A Clasp for Heirs (A Throne for Sisters—Book Eight)

CHAPTER ONE

The Master of Crows looked around Ashton and smiled at the way it was starting to live up to its name. Clouds of smoke rose over it from those sections that his men were clearing with fire, from the foundries that were even now churning out more weapons, from the fires that fed his men, burned brands into captives, and heated irons for the torment of those who tried to stand against them.

“Come to me,” he said, holding out an arm. “Show me.”

Crows descended from the sky, landing on the outstretched cloth of his great coat, their claws digging into the flesh beneath and their croaking voices filling the air around him. As each landed, it brought with it the sights and sounds and smells of a city in ruins, and each image only made the Master of Crows’ smile broaden into a sharp-edged rictus.

The first crow showed him the ruins of the outer city, where starving children ran from older starving children, knives and clubs in their grubby fists. The buildings were rubble, splintered wood and scattered stone lying in piles that his crows picked through in search of the bodies beneath. The Master of Crows felt the moments when they found them and fed, trickles of lost life flowing into him.

More power came from the gibbets and the breaking wheels, the tying posts and the cages. A whole battalion of his troops worked at them, forcing criminals inside, and just about everyone in Ashton was a criminal under the New Army’s laws. There was the crack of muskets as soldiers practiced their rifle work on the condemned, and always, always, the tumble of crows onto those who fell.

Even more came from the places where the remaining people of the city worked in drudgery, forced to carry and forge, dig and build. There was no time for breaks, and little for sleep. Those who fell were beaten until they rose, and those who did not rise became food for his pets.

“More,” he said, because the hunger was always there. The crows demanded more, and he had to feed them. His words echoed out through the city, through the throats of a thousand birds. “Feed us

more

.”

He didn’t just need it for the hunger. His mind flicked out, seeking out crow after crow, spreading out beyond the city, letting him see the rest of the country. He saw fields and towns, the progress of his armies and the spots where the people of the kingdom sought to build their own.

“Should I crush you now, or later?” he wondered. Now would put down any rebellion easily. Later, though, when they’d built up more followers… the rush of death would be so much greater then. The

power

would be so much better.

Another crow showed him the reason that he needed that power. Stonehome sat below, safe within the long wall that surrounded it, the tall stones set at intervals serving as anchors for the shield that could be called up by those within. The Master of Crows could see more people down there than should have ever fit into such a space: at least half or more of those who had fled Ashton, and the king, Sebastian, and…

Even from up here, the bright glow of the child was impossible to ignore. Sophia Danse’s daughter shone with the kind of power that might eclipse the sun, and that might even be enough to sate the crows. With that kind of power, a man might find himself immortal without the need for more killing, without the further spread of black wings.

He might have enough power to take

everything

.

He brought himself back to his own body, and turned to the aides who waited just a little way away. Several of his captains stood with them, looking as nervous as all his followers learned to be over time.

“What progress has there been?” he demanded, hearing the croak and rasp of his own voice. It was always worse when he’d spent a lot of time in the minds of his birds. He pointed at one of the captains at random, guessing that otherwise, they would spend their time arguing over who got to be first, or last.

“My men continue to hunt down stragglers,” the man said. “People continue to live in the city’s crawl spaces and slums like rats, but—”

“Next,” the Master of Crows said, cutting him off.

“Our control over the surrounding countryside is almost complete,” another of the captains said. “The new laws have been implemented, and we have started to—”

“Next,” the Master of Crows said.

“There is a nobleman who has announced himself as king, and—”

“Do you think I don’t

know

that?” he demanded, irritation rising in him. “We will deal with all of this, but it is not

relevant

.”

“Forgive us, my lord,” one of his aides said, “but what is it that you want to hear from us?”

“I want to hear about progress in attacking Stonehome. I want to hear that you have found a solution to that damnable shield they have put up.”

“We have sent engineers to try to undermine their walls,” the aide said.

The Master of Crows looked over to the man. “And?”

“And they were slaughtered by forays from the people there. There was mist, and—”

“And when it lifted, they were dead. Yes, yes,” the Master of Crows said in irritation. “What else?”

