Capture the Crown

by Jennifer Estep

  Grimley? I sent the thought out as far and wide as I could. Are you here?

  I waited, but there was no answer, just a buzzing silence in my mind and an empty, aching spot in my heart where the gargoyle’s presence should have been. Panic welled up in my chest, but I forced it down, closed my eyes, and pictured Grimley—his bright sapphire eyes, his arrow-tipped tail, the warm, slightly rough feel of his stone skin.

  Something flickered in the very back of my mind, like a match sputtering to life in a cold, dark cave. Gemma, Grimley’s voice whispered, but the sound was faint and far away.

  Grimley? Grimley!

  He didn’t respond, but at least I felt his presence now, even though it was as light and thin as a strand in a spider’s web. The gargoyle wasn’t here, but he wasn’t all the way back in Blauberg either. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have been able to hear or sense him at all. Grimley was probably flying in this direction, trying to find me. My stomach twisted with worry. A dangerous journey, but if anyone could make it, then it was my Grims.

  Thinking about the gargoyle reminded me of something else I might be missing. My fingers crept up to my neck, but nothing was there. I patted the front of my chest, my fingers flopping around in my haste. Where was it? Where was it?

  A glimmer of blue caught my eye, and my head snapped to the right. My gargoyle pendant was lying on the nightstand beside the bed, along with my dagger. I lurched over, snatched the silver chain, and dropped it down over my head.

  The pendant thumped against my chest and settled into its usual spot. My breath hissed out in relief at the slight, familiar weight nestled close to my heart. With a shaking hand, I held the pendant up to the light, looking for any signs of damage, but the black jet and blue tearstone shards were all intact. Still, a worrisome thought bloomed in my mind, wilting my relief.

  I hadn’t taken off the pendant. I would never do that, not even in my most injured, addled, delirious state. Someone else had removed the chain from around my neck, as well as the dagger from my boot, and placed them on the nightstand.

  Leonidas.

  Sick realization flooded my stomach. If he had examined the pendant and the dagger—and how could he not have?—then he had to know who I really was.

  I had to get out of here.

  I grabbed my dagger off the nightstand, then threw back the blankets, surged up out of bed, stepped forward—

  And almost fell flat on my face.

  My legs buckled, and I had to grab one of the bedposts for support. My head spun around, and a dull lethargy swept through my body, even though I’d just spent hours—days?—sleeping.

  Despite the healing I’d received, I hadn’t fully recovered my strength yet. So I hung on to the bedpost until the room stopped spinning, then took a smaller, slower, more careful step forward. This time, my legs didn’t buckle.

  Instead of lurching forward in a blind panic again, I reached out with my magic. I was alone in these chambers, and I didn’t sense any guards posted outside the closed doors at the opposite end of the room. Maybe I could leave before Leonidas returned. He obviously wanted something from me, and I didn’t want to be here when he started asking for it.

  So I staggered over and opened the armoire. Tunics, camisoles, leggings, undergarments, and socks were folded on the shelves, while several pairs of boots lined the bottom. Most of the clothes were varying shades of purple—Mortan purple.

  My lips curled in disgust, but I stripped off my nightgown (also purple) and dressed in a pale lavender tunic, along with black leggings, socks, and boots. I also shoved my dagger into the side of my right boot.

  Next, I staggered over to the vanity table, dropped into the chair, and peered at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was horribly tangled, exhaustion dimmed my blue eyes, and my face was paler than usual.

  Seeing my own frightened—and frightful—reflection dulled the sharpest edges of my jumbled emotions. I fisted my hand around my gargoyle pendant and forced myself to draw in slow, deep breaths, just like Alvis had taught me to do whenever I was working on a tricky, intricate jewelry design and needed to steady my hands.

  The last of my worry, panic, and confusion dissipated, and I started thinking clearly again. Leonidas hadn’t imprisoned me, which meant I still had a chance to escape—if I was smart. Rushing across the room, throwing the doors open, and running out into whatever corridor lay beyond was not smart. No, if I wanted to escape, then I needed to be cold, calm, and logical.

