Gathering Darkness (14 page)

“No one controls your destiny but you.”

“If you say so.” Nic hissed out a long breath. “And the second?”

“That, to me, you are the very opposite of worthless.”

Nic looked at the prince with surprise, but Ashur just turned and began to walk away.

“May you have a safe trip back to the palace,” the prince said without turning around.

• • •

The guards assigned to escort Nic home unceremoniously shoved him out of the carriage five miles outside of the city walls.

“You can walk from here,” one sneered.

“Excellent,” Nic said. “Thanks so much for the ride.” As the carriage rode off, he added, “You rancid piles of horse dung.”

Injured, bruised, exhausted, and humiliated, he began the walk across the green fields and forest land that would, further east, intersect with the king's shiny new Imperial Road.

He had no idea how to explain his day to Cleo. Everything about it felt so surreal that, if it weren't for his aching rib cage and a back tooth that now felt a little loose, he would have believed it was all a dream.

He thought he might save some time by taking a shortcut through a thatch of forest. Just as he started to praise himself for his first good idea of the day, a shadow swiftly approached him from either side. Before he knew it, Nic was on his back again, his breath knocked out of him.

“We meet again,” said an oddly familiar voice.

Nic blinked until his vision cleared enough for him to see Jonas Agallon crouching over him, pressing his jeweled dagger against his throat. It was the second time that Jonas had held that very dagger to Nic's flesh.

“You—” he began.

“Don't talk,” Jonas said. “Not yet. I'm going to explain something to you quickly before you speak. Understood?”

The rebel's face was cast in the shadows of the canopy of lush trees overhead. Insects buzzed a constant symphony all around. The heat, combined with all the blood he'd lost earlier that day, made Nic feel close to losing consciousness.

He shot a glance at Jonas's companion: a tall, tanned, and dangerous-looking boy standing with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Finally, Nic's gaze returned to Jonas and he gave a small nod of agreement.

“We've had our differences in the past,” Jonas said. “And seeing you in that red uniform, I'm not sure this conversation isn't going to be a huge waste of my breath, but here it goes. I have friends who are scheduled to be executed tomorrow at midday. I need to save their arses, but I'm running out of options. Despite that uniform, I believe you to be loyal to Cleo. If you're loyal to Cleo, you're not loyal to the Damoras. In fact, I'm going to bet you hate them. Yes or no?”

Nic managed to speak through gritted teeth. “Yes.”

Jonas nodded once, his expression grim. “I want them dead. But first I need to help my friends. And to help my friends, I need assistance from someone trustworthy inside those walls, someone who wears your uniform. I know what's being said about me and what I'm accused of. If I'm recognized, I'll be killed on the spot and my murderer will get a nice fat reward.”

“We gotta get out of here, Jonas,” his companion growled. “Let's speed this up, all right?”

Jonas didn't take his eyes off Nic. “I'll need your help tomorrow. You should know, saying yes may end up getting you killed, but I promise it'll be a damn glorious death. If you say no, I won't kill you. You can go back to your new life at the king's knee. It's got to be your choice. Your answer can seal your destiny, Nic—right here and right now. Are you with me? Or are you against me?”

After this day of beatings and abuse and being made to feel worthless, Nic was finally being given a choice. By someone he'd hated since the moment he'd first learned his name.

A Paelsian savage driven by vengeance.

A rebel leader who'd failed many more times than he'd succeeded.

The alleged murderer of Queen Althea.

The kidnapper of Cleo.

Jonas Agallon was about as trustworthy as a slimy sea snake.

And no decision in his life had ever been easier.

LYSANDRA

AURANOS

S
he remembered when the boys in her village would pick on her when she was six, maybe seven years old. Once, one particularly mean boy had tripped her on her way back from the forest, her arms weighed down with the wood she'd been sent to gather.

She hadn't seen his foot. And she hadn't noticed the mud puddle beneath her until she landed face-first in it, the firewood flying out of her grip and falling into the muddy water after her. Ruined.

“Lysandra's a crybaby,” another boy had taunted as her tears began to flow. His friends joined in his laughter. “Boo hoo! Cry, Lysandra! Cry harder!”

They'd run away when Gregor approached, but she could barely see him through her tears. The firewood was spoiled and it had taken her forever to gather enough dry twigs and branches. Without it, there would be no dinner. No warmth.

She didn't try to get up. She sat there, her skirts soiled, and she cried.

“Stop it,” Gregor had said.

But she couldn't. She couldn't stop crying, no matter how much she'd wanted to.

“Stop it,” he said again, grabbing her wrists and pulling her roughly to her feet. “Stop crying!”

“That boy—he pushed me. He's so mean!”

“And you're surprised? He's mean to everyone who lets him. C'mon, little Lys. I thought you were better than this.”

His words surprised her. “Better?”

“Maybe you
are
a crybaby.”

“I am
not
!”

He shoved her until she staggered back and dropped into the puddle again. She stared up at him with shock.

“You're going to let me do that?” he demanded.

“Wh-what?”

“Get up!”

