Gathering Darkness (11 page)

It was moments such as this when she found the prince to be the most confusing. It was so unexpected to see pain in a boy so cold, a boy responsible for all the monstrous deeds she hated him for. But a true monster shouldn't be capable of feeling pain like that.

And then there was Aron. According to Jonas, Aron had killed the queen. But why would he have done such an unexpected and heinous thing?

Could it . . . have been on the king's orders?

The thought made her gasp inwardly. But why would the king want his wife, his queen, murdered?

It made no sense. None at all. And yet, this piece somehow seemed to fit this horribly confusing puzzle.

Although a hundred questions burned on her tongue, Cleo remained silent. She was not fool enough to put such dangerous suspicions into words. Not now. Not here. And not with the unpredictable, intimidating boy who stood before her.

Acting like a cornered victim would do her no justice. She would not tremble before this boy, not ever. She would not beg. She had been a rebel since the day Gaius stole her kingdom and killed her father. Every thought, every goal, every need screamed rebellion.

“Enough of this,” she hissed. “You've had your say. You've bullied me to your heart's content. Now, either alert the king to my alleged crimes or release me this instant.”

Magnus studied her intently, his expression stony and unreadable despite the storm raging in his dark eyes. “Very well, princess. But let me leave you with this warning. If you're caught eavesdropping again, Cronus will take you directly to the king. And I'll let him. Happily.”

He exited the room and closed the door, leaving her there alone. Heart in her throat, she waited for Cronus to return to extoll further punishment.

But he never came.

Finally, she tried the door to find it unlocked. She slipped out into the halls and navigated the corridors until she found a servant, whom she asked to find Nerissa and send her to her chambers.

Shortly after Cleo was safe inside her chambers, Nerissa arrived.

“Your highness, you wished to speak with me?”

Cleo stood and regarded the girl in the simple gray servant's dress standing by the door. The last time she'd seen Nerissa, her hair had been long and shiny. Now it was cropped short and blunt, making her look different, much plainer than the seamstress who'd led her directly into Jonas's trap. Still, there was no denying how pretty she was, her features holding an exotic beauty that hinted at an ancestry from a faraway land.

Nerissa's face held no fear, but her expression grew tighter as Cleo came closer. Cleo wondered how well Jonas knew this girl and how grateful he might be to one willing to put herself in danger to help him.

She expected to feel jealous, but instead felt only curiosity about what it would be like to be Nerissa, a servant only because of her allegiance to the rebel cause.

But Cleo didn't have time to muse on Nerissa any longer. “You're the one who tucked Jonas's message into my sketchbook.”

“Yes, your highness.” Nerissa didn't seem the least bit surprised to be confronted.

“And I've been told you can deliver messages to him. Is this true?”

“It is, your highness.” She met Cleo's gaze directly.

Cleo studied the girl's face, searching for any sign of deception. “What are you willing to do to help the rebellion? To bring down the king?”

“Anything.” Nerissa didn't hesitate. “And you?”

“The very same.” She'd never spoken truer words in her life. They felt right to say, especially to one she had quickly come to believe was a trusted ally.

“Whenever you need me—as a messenger or for anything else—know that I'll be here.” Nerissa reached forward and squeezed Cleo's hands, giving her an unexpected smile. “You will have your throne one day very soon, your highness. I swear to the goddess you will.”

And then she was gone. Cleo went to her window and looked outside toward the city walls and the green land that stretched out beyond it.

Her beloved home, stolen from her by her enemies.

She swore she would soon steal it back.

MAGNUS

AURANOS

M
agnus found Lucia in the courtyard with an alarmingly chilly expression on her face.

“Well, this is quite a surprise,” she said. “Did you lose your way?”

“I wanted to speak with you privately.”

“You've been back for well over a week. This is the first effort you've made to speak with me at all.”

It was true. He'd been avoiding her. They'd both changed so much; a wedge had formed between them, invisible, but strong enough to do lasting damage.

“Come now,” he said. “I know you've been busy with your new friend. Wouldn't want to interrupt that, would I?”

He didn't look directly at her, choosing instead to focus on the flowers Lucia tended to. Some of the roses—red, yellow, pink, white—flourished large and plump, while others were brown and withered, as if winter's deadly touch had made its mark in this land of eternal summer.

He didn't have to ask if she'd been practicing her
elementia
. Here were the two sides of it on display—life and death.

“My new friend?” she asked. “I don't know who you mean.”

He had no patience for games today. “Don't be coy. You know I mean Cleo.”

She shrugged. “Does it bother you that I've learned that the girl you were forced to marry isn't a horrible beast with sharp teeth and claws?”

“Teeth and claws can be easily hidden.” He finally looked at her. “Strange, I always thought you were smarter than this.”

A smile touched Lucia's lips. “Depends on the day, really.”

He'd amused her. He hadn't been trying to amuse her.

“So right now you are merely a good brother looking out for his naïve little sister who might be taken in by one who means her harm?” she asked. “Is that what you believe? Is that why you're here? To warn me?”

“I was concerned.”

