Traitor's Crown (Stones of Terrene Book 3)

by RJ Metcalf

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Christopher

  Christopher lay on his back, the hard cot making his muscles ache, but he didn’t move as he relished the sense of mental freedom. It felt like he’d been cooped up in a small room all his life, and was now given endless plains to run free on. He hadn’t realized how much of his existence had been based off lies, big and small, just how deeply the Elph had compelled and manipulated him. Who’d ordered him to like broccoli? Why? And when had he been told the truth that Lord Sephirn didn’t care if the team lived or died? And who ordered Christopher to forget that? Why couldn’t Christopher remember details like who gave certain orders, yet he could remember the training he’d received for assassinations?

  How much of his life was a lie?

  What could he do to thank Brandon for freeing his mind? He racked his brain to try and think of something that would be helpful. Was there more for him to remember? He’d already shared what Victor was planning for the Hollows and how Titus was bonded. Christopher’s brain froze on that thought.

  Victor.

  He knew where Victor was hiding. The safe houses that Victor had told him about.

  Christopher shot to his feet and within two steps gripped the bars of his window. “Hey!” He yelled, his voice echoing down the hall and up the stairs. “Hey! I need to talk to King Brandon!”

  “Shut up!” A guard bellowed back.

  Christopher grabbed the heavy metal cup that his soup had arrived in. He banged it against the bars. “Brandon! I need to talk to him! It’s important!”

  A trim guard with short hair stomped up to Christopher’s window, scowling. “What’s so important that you think he’d talk to you?”

  Christopher stopped banging the bars. “Please, it’s about the assassinations. I just remembered something important for him to know.”

  “Tell me.” The guard’s eyes gleamed.

  “I don’t know if I can trust you.” Christopher shook his head, desperation vibrating his blood. Who knew if Victor was going to cut his losses and send someone after Christopher soon? He had to get this information to Brandon, quick. “Send someone I can talk to. Please.”

  The guard rolled his eyes as he backed away from Christopher’s cell. “No guarantees, veeb.”

  Christopher paced his cell. Would the guard tell Brandon? Make Christopher wait for days on end? His heart seized in his chest. Days would allow for Victor to leave town, if he wanted. Anything could happen in that much time.

  The gate creaked, and Christopher whirled to watch his tiny window out into the hallway, into freedom. Two men came into view and Christopher immediately recognize Prince Weston and his burly bodyguard. “You’re not King Brandon.”

  “No,” Weston’s voice was almost agreeable, even as his eyes shone with barely-concealed anger. “I’m not. I am Prince Weston Windsor of Aerugo. You tried to kill my mother.”

  Christopher bowed his head, hope sinking in his chest. Would the prince demand retribution now, forcing all of Christopher’s knowledge to die with him?

  “For what it’s worth, Your Highness, I am sorry about that.” Christopher dropped his gaze in a sign of humility. “I was under compulsion. But I’m not now.”

  Weston nodded. “I know. Brandon told me.”

  A small sliver of hope wormed into Christopher’s heart like a gleaming silver ribbon. He tried not to grab onto it. “I need to talk to King Brandon.”

  Weston shook his head. “He’s out of town.”

  Christopher stared in disbelief. “Out of town?”

  “He’s heading for the Hollows right now. He’s leading an army against the blood-bonded there.”

  Concern for Brandon’s safety choked that silver sliver of hope in Christopher’s heart. What would happen to him if Brandon died? Would the compulsions that had been on Christopher for so long come back? Would he be under Brandon’s compulsion still? Ordered to be free?

  “But what were you hoping to tell Brandon?” Weston narrowed his eyes. “How would you know so much that’s worth it for us?”

  Christopher braced his hand against the cold stone wall, staring at the seam between wall and floor. “It was never expected that there’d be someone in rank higher than Kaius or Victor here, so they didn’t withhold information. Why would they, when all they had to do was order us to not say anything to anyone, and without fear of a higher ranked or equally ranked Elph to command us to share?” Bitterness laced Christopher’s words. “It’s not like we have a choice.”

