Gathering Darkness (4 page)

He turned to face the girl standing in the shadows and was shocked that he hadn't noticed her immediately. Known as the Golden Princess to the citizens of Auranos, Princess Cleiona's hair was so pale it nearly glowed beneath the moonlight. She had eyes of aquamarine, as vibrant as a lake's surface under a summer sky.

Perhaps he hadn't seen her because her dress was so dark: bluish, like the deepest shade of dusk in the moments just before nightfall.

Cleo emerged from her cloak of shadows and joined him at the balcony's edge. Following his gaze, her eyes locked on Lucia and the visiting prince and princess.

“I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that I've become rather well acquainted with Lucia in your absence,” Cleo said.

“Have you, now.”

“Yes. I might go so far as to call us friends. She's very special, your sister. I see why you love her so much.”

Taken at face value, it was a cordial observation.

But taken another way . . .

Magnus knew that rumors about his unrequited desire for Lucia were circulating the palace. Servants always enjoyed gossiping about people of higher stations. And sometimes they gossiped
to
those of higher stations.

“I'm very pleased to see that Lucia has been up and around the palace during my absence,” he said, ignoring Cleo's unspoken accusations. “Have you met Princess Amara yet?”

“Briefly,” she said crisply and without warmth.

“Is she also to become one of your
friends
?”

Cleo's demure smile remained, but her eyes stayed cold. “I certainly hope so.”

He couldn't help but be amused by this girl. Princess Cleiona Bellos was an incredibly deceptive creature.

But there was something besides lies and passive aggression in her expression tonight. He saw fresh pain there—an edge of it that she couldn't hide.

He waited for her to speak again.

Cleo returned her attention to the garden. “They buried Lord Aron today.”

His mouth went dry. “I heard.”

She played with a long tendril of her hair that had come loose from its pins. “I knew him all my life, through good times and bad. To know he's gone now . . .”

Her grief over the fallen boy was misplaced. Aron deserved neither tears nor heartache from anyone, but Magnus understood grief. He'd felt it himself when his mother was killed. He still felt it, like a dark, bottomless hole in his chest.

Lord Aron had been betrothed to Cleo when, without warning, King Gaius changed their plans and bound Cleo to Magnus instead.

“How did he die?” she asked now, her voice soft.

“While battling the rebels who attacked the road camp we were inspecting.”

“And a rebel killed Aron?”

“Yes.”

Cleo turned and looked at him directly. “He died in battle. That sounds so . . . brave.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Aron was many things, but brave was never one of them.” She turned away. “Perhaps I had him all wrong. If he was courageous in the end—”

“He wasn't.” All the acidity Magnus had felt this evening poured out of him through those two words.

Cleo regarded him with shock.

“Apologies,” he said, attempting to rein in the poison that threatened to leak from him in a horrible gush of truth. “Lord Aron acted in battle exactly according to his experience, which was lacking. He had no chance. I only regret that I wasn't able to save him.”

Such lies. He wondered how she'd react if he told her the truth—that Aron was an insipid bootlicker, a pathetic wimp who'd sooner bow down before a conquering king and do whatever was asked of him without question than defend his or his people's honor.

Aron only got what was coming to him.

Cleo watched him now with a frown.

“This topic has upset you,” she said.

Magnus turned toward the garden to shield his face from her. His sister and the Kraeshians were gone. “I feel nothing other than eagerness to end this conversation. Unless there's anything else you wish to know tonight?”

“Only the truth.”

“Excuse me?”

“I feel that there's something you're holding back.”

“Believe me, princess, even if I were, it's nothing you'd want to know.”

She looked at him intently as he absently brushed his fingers against the scar that stretched from the top of his left cheek to the left corner of his mouth. He despised such close scrutiny.

There was a time when Lucia had been able to see through his masks, the invisible ones he'd perfected over the years to hide his emotions, to keep a necessary distance between himself and those around him. To appear as a younger version of his father. Now that his sister had lost that ability, he had the deeply unnerving sensation that Cleo had learned how to see past his masks as well.

