Son of Saints: A Dark YA Fantasy Adventure: Renegade Guardians: Book Two

by Kyra Quinn

  “And what is our plan after we’ve spoken to the King? Will you stay and lead his Guard?”

  “Gods, no. Next, we rally the Clans. All five, if possible.”

  Viktor’s breath caught in his chest. After countless years spent avoiding Starbright and the politics of the Clans, Jett was determined to march him back into the center of it all. Saving Remiel didn’t fit into Jett’s grand plans to save the rest of Astryae. The knots in his stomach tightened and twisted.

  “Is there any possibility you can handle the Clans on your own?”

  Jett paused and shot him a quizzical glance. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” he answered a bit too quickly to sound honest. “But there’s still the matter of the imprisoned angel waiting for me after we’re finished with King Dyius. His powers and the information he’s gathered in the Shadowrealm could prove a vital asset.”

  Jett’s expression remained unchanged. A bead of cold sweat dripped down the back of Viktor’s neck. His reluctance to visit Starbright had to strike Jett as strange. The shifters and the Clans had risen into power after the Siege of Starbright, and their shared reign of power created the most stable and prosperous living conditions the town had ever known. No one hated them or feared their kind in snowy Starbright.

  Or at least, no one hated Jett. If anyone discovered the truth of Viktor’s identity and cowardice, he doubted the same would hold true for himself. Wolves valued loyalty and honor more than they did the moon or the hunt. Nothing mattered to shifters more than family.

  And Viktor had abandoned his. No matter what excuse he offered, the facts remained and branded him a traitor. Pup or not, he’d done nothing to protect his parents or his baby sister. He had run, the only thing worse than dying. At least death carried honor.

  They carried out the rest of their hike in pensive silence, only the occasional question or warning interrupting the tranquility. By mid-afternoon the throb of his feet had settled into a dull ache. Sunlight burned his scalp, the chill in the air a whisper next to the afternoon sun’s intensity.

  “Think the legends about this place are true?” Viktor asked after a while, bringing the back of his hand to shield his eyes.

  Jett snorted. “Blessed lands, cursed lands, the entire concept is ridiculous. Gods have better things to do with their time than play around in the dirt.”

  He wanted to agree, but something about the way Wyvenmere seemed to exist inside of a bubble of perfection gave him pause. No matter what went wrong in the rest of Astryae, it always spared the nobles. When months of drought left the fields in Wevaria and Ashwind barren, the crops in Wyvenmere flourished. When illness ravaged the tiny passive villages and left a body count behind higher than any war in history, the nobles experienced only health and prosperity.

  Holy blessings or deals with the darkness, Viktor cared little how they had come into fortune. The royals and nobles had no first-hand experience with struggle or suffering. While others broke their back to survive, others had the world served to them on a silver platter.

  His thoughts drifted to his own childhood and the splendors he’d taken for granted as a boy. How different might his life have turned out if his parents had never died, or if he’d never fled his place with the Clan? He liked to think he was nothing like the King and his nobles, that the fire inside of his soul had consumed him since birth and no amount of comfort or complacency could take it from him. Bloodlust and a thirst for vengeance had shaped his path. Would a life of pampering and pleasure have rendered him as soft as the nobles?

  “We’re close,” Jett said, his voice cutting off Viktor’s moment of self-pity. He sprinted forward without waiting for Viktor to follow, his movements swift and fluid despite his excitement. Viktor hurried through the grass behind him and squinted towards the massive marble palace in the distance.

  Though Viktor had glimpsed the castle in passing several times throughout his travels, to stand in front of it proved a different experience. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Jett a few feet from the castle gates, their heads cocked back as they admired the imposing brick Gothic and marble structure. A massive six-tier marble fountain was centered in the courtyard beyond the gates, a gold siren at the top gushing water from her mouth as narrow streams shot up from the round pool at the bottom towards her tail.

  “That fountain must cost as much to maintain as food for a year in Redwood,” Viktor said, an edge of disgust to his tone. “I suppose great responsibility must be repaid with great fortune.”