  Weston made a little noise in the back of his throat, and Christopher glanced up, meeting Weston’s gaze. “So of course I know much, and now that the king has freed me, I am happy to help tear down the old regime.”

  Weston exchanged glances with his guard. “I’m listening.”

  “I know where Victor’s safe houses are. If you give me a pen and paper, I can write down the directions to each one.” Christopher wet his lips and loosed a breath. “All I ask, is that you try to avoid killing my friends. They’re bonded under Victor as well, and if Brandon can free them too, I would be most appreciative.”

  Weston straightened. “We’ll get you the supplies needed right away.” His hand dropped to his sword hilt, his mouth set in a grim line. “We’ll hunt him down as soon as you get those directions to us.”

  * * *

  Christopher stared at the paper on his makeshift desk, trying to think of any other details he could give Prince Weston. The moment the ink had dried on Christopher’s map, Weston and his bodyguard had raced up the steps of the prison, intent on capturing Victor. Would Victor and Christopher’s team still be at the current house? Would they have relocated? What would Victor do, once he realized that Christopher had betrayed him?

  Christopher rubbed his jaw and glowered at the paper. No good would come of his “what if” questions. At this point, his only option was to move forward with whatever he was permitted to do from prison. And if he could have any hand in preventing war, preventing further loss of innocent life, preventing all the others who’ve been blood-bonded from being used …

  Used like he’d been.

  Like his family that tried so hard to avoid such a fate.

  How could they have succeeded in hiding away, when facing the might and stubbornness of the Elph?

  He shivered and rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to stave off the chill in his prison cell. The last two nights had been cooler, and his blanket was just as thin as ever. It reminded him all too vividly of his childhood home, of the winter nights, huddling under the two threadbare blankets with his sister, sharing as much body heat as possible. Andrea’s fingers were always freezing, and she’d curl them under her chin to avoid accidentally grazing him with her freezing digits. He loved her, dearly, even though they looked so different. Him with his olive skin and slanted eyes, her with her moon-white face and straw-like hair.

  It had been years since he’d thought of her, probably because of a compulsion placed over him to forget her for some unknown reason. He remembered their parents, their other siblings, and their deaths at the hands of the Elph once their farm in the woods had been discovered by other bonded who’d slaughtered and burned on command. But for some reason he’d forgotten Andrea. Her gentle thoughtfulness, her propensity to share whatever she had, her love for flowers and making chains with them. Her unending compassion for their animals, and how she always believed the best in others.

  Even the soldiers that had come by their farm.

  Even after they asked a slurry of questions and started to drag him away.

  Her tears, her screams, her pleading rang in his skull, a ghostly echo of a memory that had been suppressed for too long, and now refused to stay in the shadowed corner where it belonged.

  What had happened to her? She hadn’t been killed with all their family. He remembered being transported with her. And then being separated. Where was she now? Had she been drafted like him? Had she escaped? Been killed?

  What would she thi
nk of this? Of him? Of all that he’d done, because he’d been ordered to? Would she still think the best of him?

  Christopher groaned and rolled over, pulling his knees to his chest. Why did he torture himself with these thoughts? This wasn’t helping anything. Better to focus on the here and now. Whatever useful tidbits he could think of that would help Prince Weston—and thus King Brandon—to win the war.

  Metal hinges screeched, announcing someone on the stairs. Grunts and curses echoed down the hall, and the whoof of someone being hit. A voice let stream several choice words and Christopher perked his head off the slab bed. It sounded almost like Preston.

  Christopher moved to the window, watching, waiting. Guards passed Christopher’s cell, half escorting, half dragging a man that Christopher only vaguely recognized as Preston under the grime and dried blood. What doubts about the other prisoner’s identity he had washed away as his nose confirmed his partner with just one whiff of Preston’s nausea-inducing cigar smoke.

  Preston struggled against the guard’s grip as the man waited for his partner to open the cell. Preston spat in the guard’s face, and the Aerugan soldier gripped Preston’s arm, yanking it up behind his back. Preston staggered to his knees and the guard kicked him into his cell, slamming the door behind him.

