Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

by Clarrisa R. Smithe

  "He has his principles," Petra said softly as her three children left them to be. She did not wish to take sides. If she did so here she felt as if she would be pulled between both parties. "And will stand by them. He is just stubborn." A smile was shot in Tristian's direction and she sighed. "I am changing the seating arrangements. Those Misseldon children will be at your table and please, dear, be a gracious host."

  This seemed to spur a response from him. "For what other purpose than to upset me?!"

  "I am your mother. I do not wish to intentionally upset you, but I feel it may be beneficial for you, as future king of this land, to extend some hospitality towards these northerners."

  "Because they've done so for us."

  "They may serve you well in the future."

  "They have no place in my future! Same as they banished outsiders from their lands, I would never allow practitioners such as them to set foot on my soils. I may sit with them at this festival, I may smile at them, but do not think you are swaying my beliefs in the least."

  It seemed Gregor had sat the silent spectator, now the arbitrator. "Son, have you forgotten yourself before your queen?"

  A quick look was shared between husband and wife, leaving Petra to give a slight shake of her head.

  There had been many times like this before, from Tristian's questioning of them as children to constant disagreements with his siblings. He never tired of it, so it seemed that she and her husband ought to be experts at dealing with him by now.

  Only, they were not. Tristian was just that difficult.

  "I do understand your logic and it is good logic, but, sometimes we have to do things we do not like to do. Do you suppose that your father and I can stomach each person who will grace our halls with their presence? For whatever reason and half of them much more petty than your apprehension here. However, consider why they might be suddenly so open to spreading their wings. Be the first prince to ask that question, be the first to show that interest. There is something they want and we may be able to negotiate with them, either in full, or we provide the full details of the deal. Consider that, Tristian. You may be able to have some power over them but we need to discover why first."

  And finally there came a flicker of that rare, subtle retreat. Not quite submission, but a fiercely reluctant concede. His gaze shifted down as he stared at the wooden mallard decor atop the table, his mouth stricken and pulled to the side in dismay. "Power..." her son echoed, the one word which seemed to draw him back from the defencive to join the offence.

  "Limited," Gregor added before she could speak. He gave her a look of caution now, reminding her that the prince, even if he was twenty-seven in years, had yet to embrace the difference between inherited and earned power. "Then it's settled, for the sake of our kingdom's image and a diligence to the crown, you will mingle with these Northerners, keep a rather close eye on them and you are to report to me what it is you find."

  Tristian's shoulders straightened and he gave a notch of his head.

  Something reverent had slid into the gold disks of his eyes, perhaps a feeling of purpose or gratitude for finally having been heard and acknowledged. No doubt, the prince saw this as an opportunity to exploit the Misseldons' suspected agenda, though in truth, the ordered task was nothing more than a means to ensure the male actually showed up and interacted rather than adopt his usual habit of skulking and brooding and depressing the guests.

  Still, even as the dinner concluded and they all dismissed themselves to their day's activity, she worried secretly, for her son had made a valid point in which she had been unwilling to voice: what did the Misseldons want with their kingdom?

  7

  ~ ETHAN ~

  Thelle Castle

  Thelle, Thellemere

  When he'd gone to his father and demanded—or asked in as assertive a tone one would dare with a man the likes of King Robert—the secret to claiming his sister's heart and eventually becoming a glorified ruler etched into time itself, this was not the answer he'd sought.

  The Ice Crypt was blue and dark and housed the smell of layers of century frozen cavern rocks. It was a sanctified compartment tunneled beside the royal castle. One hundred and fifty feet below the surface, he was told. Its entrance into the ground was nothing more than an icicled porthole guarded by the ancient stone slabs he could often see from his bedchamber. An insignificant artifice of Thellemere's landscape, he had always assumed, and could still remember the childhood days of refusing to peer out his window at night, foolishly afraid the ascent of a crimson, ill-formed creature would come crawling from its depths.