  Jett clapped a hand against his shoulder. “Welcome to how royalty lives, my friend. Practicality is of little concern when you have their power. Worry not, though. When revolution strikes, the ruling class are always the first to crumble. Their life of privilege leaves them weak.”

  Viktor’s nose wrinkled. He’d never agreed with how much control the royal family had over Astryae. The King rarely left his castle, let alone Wyvenmere. He issued decrees and bans in towns he had no first-hand knowledge of, yet the people gobbled up his orders as if they’d come from the gods themselves.

  “And you’re certain we can’t kill him?”

  Jett snorted. “Not yet, anyway. We can consider it if he turns us away.”

  “As long as the option remains on the table,” he grumbled, hand itching for his sword. He had yet to lay eyes on the King, but every primal urge in his body longed to sink his fangs into the glutton’s chest and rip out his heart. No man deserved to live in excess while others starved. “What now?”

  Jett opened his mouth to answer, but the words never left the tip of his tongue. A deep, smooth voice with a flair of sophistication appeared behind them without warning.

  “You are late, gentlemen. We expected you hours ago.”

  Viktor’s head snapped towards the sound of the voice. A man who appeared no older than Viktor at first glance stepped out from the shadows. He watched them with a knowing grin, his eyes flickering between Jett and Viktor.

  “Late for what?” Jett asked, his expression dark.

  “Your appointment with the King. The party is already underway now, but I’m certain King Dyius will wish to speak with you once things die down a bit.”

  * * *

  The stranger—and his trio of guards hidden away in the shadows—led Viktor and Jett through the gates of the castle and into the empty courtyard with swords pointed at their backs. Viktor’s heart raced. The fine silk thread of the stranger’s clothing and armed guards at his command suggested the stranger held a high rank in the castle. And somehow, he’d known to expect them.

  “Would one of you care to tell us what this is about?” Jett demanded when they came to a halt. He locked his hands on his hips. “My companion and I have done no wrong.”

  The stranger’s thin lips spread into a chilling grin. “No one said you had. Only that we expected your arrival sooner.”

  Viktor took a moment to study their captor, but nothing stood out as familiar. A mop of thick hair the color of fire fell over his china skin. A simple navy silk mask covered the top half of his face. He stood as tall as Viktor, with broad shoulders and a masculine physique. Yet, the features of his face were soft, almost feminine. The silver buttons of his sapphire tailcoat glistened in the moonlight as his cold, pale blue eyes swept over their faces, his grin still in place.

  “Expected how? Who says we were headed to the castle at all?” Viktor asked, folding his arms over his chest.

  The stranger’s smile didn’t falter. “My mother’s personal seer predicted your arrival days ago. I put little faith in her rambling prophecies myself, but here you are. The shape-shifters, no?”

  Viktor tensed. So much for the element of surprise on their side.

  “And who is your mother?” Jett asked, his voice unwavering. “What interest has she in a pair of wolves?”

  The man’s face fell. “Do you not recognize your High Prince, shifter?”

  It was Viktor’s turn to frown. Though he’d heard tales of a son born unto th
e King and Queen, he had always pictured the boy much younger. The man in front of them had to be at least twenty, likely older. How long had Viktor had his head buried in the sands of Mulgrave? How much had he missed in the rest of the world?

  “Forgive me, Prince Ambrose.” Jett dropped into a low bow and shot Viktor a glance that suggested he should do the same. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  The High Prince shrugged. “That is the point of the celebration. Or is your arrival tonight by coincidence?”

  “Sorry, what?”

  Ambrose rolled his eyes. When he spoke, his voice dripped with annoyance. “Keep up, wolfie. The Festival of a Thousand Faces? It’s the one night a year where everyone gives thanks to Anja for another bountiful harvest and celebrates together as one people. Tonight, there is no invisible barrier between the rich and poor or mortals and Feyfolk. Until the sun replaces the blood moon, we are all equal.”