  Christopher didn’t know what to think. What should he feel, right now, knowing that Preston had been caught, because of Christopher’s sharing intelligence? Christopher had never exactly liked Preston, but they’d been on the same team, under compulsion to work together. How much of Preston’s personality was his own, versus what he’d been shaped to be by the Elph?

  Christopher eased to the side, making himself as inconspicuous as possible while listening for any sort of clue as to what happened. Had Prince Weston’s team caught Victor? Pamela? Christopher worried his bottom lip with his teeth as the guards locked Preston’s door.

  “Stay where you belong,” one guard snarled. “It’s only a matter of time before we find your friends.”

  “Go to the Void!” Preston shouted. He pressed his face into the bars, his eyes bloodshot.

  Christopher ducked out of sight while Preston pounded against the wall. “I’ll get out of here soon enough, you scum hawks!”

  Cold seeped into Christopher’s arm from the wall, and he relocated to his cot. Would Preston willingly transfer loyalty to Prince Brandon, whenever he returned from the Hollows? What would Preston be like without whatever layers of compulsion were on him? Christopher pressed his palms together. Where was Pamela? He’d heard the guards talking before. He knew that Rachel hadn’t made it out alive. But Pamela had. She was quick, and resourceful. And hopefully safe.

  It was hard to keep time in his cell, but Christopher could only guess that it’d been two hours before the grating of the doors opening sounded again. He waited in the dim lighting, listening to the precise steps that paused just outside his door. The door creaked open, and light cast a golden triangle across his dusty floor, highlighting the pebbles, dirt, and stains of former prisoners. The burly bodyguard that Christopher recognized as Prince Weston’s entered the tiny cell and stepped aside, letting the prince himself stride in.

  Weston looked down at him, keeping his voice pitched low. “We were only able to capture one, as I’m sure you’ve deduced. He smells like cigar—”

  “Preston,” Christopher interrupted. “If he reeks like he’s rolled in a field of pipe weed, then it’s Preston.”

  Weston snorted. “Well, then we definitely caught Preston. I would like to interrogate him, and I want you with me, as you can determine what he likely knows or not. I don’t have the blood-bond, so he’ll likely dodge questions. I want you there, as you know him better than I, and you can offer insight.”

  Christopher blinked. “I don’t know how well that’d go over. Once he sees me—”

  “We’ll move you to the interrogation room first, and then bring him in.” Weston’s eyes burned. “Or do you not want to help anymore?”

  “I’m in.” Christopher tossed the thin blanket aside and stood, pretending to not feel the cold that sank into his skin. He held out his hands for the inevitable shackles of a prisoner in transfer.

  Weston peered at his wrists and shot Christopher a keen glance. “If you’re truly on our side, we would have no need to handcuff you, correct?”

  Christopher slowly lowered his hands, surprised. “Yes, Your Highness. He glanced at the prince’s bodyguard who stood there, staring at him with the look of a man ready to rip him to shreds at the slightest provocation. “But I don’t know if others will see it from that perspective.”

  “It’s all about making a statement.” Weston clapped a hand on Christopher’s shoulder, lifted his hand to take in the stain of blood on his skin, then grimaced. “We’ll find you some clean clothes before we start, too.”

  * * *

  Freshly bathed, dressed in clean, warm clothes, and sitting in a room at least three times bigger than his cell, Christopher had to admit that whatever statement Prince Weston wanted to make, it worked for his own morale. That, or it was just the fact that he was now aboveground, and had seen the sky with the mid-afternoon light.

  His fingers traced the smooth lines of his chair, notably different than the scuffed metal seat across the table from him. Prince Weston sat to Christopher’s left, his face composed with hard lines and a steely expression glinting in his eye.

  “Bring in the prisoner,” Prince Weston ordered.

  Niles opened the door, allowing two guards to haul the struggling Preston into the room. Preston grumbled something and jerked his arm away, then looked up. He stopped fighting, staring at Christopher.