“Cannons do not work against the shield,” one of his captains said. “Nor does any kind of physical assault.”

“Do not tell me what does not work,” the Master of Crows said. “I know that my army cannot break through.”

“We are searching for anyone who might have a solution,” an aide said. “But they have been reluctant to come forward, even with promises of wealth.”

Of course they were. Anyone who had that kind of knowledge would undoubtedly have a spark of magical talent as well, and someone like

that

would be anything but likely to help the New Army now. They would be too afraid of what would happen to them afterward.

“Go through every record,” the Master of Crows said. “I want works of magic sought out. I want every man who can read, every aide, every captain who is not actively fighting going through the libraries of the city. Put out a reward. Any man or woman who brings information relating to the shield surrounding Stonehome will be spared, will be given gold and a place in my army, even if they have magic of their own, even if they are priests of the Masked Goddess, or nobles, or anything else. Find me a solution, and I will forgive anything. I must have that child!”

He set off back into Ashton’s palace, which had become as twisted and changed as the rest of the city. He didn’t care about any of the holes that had been blasted in the walls in the course of the battle, or about the offices and billets that had taken over what had once been noble bedrooms. Screams came from one of the rooms as his interrogators worked on a servant to find out what they knew about the city. The Master of Crows shrugged and moved on.

He briefly paused as he passed in front of a gilded mirror, the sight of his reflection arresting his attention for a moment. The tall frame, wreathed in a dark coat and covered in crows, was the same as ever, but what caught his attention was the small red mark that stood out brightly against the pallor of his skin.

As he moved closer, it was still possible to make out the shape of a child’s handprint, as red now as it had been in the seconds after the young Princess Violet had touched him there. The burn didn’t hurt now unless he touched it, but it was a reminder that she had the power to hurt him, and that could not be ignored.

“My lord, my lord!” a servant called, running out into the Master of Crows’ path. Briefly, he considered killing the man for the interruption, but such a paltry extra hint of power would not make up for all that had slipped through his grasp.

“What is it?” the Master of Crows demanded.

“My lord, there is a man to see you. He says that it is urgent.”

Again, the Master of Crows fought back the urge to lash out.

“I… think you might want to see him, my lord,” the man said.

The Master of Crows drew himself up and stared at the man with lifeless eyes. “Very well. Lead the way. And if I do not find this very interesting, you will find yourself in a crow cage.”

He saw the man swallow. “Yes, my lord.”

The servant led the way down to the palace’s ballroom, which had become a throne room for his occupation. The mirrors there were largely broken now, reflecting shattered fragments of the people there. Most of them stood back, flanked by guards of the New Army. One stood further forward, head shaved, dressed in dark clothes, his mind closed off with the kind of shielding that hinted at power.

“You have taken a grave risk, coming here,” the Master of Crows said. “You should speak quickly, whoever you are.”

“Whoever I am?” the man said. “Look at me closely.”

The Master of Crows did so, and realized just who he was speaking to. He had seen this face before, albeit with hair, and usually only for brief periods before his crows had been killed.

“Endi Skyddar,” he said. “You have taken an even greater risk than I thought. You should speak quickly. Why should I let you live?”

“I hear that you have a problem,” Endi said. “You have run into an issue with magic that you cannot fathom. I have run into my own problem: I and my men have nowhere to go. Perhaps we can help one another.”

“And how can we help one another?” the Master of Crows asked. “You are not your brother Oli, to know the history of such things. And you are a Skyddar; one of my enemies.”

“I

was

a Skyddar,” Endi said. “Now I have no name. As for what I know, secrets and hidden things were my business. It might be that I heard about a man who was asked to give advice on a magical matter. It might be that when my cousins turned out to have power, I looked into ways of countering such things.”

“So, what are you asking?” the Master of Crows demanded.

“You give me and my men an honored place in your kingdom, and your army,” Endi said. “In return, I will provide you with a ritual that will weaken the walls of Stonehome, and any other magic they put before you.”

That would give the Master of Crows access to the town. It would give him Sophia’s daughter. With that much power in his hands, he could afford to be generous.

“Very well,” he said. “You have a deal. Fail me, though, and I will kill you and all your men.”