Immortal Reign

by Morgan Rhodes

  “I agree,” he said, his expression strained. “But Lucia is not here, and we have no way of knowing if or when she will return.”

  “Lucia,” Valia repeated. “Princess Lucia Damora, the prophesied sorceress. Yes, she would be quite helpful, wouldn’t she? I would enjoy meeting her in person. The stories I’ve heard, especially of her travels the last couple of months, are very interesting.”

  Cleo didn’t like this woman. Didn’t like how she looked, how she stood, how she spoke. She didn’t like that Valia had known her father and had turned her back on him when she could have helped during that fateful battle, yet she seemingly felt no sense of responsibility or remorse over his death.

  Valia’s demeanor held an arrogance, a snide confidence that Cleo found repelling.

  But Magnus was right. Lucia wasn’t here. So she would have to swallow her pride and hope very much that this witch could help them.

  “I’ll go first,” Taran said, moving forward to stand between Cleo and the witch. He pulled the sleeve of his shirt up and offered his right arm to her. “Cut me if you need to.”

  “Where is the moonstone orb?” Valia asked. “I think that would help greatly.”

  Magnus and Cleo shared a concerned look. This witch knew a great deal about the Kindred, far more than many others would.

  “I don’t have it,” Taran said. “I gave it to Princess Lucia when she asked for it. Only she’d know where it is right now.”

  “I see.” Valia glanced at Cleo. “And the aquamarine?”

  “The very same,” Cleo lied. “Lucia has all four of them.”

  Her crystal orb was where it always was: in the pocket of her gown, enclosed in a velvet pouch so Cleo wouldn’t have to physically touch it.

  “Very well. We will try to make do without.” Valia nodded and, with Cleo, Magnus, and Ashur looking on, traced the tip of her blade against Taran’s marked skin. It wasn’t a straight cut; she twisted and turned the blade, as if drawing specific symbols upon his flesh.

  Taran didn’t flinch as his blood welled to the surface.

  Valia swiped her hand against his arm and looked down at the blood on her palm.

  “You have made some choices in your life, choices that have caused you great pain,” she said. “What you did to your mother haunts you to this very day.”

  “What is this?” Taran growled. “I’m not looking to have my fortune told.”

  “Your blood is the essence of who you are. It contains your past, present, and future. This is not a simple fortune-telling, young man.” Valia returned her gaze to Taran’s slick blood on her hand. “I can see your jealousy toward your brother: the well-behaved one, the one who followed all the rules. When you heard of his murder, your need for vengeance did not stem only from the love of a brother but from your guilt at turning your back on him to seek your destiny far away. True?”

  Taran’s face had gone pale, making the circles under his eyes look even darker. “True.”

  Magnus cleared his throat. “Let’s move this along, shall we? No need to dwell in the past.”

  “Do you hear the voice inside you?” Valia asked Taran, ignoring the prince. “The one that tells you to let go of your control?”

  A shiver went up Cleo’s spine.

  “Yes,” Taran said, nodding with a jerk of his head. “I can hear it even now. It wants me to go to Kyan. It says it will lead me there if I let it. But I don’t want to. I’d rather die than let this demon inside me take over my body and my life. I want to—”

  He started to tremble then, and his hands flew to his throat as he gasped for breath.

  “He’s suffocating,” Ashur said. “Stop this, Valia. Whatever you’re doing to him, stop it right now!”

  “I’m not doing anything to him,” Valia said, shaking her head. “I see now that I can’t do anything. It’s too late for him—too late for either of them.”

  “Get out,” Magnus growled. “You’ve done enough. Just leave, and don’t come back.”

  “I believe I can still help in other ways,” Valia replied calmly.

  “We don’t want your help! Go now!”

  Cleo grabbed hold of Taran’s face. He was starting to turn a frightening shade of blue. Glowing white lines now spread over his jaw and up his cheeks.

  “Look at me,” she said frantically. “Please look at me! It’s all right. Just try to breathe.”