  Given my haggard appearance, people would take one look at me and realize that I didn’t belong here, so I yanked a comb through my snarled locks, then examined the color. My shoulder-length hair was still a flat black with no hint of its usual dark brown. Good. Between that and the lavender tunic, I looked even less like Princess Gemma than usual.

  I dabbed some light purple berry balm onto my lips and dusted my face with lilac-scented powder, trying to hide the dark circles under my eyes. I wasn’t very successful, but the makeup made me seem less like someone who had barely escaped death.

  I opened the rest of the vanity-table drawers, searching for valuables. There was no money inside, although I found several hairpins studded with amethysts, which I stuck into my pockets. Perhaps I could trade them for safe passage away from here.

  I didn’t see anything else in the chambers that would aid my escape, so I went over to the closed double doors, which were locked. I could have opened them with my magic, but someone might sense my power and come to investigate. Perhaps there was an easier way out of here.

  So I headed over to the glass doors set into the wall. They were unlocked, and I cautiously opened one and peered outside. The doors led to a large balcony—one without any stairs.

  I muttered a curse, but I walked over to the railing and focused on the ground some five stories below. If I had been at full strength, I would have tried to climb and float down, but given how weak I still was, I wouldn’t be able to hold on to the slick stones, not even with my magic. A frustrated growl tumbled from my lips, but I raised my gaze, trying to find another way to escape.

  A gleam of gold caught my eye, and I glanced to my right. In the distance, the sun was rising over a river that curved through the landscape. Several ships bobbed along the water, heading toward a large port, and homes and shops flanked both sides of the river, stretching out for miles. Nothing unusual there, except for the buildings—tall, wide structures with clusters of diamond-shaped windows and steep, pointed roofs topped with black spikes that looked like arrows streaking up to pierce the morning sky.

  My heart plummeted. Diamond-shaped windows and spike-lined roofs were a common style in Mortan architecture. Combine that with the water, which had to be the Meander River, and there was only one place I could be.

  Majesta, the Mortan capital.

  I dragged my gaze away from the homes, shops, and riverfront and studied the grounds immediately around me.

  My balcony overlooked a courtyard made of dark gray stone. To my left, another balcony jutted out over the same area. Down below, a gray stone fountain shaped like a strix bubbled in the center of the open space, which also featured purple flowers planted in zigzagging rows.

  The flowers were nothing special, but thick black vines covered with black thorns bigger and longer than my fingers twined through the blossoms before snaking across the flagstones and curling around the fountain. Helene Blume had once shown me a similar cutting in her greenhouse workshop at Glitnir, so I knew what the tendrils were—liladorn, an incredibly tough vine with thorns that blossomed into spikes of fragrant lilac.

  There was only one place I had heard of where you would find this much liladorn. Things were even worse than I’d feared. I wasn’t just in the capital.

  I was in Myrkvior—the Morricone royal palace, the very heart of Morta, and the most dangerous place on the Buchovian continent for the crown princess of Andvari to be.

  * * *

  Shock slithered through my body in icy tendrils, just like the lil
adorn had curled through the courtyard, and worry scraped against my heart like thorns dragging across my skin. Leonidas could have taken me anywhere in Morta, but he had brought me here, to Myrkvior, the royal palace. Why? Had he figured out who I really was?

  Dread simmered in my stomach as I left the balcony, hurried back inside, and headed over to the double doors at the far end of the chambers. I reached out with my magic again, but no one was standing outside, so I waved my hand. The lock softly clicked, and one of the doors swung outward.

  I left the chambers and slipped out into a gray stone hallway lined with fluorestone lamps. I quickly moved from that hallway to another one, then another one.

  The corridors were sparsely furnished, with only a few paintings and tapestries adorning the walls, and the only sound was my boots scuffing along the flagstones. This section of the palace was also quite chilly, as though not enough people lived here to bother with heating it. I shivered, wishing I’d grabbed a cloak from the armoire before I’d bolted from the chambers.

