Crystal Storm

by Morgan Rhodes

  “What? You don’t like it? Well, they do say art is subjective.”

  “You think spending your time doodling away in that book is going to make anyone see you as less of a threat? Try again. This innocent, nice-guy act you’re putting on is wasted on me.”

  Magnus rolled his eyes. “Noted,” he said, tucking the sketchbook under his arm. “But I can’t say I’m not hurt. I thought we’d become good friends back in Limeros.”

  Nic narrowed his eyes, clearly not amused. “The only thing that helps me sleep at night is knowing that Cleo sees you for what you really are.”

  “I certainly hope you’re right,” Magnus said dismissively. He’d never let Nic get to him before, and he wasn’t about to do so now, but the subject of Cleo was a thorn in his side. “It’s so interesting to me, the lot of you choosing to stay here in the lion’s den.”

  “Perhaps you’re wrong about who’s the lion and who’s the prey.”

  Magnus made a mock-snoring sound. “Conversing with you, Nic, is always so stimulating. Truly. But I’m sure you have other places to be, and I’d hate to waste the precious time of a brilliant wit such as yours. I’m sure I’ve already kept you from your next appointment, which is . . . what? Perhaps lurking about in Ashur’s shadow, waiting for a moment of his glorious attention now that he’s successfully returned from the dead?” Having personally witnessed Ashur’s death, Magnus was still trying to process the overwhelming information that he was still alive. “So sad, truly, that no one sees what’s really going on between the resurrected prince and the former stable boy.”

  And that was all it took for Nic’s cheeks to burn with an immediate flush. “And what is that, Magnus? What do you think is really going on?”

  Magnus paused, meeting Nic’s suddenly uncertain gaze. “The taste of romantic disappointment is rather bitter, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Nic snarled. “Never forget that she hates you. You killed everyone she loves. You stole her entire world. That’s a truth that will never change.”

  With a last glare, Nic left the room, leaving Magnus glowering and heaving with a great desire to punch something. Or someone.

  He’s wrong, he assured himself. The past is no measure of the present.

  And it was the present he needed to focus on. They needed to find Lucia, now, without further delay.

  Why should we wait another day for Grandmother to find this elusive magic stone? he thought. Here they were, cowering like victims, when they should be doing anything they could to cast that Kraeshian from their shores forever.

  Magnus shoved the sketchbook toward the center of the table and rose to his feet. He was going to find his grandmother and demand that—with or without her magic fully restored—she try a spell to find his sister.

  “All alone in this great big hall?”

  He went still at the sound of Cleo’s voice. She stood at the base of the stairs, peering into the expansive room at him.

  “Seems that way,” he said. “More reason for you not to enter.”

  She entered anyway. “I feel like we haven’t spoken privately in ages.”

  “It’s been two days, princess.”

  “Princess,” she said, biting her bottom lip. “My, you certainly are keeping this act up quite well. In fact, I can’t be sure it is only an act anymore.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” He moved his gaze over her, taking her in the way a starving man would a feast. “Is that a new dress?”

  She stroked the silky skirts, the color of a ripe summer peach. “Olivia and I went to a market by the docks today.”

  “You and Olivia did what?” He narrowed his eyes at her, alarmed by his ignorance of the princess’s choice to thoughtlessly put herself into danger. “That was a terrible idea. Anyone could have recognized you.”

  “Much as I enjoy being scolded, I suppose I should assure you that no one recognized me since I wore my cloak. And we weren’t alone. Enzo and Milo were with us, for protection. Ashur too. He’s been exploring the city to learn what Paelsians feel about the news of his sister’s arrival.”

  “And what do they say?”

  “Ashur said that most seem . . . open to change.”

  “Do they, now.”

  “Anything after Chief Basilius would be an improvement.” She hesitated. “Well, not including your father, of course.”

  “Of course.” Magnus had very little regard for Paelsians—or most Auranians, for that matter. All he cared about was that Cleo had been gone from the inn and he hadn’t realized it. “No matter whom you were with out there, it was still an exceedingly bad idea.”

  “So is drinking to excess every night at the Purple Vine,” she said tightly. “And yet that is what you choose to do.”

  “That’s different.”

  “You’re right. What you do is far more idiotic and foolhardy than spending the day exploring a market.”

  “Idiotic and foolhardy,” he repeated, frowning. “Two words that have never been used to describe me.”

  “They’re accurate,” she said, her tone sharp and her brows drawing together. “When I saw you that first night with Taran . . .”

  The sound of his name cut into the space between them like the sharp edge of an ax driving into a wooden block.

  “I know his presence here must be difficult for you,” Magnus said, his throat tightening. “His face . . . all the horrible memories it suggests . . .”

  “The only horrible memory I have of Taran is that of his blade pressed to your throat.” Cleo paused, searching Magnus’s face as her frown deepened. “Do you assume that when I look at him I see only Theon?”

  “How could you not?”

  “I admit that it was jarring to see him. But Theon’s gone. I know that. I’ve made peace with it. Taran is not Theon. He is, however, a threat.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” Cleo continued to study him intently, as if he were a riddle she needed to decipher. “Yet you honestly thought that I would see him and forget everything else that’s happened since that day? That the hatred I used to feel for you would return and blind me? That I . . . what? Would instantly fall in love with Taran Ranus?”

