She wanted to smell the cool sea breeze of the evening surf.
She wanted to sit on the steps of the Salted Pearl sipping mulled elvish wine with Hadrian while a bonfire burned on the sand, tended by Ol’ One-Hand. It didn’t matter if Tom’s story changed every time he told the tale, each retelling of how he’d lost it more adventurous than the last.
All she wanted was to hear the story one more time. Any story would do, no matter how colorfully it varied from the last. What she wanted, what mattered most, was gathering with friends and the people she had considered her only family.
Rosalia shoved those thoughts aside and turned off the main street, a shortcut that took her into blessed shade and offered a reprieve from the punishing sun.
A chilly breeze swept through the alley that had no place cooling even a late Enimuran summer day. The cold sliced through the many layers of her plum and gold dress, and an involuntary shiver chattered her teeth.
Needles of apprehension danced down her spine, every one of her senses telling her something was amiss.
Something is wrong.
Picking up speed, she hurried from the alley onto a busy merchant street. Sapphire Lane was occupied by no fewer than a dozen up-and-coming jewelers and metalsmiths hoping to peddle their inexpensive, crudely made designs. The feeling persisted, a sense of wrong so powerful she abruptly halted and jerked around to look behind her.
Even worse than that, she realized they’d lost the sun, and the cold sensation persisted. Above her, clouds billowed in from the ocean and settled, heavy, gray, and oppressive above the city, though the scent of rain was absent and they provided only darkness.
Colder. Chilly. Unforgiving cold slid around her body. It may as well have been the peak of their winter nights, when the desert became all but uninhabitable.
“Madam? Is all well?” a strange man to her right asked.
“F-fine.”
Around her, she saw a woman drawing her shawl around her shoulders. Her breath fogged the air.
“What a strange and unusual chill for this time of year.”
“Yes,” she agreed, tingles of magic igniting like a fire fed splashes from a bucket of kerosene.
“Alms, dear? Alms?” a whisper came from her right.
Rosalia glanced up toward the voice. A bedraggled woman in rags stood beside her with a skeletal hand extended, her wrinkled skin blemished and liver spotted but too pale for the season.
No, not pale, Rosalia thought. Void of life. Dying. The blackened tips of each spindly finger led to white-blue flesh lacking proper circulation. The longer she looked upon the woman, the more apparent it became that something was wrong and that the piercing gaze of blue peering at her from beneath the tattered hood was as unnatural as the frigid air wafting from her.
Something is wrong with her.
Something so painfully wrong with the other woman that Rosalia struggled to break eye contract. A hand that should have been fragile as dry tinder clamped around her wrist. The touch burned and every point of contact between them sang out in scalding agony. She tried to jerk her hand free, but the woman only leaned forward and grinned with cracking, leathery lips framing yellow teeth.
“What’s wrong, dearie?”
“Let go of me!”
“In a rush, are you?” the voice no longer appeared to come from the woman, and instead came on the wind, surrounding Rosalia.
The old woman’s hood fell back to reveal the rapid decay of her face, skin and tissue breaking down to reveal the body had been only a shell. With a scream, the true creature broke free of its flesh shackles, bright and vivid cobalt eyes burning in a face carved from ice.
Rosalia found herself face-to-face with a wailing banshee. The force of a blizzard buffeted against her face, forcing her backwards. Raw power lifted her from the ground and slammed her into the edge of a shop cart. Pain exploded in her back and ebbed through her spine. She writhed on the ground and fought for breath.
The bitter cold stung her nose and her cheeks. Someone screamed not far from her, though she couldn’t see the source of it through the fat snowflakes in the air that materialized with the foul creature’s breath. She did not stink of death and decay—the being smelled of nothing at all but frost. Whatever remained of the shell continued flaking away in particles of freeze-dried dust breaking apart in the wind.
Winded and hurting, Rosalia forced her knees beneath her and darted her gaze toward the sound of her assailant. A blanket of snow had descended, blocking out everything farther than a few inches beyond the tip of her nose.
She blinked rapidly and squinted through the snowy scene until the silhouette of a female body came into view, striding toward her at a slow, measured pace.
The most terrifying vision she’d ever seen emerged from the whiteout. Pale skin lacking any warmth encased a frame that was sexless, but not without the feminine curves of a woman’s body. Bloodless and seeming carved from alabaster encased in ice, the creature approached with murder in haunted eyes gleaming with a sepulchral light.
Everything in Rosalia’s senses told her to run, self-preservation urging her to flee.
“You,” it hissed as Rosalia stumbled back.
“What do you want with me?”
“Because of you, this is my fate,” the winds howled. “Because of you, I cannot rest!”
On any other day, before the absolute corruption of the crown and city watch was exposed to her, Rosalia would have wondered where the city watch had gone and why the streets were strangely absent of law enforcement. Now, she knew better than to expect them to arrive and offer her help. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never met you.”
“My soul can never rest. I am cursed to wander for eternity until you are dead!” the winds shrieked, each gust ripping Rosalia’s silks and tearing her skin with particles of ice sharper than diamond shards.