  Various presences started tickling my mind, like white dandelion puffs drifting along on a summer breeze, but I kept moving forward. It was better than going back to those chambers and waiting for death to come find me.

  I eased down several flights of stairs and stepped into another hallway. No one else was on this level, so I tiptoed over to the stone railing. My eyes widened, and my body froze, stunned by the sight before me.

  This second-floor hallway formed part of a diamond-shaped balcony that ringed an enormous seven-story rotunda topped by a glass dome. Seams of silver ran through the glass, forming pretty patterns, while a massive arrow-shaped silver chandelier dangled from a chain in the center of the dome. White fluorestones dripped down the silver like hot wax, throwing out sprays of dazzling light and giving the rotunda a pleasing warmth.

  Down below, a stunning mosaic of a strix with its wings stretched out wide was embedded in the gray stone floor, the massive creation running for more than two hundred feet. The strix was made of polished purple marble so dark that it almost looked black, and every slice of sunlight made the marble shimmer, as though the strix was beating its wings and flying through the floor. Two giant amethysts bigger than my head glinted as the strix’s eyes, while slabs of onyx tipped its wings. More slabs of onyx made up the creature’s beak and talons.

  The amethysts and the onyx in the mosaic actually jutted up out of the floor, although dozens of people moved around the gemstones with practiced ease, not even glancing down to see where they were putting their feet. Servants mostly, dressed in pale purple tunics, although palace stewards, merchants, and nobles also flowed across the floor.

  My gaze skipped past them all and landed on the guards, who were wearing dark purple tunics with swords dangling from their belts. The guards were stationed all around the rotunda, although they didn’t appear to be searching for someone, for me. Still, I reached out with my magic, skimming everyone’s thoughts.

  I hate working the morning shift . . .

  Must get this breakfast tray to Lady Arrington before she pitches a fit . . .

  Can’t believe Lord Dickson thought no one would notice the berry balm stains on his collar. Lecherous old fool . . .

  The thoughts cascaded over me one after another, all completely ordinary and oddly comforting. But listening to the Mortans wasn’t furthering my escape, so I found another set of stairs and crept down to the first floor.

  This level featured several archways, and I ducked behind a diamond-shaped column and watched the people moving through the openings. The servants scurried toward an archway to my left, probably heading toward the palace kitchen, while the merchants and nobles streamed through a different opening, most likely heading toward libraries and other meeting rooms.

  I eyed several more archways, but a variety of people were moving through them, and I couldn’t tell where they might lead. A nearby guard kept glancing at me, clearly wondering what I was doing, so I picked an archway and walked toward it.

  I was halfway across the rotunda when this . . . presence brushed up against my mind, stronger and sharper than all the others. The sensation was faint at first, like a light breeze tickling my face and warning of an approaching storm. Then my fingertips began violently tingling, as though I were trying to clutch a lightning bolt in my hands.

  Someone very powerful was coming this way.

  The last thing I needed to do was run into a magier, so I jerked back, but I wasn’t watching where I was going, and my boot scraped against one of the amethyst eyes jutting up out of the strix mosaic. I stumbled, although I managed to catch myself before I hit the floor.

  As soon as I regained my balance, I turned to head back in the direction I’d come, but it was too late. All around the rotunda, the guards, servants, merchants, and nobles stopped what they were doing, and their collective unease rippled through the air like a heat wave. These people might not be able to sense the magier’s power like I could, but they instinctively knew that someone dangerous was approaching. All conversation ceased, although another sound rose up—the loud, steady snap-snap-snap-snap of heels striking the flagstones.

  A woman appeared in one of the archways. Everyone froze, as though they had suddenly become mired in quicksand, and I had no choice but to freeze as well. The woman kept striding forward, the snap-snap-snap-snap of her heels growing louder and closer, like thunder rumbling in my direction.