  Viktor’s eyes snapped up to the blood red moon hanging over the castle. The burn in his throat intensified as his primal side scratched and snarled to be set free. His hands curled until his palms stung where his nails had drawn blood. Back when he’d still believed the gods gave a damn, he might have considered the moon’s hue an omen.

  “Hemani also mentioned a gift you had for us,” Ambrose said, his tone breezy as he extended a hand.

  “For the King,” Jett corrected. “My companion and I need to speak with him about an urgent matter.”

  Ambrose gave a knowing nod, and it took all Viktor had not to knock the arrogance from his face. “And you will. When the festivities die down and everyone returns home. From what Hemani said, you’ve come to us with a rather sensitive request.”

  The corner of Jett’s mouth twitched. “This all-knowing seer of yours is sucking the excitement out of things.”

  Ambrose chortled, the sound filling the courtyard like music. “Apologies, friends. Would you care to join me for some entertainment of a different variety?”

  The High Prince reached into the waistband of his trousers and retrieved a pair of satin masks. Each was decorated in tiny gemstones and tall feathers, one jade and one ruby. He gestured for them to take one. His eyes sparkled with mischief.

  Viktor shook his head and took a step back. “I’m not sure if this is—”

  “Are there spirits?” Jett interrupted. “I’m not much of a festival person unless alcohol is involved.”

  Viktor shot Jett an incredulous glare, but the older wolf ignored him and focused his attention on the High Prince. He should have known they had come too far for Jett to turn away now.

  Ambrose laughed. “What sort of celebration would it be without spirits and good companionship?”

  “Is your seer a banshee or a mage?” Viktor asked with a skeptical glance towards the castle. If he had to go inside, he had no desire to walk in blind. A banshee bite didn’t cause much damage, but Aster was proof of the lethality of blood mages.

  “Neither. Hemani is the last Vestec left.”

  Viktor sucked in a breath. He had heard stories of the Vestec people, Fey with the power to disappear at will and communicate with the spirit realm long enough to glimpse the future. Where banshees were limited to destructive visions, the legends said the Vestec had the ability to see anything they wanted in the past or future. “I thought the Vestec perished ages ago in the Age of Atonement.”

  “They did. All but Hemani.”

  Viktor tapped his foot, uninterested in court politics or the Vestec people. The sooner he spoke to King Dyius, the sooner he could resume his mission to save Remiel from Daeva’s clutches. The war wouldn’t wait forever. “Give me the red one and lead the way, Princling. I could use a drink or two.”

  Or five. Or six. Viktor made a mental note to monitor Jett and force him to remain sober. If the High Prince’s seer had predicted their arrival, what else had she glimpsed of the future? And how did it compare to the ruins that haunted Savina?

  Ambrose passed them each a mask, the ruby to Jett and the jade to Viktor. He tied the smooth strings behind his head and secured the mask against his face. He blinked as he glanced around through the almond-shaped eye holes carved from the stiff mask. Ambrose nodded in approval, a small smirk still on his lips.

  “Splendid. If you gentlemen will follow me, I’ll show you to the festivities.”

  Viktor frowned. “We didn’t come to drink and dance.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Jett grumbled. “After the week we’ve had, a night off doesn’t sound like the worst idea.”

  Ambrose wrapped an arm around Viktor’s shoulders and steered him towards the massive set of doors. “You worry too much, friend. Relax, have a few drinks. It’s a party, not a burial.”

  Not yet, at least. But he didn’t trust the High Prince’s easy smile and silver tongue any more than he trusted a snake with his fangs bared. They had an agenda of their own planned. Everyone did. Viktor clenched his jaw and followed Ambrose inside the towering castle doors. For now, all he could do was wait for them to reveal their hand.

  * * *

  As elegant as the outside of the palace appeared, the interior put the fine stonework to shame. A mesmerizing symphony of flutes and string instruments flowed up from the ballroom floor. Ambrose led Jett and Viktor through corridors adorned with gold trim. They had painted the Elysian Gardens onto the ceiling, angels and gods against vibrant beds of flowers and lush beds of foliage. Crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, each holding enough candles to rival the sun’s glow.