  Taran held her gaze, his brown eyes filled with pain and fear just before they rolled back and he slipped from her grasp. Ashur was there to catch him before he hit the marble floor. He put two fingers to Taran’s pulse at his throat and then held his hand under Taran’s nose.

  “He’s unconscious, but he’s still breathing,” Ashur said.

  “That witch did this,” Magnus said darkly.

  Cleo looked around to see that Valia had disappeared from the throne room. It was a relief to see she was gone. And it was an even greater relief that Taran was still alive.

  Then she focused her attention on Magnus.

  “You should have told me where you were going last night,” she said. “All of this could have been avoided.”

  His lips thinned. “I was trying to protect you.”

  “You think you can protect me from this?” She wrenched her hair from the left side of her throat. “You can’t. Like Valia just said, it’s too late.”

  “It’s not too late. I refuse to believe that.”

  She didn’t want to fight with him, didn’t want to say anything she’d regret later. “Ashur, please take care of Taran. I . . . I need to leave this place, clear my head. I’ll take Enzo with me for protection.”

  “Where are you going?” Magnus asked as she moved toward the exit.

  She wasn’t sure.

  Somewhere that wasn’t here. Somewhere that would make her think of happier times, times long ago and mostly forgotten.

  Somewhere she could try to regain her strength and focus.

  “To the festival,” she said.

  CHAPTER 22

  MAGNUS

  AURANOS

  Of course, Magnus immediately followed her.

  He watched Cleo and Enzo from beneath the heavy black hood of his cloak, which helped to shield his identity from prying eyes, through the labyrinth of streets filled with citizens in the midst of their celebration. In the bright sun of midafternoon, the gaudy, colorful festival banners and temporary paintings sloshed onto the sides of buildings were impossible to ignore.

  The original Cleiona must have enjoyed her hedonistic lifestyle every bit as much as her current citizens, Magnus thought. Valoria was said to be of much calmer demeanor. She valued silence rather than revelry, calmness and thoughtfulness over drunken debauchery.

  This gave Limerians, as a whole, a sense of superiority over their southern neighbors.

  But Magnus knew not all were as devoted as the law decreed. He’d found a Limerian tavern that secretly served wine to those who asked for it, and surely it was not the only one. Also, a large part of the gold his father had obtained, at least until the expensive war against Auranos had stripped him of any access to his fortune, had come from fines levied against those who did not observe the two days per week of silence.

  Frankly, Magnus couldn’t remember the last time he’d observed them himself.

  He watched Cleo and Enzo pass storefront after storefront: bakers and jewelers, tailors and cobblers. Cleo had not disguised herself in any way, other than by wearing a pair of white silk gloves to cover her water Kindred marks. She greeted all who approached her with a warm smile, allowing them to bow or curtsy before she took their hands in hers and said something kind enough to make them glow with happiness.

  The Auranian people loved their golden princess.

  She deserves their love, Magnus thought, his throat tight.

  After some time had pas
sed and Cleo had spoken to dozens upon dozens of people, Magnus watched her indicate a specific building to Enzo. Enzo shook his head, but Cleo persisted. Finally, he nodded, and the pair disappeared inside.

  Magnus looked up at the sign.

  The Beast.

  He hadn’t recognized it in the stark light of day, but he knew the tavern quite well. He decided it best to remain outside, where he wouldn’t be recognized and he could watch from afar.

  A steady stream of patrons entered sober and left drunk and singing at the top of their lungs, but Cleo and Enzo still didn’t emerge. Magnus’s impatience grew as the afternoon wore on.

  And then concern set in.

  What could be taking so long?

  He crossed the street to the tavern and pushed through the entrance. Inside the Beast, it could be any hour of the day or night. There were no windows to let in the light, so the walls were dotted with lanterns, and a chandelier heavily laden with candles hung from the ceiling.