Once, it had been an elf. Rosalia saw similarities in the bone structure, the slim face, chiseled cheekbones, and the long ears. Magic buzzed around it again.
The bitter cold seeped into her bones. Tears blurred her vision.
So cold.
She couldn’t move. The unrelenting wind buffeted her face and flowed around her, encasing her within a thin, thin layer of ice. Rosalia struggled to burst free. Every inch may as well have been a mile. Her arms were so heavy.
Exhaustion told her to shut her eyes.
3
Opportunity
Chapter 3
The wizard in black had tapped all of his resources, and none had provided the information he needed. He remained behind the desk staring into a scrying ball that provided no information, for his target had a magical gift equal to or better than his own. To admit such a thing would be considered weakness by some, but Caius believed it a necessity of survival.
A necessity of war and conquest, as well. If he wanted to defeat his enemies, he couldn’t risk underestimating them.
For that reason, nothing surprised him about the absence of the Black Jackals and their failure to report. Their leader had promised a scout would at least check in to alert them of any progress. They had not received even that.
“It’s been three days since the Black Jackals entered the sewers to begin their hunt,” Caius muttered, rubbing his goatee. “Do you suppose it’s safe to assume we won’t have to pay the remainder of their extermination fee?”
“It would be wise to presume they are dead,” Lacherra said, shrugging. “They did, after all, choose to go up against a rainbow dragon.”
“They were the best fucking hunters across the sea. If they couldn’t do it, what luck do we have of slaying this thing?”
“You’re the wizard,” she said smoothly, chuckling as she pushed off her seat on the edge of the desk, her boot soles soundless on the carpeted floor. “I leave that up to you. For now, we should attend our gracious and benevolent monarch. He sent me to fetch you.”
Caius flew out of his chair. He hated himself for that, as much
as he hated the sly smile curving her mouth and the unconcealed amusement dancing in her eyes. “Blasted woman, why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“What difference would it have made?” Her eyes rolled. “He’ll have assumed you were in some delicate magical ritual, as I implied you might be. Working hard in his name, for his benefit, to acquire a jewel no one else has come close to but us.”
“Ah.” And that was why he trusted her—in some small degree. Caius knew he could never truly place his trust in her and that if it ever came down to a choice between his life and hers, she would choose her own skin every time. But in this, she had no reason to betray him. She needed his magic as much as he needed her stealth and subterfuge. Their partnership was one of convenience, and he could never let down his guard and forget that she’d just as readily cut his throat as she’d sold out her husband to save her own skin.
Lacherra had done more than that, though, hadn’t she? For riches and wealth beyond imagination, as well as a title among the peerage, she’d turned over the entire criminal underworld of Enimura. He had to respect a woman with her priorities in order as much as he feared what she was capable of doing. For her role in bringing down the city’s worst, she’d arisen with a new identity as a duchess. Anyone who knew her true identity had died.
And if some had escaped, Caius imagined it wouldn’t be long before her dagger found them one dark and quiet night, sliding between their ribs in an alleyway, or perhaps after they’d entered their residence and thought they were safe and sound.
He found the thief unnerving, the way she quietly flitted from room to room as if she were a wraith.
When he moved for the door, she slipped from the room ahead of him and waited as he secured the study behind him. He cocked one brow, but her cunning smile provided all the answer he needed.
This was to be a meeting between three people.
A meeting where Lacherra was present could only be to discuss two matters—the king wanted faster results, or he was aware of their failure and would demand answers.
Another reason existed that he didn’t want to consider, but prepared for just the same.
Caius fingered the marble concealed in his sleeve. He was no master when it came to sleight-of-hand, but he’d learned enough to suit his purposes years ago. Back then, he’d been but a young child on the streets prior his admittance as a pupil in the school of magic.
And afterward too, when that bitch Elora stripped him of his rights to an education, making a pariah of him merely for demonstrating keen wit and curiosity above their other students. He’d expected her of all his associates to understand the value of delving into the hidden mysteries. But from her, there had been only judgment.
The marble became a comforting weight, a single prepared spell to be released the moment he flushed it with a charge of magic. One thought. One thought and he’d obliterate them all.
Gregarus awaited them in the throne room, the overbearing monarch in the company of his knight, as predicted. As always, the room was cold and foreboding, heavy with the ever-present feeling of doom that emanated from the giant of a man standing to the king’s right. The king dripped with riches, jewels glittering on his fingers from numerous rings, his crown freshly polished and gleaming upon a dark-haired head touched with silver strands. More crept into the king’s beard. He was no longer a young man, yet his bridal hunt had been met with marked success within the kingdom. After Caius read their expressions and the easygoing posture of the knight, he relaxed.
They meant him no harm this day.
He stole a glance at Lacherra to find she’d taken a casual leaning stance against a marble support pillar midway up the length of the throne room, the long-legged beauty cleaning beneath her nails with the tip of a dagger. Yet another habit she’d have to break if she was to enter the peerage, for no true lady would do such a thing.
He also suspected any other lady would have treated the king with far more grace and respect, but he’d come to see her as different from the sniveling upper class falling over one another for the next chance to wipe the monarch’s ass with their lips. Either the woman was truly fearless, or she believed in her ability to escape any situation.