  The woman finally stopped near the center of the rotunda, right next to the amethyst eye that had tripped me. She was quite striking, with golden hair sleeked up into a high bun, although several streaks of silver glinted at her temples. Her face was thinner than I remembered, and wrinkles had grooved into her pale skin, especially around her dark amethyst eyes. Deeper wrinkles fanned out around her mouth, as though she had spent most of her fifty-something years perpetually pursing her lips in a displeased pucker.

  She was wearing a beautiful gown of midnight-purple velvet, and the Morricone royal crest—that fancy cursive M surrounded by a ring of strix feathers—stretched across her chest in glittering silver thread. A silver choker studded with amethysts sparkled around her throat, while matching cuffs and rings glimmered on her wrists and fingers. All the gems practically dripped with magic, as did the woman herself.

  Queen Maeven Aella Toril Morricone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Part of me couldn’t believe what I was seeing. That this was actually happening. Being trapped in the Morricone royal palace was bad enough, but I’d never dreamed that I’d come face-to-face with her.

  But here I was, a few scant feet away from Queen Maeven. The woman who had orchestrated the murders of Uncle Frederich, Lord Hans, and so many others during the Seven Spire massacre. The woman who had wanted me to die right alongside them. The woman who had caused so much pain, misery, and suffering in my life, as well as in the lives of countless Andvarians and Bellonans, including Uncle Lucas and Aunt Evie.

  I’m going to enjoy this. Maeven’s voice whispered through my mind just as it had before the massacre.

  Rage erupted inside me with all the force of a Vacunan volcano, filling my heart with boiling venom and murderous hate that seared through my shock and charred my worry to ash. Forget about escaping. Killing Maeven was the only thing that mattered.

  First, I would grab the dagger out of my boot and hurl it at the bitch. If that didn’t kill her, then I would reach out with my magic, force my way past her own lightning magier power, and grab hold of the energy surrounding Maeven, grab hold of her. Then I would give a vicious yank, toss her into the nearest column, and snap her bloody spine.

  Maeven would be dead before she even hit the floor.

  The gargoyle pendant hidden under my tunic grew ice-cold against my skin, almost in warning. The pieces of black jet heated up when they blocked others’ thoughts, but the blue tearstone shards chilled as they soaked up my power—and strained to contain it.

  The pendant grew colder—and colder still—aga
inst my heart, and the bitter chill finally iced over some of my rage. Despite my burning desire for revenge, I couldn’t murder Maeven. The guards would draw their swords and rush forward the instant they realized their queen was under attack, and I wouldn’t be able to kill them all before they overwhelmed and cut me down. No, escaping with my life was much more important than any revenge I could take on Maeven.

  I let out a tense, ragged breath, and my pendant lost some of its bitter chill, as if it could sense that I was back in control of my emotions and my magic.

  Maeven looked around the rotunda, then waved her hand. At the signal, the guards shifted on their feet, and the servants, merchants, and nobles ducked their heads and scurried away, returning to their chores and conversations, albeit much more quietly than before.

  I hesitated, still not sure which way to go. Maeven must have noticed my lack of movement because she glanced in my direction. I whirled around to stride away—

  “You there. Wait.”

  I gritted my teeth, but running from the queen wasn’t an option, and I had no choice but to turn around.

  Maeven strolled over and stopped in front of me, her sharp gaze locking onto my face. I stood rooted in place, not sure what to do or say.

  A small flutter of movement caught my eye, and a woman stepped up beside the queen. She was a couple years younger than me, twenty-five or so, and quite lovely, with long, wavy onyx-black hair, pale skin, and dark amethyst eyes.

  A short dark purple velvet cape trimmed with purple feathers covered her shoulders, while a lilac-colored gown floated around her body. A silver choker ringed her neck, and the design in the delicate filigree reminded me of the liladorn I had seen earlier. Glittering onyx vines adorned the choker, along with tiny amethysts shaped like thorns.

  I had seen portraits and other likenesses of the woman, so I knew exactly who she was—Princess Delmira Myrina Cahira Morricone, Maeven’s only daughter.

  Delmira smiled at me and tilted her head, not in greeting, but as though she was trying to tell me something important—