  Christopher nearly squirmed under his former teammate’s shocked attention. Preston’s gaze rested on Christopher’s free hands resting on the arms of his seat. Confusion darkened his face.

  “Sit.” One of the guards roughly shoved Preston into the seat across the wood-scuffed table from Christopher and Weston, and Preston sat heavily, his countenance troubled. Niles returned to stand behind Prince Weston, and the other two guards each took up a post in either corner of the room.

  “Welcome,” Weston said neutrally. “I hope we can have some time of discussion to our mutual benefit.”

  Preston’s eyebrows rose and he lifted a manacled hand, rubbing his fingers together, as if rolling a cigarette. “Have anything to make it worth my time?”

  “Maybe if you cooperate,” Weston replied, his tone pleasant, yet hard. “What are your orders here, in Lucrum?”

  Preston shook his head and looked at Christopher again. “Naw, man. First you gotta answer one of mine.” He leaned forward, his chains making a steady jangle as he fidgeted with his hands. “What are you doing here, and why are you not bound?”

  Weston nodded at Christopher to answer, and Christopher sucked in a breath. How could he explain it in such a way that Preston would understand? He’d tried thinking of several ways to describe the sensation of being free, and how it felt to give the lead of the bond to King Brandon of Doldra—their enemy, the target of many of Victor’s grumbling rants, but all his previous musings had fallen flat even to himself.

  “I—” Christopher lifted his hand in a helpless gesture that felt foreign to him. He’d always been so certain of himself, when under the bond. Now he didn’t have that to hide behind. “I’m no longer under Victor’s control. Still under his bond though. Nor am I under Lord Sephirn’s compulsion. Prince Brandon freed me of it all.”

  Preston’s brows drew together in consternation, followed immediately after with a disgusted grimace. He spat on the floor. “How did he manage that? He’s not bonded.”

  “He is.” Christopher retorted. “And he can free all of us from Victor’s control. We can be free, Preston.” He leaned forward, elbows on the scuffed table. “It’s amazing. I had no idea what life beyond the bond would be like, and my thoughts are my own again. There had been so much buried in my mind, and now it’s coming back. It’s the best thing—
”

  Preston’s manacles clattered again, and Preston’s eyes narrowed. “I’m content with my orders, thanks.” He jumped up, one manacle dangling from his wrist, the other hand gripping a dagger. He snatched his chair from under him and threw it, one-armed, at Christopher, catching him in the face.

  Pain exploded in Christopher’s head. Spots of light splashed behind his eyelids. Guards shouted. Christopher clutched the chair, desperately blinking away the dizziness.

  A guard gurgled and dropped, blood gushing from his neck.

  Preston dove under the table, dodging the other guard that came at him from behind.

  Weston sprang from his own chair, then yelped as his foot was yanked out from under him. Niles grabbed Weston’s arm, preventing him from being tugged down by Preston. Blood streamed from a cut over Christopher’s eye, and he dropped to his knees, scuttling toward Preston. He misjudged the height of the table, and whacked his head, adding to his aching temple. The other guard had his sword drawn, stabbing it at Preston, who moved closer to Christopher, in an attempt to avoid the gleaming blade.

  Christopher didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Preston’s shirt and jerked him back toward himself. He grabbed Preston’s chin and hair, and threw his body weight into jerking Preston’s head to the side. Preston growled and flailed a punch back at Christopher’s face. Christopher tried again, this time rolling to the side slightly, getting them closer to the edge of the table. A barely audible pop from Preston’s neck sounded and he stopped flailing.

  Preston’s eyes bulged, and he ground out, “May dactyls feast on your bones, traitor.” A shudder ran through his body, once, twice, then he stilled.

  Christopher let his former partner’s body slump to the floor, and he sagged. “He’s dead,” he stated, his voice harsh with adrenaline and pain.

  “Niles, is Bradden—” Weston trailed off as his bodyguard checked on the guard sprawled on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Niles shook his head, his lip curled in a scowl. Weston poked his head down below the table and his eyes looked almost fully black with how dilated they were as he took in the sight of Christopher and Preston. “Move him out from under the table.”