  The room was packed, every table filled to capacity. Magnus could barely hear himself think over the din of loud conversation blended with a fiddler’s music.

  The placed smelled of cigarillo smoke, alcohol-laden breath, and hundreds of bodies that hadn’t bathed today.

  He wondered with dismay if the tavern had always been like this and he’d simply been too drunk to notice during previous visits.

  Cleo was nowhere to be seen, so Magnus drew his cowl closer to his face and pushed forward through a mass of sweaty bodies dancing to the fiddler’s tune upon a sawdust-covered floor. He grimaced as a scantily clad couple, kissing passionately, stumbled across his path, spilling wine from their goblets onto his leather boots.

  Cleo would wish to spend more than a heartbeat in such a place?

  A bearded man tripped over his own feet and landed hard in front of Magnus. Then, laughing, he immediately sprang up and continued on his way.

  Auranian heathens, he thought.

  The fiddler ended his song to cheers of appreciation from the drunken crowd. He stood up and spoke loudly to be heard over the din: “We have someone who wishes to make a toast to you all! Silence please, allow him to speak!”

  The room quieted, and Magnus saw a flash of a red guard’s uniform out of the corner of his eye. He turned slowly as Enzo, a large tankard of ale in his grip, climbed upon a long wooden table.

  “I’m not sure I want to do this,” Enzo said tentatively. “I think I’ve had far too much to drink today.”

  The crowd laughed as if he’d made the most hilarious joke they’d ever heard.

  “It’s fine!” the fiddler called up to him. “We all have! Speak from your heart in honor of the goddess and her magically sweet breath. Make your toast!”

  Enzo didn’t say anything for a moment, and the crowd began to murmur among themselves as the silence became more awkward.

  Then he raised his tankard high in the air. “To Nerissa Florens, the girl I love.”

  The crowd cheered and drank, yet Enzo was not quite finished.

  “The girl I love,” he said again, “who never loved me! The girl who took my heart, chopped it up into tiny pieces, and threw them into the Silver Sea as she set sail with another man! A man with only one eye, might I add, when I have two perfectly fine eyes! Goddess, how I hate him. Do you know what she told me? ‘It’s my duty,’ she said. Her duty!”

  Magnus stared up at the guard. He’d known Enzo to be very loyal, very quiet, and very subdued—until now.

  Just how much ale had he drunk since they’d arrived?

  Enzo continued. “If any of you know Felix Gaebras, and I’m sure many of you do, he’s not to be trusted.”

  Surely, he had to be finished now, Magnus thought.

  Enzo stomped his foot, sending several tin plates flying from the surface of the table. “Nerissa does not value commitment, she says! This she told me many times, but what am I to believe? That her attentions were only temporary? That her kisses were meaningless?” His voice broke. “Does she not know my heart is shattered by her absence?”

  Magnus’s gaze moved over the crowd as Cleo, her blond hair trailing behind her, hurried toward Enzo.

  “Please come down from there, Enzo,” Cleo implored.

  Seeing her loosened some of the tightness in Magnus’s chest.

  “The golden princess wishes to make a toast as well!” the fiddler announced.

  Cleo waved her hands. “No, no, I don’t. I’m just trying to retrieve my friend before he says something he will deeply regret.”

  “If you ask me,” Enzo said loudly, ignoring the princess entirely, “I think there was something curious going on between Nerissa and the empress. Yes, you heard me correctly. Something much more than an attendant and a ruler.” He took a deep drink from his tankard before raising it again. “You know what they say about Kraeshians.”

  “What?” someone called out. “What do they say about Kraeshians?”

  “That the only cold bed for a Kraeshian is their deathbed.” Enzo’s shoulders then slumped, as if he’d just run out of his last bit of energy. “My gratitude to you all for joining me in this toast.”

  The crowd fell completely silent for a moment before they cheered again, and the fiddler started his next song.

  Magnus approached Cleo as she helped Enzo down from the tabletop.

