye, the sort that once heralded discussions of successorship and her duty as future Queen. These days, it lent itself far more to conversations she enjoyed even less, because they required too much delicacy of tongue that erred close to lying. And she did not like to lie to her father.
“I really am tired,” she said quickly. “I think I’ll nap before supper.” A meal that would, thankfully, be attended by every lord and lady from across the kingdom, keeping the conversation shallow and cordial.
She feigned ignorance to the King’s heavy sigh when she all but dragged Rozalie from the room, yanking the doors shut behind them. Rozalie offered a grimace while they walked. “That went better than expected.”
Cistine kneaded her temples. “Thanks to Viktor’s support, of all people.”
“I’d rather have the support of a snake sleeping in my bed, but in this case, I think we take it as it is: we’re getting the rotation at the northern barracks. It’s finally happening.”
Excitement veined Rozalie’s voice, and Cistine dropped her hands and met the Warden’s gleaming stare. “Two more weeks. That’s manageable.”
“I’d believe you better if you didn’t have that murderous look in your eyes.”
Cistine stuck out her tongue, and she and Rozalie carried on in silence the rest of the way to the Princess’s rooms—not the same ones where she’d lived for her first twenty years. She’d tried to stay in the chamber of her childhood, its balcony stretching above her beloved inner garden where the comforting scents of winter berries and pine waited to embrace her during these long days. But after so many difficult nights reading and writing in her new leather journal—after restless slumber when she woke in cold sweats, sobbing Thorne’s name into the darkness, aching for her selvenar who was not merely across the hall anymore, but a kingdom away—she found the restlessness was too much, the surroundings too familiar.
The call was too great.
It whispered to her now when she and Rozalie entered her new rooms in the north-facing tower, inhaling scents of lavender, jasmine, and cinnamon from the bouquet on the breakfast table. Shutting the doors and leaning her weight against them, Cistine breathed in until air struck the bottom of her lungs, trapped there while she listened to that quiet growl deep in her spirit.
Come, it urged, as it had all her life. Come and see.
But she couldn’t. Not yet.
A throaty caw greeted their arrival, and Cistine flashed a tired smile at the sleek black raven roosting on the back of her dining chair. “Hello, Faer.”
“Hello, Cistine.”
Rozalie shuddered. “I still think it’s horrible you taught him to mimic your voice.”
“He’s a battle bird. He needed something to occupy that clever mind…didn’t you, you handsome bag of feathers?” Cistine fed Faer a scrap of beef from her cold breakfast plate. “Besides, it was this, or let him keep stealing necklaces from all the courtiers until Viktor went mad searching for Astoria’s newest jewel thief.”
“That was a good week.” Smiling, Rozalie dumped herself on the bed. “Just don’t teach him to say my name.”
Cistine laughed. “I give you my word.”
Rozalie was silent. Cistine turned from feeding Faer, and her heart lurched, then sank like a dropped stone. Rozalie had peeled back the lumpy quilts Cistine ordered untouched by the servants, burying stacks and mounds of books frittered out of the royal library. She should have stashed them under the bed before the council, but after another restless night of bad dreams, she’d slept so late all she could do was throw down a few bites of cheese and run to the meeting hall, leaving the mound where it fell.
“Bit of light reading before bed?” Rozalie’s tone tried and failed for mirth. “I didn’t think you were researching this deeply on battle tactics, Princess.”
“I couldn’t sleep last night.”
Rozalie turned to her, scooping one book from the buried heap. “What is this all about?”
“Arithmetic.” Cistine sank into the dining chair, and Faer settled on her shoulder. “The average war in Talheimic history consisted of anywhere between six and ten thousand battles, did you know that?”
“I didn’t. Nor would anyone who hasn’t had their nose buried in books on war theory for the past three months.”
Cistine couldn’t muster even a smile at her wry tone. “The Bloodwights depleted their store of augments over the last twenty years in the wilds, but they took Stornhaz, which means they have all the flagons the Courts couldn’t steal out during the siege. Besides that, they don’t need flagons for every battle, they have Blood Hive fighters, too.”
“Your point?”
“Let’s say the Courts fled with five hundred flagons, generously. If they skirmish with the Bloodwights even twice a week and use as few as five augments every time, they’ll only have enough to last a year.”
Rozalie shrugged. “Maybe they can win by then.”
“Maybe. Except most wars have historically lasted eighteen to twenty-four months.”
Now Rozalie set the book side, frowning. “It’s not enough.”
Cistine slumped forward, resting her head in her hands. “It’s nowhere near enough. They’ll be fighting with steel alone while the Bloodwights still have plenty of flagons to spread around.”
“So, what are you thinking?”
“What I always have: that they can’t win this war without help.” And help was something her father wouldn’t be quick to send, something the lords would never agree to. She’d tested those waters her first week back in Talheim and found them fathomless, full of doubt and suspicion.
But then, this wasn’t truly a war of able bodies; it was a war of augments. And in such a skirmish, there was no one to plead Valgard’s cause. Nothing could be done, except…
Cistine furiously clamped down on the thought, shoving it aside as she did whenever it arose; as deep as she’d stuffed it last night before it manifested once more in her nightmares. “You’re free to go, Rozalie. Spread the word to the Wardens and prepare a note for Viktor. If you need to, let him know the names on your roster have my personal support. I’m not certain what his angle was today, but let’s use it for all it’s worth.”
“Consider it done.” Rozalie stood and stretched. “I’ll see you at the dinner tonight.”
The moment she was gone, Cistine latched the door and hurried to the bed. Beneath it, she chiseled a stone loose and opened a cavity in the floor where she’d hidden the last gift from her mentor, Quill: an augment pouch with six flagons inside.
Too dangerous to leave them exposed in a citadel full of those who didn’t yet fathom that the augment wells in the North were truly gifted by the gods—the powers within them mere weapons, not the abomination Cistine’s grandfather Ivan claimed them to be; those who still believed forcing the Northern Kingdom to seal the Doors to the Gods, depleting their augment stocks dramatically until these six precious flagons had become a gift without measure, was justified. Those like Viktor, tutored to prejudice by Rion Bartos, who might destroy them—and devastate the city and Cistine’s heart.