  The fear hadn't parted completely when he and his father had begun the descent just hours prior.

  At first, he was unsure why Father had led him into the crypt. It had been just after one of Father's council meetings, where Ethan had taken it upon himself to wonder if perhaps Mother was right, that Eleanor would need to be tamed and that Father's counsel may in fact be needed. But when he'd gone to his father with this concern of co-ruling and how to best make his sister of tamer qualities, King Robert had said nothing more than, "Follow me."

  Foolishly, Ethan had, inwardly grumbling over how A'zur and Astrid had it much easier. While they were off traveling the lands and enjoying the scenery on their way to Redthorn to gain the favour of some wealthy prince, he was stuck to ponder matters of the kingdom and his future reign, having been guided into some lone dark place.

  The crypt had been crafted for the First Royals hundreds of years ago. Rumoured to be the sanctuary where Misseldons sought absolution—by descending and speaking with the gods Roirii and Rarah, where in the end, the gods would tear their soul from their bodies and give them new ones, colder ones that would get them through the coming winter.

  Sir Thomas had told him it was a lie, that while the leopard gods Roirii and Rarah presided in the belly of the crypt, they were but magnificent ice sculptures, positioned before a great chilling pool of water. It was a chamber of prayer, where the king or queen would voyage down the one thousand and ninety-six quartzite stairs, peel off their long white robes, and step into the freezing water. Always did it emit muted, faint pulses of nimbus and white ripples of light, bouncing off their pale faces as they stared up into the all-seeing blue eyes of the two snow leopards and began their prayer.

  Ethan had tried to imagine himself or Eleanor indulging such a habit of prayer, then prowling back to the surface, where some may have observed from a distance as they walked in drenched robes across the field of snow-white grass back to the castle.

  He could understand how rumours of soul-swapping could be spun.

  But then the current purpose of the Ice Crypt's usage had been revealed: Alan's purification to prepare him for the sacrifice.

  Common practice had been for a royal to enter the shimmering waters whose depths scaled lower the closer one swam to the other side of the round depression, and to stop when their chins touched the waterline. They would cup a handful of the cleansing liquid and splash it on their faces for clarity. Again for forgiveness. Again for redemption. Again for prosperity. Again for eminence. Again for absolution. Again for strength. Again for courage. Again for erudition.

  But his father had informed it was not to be done the same way for Alan, for they sought change in their future, thus they must implement change in their practice.

  Alan was strapped at the wrists and ankles to an immaculate wooden body bed carved for his precise frame. He'd lost a frightening amount of weight, his bones and veins more visible than the white skin itself. Blonde curls had grown to his back and he almost looked like a girl.

  Differently, his father had told him. We are to do things differently. He will be lowered into the waters repeatedly, to ensure his vessel is pure for Roirii and Rarah when the time of sacrifice comes.

  But first, they'd had to ensure the purity of the water itself.

  And Ethan had witnessed with pressed lips as one brown clothed man had placed his foot onto the first step of the
pool, crystal waters shining and throwing pale light though there was no outward source. Then another foot. Another. Another. When the male was completely submerged, save for his head, he had turned to stare directly at the king.

  Until his skin turned from white to blue.

  Until his eyes lost their lustre.

  Until he was but a frozen corpse.

  Only when the water was deemed pure and cold and suitably deadly did they find it worthy—for royal Misseldon born were incapable of feeling or being affected by drastically low temperatures.

  So it was only then that the six men distributed on either side of the pool, each holding a black belt connected to Alan's wooden board, commence the purification process.

  "Un tifi, nine," his father's voice brought him back to the present.

  They were dressed alike. His father, standing on the cold stone floors, wore a loose, sinfully black shift, blond coils of hair falling onto the fathomless top. Laceless black pants hung casually at his hips, a purple rope belt tied around the sure frame. That was it, nothing more. Like this, he looked far removed from being a stony king, but closer to something... evil and wrong.