“Tell me more about what happened in Paelsia,” she urged.

He met her gaze again only to find that she'd drawn alarmingly closer to him. “Careful, princess. Remember what happened the last time we shared a balcony. You don't want that to happen again, do you?”

He expected to see disgust flash in her eyes at being reminded of their wedding tour, when they'd been forced to share a kiss in front of an eager, cheering crowd.

Their first kiss and, as he'd promised her at the time, their
last
.

“Good night, Prince Magnus.”

Without another word and only a chill in her voice to indicate her reaction to the memory, Cleo turned and exited the balcony, leaving him alone in the darkness.

LYSANDRA

AURANOS

L
ysandra pounded on the bars of her cell until she finally earned the attention of a passing guard.

“When is Gregor coming back?” she demanded.

“What do you care? Mind your own business, girl. You might stay alive longer.”

Why did she care? Because Gregor was her brother—something the guards didn't know. And because she loved him, and wanted him to be safe and strong so they could escape this overcrowded dungeon stinking of filth and death.

Gregor had been arrested after attempting to assassinate Prince Magnus in Limeros during his wedding tour. He'd claimed to have had contact with an immortal Watcher named Phaedra through his dreams—a confession that most would consider to be the ravings of a madman. But it seemed as though King Gaius didn't share that opinion. Gregor wouldn't have been spared execution for so long if the king didn't believe him valuable.

The guard still stood there, staring at Lysandra through the bars with growing interest.

She glared back at him. “What?”

“Pretty little girl, aren't you? Such prettiness in an ugly place like this.”

“I'm not a little girl.”

Keep looking at me like that
, she thought,
and I will claw out your eyes.

“You're a rebel.” He squinted at her. “Not too many girls I know like to fight.”

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a response, keeping her mouth shut until he left to speak to another guard. Their voices were low, but Lysandra watched as their expressions grew more smug and self-satisfied with every word.

Lit only by torches set into the hallway walls, the darkness of these sunken dungeons was oppressive. The metal bars were coated in slime, the walls caked with filth. The hard dirt floor spread with straw made for an uncomfortable bed during the few fleeting moments Lysandra had been able to sleep since her arrival. Echoing down the corridor were the horrible sounds of other prisoners, those who laughed at nothing, cried at everything, or talked to themselves like men and women who'd lost their minds long before their lives.

It was a nightmare.

But she would stay strong. She had no other choice.

The second guard looked over at her and nodded. “Very well. We need some entertainment today. Get her.”

The first guard unlocked her cell and roughly dragged Lysandra out by her hair. Her first instinct was to fight, but she held back. This might be her chance to escape, and if so, she needed to pretend to be weak and docile. Locked behind the stone walls and iron bars she had no chance, but if he were to take her outside, she might be able to flee—although the thought of leaving without Gregor gutted her.

But he didn't take her outside. The guard led Lysandra down the dim and narrow corridor to another cell. He shoved her through the door and she fell to the floor hard enough to bruise her knees.

Though it was very dark, she knew someone else was in there.

The two guards stood on the other side of the iron bars, grinning. One threw something metallic into the cell and it landed a few paces away from her on the dirt floor.

A knife. She flicked her gaze up to the guard.

“You like to fight, rebel?” he asked. “Give us a show.”

Suddenly, another prisoner came surging out of the darkness, rising to her feet and shoving Lysandra hard in her chest, causing her to stagger back into the wall. She was a girl, taller and more bulky than Lysandra, with a dirty face and matted hair. She snatched up the blade and stared at it for a moment with a wild look in her eyes.

“Go on, then,” the guard urged. “Whoever wins gets to eat today. Let's see some blood.”

The other girl's gaze snapped to Lysandra's. Then, with a cry, she charged at her, clutching the knife.

Lysandra was hungry and weak, but she hadn't lost her mind—not yet. She'd arrived here two days ago with three other rebels who'd survived the battle—Tarus, Cato, and Fabius.