“Concerned.” She spoke as if the word tasted rotten. “Believe me, I'm well aware that Cleo likely harbors deep resentment toward me. Although, it would be difficult for her to hold more resentment for anyone than she does for you.”

Such harsh words might have made him flinch if he wasn't already well aware of the truth in them. “This conversation is not nearly as cordial as I'd intended. Why so hostile today, Lucia?”

Her expression was a bit pinched, but Magnus wasn't sure if it was entirely directed at him.

“You avoid me for days, like I'm carrying a disease, and you think
I'm
being hostile?”

“Apologies,
sister
,” he hissed the word, “but I was under the impression you wanted to make me forget . . . how did you put it? My
unwelcome thoughts
?”

Her expression stiffened. “You weren't meant to hear that.”

His wedding day held more bad memories than a rebel attack, an earthquake, and bridal daggers combined. That day had also confirmed Lucia's continued disgust with his unbrotherly feelings toward her.

Magnus willed himself to stay calm. His confrontation with Cleo had disturbed him more than he wanted to admit to himself.

The rose Lucia held had turned brown and brittle in seconds. Was that earth magic? Or was it the slow, dry heat of fire that had so quickly stolen its beauty?

Perhaps he wasn't the only one trying to stay calm.

Only a year ago, Lucia had come running to Magnus, her arms laden with storybooks. Such fantastical, entertaining reading material wasn't usually permitted in the Limerian library, which was meant to contain only educational texts, essays, and facts.

They'd spent an afternoon poring over the books and had found a tale about a secret magical gateway in northern Limeros, which allowed access to worlds apart from this one, but only if the traveler prepared for the possibility they might never return.

“Would you want to go through the gateway?”
she'd asked him.

“I don't know.”
He had considered it carefully before answering.
“Go somewhere far from here where everything's fresh and new and full of possibility? I might. As long as you came with me.”

“I could never leave my home,”
she'd replied with a laugh.
“What a silly thought!”

She didn't realize it, but her words had wounded him deeply. When the day was over he'd taken the book with him, torn out the pages that contained the story about the gateway, and burned each one, watching the parchment curl and blacken before his eyes.

Torn, burned, and forgotten—this was what should always be done with useless fantasies.

“All I wanted to say to you today is . . . be careful with Cleo,” Magnus said. “She's very deceptive.”

“Aren't we all when we need to be?” Lucia said with a slight smile. “If there's nothing else, Magnus, I have other things to do.”

A voice nearby caught Magnus's attention before he could respond. Not that he knew what else to say to her. “Your highness.” It was Cronus. “The king summons you.”

Clearly Lucia didn't want his guidance—or company—anymore. She wished only for him to leave her alone.

Very well. Wish granted.

“Good day, Lucia.” Magnus turned on his heels and followed Cronus along the path back to the palace. On the way, he passed Cleo, heading toward the flower garden.

“My sister is waiting for you,” he said.

“Glad to hear it,” she replied.

She sounded so lighthearted and carefree; it was as if they'd never had their discussion earlier. Was she really so certain he wouldn't tell his father everything she'd said? Everything she'd overheard? “Be careful, princess.”

“I always am.”

“Always? Or starting today?”

The glare she sent him over her shoulder was so fierce it very nearly amused him.

Magnus left the sunlight of the garden. When his eyes had adjusted to the darker interior of the palace, he realized that Cronus was closely scrutinizing him, surely wondering why Magnus had let Cleo go with no more than a warning.

“Your comment is not required,” Magnus muttered.

“I wouldn't dare offer it, your highness,” Cronus replied.

“What does Father want from me today?”

“He requests your presence when he questions the rebel.”

He didn't see what help he could offer, but he didn't protest. He would do as his father commanded, even though just being in the same room as the king made his blood boil.

He thought again about Cleo. He hadn't admitted a thing, but he wondered what she would say if he told her the whole truth about Aron, about his mother, about the king.

Would she tell anyone about her suspicions that Magnus killed Aron? And would it even matter if she did? She had no allies within these walls, apart from the useless and inconsequential Nic.

And, of course, her new best friend, Lucia.

Before he could meaningfully consider any of this, they'd arrived at their destination—a place that struck him with surprise.

“He's questioning the rebel in the throne room?” Magnus asked.

“Yes, your highness.”

Fancy. Perhaps the king didn't wish to soil his fine clothes or dirty his boots by descending into the dungeon today. Several guards were stationed outside the doors, and four more stood inside. Gregor, the rebel who'd attacked Magnus in Limeros, kneeled at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the large golden throne, where the king calmly sat.

“Finally,” the king said to Magnus. Then he addressed the guards. “We're waiting for one more guest. In the meantime, the rest of you can leave. Cronus, you stay.”

Cronus bowed. The other guards turned and marched out of the room, closing the tall, heavy doors behind them.

“Who are we waiting for?” Magnus asked.

“Something vital I feel has been missing until now.” The king fixed his gaze on Gregor. “I believe you two are already acquainted.”

