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Tyrant’s Blood
Fiona McIntosh
The second instalment of Fiona McIntosh’s gripping epic fantasy, set in a world torn by revenge, love and ancient magic.Ten years have passed since Loethar, the barbarian warlord from the Likurian steppes, devoured the Devona Set with his army of mercenaries, decimating their ruling families and settling in their primary kingdom of Penraven. Believing the Valisar heirs of Penraven to be dead, he has styled himself as emperor and continues his efforts to integrate his people into the native population.But abandoning his more violent methods of persuasion hasn't quelled the undercurrent of rebellion; for the Valisar heirs do live. Hidden from the barbarian's wrath by loyal allies who risk everything for the future of their kingdom, they are bound to return and seek a tyrant's blood for the havoc he has wreaked.
Curant’s Blood
FIONA MCINTOSH
VALISA: BOOK TWP
For Pip Klimentou, Sonya Caddy, Marianne D’Arrigo, Margo Burns, Michelle King, Willa Michelmore.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u2eadb09f-6b85-5ff9-ad36-f429ea14034d)
Title Page (#u13523f7c-8792-5345-bb96-7dbfe9fbee05)
Dedication (#ua2ef0fde-8499-5ca8-afac-d7b6de67ff00)
Map (#u7ba82f8d-12c1-5252-8aa0-9673ca9ca1de)
Prologue (#u48a0e2bf-a5aa-5cf3-9d9c-7806d8c33497)
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Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Glossary (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
BOOKS BY FIONA MCINTOSH (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_8e9da855-cfa4-5ed3-af9c-cfec12d04551)
‘Hello, Reg,’ she said as she approached. What an old-fashioned name Reginald was for someone his age; it didn’t suit him at all.
‘I thought you’d come,’ he said, not looking up.
She loved his voice and his economy with words. Reg had always been able to comfort her even when he was silent, which was most of the time. ‘Can I sit with you?’
She knew he smiled but he wouldn’t face her. Her question did not require an answer, nor would he waste the breath to give her one. ‘How are you?’ she said, sighing as she lowered herself next to him.
‘Same as yesterday.’
‘Grouchy, then.’
‘Not for you.’
‘I’ll take you in any mood, Reg, you know that.’
He looked around at her and after the unhappy morning she’d just had, which included watching a patient die, she felt instantly comforted and secure to see his sad, gentle face, buried beneath his straggly beard and the grime of his working day. She had long suspected that Reg liked to hide behind his longish, nutbrown hair, his hat, even that wretched beard, but try as he might, he could never hide his eyes. Intelligence—far more than he let on—lurked within those grey-green eyes that noticed everything and yet invited few people into his life, for he kept them mostly lowered when others were around. Now they looked at her; vaguely amused but above all knowledgeable. He had secrets, but then he was a secretive sort—everything about Reg was a mystery. The nurses cringed whenever she mentioned him, variously describing him as rude, deranged or creepy. He was none of those things. Not to her, anyway.
‘A death?’ he asked as she was staring at him.
How could he know her that well? It was infuriating sometimes. The tide of emotion she’d kept at bay rose but she wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. If her training had taught her anything it had taught her to hold part of herself back from patients, or risk being swallowed by misery. But there was more to not showing her sorrow. In her quietest of moments she worried that she was a cold person; someone who let few past her guard. The truth was, she didn’t particularly want to share her life with anyone. Reg didn’t count, of course. He was a stranger she’d befriended so many years ago she couldn’t remember her time in the hospital when he was not roaming the botanical gardens, ever near, always available to give her a few minutes, always able to say the right things…even when he wasn’t actually speaking. Something was missing in her for sure—the lonely gene, perhaps…the one that triggered normal people to go in search of others and make friends. She obviously didn’t possess that gene. It was as if she were a misfit, walking around a world of people she didn’t feel she was a part of. She looked like everyone, talked like everyone, even to some degree acted like them. But there was a hole somewhere—a divide she couldn’t bridge between herself and everyone else. Reg was her curious lifeline, for he too was a misfit and seemed to understand even though they never discussed such intimacies.
And so she went through the motions of life—always had…even with her parents. For many years she’d thought this was simply because she was adopted. It bothered her to the point where she’d even taken some therapy for it but she knew in her heart that this was not a learned response—something she had reacted to on discovering her adoption. No, this was deep. It was in the blueprint that had made her who she was. And its particular presence in her DNA or whatever it was, meant she didn’t feel fully connected to anyone except Reg, the hospital groundsman.
‘Yes,’ she answered, finally able to accept that Jim Watkins was no longer of this life.
He said nothing.
‘Mmm,’ she confirmed but it came out as a soft groan, hugging herself as another pang of guilt reached through her body and twisted in her gut. She was answering a question he hadn’t asked and yet they both knew the question existed, hanging between them.
She began to explain, even though he hadn’t requested any further information. ‘I try not to choose, Reg. I have to be careful.’
‘Save all.’
‘I can’t. I’m different enough already; can you imagine what the media would do if it cottoned on to this?’
He shrugged.
She gave a mocking half-smile. ‘Proper journalists are just the tip of the iceberg. The gutter press and popular magazines, the hacks and mischief makers and those awful revelation shows that masquerade as current affairs,’ she said, mugging at him, ‘they would just slurp this up.’
He shook his head now, slightly amused, mostly baffled.
‘They’d never leave me alone, Reg.’
‘You’re looking thin.’
‘That’s a joke coming from you.’
‘I could eat a horse and it wouldn’t show.’
‘You’re lying. I know you so much better than you think. We’re thin, Reg, because we’re both hollow. Neither of us are filled with anything except a strange misery. I recognised it in you the moment I met you—the moment you walked into my life and tripped me.’
‘I didn’t trip you,’ he growled gently.
‘How else would you describe it?’
‘I tripped, and stumbled into you.’
‘And stopped me from going to see the clairvoyant at the Otherworlds festival.’
‘Rubbish. We were strangers. How could I have any hold over you?’
‘We weren’t strangers. Even if we’d never met I’ve always had the curious feeling that we’ve known each other all my life.’
He made a scoffing sound, offered her half of the orange he’d laboriously peeled while they’d been talking. She took it, inhaling the fresh scent of citrus surrounding them.
‘How old are you, Reg?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She laughed.
He looked at the segment of orange in his hand. ‘It’s true. I’ve lived too long,’ he said, looking down. ‘So I’ve never really known.’
‘Well, beneath all this fuzz,’ she said, tugging at his beard, ‘you look about mid thirties.’
‘And you’re just twenty and considered a genius, so you already know what it is to have that kind of attention levelled at you,’ he replied, returning to their previous topic.
‘Exactly!’ she snapped. ‘They didn’t leave me alone for almost a year when they discovered I’d qualified for Medicine so young. It’s all quietened down again. Now I’m just another intern at another big city hospital.’
‘And uncannily, often inexplicably, saving lives.’