She knew King Gaius had ordered them here to be publicly executed, to be made an example of. She didn't expect to be pardoned for her crimes. And she didn't expect anyone in shining armor to break in to rescue her.

But those had been her expectations her entire life. She was different from other girls who dreamed of strong husbands and a houseful of drooling babies. She'd been a warrior from the beginning. She would be a warrior till the end.

And that end was
not
going to be today.

She dodged the knife easily and shoved the girl away.

“What's your name?” Lysandra asked.

“My name?” the girl said, her gaze narrowing. “Why?”

“I'm Lysandra. Lysandra Barbas.” Introductions could make friends of strangers, and this girl—she wasn't her enemy. They were both prisoners here; they had common ground.

“I don't care who you are.” The girl lacked skill but was determined in her attempts to stab Lysandra.

“Need a little help, rebel?” The guard opened the door and shoved another prisoner in. He was short and skinny and wore a fearful expression.

Before Lysandra had a chance to say anything, the unmarked girl attacked and cut Tarus's arm.

Seeing the gash on his flesh was enough to incite Lysandra. She launched herself at the girl and punched her in the stomach, making her grunt with pain.

“Are you all right?” Lysandra barked at Tarus.

He clutched his injured arm. “Yeah. I think so. Be careful!”

The tip of the blade darted at Lysandra's chest. She dodged it, and this time she punched the girl right in her face. Blood trickled from her nose.

“Stop it,” Lysandra hissed. “You're better than this! Don't give them the show they want. Don't let them win!”

The girl's eyes were red with tears of rage. “I haven't eaten in days!”

“Take her down,” the guard snarled. “Kill her. I've put my silver on you, rebel. Don't make me a loser.”

The girl continued to strike at them relentlessly until Lysandra finally knocked the blade out of her hand and grabbed it for herself. The girl fell hard to the ground and scrambled back into a corner, raising her hands to shield her face as Lysandra drew closer.

“Please! Please, no. Spare me. I'm sorry—I'm sorry!”

“Kill her!” the guard demanded.

Lysandra shot them a look of hatred. “No.”

“She would have killed you.”

“Perhaps. But she doesn't deserve to die just for trying to survive another day in this cesspit.”

The guards stormed into the cell and disarmed Lysandra, then dragged her back to her original cell, throwing Tarus in with her.

“You can keep each other company while you wait for your turn to die.”

In the darkness, Lysandra pressed herself up against the wall with Tarus next to her. He began to sob softly; she put an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer.

“I know this is hard,” she whispered, “but I'll get us out of here. I promise I will.”

“How?”

That was a very good question. “Working on it. Give me time.”

“If Jonas can find us, he'll save us. I know it.”

“Jonas is dead.” The words tasted as bitter on her tongue as they felt in her heart, the cold, painful thought making her eyes sting with endless grief. “If he wasn't killed in the battle, he'd have been captured just like us and we would've seen him or heard about it.”

Tarus's eyes hardened. “I don't believe it.”

“I don't want to believe it either, but holding on to hope that he's going to find us . . .” She let out a shaky sigh. She wouldn't let herself believe in Jonas because she knew she couldn't handle the disappointment if he didn't show. No, she'd rely on herself only, just as she always had.

Silence fell upon them and remained until Gregor was finally brought back, staggering, into the cell. He fell to his knees and Lysandra rushed to his side, taking his face between her hands to make him look at her.

He was dazed, his face bruised and bloody.

Fury ripped through her at the sight of someone she loved so horribly abused.

“Damn it.” She tore a piece of cloth from her shirt and tried to clean his wounds. “Damn them! I'll kill every last one of them!”

“It's all right, little Lys. It'll be over soon.”

Tears began to stream from her eyes and she angrily swiped them away. “Don't say that! We're getting out of here and we'll leave this stinking place far behind us. We found each other again for a reason. We're not going to die here. Just tell them what they want to hear so they'll stop hurting you.”

“There aren't enough truths in the world to get them to do that.”