  Ghastly blue reflected off his face. He stood tall, sturdy. One forearm poised in front of his chest, hand fisted, the other resting on top, hand pressed to his lips, fingers wrapped around a blue holystone.

  "Un tifi, ten." His breaths fogged in the Ice Crypt.

  The men loosened their grip on the belt with perfectly matched motion, and Alan dropped into the falsely inviting waters again.

  Gurgles, harsh and loud. Bubbles popping to the surface instantly as the boy struggled against his binds. He'd learned to keep his mouth closed nine plunges ago, after swallowing a mouthful the first time, choking, only to be lowered again while still coughing.

  Ethan swallowed, though the pebble of spit joined the shrine of rocks that was his stomach. He didn't dare break his stance as he stared. He knew Father was watching. Even though his eyes were trained on Alan.

  Whom they were finally bringing to the surface.

  His brother's eyes were red from crying and suffocation, his upper lip so shiny it had to be nose-drippings. He gagged though nothing came of it as he'd been restricted food prior, and Ethan wished he'd known this was what his father had planned, because he'd have fasted as well.

  "Un tifi, eleven."

  The boy dropped.

  Ethan must have made a sound for he suddenly felt the prodding stab of his father's gaze.

  "Is there a problem, son?"

  He shook his head. "The clothing are a bit irritating."

  His throat burned with untold truth. That he despised what he saw before him. That he wished it was his father tied to that board, his lungs raw from repeated submergence, his eyes burning from all of the screaming and protest.

  "They are ours."

  Ours. Thellemere's. All black. A simple purple belt.

  "Ours" was loathsomely itchy and he hated how they were not form fitting. Or perhaps it was just him. He and his boy body while his father oozed power, his physique as hard and vicious as his heart.

  He longed for the day he became like that. Then Eleanor would not dare piss on him the way she did as of now. But if he became like his father, would she become like their mother? If so, was that much of a victory for either of them?

  Ethan fixed his eyes to the snow leopards at the opposite side of the pool. They were entirely carved of cloudy blue ice, their heads large and detailed with fur. Their molars were expressive as they peeked from the folds of their serene mouths. Their bodies were glossy and white-blue against the dark shadows of the crypt.

  "Un tifi, twelve."

  Alan gave but a sob this time before the water swallowed him.

  Fingers closed around his chest.

  Though it was an awful and sickening admission, he found himself wanting the company of another sibling. Any other sibling. Someone to stand beside him, forearm before chest, other atop it, fist to lips. Watching as they destroyed their own blood.

  "You disappoint me," his father said. Barb-wrapped abjection, frowning like he'd tasted month-old poultry.

  What was new.

  "You are weak."

  Ethan's head whipped around. "I stand before this infuriating practice, Father, and I speak nothing of its evil."

  King Robert kept the pose, eyes staring at the still submerged boy. "That you care is a token to your weakness. Your malleable, child's heart. You come to me, you say you want to be king, you want a good wife, yet you are a child."

  He was surprised his teeth didn't chip from the pressure they inflicted. "I am a man! That I do not support this vile act does not mean I cannot be king or have a good wife. I will be a great king and my wife will place jealousy in the hearts of all who behold her!"

  His father scoffed. "Any man can go out and catch a wild boar."

  "By the gods, lift him."

  Grey eyes studied him a moment and Ethan could see the furthering of disgust fathering in them. His father gave a faint nod and the hooded, nameless men brought Alan up.

  "You come to me in want of lessons."

  "I see nothing but pain."

  "The lesson lies within the pain."

  "What sort of lesson am I learning?"

  "What is it you seek?"

  Ethan was taken aback, mostly because his father had turned from the suffering Alan to peer at him with the weight of an anvil.

  He sought greatness, of course—well, more greatness. And while it may have seemed implausible, to augment what he considered a perfectly perfect king-to-be, Ethan could admit he saw some (very few) areas of himself that could stand improvement.