Gregor didn't look up, and Magnus regarded him with disdain. This boy had made him bleed. And he would have killed him, had Magnus not been so alert.

Magnus walked a slow circle around Gregor, who was much thinner than he last saw him a month ago. His dark hair was matted and dirty; his left hand was bandaged with dirty rags crusted with dried blood. His face showed fading bruises. His lip was split.

And he smelled rancid.

“Gregor has the answers I need.” The king's tone was surprisingly calm, almost friendly. “And he's going to tell us everything.”

“I've already told you all I know.” Gregor finally spoke, his voice hoarse.

“I want you to tell me more about Phaedra, the Watcher who visited your dreams.”

The name took Magnus by complete surprise.

“Phaedra,” he said aloud. “Her name is
Phaedra
?”

“Perhaps,” Gregor said, shrugging.

Magnus reeled around and grabbed the boy by his throat. “The proper answer is either
yes
or
no
, rebel scum.”

“Yes,” Gregor hissed. Magnus released him. “Her name is Phaedra.”

It was the name of the Watcher Magnus had seen, the one who'd saved Jonas's life before Xanthus snuffed out hers.

It couldn't be a coincidence.

“You haven't dreamed of her lately, have you?” Magnus said.

“No.”

“This,” the king said, “I find hard to believe. Gregor, tell me what Phaedra told you about the Kindred. I want to know if she instructed you how to find it.”

Gregor's cheek twitched. “I don't know anything about the Kindred.”

The king offered him a grimace of a smile. “You see, I, too, have been contacted by a Watcher. Although not this Phaedra; I've never heard of her before. But perhaps lowly peasants dream of lowly Watchers. Still, that she chose you . . . it gives me pause.”

The king did enjoy the sound of his own voice. Magnus wished very much he'd get on with it. He needed answers, and long-winded speeches weren't getting him any closer.

“What I know,” the king continued, “is that the Kindred exist. And after many years, it can finally be found. I only need to know precisely how.”

“Perhaps you should ask your own Watcher, because I can't help you,” Gregor said, his voice shaking with naked contempt.

Magnus glanced at the king to see a cold smile twisting his lips.

“So you don't know,” the king said.

“No. And you know what?” With the simple raising of his chin, Magnus could see Gregor had made the fateful decision to choose defiance over obedience. “Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you in a million years.”

The king nodded, his neutral expression unchanged. “Exactly as I figured.”

Just then the throne room doors swung open.

“Ah,” the king said. “Very good. This should help.”

Magnus watched Gregor's face go ashen as a girl, flanked by guards, her hands tied behind her back, entered. She had long, curly black hair and flashing light brown eyes. She wore a dirty canvas tunic over dark brown trousers, the clothing of a boy.

She looked ready to kill.

“I've come to believe this girl is your sister,” the king said. “She is, yes?”

Gregor hadn't taken his eyes off the girl for a second. “Release her.”

“Not so fast. Here's how this will go. You will tell me what I need to know. We will discuss the matter man-to-man without any need for violence. After that, you and your sister—Lysandra, correct?—you and Lysandra will be prepared for public execution. Apart from having to endure the presence of the crowd, your deaths will be quick and virtually painless. However, if you refuse to tell me what I need to know, I will have your sister tortured to death in front of a much smaller audience, which will include you. Should I go into detail about what will be done to her?”

The calm demeanor with which the king delivered this news sent a chill racing down Magnus's spine.

He wasn't bluffing.

Why did the threat of torture set Magnus's stomach churning? He hated his father, but he
was
a Damora. This threat shouldn't sicken him; it should energize him.

Lysandra had gone quiet, had stopped struggling, but the hatred in her eyes still burned bright. “Tell him nothing, Gregor. One way or the other, he's going to kill us both.”

Gregor was visibly shaking now.

“Lysandra, forgive me,” Gregor said, causing the king to break out in the slightest of smiles. Lysandra's face quickly became etched with worry, clearly fearful of what he'd say next. “Death is one thing. But torture.  . . . no. I can't let that happen to you.” He turned to the king, his face a mask of hatred as he began to speak. “Phaedra told me that the Kindred were ready to be
awakened
. That's the word she used. Interpret it however you wish. But she warned me that they should remain unfound, even if it means the fading of both her world and ours.”

“Nonsense. How could that be?” the king prompted.

“Because mortals can't control power like that,” Gregor snarled. “And anyone who thinks they can control it is a damn fool.”

This boy has courage,
Magnus thought, mildly impressed.

“What else?” King Gaius hissed, ignoring Gregor's insult.

“She believes that when the Kindred finally awaken, the world will burn.”

“Burn,” the king repeated. “What does she mean,
burn
? Surely she doesn't mean the world will literally burn?”

“I don't know. I was sure she'd return to tell me more, to tell me how to help her, but it's been weeks since I last dreamt of her. I swear on my parents' souls I'm speaking the truth. I don't give a damn about the Kindred. For all I care you can have it!”

The king pressed his fingertips together as he studied Gregor. “What do you know of a young man in Paelsia who can harness the power of fire?”