It pained her to hear the defeat in his voice. This was so unlike the brother she'd grown up with—her rock, someone who showed strength even during the hardest of times. She'd always envied him that, ashamed of her own weaknesses.

“What did they want today?” she asked.

“Same as every other time.” He leaned against the stone wall. “The king wants to know what Phaedra told me about the Kindred. He asks me the same questions again and again, but my answers never satisfy him.”

Not so long ago Lysandra wouldn't have hesitated to tell Gregor he was a fool to believe in immortal creatures from a different world or magic crystals. What a laugh.

But no one was laughing now.

“She'll visit me again,” he whispered. “I know she will. And then she'll tell me what to do.”

Lysandra lowered her voice. “Did you tell them what Phaedra said about the sorceress?”

It pained her even to say such a thing aloud, but it was what Gregor believed. Helping him hold on to his beliefs might give him the strength he needed to hold on to life.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I tried to say as little as I could. I need to be patient. Phaedra will visit me again. She wouldn't abandon me like this.”

If this Phaedra really existed, then Lysandra hated her for what she'd done to her brother. For what she'd said to him.

“When the sorceress's blood is spilled, they will finally rise. And the world will burn.”

Who would rise? There was no such thing as magic, only foolish people who believed in foolish things to better explain what they didn't understand.

“So tell the king that—about this sorceress and her powerful blood,” Lysandra whispered. “Let him scurry off to find some girl to blame! Get the attention off you.”

“You'd wish something horrible like that on someone else?”

She flinched. Would she wish for something cold and brutal to happen to some innocent girl, all to save someone she loves?

She wasn't sure anymore.

Gregor touched his forehead, then brought his hand in front of his face and looked at the smear of crimson on his fingertips. “Blood is the key to all of this, little Lys. Remember that. Blood is life. Blood is magic.”

“If you say so.” She tried to keep her frustration out of her voice. Gregor had been through so much; she only wanted him to rest and regain his strength and his mind. “Do you know the identity of this sorceress your dream-girl told you about? Any idea at all?”

“No,” he admitted. “But she exists.”

Lysandra let out a shaky sigh. “That doesn't help us very much.”

Tarus spoke up from the corner. “My grandmother once told me of a prophecy about a sorceress. One who can wield
elementia
more powerfully than anybody else. She's the one who can recover the Kindred.”

“Your grandmother sounds like a great storyteller,” Lysandra said.

Tarus shrugged. “Maybe it's not just a story. Maybe it's fate.”

Paelsians might not believe in magic, but they did believe in fate. They believed in accepting the harsh realities of life in a land that was wasting away day by day—empty stomachs, dying children—as if such horrors could not be prevented.

Lysandra had never subscribed to such fatalistic beliefs. She knew there was only one person who could change your destiny, and that was yourself.

“Phaedra will visit me again. She'll tell me how to help her.” Gregor's eyes shone with tears, then he squeezed them shut again. Lysandra's heart ached.

“Watchers visit mortals' dreams,” said Tarus, getting Lysandra's attention. “Sometimes. Rarely—I mean, it doesn't happen a lot. But it's possible.”

He must have seen the skepticism written all over her face. Still, Gregor seemed so certain. She couldn't just dismiss his words as the ramblings of an insane person. She might not believe in much, but she believed in her brother.

And all of this was clearly important to the king, which made it important to her as well.

“Why do you think it's possible?” she asked.

Tarus's expression grew pensive. “I met a witch once, an old friend of my grandmother's. She could light the fireplace just by staring at it.”

Lysandra had heard similar accounts but had never witnessed anything like that for herself. “How old were you?”

“Five? Maybe six? But I know it happened.”

Childhood memories wouldn't help them. They needed facts. They needed action, a plan of escape.

Her brother had fallen asleep. Perhaps he was dreaming of beautiful immortals, but she was left awake with a thousand questions and doubts.

“Forget about Watchers, Lys. Jonas will save us,” Tarus whispered. “I know he will.”

She wasn't so sure. But if there were any magic in this world for wishes, that was exactly what she'd wish for.