  Viktor had never pondered much the lives of the ruling class. His distinguished lineage and the fleeting memories of his affluent early environment did little to ease his distaste towards the wealthy noblemen and the royals. Following Ambrose through the drafty corridors, Viktor tried to imagine what sort of festivities he’d agreed to take part in. He pictured couples draped in a rainbow of fine silk twirling around marble floors, their movements coordinated until their bodies created living art.

  When they reached the top of the wide stone staircase above the ballroom, it took all the restraint Viktor had not to sneer. He leaned over the stone balcony, his stomach churning. He had expected a tame, classy affair full of elderly people and polite chatter.

  Jett clapped a hand over Viktor’s shoulder, his eyes flickering over the festivities below. “Relax, friend. When you possess as much wealth and land as these people, nothing in life is off limits. At least for tonight we can drink on King Dyius’s dime.”

  Ambrose offered an apologetic wince. “Most of the balls aren’t this interesting.”

  ‘Interesting’ was not the word Viktor had in mind for the party below. Instead of elegant silk gowns trailing the floor, most of the women wore thin sleek skirts with slits cut up the sides to reveal their slippers and the curve of their legs. Some of the younger women wore dresses with dangerously low backs or diamond cut in the hips to reveal small patches of flesh. Men in tailored suits caressed their skin and groped their asses without restraint. A faerie woman nibbled the neck of a masked mortal girl. Mortals and Fey embraced in passionate kisses in various corners of the room, indifferent to who might see.

  They pushed three long rectangular tables against the left wall. An exposed woman laid on top of a white tablecloth on each surface, the intimate parts of their bodies covered in various fruits and cheeses or meats. Other women stood positioned around the room with trays full of drinks frozen at shoulder-level like pieces of art, their faces and bodies covered in swirls of glittering sapphire and silver paint. If not for the perkiness of their nipples, Viktor might not have realized they were nude. Occasional noblemen and women sauntered past to squeeze their breasts and admire the living canvases.

  “Something about the false sense of anonymity provided by the masks brings out a side they repress the rest of the year,” Ambrose continued, adjusting his own disguise over his face.

  Viktor’s nose wrinkled. He had held more than his share of disrobed women against his body, but never outside of the intima
te privacy of his bedchamber. He stiffened without meaning to. He moved his gaze about the room, but his stare lingered on the decorated servants and their drink trays. None of their faces betrayed any sign of discomfort. Did they enjoy the night of attention? Or had life in the palace stripped them of more than their clothing?

  Before he put any of the questions swirling around his mind into words, Ambrose steered him towards the top of the broad stone staircase. A rectangular navy carpet lined the center of the steps down to the checkered marble floor below.

  “Mingle. Drink and enjoy yourself,” the High Prince instructed, “but keep your wits about you. The only thing the nobles love more than an excuse to drink and celebrate is a new scandal to gossip about.”

  Viktor had no desire to speak to anyone, but Ambrose disappeared down the stairs before he said so. Jett watched him with a scowl, his arms crossed.

  “Screw on a smile,” he ordered. “Our success tonight depends on our ability to play the politics and sway King Dyius to our side.”

  Viktor grumbled under his breath, and Jett shot him a final icy glare before descending the staircase after Ambrose. He disappeared into the crowd within moments. A heaviness settled into the center of Viktor’s chest. He had no choice but to follow.

  He ground his teeth and forced himself down the steep stone steps, his hands balled into fists at his sides. A faint, bittersweet scent perfumed the air. While most of the patrons wore elegant silks and heavy necklaces and rings afforded by only the wealthy, he soon detected members of the working class and peasants hidden beneath feathered masks and elaborate hairstyles. To the untrained eye, the patrons blended together seamlessly. It took a careful glance to notice the dull sheen of their gowns or how their imitation jewels didn’t glisten in the candlelight's glow.