The Black King: Book Two of Black Throne (Black Throne, Book 2)

Book by Rusch Kristine Kathryn

Gift stood on the prow of the Tashka, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet spread slightly apart. He wore his hair longer than he ever had, and used a leather tie to hold it back. The sun and weather had darkened his skin, making it the same color as that of the Fey around him. His hands had calluses, his body more muscles. He had learned a lot on this trip, much of it about survival.

The Infrin Sea was choppy. A wind had come up, carrying with it a light mist. The skies were overcast, the air chill, but something in it smelled of home. If he squinted, he could see Blue Isle ahead. At first its mountainous shore had looked like a gray shadow against the gray ocean, but as the ship drew closer, the shapes were becoming clearer.

The Stone Guardians protected the only natural harbor in Blue Isle. They were huge rocks, three times taller than most ships, staggered throughout the harbor and its entry way. The Guardians created unusual currents that changed with the tides and the weather. No ship had ever made it through the Guardians without guidance. For decades, Gift's Islander father and grandfather kept Blue Isle isolated by destroying all the maps and getting rid of the people who watched the currents.

Now that Gift's sister, Arianna, was Queen of Blue Isle, she had reopened the trade routes. Maps existed again, as did the on-land watchers. Navigators learned the patterns of the currents, and some Fey had even been trained in reading the waters.

He unclasped his hand and wiped his eyes. Soon his Gull Riders would return with news of the conditions near the Guardians. Then he would put his Sailors and Navigators into action. His stomach was jumping. He was coming home after al-most a decade away. He had traveled across the Fey Empire, and then he had gone to the Eccrasian Mountains to train as a Shaman. There he had touched the Black Throne and his life had changed.

He shuddered, remembering how the Throne had clung to him, how it had tried to absorb him, and the strength he had used, both mental and physical, to pull away. The Throne was a living thing, and it wanted to make him Black King. But his sister Arianna ruled the Fey.

Arianna was a good Black Queen, and an excellent Queen to Blue Isle. Except there was something wrong now. He had Seen it in Visions. Something was wrong with her. And no one would tell him what it was.

He took a few steps forward, as if that would bring him closer to the Stone Guardians. Once he had vowed not to return to Blue Isle until he became a Shaman. But he would never be a Shaman. A Shaman couldn't practice with blood on his hands, and Gift hadn't realized that, in his youth, he had accidentally killed a Wisp.

Now he didn't know what he'd do if something was wrong with Arianna. He was the oldest, the one who should have taken the Throne, but he had renounced it. Arianna was the ruthless one, the one who had the willingness to make the hard decisions and the enemies that leadership required. He had always been the gentler of the two, the one less willing to take risks.

"Standing and squinting at the Isle won't bring it any closer."

Gift turned. Skya stood behind him, her black hair in its customary knot on the top of her head. The wind had pulled strands from it, whipping them about her narrow face. He had always thought that she looked like the perfect Fey: her features symmetrical and upswept, her chin so narrow that it looked almost pointed, her black eyes filled with life and intelligence. She was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, and although he'd spent the last six months with her, he was still surprised at the depth of that beauty.

"Part of me wants to get there now, and part of me doesn't want to return," he said.

She didn't answer him. She tried not to discuss what she called matters of state. But he sometimes saw that as her way of avoiding anything personal. "The Gull Riders are back."

"I told them to report to me," he said.

"They're waiting in the hold." She put a hand on his arm. Her touch was gentle. He put an arm around her and pulled her close. Her gaze met his and in it was a warning he ignored. He kissed her, slid his hands into her soft hair, pulling it free as he had done almost every night on this trip when she slipped into his stateroom after everyone else had gone to sleep. The kiss was long and deep and he didn't care who saw it.

She did. She believed they did not belong together. She had never told him that, not in so many words, but he knew. It was one of the few times he knew what she was thinking, and he had no way to reassure her.

Finally she pulled away. "Gift," she whispered. "We can't--"

"I thought you didn't follow rules," he said, placing his wet forehead against hers. The mist ran down their faces like tears.