Shock gave way to anger as she got to her feet. She glared at him, her small fists clenched at her sides, her tears forgotten.

“That's better,” he said. “You don't cry when someone pushes you down. You get up. You get up and you fight back. And pretty soon nobody's going to shove you anymore because they'll see it's not worth it. You won't let anyone push you around and make you cry. Got it?”

At the time, Lysandra didn't understand what he'd been trying to teach her. All she knew was that her skirts were muddy and her mother would be angry that she'd spent so long gathering nothing but dirt.

Get up.
Again and again. There are those who would push you down into the mud and laugh at you. They wanted to see tears. They wanted to see defeat because it made them feel better about their own sad little lives.

But sometimes it was hard to rise back up. Sometimes the mud grew so solid and so thick around you that there was no escape. And the taunting laughter never stopped.

Suddenly, the sting of a slap made her gasp, and Lysandra was pulled out of her memories to find herself staring into the freckled face of Tarus.

“Come on, Lys!” He had her by her shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh. “The guards are coming. I need you.”

“Good,” she whispered. “It's finally time to end this.”

He shook her. “No! You can't give up. It's only us, you know that? Cato and Fabius are dead—they were killed trying to escape. We're the only ones left!”

The news was yet another blow, but she wasn't surprised. Cato and Fabius would have preferred to die fighting, rather than as a spectacle before a crowd.

Safe travels to the ever after, my friends,
she thought, her heart heavy.

She glanced over to the corner where her brother had once slept. Where he'd searched and searched his dreams for his Watcher, hoping she held the answers he'd desperately needed to survive.

A sharp pain now twisted in her chest. Already the memory of his death had settled into her mind like the roots of a dark, malevolent tree, twisting and writhing, choking away all the life, all the hope, until nothing but darkness remained.

They'd killed Gregor in front of her and all she could do was scream.

“Lys, please.” Tarus grabbed her face as she began to tremble. “You've
always
been so strong. Please be strong today.”

“And what will strength accomplish now? We're going to die.”

Now that she'd accepted her fate, a feeling of calm spread through her, numbing her senses. Her heart did not mirror the panic on Tarus's face.

Soon it would be over. All the pain. All the misery. All the misplaced hope.

Soon there would only be silence.

Tarus smacked her again. “Lys! Stay with me!”

How she wished she could share this newfound serenity with him and take away his fear.

The guards entered their cell. They bound their hands behind their backs with rough ropes and led them out of the dungeon. Earlier, the prisoners had been allowed to wash the dirt from their skin and faces and had been given clean clothes for their presentation to the crowd. In her daze Lysandra could vaguely hear the taunts and heckles of the other prisoners they passed, along with a few blessings from those who hadn't yet lost their souls to this cesspit.

The good and the bad—it was easy to ignore every last one of them.

“No fight left,” one guard said to his colleague. “This one had fire in her eyes mere days ago, but it's died out now.”

“Wouldn't help her anyway,” said the other.

They were right. Before, she was made of pure fire and fury. She'd been a girl no one dared push into mud puddles.

It seemed that the King of Blood had killed that girl before her own execution.

They passed the cell holding the nameless girl Lysandra had been forced to fight. Her grimy hands were curled around the iron bars and her expression was vacant.

Lysandra wondered if there had also once been fire in that girl, whose spirit had also clearly been doused forever.

They exited the dungeon and walked straight into the open air. After two weeks of being imprisoned in near darkness, the brightness of the day blinded her. For a moment, all Lys could see was white light, making her squint. She heard the crowd cheer, their chant of “Death to the rebels!” waking her from her daze and chilling her to the core.

As her eyes grew more accustomed to the sunlight, she saw just how many people had gathered in the palace square. There were a countless number of faces and bodies milling about. Conversation buzzed like insects, whispers and murmurs thick in the warm air. Curious stares followed Lysandra and Tarus as they were led to their place of death.

A crowd surrounded the execution stage, cheering louder than anyone else in attendance. Behind them, Lysandra could sense that the larger crowd was beginning to lose its enthusiasm, looking on more quietly and solemnly than those closest to the stage.

At least that was something to hold on to. Perhaps there was still some hope after all, some tiny shred that showed Lysandra that not all of these people were as lost as she'd thought they were.

Limerian guards in crimson uniforms patrolled the crowd, swiftly gathering up and arresting protestors the moment they raised their voices against the king, dragging them away from the spectacle before they could provoke others to do the same.

Lysandra's vision narrowed and she stumbled, causing the guard to hold her more firmly.

“One foot in front of the other, girl,” he muttered. “Make a good show for the crowd and the king.”

The king.

The crowd quieted as the king and his heir approached a raised dais next to the execution stage to witness the proceedings up close.

Something stirred within her, deep down under layer upon layer of grief and defeat. She found she couldn't look away from the monster who'd ordered her brother's death, or from the prince who'd just stood there studying her reaction as Gregor was decapitated.

Trailing close behind King Gaius and Prince Magnus were the two princesses. One was dark haired with a serene expression, and Lys knew her immediately as Princess Lucia Damora, the king's daughter.

