The Gathering Storm

She was only a Lion. The prince would sacrifice her rather than lose Bulkezu.



Tears turned to ice on her cheek. She could no longer feel her lips or her fingers or her toes. How could she have been so stupid? If she hadn’t panicked, if she had kept her head and asked for help, she wouldn’t lie here at his mercy.



If Blessing hadn’t run away.



The loathing and rage hit with as much force as the storm: I hate her, the spoiled brat. I don’t care if she’s dead!



“Anna! Anna! You let her go, you ugly monster!”



Shouts broke the stalemate.



“Catch her!”



“Stay back, Your Highness!”



“She got my knife!”



“Grab her, you fool!”



The spear’s haft slapped against her head as Bulkezu twirled it, getting a better grip to meet a new attack. There was a scuffle, roars of anger from the soldiers, and a body hit Anna across the chest so hard that the wind was knocked out of her. The weight of that small body caused the chains to bite into her shoulder blades. She coughed out a mewling cry of pain as her vision hazed. Blood dribbled down around her ear, freezing. Her eye would not open.



Blessing had tried to rescue her.



Shouts reached her faintly, a distant swarm of movement felt more than heard. Bulkezu straddled both Anna and the second body as he braced for a new attack. When he laughed, high-pitched and gleeful, the sound cut across the screaming pitch of the wind.



“Free me, prince of dogs,” cried Bulkezu triumphantly. “Or I kill her.”



Blessing whimpered in pain.



Prince Sanglant’s voice reached her over the buffeting wind, a ringing tenor that easily pierced the clamor of battle. Anger and thwarted frustration made him sound hoarse—but then, he always sounded like that.



“Let her go free, and I’ll let you go free when we reach the hunting grounds of the griffins.”



Bulkezu laughed again. “To be hunted down by my own tribe?”



“Very well,” shouted Sanglant. “I’ll throw down my weapons and trade myself for her—”



“Your daughter is a far more valuable hostage than you would be. Free me, or I kill her. But I will take her with me, so that you will keep my tribe from hunting me.”



Why had Blessing charged in against a foe she could not hope to defeat? Now she was unconscious, wounded, and Bulkezu’s prisoner.



“Take me as your hostage and my soldiers will see that your tribe does not hunt you. I can make no bargain with my daughter’s life—”



The wind roared, obliterating the sound of the prince’s voice as a wave of white swept over them. She could no longer see Bulkezu through frozen eyes and the howling white fog of the blizzard.



This was the end.



Something smooth and silken brushed her lips.



The stinging blast of the snow and ice faded under an entirely unexpected surge of warm wind. White flower petals swirled over her like a cloud of butterflies. Ice melted on her face, making runnels down her cheek as petals tickled her mouth and eyes. This was no natural wind—



Sorcery!



The soldiers cried out in alarm and surprise at the shower of petals and the shock of the wind’s abrupt change.



“Hai!” Bulkezu shouted. A weight hit him, throwing him off her. Within the streaming petals two men fought—Sanglant and Bulkezu—wrestling and rolling. The chains writhed around her, scraping over her legs, burning her arms. Snow that had been caught beneath chains sprayed and scattered.



“Get the princess!” cried Matto.



“Anna! Anna!” Thiemo yelled, running toward her.



She was trapped in a tangle of spitting, biting iron. She got to her knees, but a hand grabbed her ankle and jerked her hard so she fell forward while being dragged backward. Iron ripped up the skin on her cheek. She screamed. Bulkezu threw her on top of Blessing’s prone body. Anna’s swollen eye was crammed into the slush, a muck of snow and petals and mud that covered the ground, but she could see the awful scene unfolding a hand’s breadth from her face.



Bulkezu grabbed Blessing’s hair and twisted the princess’ head back. A knife blade pressed against the vulnerable skin at her throat. The prince cursed violently but helplessly.



Bulkezu laughed that giggling, mad chuckle that would, surely, sour milk and curdle eggs in the nest; she hadn’t heard it for months. She began to weep.



The soldiers beyond had gone deadly silent as petals spun down.



“Now we are both trapped,” said Bulkezu. “Only a Kerayit witchwoman or her mistress can raise a wind like this.” He laughed again. “Free me. I am still fast enough to kill the girl and strong enough to kill her even if you wound me first. My freedom. Or your daughter’s life.”