  “That was . . . fascinating,” he said, no longer interested in keeping his presence unknown.

  Cleo spun to face him. “You followed us!”

  “I did. If I hadn’t I wouldn’t have heard such intriguing gossip about your favorite attendant.”

  “Enzo’s drunk,” Cleo explained. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  Magnus eyed the guard. “I see that the princess has managed to corrupt you to her Auranian ways in a shamefully short amount of time.”

  Enzo leaned heavily against a nearby wall. “Your highness, I don’t think—”

  “Clearly there was a profound lack of thinking here. Your one job is to keep Cleo safe, not to publicly and drunkenly pine away for your lost love.”

  Enzo opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to protest, but Magnus raised his hand.

  “You’re dismissed for the rest of the day. Go . . . drink as much as you see fit. Find another girl to help take your mind off Nerissa. I’m sure there are plenty under this very roof who would be willing to help. Do whatever you wish, as long as it’s out of my sight.”

  Enzo’s gaze flicked to Cleo with uncertainty for a moment before he bowed deeply, nearly losing his balance. “Yes, your highness.”

  Magnus watched him disappear into the crowd before Cleo turned a glare on Magnus.

  “That was rude,” she said.

  “Your point?”

  “Enzo has earned respect.”

  “Not today he hasn’t.” Magnus crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, what to do about you?”

  Her pale eyebrows lifted. “I would strongly suggest you don’t try to order me around.”

  “If I did, I certainly wouldn’t expect you to listen,” he growled.

  “Good.”

  Magnus reached for her left hand, and she didn’t pull away. He ran his thumb over the silk glove. “Hiding it doesn’t change what is happening.”

  Cleo looked down at the floor. “It helps me forget for a few moments so that I can try to feel normal again.”

  Magnus was about to respond, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face a woman with a large bosom looking at them with a wide, toothy smile.

  “Yes?” he said.

  Her smile widened further. “You two make such a lovely couple.”

  “Much gratitude,” Cleo said to her tightly.

  “Seeing you here,” the woman said, “together, celebrating with us all. It warms the heart.”

  “Indeed,” Magnu
s said drily. “Please, don’t let us keep you any longer from your . . . fun.” He took Cleo by her upper arm and moved her a safe distance away. “We’re leaving.”

  “I’m not ready to go yet. I like it here.” She glanced around at the dingy tavern.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I’ve never been here before.”

  “I have.” He took in the surroundings, as memories—mostly unclear—flooded back to him. “It was right before I found you in the temple that night.”

  She frowned, her gaze growing faraway. “When I offered you a tentative alliance, but you were too drunk to listen to me, and then you spent the night in Amara’s bed.”

  He grimaced. “Actually, it was my bed. And I had greatly hoped not to be reminded of that unfortunate mistake ever again.”

  Cleo’s annoyed expression eased. “Apologies. It’s behind us, just as many troubles are.”

  “Good,” he said. He searched her face. “Do you really want to stay here?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Let’s go back to the palace.”

  The fiddler ended his song and announced that there was someone who wished to make another toast.

  “I certainly hope it’s not Enzo again,” Magnus muttered.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone climb up onto the very same table that Enzo had used as a makeshift stage, a silver goblet in his hand.

  “My toast is to Prince Magnus, the rightful heir to his father’s throne!” the painfully familiar voice called out. “A true friend and—believe me when I say this—a true survivor.”

  “Magnus . . .” Cleo’s grip on his arm became painfully tight.

  Heart pounding, Magnus turned on his boot heels to face Lord Kurtis, whose cold gaze was fixed on him.

  Kurtis raised his goblet. “Cheers to Prince Magnus!”

  The crowd cheered and clinked their glasses again, drinking deeply, before the fiddler filled the noisy air with music.

  The former kingsliege descended from the table and headed toward the exit.

  “Magnus—” Cleo began.

  “Stay here,” he bit out.

  Without another word, Magnus took off after Lord Kurtis.