The other was blond and familiar.

Lysandra had met Princess Cleo before, when Jonas had foolishly insisted on kidnapping her, believing her to be an asset the king would bargain to retrieve. But plans—especially those made by Jonas—never seemed to work out as expected.

Jonas had been infatuated with this shallow, insipid princess, his head turned by her golden beauty.

Lysandra was sickened to have the princess amongst rebel ranks. And, she had to admit, the way Jonas had looked at Cleo during that week had spiked jealousy in her like nothing ever had before.

But such petty things no longer mattered.

Lysandra looked upward to the balcony to see King Gaius gazing down upon the square. To his right stood Prince Magnus.

She was forced up five steps, the wooden slats creaking beneath her feet, to where the hooded executioner waited. Tarus stood at her side, trembling.

She didn't care what happened to her anymore. But Tarus . . .

He was only fourteen.

Her throat grew tight at the thought of Tarus dying by her side without having been given the barest chance to live a full life.

She looked down at the people who chanted so enthusiastically for her death. There were a hundred of them, maybe, among the thousands here. She studied one fanatical face after another, finding that they looked much the same as anyone else. Yet these were the people who'd chosen to celebrate, rather than somberly observe, this day. Did they really believe this execution to be a just punishment for their crimes? Did they truly think Gaius Damora was a good, honest king who could do no wrong?

Or were they simply cowards, afraid that the same fate could befall them if they stopped chanting and shouting in support of his decisions?

Something heavy and wet hit Lysandra's chest and she staggered back a step. A ripe tomato. She looked down at the messy splatter with surprise and dismay.

“Die, rebel!” yelled the man who'd thrown it.

She stared back at him blankly.
What a waste of a perfectly good tomato.

The king began to address the crowd, the sound of his voice raking against Lysandra's skin, each word a tiny dagger dipped in poison

“The two rebels before us are responsible for the deaths of many Auranians and Limerians alike. Do not feel pity as you gaze upon their young faces. They are dangerous insurgents. They are savages, through and through. They must be held accountable for their actions. May their deaths be a reminder that the laws of the land are there for peace. For prosperity. For a bright future, lived out hand in hand with our neighbors.”

Lysandra yearned for that sweet ease of nothingness she'd felt all day, but the king's words affected her. Her muscles tensed up with hatred and the desire to wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze until the life left his eyes. She'd wanted to kill him ever since he'd torched her village and killed her parents, ever since he'd enslaved the survivors and forced them to build his precious road.

Such lies he spoke. Yet, looking beyond the fanatics in front, a sweep of the faces in the crowd revealed apathy and distaste. Perhaps these people were no longer willing to swallow the king's words like wine that would lull them into a false sense of security.

She looked back to the king. How laughable that this monster was once again making her feel a spark of life just moments before he was to order it over.

She tore her gaze from the king and his hateful family to Tarus, whose tearful eyes met her steady ones.

“I'm not afraid,” he said.

“Of course you're not afraid,” she whispered back. “You're the bravest kid I've ever known.”

He smiled, just as a tear splashed down his cheek. But the smile disappeared at once as a guard curled his mitt of a hand around Lysandra's arm and jerked her to the side.

He dragged her up the four steps to the stage and forced her down to her knees, shoving her cheek down against a hard wooden block.

“Don't watch,” she told Tarus, her voice hoarse as the guard yanked her hair to the side to bare her neck. “Please look away.”

But he didn't. He kept his gaze locked with hers to show he was trying to be strong. For her.

She tried to focus on the dais and on the king who stood watching the proceedings, his expression smug and satisfied. She saw Prince Magnus's scarred cheek twitch, but otherwise he appeared impassive. Princess Lucia stood still behind him, her beautiful face calm and cold.

Princess Cleo, on the other hand, looked frantic, her gaze darting from Lysandra to Tarus to the crowd as if she were a nervous hummingbird searching for shelter.

As the executioner hoisted his heavy ax above his head, Lysandra finally squeezed her eyes shut to block out the sight of the king's followers, who continued to cheer her impending death loud enough to drown out any protests from the back. There was one thing about which the king had been truthful: This wouldn't be a torturous death. It would be over swiftly.

She had no deity to pray to and no faith in the goddesses of other lands, so she thought of her parents and of Gregor and, lastly, of Jonas.

I love you all.

Just as she exhaled one long, last breath, an explosion rocked the stage. Lysandra's eyes snapped back open and she saw a plume of orange flame rise up before her. A dagger flew through the air and caught the executioner in his throat, forcing him to stagger backward and drop hard to the floor. Beneath his hooded mask, Lysandra saw that his dead eyes were still open and filled with shock.

Another explosion bloomed to the left, crashing directly in the center of King Gaius's supporters. Bodies and debris flew through the air, catching fire, the carnage extending into the rest of the audience, who began to scatter in all directions. Now they screamed for their own lives instead of Lysandra's head.

Stunned, Gregor's warning echoed in Lysandra's ears:
“When the sorceress's blood is spilled, they will finally rise. And the world will burn.”