Gathering Darkness

  It was all going according to the king’s plan.

  Or perhaps his father had begun to enjoy music and banquets and golden thrones more than he’d ever admit out loud.

  “My wife? I don’t know where she is,” Magnus replied, taking a sip of his wine and beckoning a serving girl over to refill his goblet. He looked around the room again. All the faces blended together, and he couldn’t see the pale golden color of Cleo’s hair anywhere in the crowd.

  “I’m sure she’s very happy to have her new husband back by her side after such a long time apart,” Amara said.

  “It wasn’t all that long.” Quite frankly, not nearly long enough, he thought.

  “Even a single day apart is far too long for two young people in love,” Ashur said.

  The wine Magnus had drunk nearly rose in his throat. “What a delightful sentiment, Prince Ashur. I had no idea you were a romantic.”

  “Ashur is the most sought-after bachelor in all of Kraeshia.” Princess Amara hooked her arm through her brother’s. “He’s refused several potential brides. Father fears he’ll never settle down.”

  “What can I say?” Ashur replied. “True love has yet to find me, and I’ll settle for nothing less.”

  “Which makes you that much more desirable. Even here, you’ve easily managed to capture every woman’s attention.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “If you’ll excuse us,” King Gaius interjected, “I must have a word alone with my son. Please, enjoy the rest of the banquet.”

  “Much gratitude, your highness,” Amara replied. Touching Magnus’s arm, she said, “I hope to see you again soon.”

  Magnus smiled and, despite the girl’s unquestionable beauty and grace, the gesture felt so false it was actually painful. “I insist that you do.”

  As Magnus followed the king out of the crowded room, several guests tried to catch his attention, offering greetings and congratulating him on his victory in Paelsia, where he thwarted the rebels from halting the construction of the Imperial Road.

  Magnus then noticed the sharp glare of Nicolo Cassian, the young palace guard stationed by the great hall doors.

  “Did you keep her warm for me while I was away?” Magnus said to him in passing, feeling the first flicker of pleasure all day as Nic’s expression grew more hateful, his face turning so red it almost matched his hair.

  Nic would really have to learn to control his emotions if he wanted to stay out of trouble.

  The foolish boy was in love with Cleo. And, as far as Magnus knew or cared, Cleo felt the same toward him. Yet he sincerely doubted that Cleo’s eye could be caught by a lowly guard, even one she considered a friend.

  The king took him to the throne room, a grand hall with high ceilings and chiseled marble steps that led to an enormous and ornate golden throne studded with rubies and sapphires. The Auranian tapestries and banners that had previously hung above the throne had been discarded for those of Limeros, but the room had otherwise remained just as it was when King Corvin Bellos ruled this affluent kingdom.

  The king’s guards stood just outside the heavy doors, leaving them alone in the cavernous room.

  Magnus regarded his father in silence, willing himself to stay calm. He didn’t want to speak first for fear he’d say something he’d regret.

  “We have a problem, you and I,” the king said as he took a seat upon the throne.

  A breath caught in Magnus’s chest. “What do you mean?”

  “The Kraeshians.” The king’s expression soured, his features turning sharp and unpleasant in an instant. “Those little fools think I don’t know why they’re here. But I do.”

  This was not what Magnus had anticipated. “And why are they here?”

  “They’re here on behalf of their emperor father, who hungers for more power and destroys everything in his path to get it.”

  “Is that so? And what do you propose to do about it?”

  “I will let nothing disrupt my plans. And if those two spies find out how close I am to seizing my treasure, I know they’ll try to steal it.”

  Worry and doubt flooded his father’s eyes. Magnus had never before seen such weakness in him, this man whose confidence was perpetually blinding, no matter what he was saying or doing.

  The king had lofty goals to match his incessant greed and ruthlessness. He sought the Kindred, the four crystals that held the essence of elementia—elemental magic. They were lost a millennium ago, but any mortal who possessed them would become a god.

  Magnus had seen magic side by side with death in the shadows of the Forbidden Mountains, and he knew with deep certainty the Kindred were real.

  And they would be his, not his father’s.

  “Anyone who would dare try that would surely regret it, no matter who they are,” Magnus said.

  The king nodded, and the shadow of uncertainty faded. “The battle at the camp—I’ve been told you handled yourself well. Sometimes I forget how young you are.”

  Magnus bristled. “I’m eighteen.”

  “Eighteen is still very young. But you’ve grown so much this last year. I can’t tell you how proud I am of all that you do, of all that you’ve had to endure and rise above. You are everything I ever dreamed you would be, my son.”

  There was a time when hearing such words from his father would have been like receiving a sip of water just before dying of thirst.

  Now, after everything he’d learned, he knew this was only a manipulation uttered by the man Magnus hated more than anyone else in the world.

  “Thank you, Father,” he said tightly.

  “I was disappointed to hear of my kingsliege’s fate.” Before Magnus could comment, the king continued. “But he was unskilled in battle. It’s no surprise he fell so easily to a rebel’s blade.”

  The image of Aron Lagaris’s pale face and glossy, dead eyes flitted through Magnus’s mind.

  “He will be missed,” he said evenly.

  “Indeed.”

  The king stood up and descended the stairs to stand face-to-face with Magnus. Magnus fought back the urge to reach for his blade. He had to be calm.

  “Melenia hasn’t contacted me in weeks.” The king’s voice held frustration as he spoke of the mysterious immortal who allegedly advised him in his dreams. “I don’t know what she’s waiting for, and I need to know how to use Lucia’s magic to light our path. After all this time, your sister can still barely control her elementia and I can find no one trustworthy enough to tutor her.”

  “Lucia’s prophecy remains true. She is the one who will lead you to the Kindred, not Melenia. Lucia is the key to all of this and I will always have faith in her—more than anyone else.”

  His words stuck in his throat all the more because they were the truth.

  He still believed in Lucia, even if she no longer believed in him.

  The king clasped Magnus’s shoulders. “Of course, you’re right. Lucia will lead the way. It is my destiny to possess the Kindred’s magic for myself.”

  No, Father, Magnus thought. My destiny.

  “I’ll keep an eye on the Kraeshians,” he said. “If they show any sign of wanting what’s ours, we can deal with them together.”

  The king nodded and pressed his hand against Magnus’s scarred cheek, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Yes. Together.”

  Magnus left the throne room. He walked swiftly down the hall until he reached a place where he could pause, unseen by his father, and will himself to stop shaking with anger. With frustration. The need to avenge his mother’s murder and bring his father to justice crawled over his skin like ants.

  The wine he’d had was no help at all; it had only blurred his vision and his mind.

  He needed air. Badly.

  He continued down the hallway until he found an exit to a large balcony overlooking the palace gardens. Ill
uminated only by moonlight, even he had to admit they were excruciatingly beautiful. The sweet scent of roses wafted up to where he stood on the balcony, about thirty feet above. His shoulders hunched, he clutched the cool marble banister and inhaled.

  Suddenly, a small movement caught his eye. Down in the gardens, along the mosaic pathway winding its way through the lush area, he saw three figures: his adopted sister, Lucia, walking with the Kraeshian prince and princess.

  He found he could not look away.

  “Someone looks rather unhappy tonight.”

  The voice cut through his concentration and tightened the muscles in his back.

  Without turning around, he said, “I thought I was alone out here.”

  “And yet, clearly, you’re not.”

  “I would like to be alone out here.”

  “I’m sure you would. But I was here first. Actually, I was here for sixteen years before you arrived and murdered practically everyone I know and love, so I believe that definitely grants me the right to this particular balcony.”

  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.

  CHAPTER 3

  LYSANDRA

  AURANOS

  Lysandra 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.