It may have been a combination of both, and for that reason, Caius took care to stay on her good side. The ones without fear were always the most dangerous. The ones without fear had nothing to lose, especially when they’d set fire already to all they owned.
And he especially needed her on his side if the true plan was to come to fruition.
“Apologies for the delay, sire,” Caius said insincerely, playing the part of a repentant and loyal servant. His cordial demeanor and deep bow concealed the utter disdain churning in his gut. Their monarchy deserved a ruler willing to dirty his hands, to do what was necessary without ordering others to the task.
“I care not of delays,” the king said, alleviating Caius’s chief concern with unexpected magnanimity.
The spymaster relaxed. “Splendid. Then—”
“I care for results,” Gregarus interjected sharply, “I care to know why you have yet to give me any.”
“Your Maj—”
“Why neither of you have produced. I thought together the two of you would provide what I needed in record time, but I seem to be mistaken. This entire endeavor to recover the jewels has only set the kingdom back several thousand in gold coins. When I hired you to work together, was it not promised to me that the Legacies and mirror would be acquired and brought to me in record time?”
“Sire—”
Gregarus cut his hand through the air. His features were granite and hard, his narrowed eyes without pity. “I am speaking.”
Caius sucked air between his teeth.
“I did not summon you both for excuses. Promises were made to me that these treasures would be in hand. I was told the dragon would be handled, that the misfit girl would be slain, and yet you are here, preparing to give me excuses. More excuses for your failures. How much longer until you give me what is mine?”
Lacherra said nothing, though the blade was gone and she stood at attention, her unnerving gaze focused on the king. She’d moved to stand beside Caius with a straight spine lacking the rigid bearing of his own posture. Her silence spoke a thousand words.
Leaving it to me, then? As if capable of reading his thoughts, her gaze slid to him. Dark eyes penetrated like nails, appraised him, and spoke volumes without words. So be it. Then he spoke for them both and put on a patient smile. “Begging your pardon, sire. Have we not delivered several of your sought-after treasures in this time? The Light is ours.”
“One treasure of five,” the king said brusquely, without excitement. “There are five treasures to be regained. One behind the magic academy’s walls, another in that godsforsaken desert with the savages. How will you gather them?”
Caius darted his gaze to Sir Henric and saw the stalwart bodyguard had not moved. A good sign. The marble awaiting detonation within his robe sleeve became a leaden weight, heavier by the second with the temptation to let it blow before the others made their move. But he couldn’t be too hasty, and mentally cautioned himself to have patience.
“Consider that there are two in our possession,” Lacherra spoke up. “I have absolute faith in the acquisition of the Luck of Islenja. It will be yours when the time comes.”
“And the others?”
“They will come to us. The girl and her dragon also seek them. The mage tower cannot be overtaken without significant losses. Trust me, King Gregarus, when I say that there is no great need to spend resources seeking the remaining jewels when our foes will do it for us. We merely need to await the opportunity for the jewels to fall into our hands.”
4
Black Art, White Light
Rosalia had never felt so miserable in all her life, but she’d also never experienced a blizzard. The closest she came was protecting herself in layers against Saudonia’s desert winter nights, but Hadrian had always charmed her gear with w
arming enchantments.
Now she understood why. The cold was no friend to her.
I can’t let it end this way.
Freezing at the edge of a marketplace alley wasn’t how Rosalia thought she would die, not that death often crossed her mind during her earlier years as a thief when she’d shown the innate talent for relieving individuals of their valuables. Then, she’d often felt invincible, and even during the close calls when the guards were on her heels, she’d arrogantly felt certain she would always scrape by. That sense no longer existed, a void of uncertainty and terror lurking where pride and ego once resided. Desperately she resisted the cold, even as ice blanketed her limbs in a translucent sheen. She fought to open her eyes again, fought to keep her surroundings in her awareness and to watch the creature closing in on her.
The icy abomination moved with fearless grace, flurries of snow drifting in her wake. Ice frosted over the windows of the storefronts lining the street. No other civilians traveled the streets. They’d vacated immediately, their fading shouts of, “Guards! Guards! Please help!” and frantic cries now blended into the city’s usual noise pollution. The most distant scream for help seemed a thousand miles away.
Cold crept into her soul. For the first time since Xavier had introduced her to the little spark, she felt it threatened to extinguish.
The spark, a small voice whispered at the back of her thoughts, though it sounded older, more mature, not like her own internal thoughts at all. Find the spark. Reach within and find the spark.
Xavier’s lessons may as well have been decades ago, sluggish as her mind was at that moment, fighting against frost and relentless blizzard winds, but with gradual focus a flicker of memory ignited a single ember. Memories returned to her.
Her mother had been a creature of living fire with a wild flame extinguished only by death. And somewhere, that same fire resided in her. She only needed to nourish and fan the feeble embers until they were the same inferno she’d felt sweltering within her chest during that dance.
Diamond in the Rough: a Fantasy Romance (Daughter of Fortune Book 3) Page 2