  He wanted to see Thellemere gain colours to their grey mountains and white fields. He wanted to see the snow melt come spring and there not be children thawing in the streets, those whose bodies were not strong enough, or their pantries not deep enough to provide meals throughout. He wanted the people to come marching up to his castle gates declaring their loyalty and devotion and praise.

  Most importantly, he wanted a magnificent queen to raise the Kingdom of Ice with him.

  "You want expansion of these winterlands?"

  No, I am not you. I want the safety of those within the winterlands.

  "Son, as you are now, you cannot keep them safe. You can hardly keep yourself safe. And this fantasy of yours, the toppling of winter starvations, banashings of the snow, illusions of love, makes me question when it was my boy was castrated and given a cunny to match that little girl heart he has rattling in his chest."

  Ethan swallowed a sound, but his ready-set objection was pushed aside as Father's eyes narrowed and he murmured against the holystone, "Un tifi, thirteen."

  Water splashed.

  "You have a small world perspective, Father. But me? I see the big spectra. You see the small things outside of the kingdom, while I see the larger portions within. I will be a man yet. A great man."

  "You will never be a man with the path you walk now. You will never rule like a man, fuck like a man or collar your bitch like a man, when you insist on behaving like a boy."

  Was that it, then? Morality be forgotten and suddenly he would exude masculinity? Father was truly a misguided mind if he thought in such a flawed light.

  "I do not want a collared slave; I want a queen. Someone of power and strength, who can recognise my own."

  Someone like Eleanor. If she would simply see him for the man he was trying to become.

  "And it is not that I've been castrated, but as I said, you can only see small things." He spread his arms wide, and the black garment sat upon him like oil dripped atop the sculpture of a sensuous demigod. "And perhaps I've grown too large for you to see."

  Just as his father's face contorted in what would have been obvious mocking laughter, the loud, resonating echo of thundering footfalls screeched against the frozen stairwell leading into the crypt.

  They both turned their heads, waiting, until finally two guards adorned in a bl
ack fur coat and black-purple chest plates clattered to a halt, then immediately dropped to their knees. "Your Grace, forgive the interruption. This is Captain Wallace who claims he has urgent news."

  "News that could not wait?" his father stated evenly.

  The man behind both guards wore the white vambraces of the island sailors and a black jerkin. His pants were layered wool and his boots were the thickest Ethan had ever seen in his life and frankly hoped to never have to see again. They were hideous. As was the man's face, which was snow chafed and brutal, a black beard consuming half of it.

  "Your Grace," the captain said and Ethan noted instantly the lack of true deference in the acknowledgment.

  The islanders, Ethan had heard stories of their self-praise.

  "Speak and waste not a second more of my time." His father was a mountain before the captain, in mind and body, waiting for the male's arrogance to flare out of boundaries.

  But the male simply shared a look between both the prince and the king, prioritising the eyes of the king as he dipped into an explorer's bow, somehow always more shallow than those of the castle, as though his pride could not send him lower. He spoke above the gurgled protests of his brother. "I regret to inform you, but several fleets of Pyraceans have sank the Horror, Shalla, and Demon. Then they employed a worser fate for those of the Hoar Dancai."

  Ethan recognized the ship names. They belonged to the Winter Regiments, and he vaguely recalled mention that they were deploying cargo as a means for peace. Those ships, however, were beloved amongst the Regiments. Loved and cherished and built to endure. What would the Pyraceans sink a peace offering for any other reason than to decline?

  "Worser?" his father asked.

  "They were forced to harbour in enemy territory, Your Grace, and when torn from their motherships..." The captain cleared his throat. "My men are maritime soldiers, winter soldiers."

  What did that mean?

  Ethan glanced up at his father as though the answer were written in the strenuous lines of his frosted surface. All he saw was understanding, led by a hollow flood of fury. It was all he could do not to create distance between them.