  “It does sound quite ludicrous.”

  Her expression grew thoughtful. “Well, Taran is very handsome. Apart from the fact that he wants you dead—which was, admittedly, a former goal of mine—he would make a perfect suitor.”

  “Tormenting me must be very amusing for you.”

  “Very,” she teased, allowing him a small but slightly sad smile. She reached for his hands, the sensation of her warm skin against his like a salve to a painful wound. “Nothing has changed between us, Magnus. Know that.”

  Her words comforted his aching soul. “I’m very glad to hear that. When might you share this sentiment with the others?”

  Immediately, her expression grew tense. “This isn’t the time. There’s far too much at stake right now.”

  “Nic is your closest family, your dearest friend, and he despises me.”

  “He still sees you as an enemy. But one day, I know he’ll change his mind.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” He searched her gaze. “What then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Choices, princess. Life seems to be all about them.”

  “You’re asking me to choose between you and Nic?”

  “If he refuses to accept . . . this, whatever this is, princess, then I suppose you would have to choose.”

  “And you?” she finally said after several long moments of pensive silence. “Whom would you choose, if someone or something forced you? Would it be me? Or Lucia? I know very well she was your first love. Perhaps you still love her like that.”

  Magnus groaned. “I assure you, there’s nothing of
the sort between Lucia and me. And as far as she’s concerned, there never was.”

  His heart had evolved so dramatically over the last few months that he had to wonder if he was still the same person who had once pined away for his adopted sister. Though it had taken on a new form, that love for her was still there within him. No matter what Lucia might do or say, Magnus loved her unconditionally and was ready to forgive her for any misdoings.

  But the desire he’d once had for her . . . his heart had utterly and permanently shifted to someone else—someone far more frustrating and dangerous to him than his adopted sister had ever been.

  “She did choose to run away with her tutor, after all,” Cleo reminded him.

  His lips thinned. “Yes, and now the fate of the world rests on whether or not we find where she’s run off to.” Cleo looked at him, skepticism plain in her stare. “What, princess?” he asked. “You have doubts?”

  “I . . .” Cleo started, then paused to stare down at her feet as if deep in thought. “Magnus, I’m just not sure she’s the singular solution you seem to be counting on.”

  “She has dealings with the fire Kindred. I believe she must know how to draw the magic from the Kindred without also allowing the elemental god to escape.”

  “Seems to me that she’s the one who helped Kyan escape if they’re traveling together. She has to be.”

  “Perhaps. But her magic is vast.”

  “Vast enough to kill us all.”

  “You’re wrong,” Magnus said without hesitation. “She wouldn’t do that. She will help us—help everyone.” Whenever he spoke glowingly of Lucia, he noticed Cleo would purse her lips and crease her brow as if she’d tasted something sour.

  Could she really be jealous of how I feel about Lucia? he wondered, with a sliver of amusement.

  “I see thoughts of your adopted sister bring a rare smile to your face,” she said, her words clipped and her tone unpleasant. “I’m sure thinking of her provides a lovely escape for you during this trying time, while we’re stuck here in Paelsia, surrounded by rebels who would jump at the chance to burn this inn—and all the royals within it—to the ground.”

  “Is that Agallon’s nefarious plan?” he asked, now pursing his lips and creasing his brow. “What else has he whispered to you in the dark of night since arriving here?”

  “Very little, actually.”

  Magnus took a step closer to her; she took a step backward: the same dance they engaged in from time to time. They kept it up until he backed her into a corner, and she looked up at him defiantly.

  “Perhaps you’d rather share a room with the rebel than with me,” he said, twisting a lock of her hair around his finger. “Then again, he’d probably prefer a house in the trees made of sticks and mud.”

  Cleo scoffed. “This is what you choose to focus on right now?”

  “Yes. Because if I focus on Agallon, I can stop focusing on you and how badly I want to take you to my bed.”

  All she could do was let out a brief, breathy gasp before his lips were on hers, his hands gripping her waist and pulling her against him. And she kissed him back without reservation.

  His hands slid down her sides to her waist, around to the small of her back, and over the curve of her bottom. Frustrated with the necessity to lean over to fully kiss her, he gripped the backs of her thighs and lifted her up into his arms so that her back pressed up against the wall.

  Surely, she would stop him now.

  And yet she didn’t. In fact, she’d begun to frantically pull at the ties of his shirt, her mouth not leaving his for an instant.

  “I want you,” he whispered against her lips. “I want you so much I may die from it.”

  “Yes . . .” Her breath was so sweet, so warm. “I want you too.”

  When he kissed her next, all rational thought about the curse vanished from his mind. There was nothing except the maddening, blinding need to touch her, to taste her . . .

  At least, not until he heard the footsteps approaching from behind him.

  It was then that Magnus sensed that they were no longer alone.

  Slowly lowering the princess back to the ground, Magnus forced himself to pull away from her and, shoulders tense, look upon their intruder.

  Despite his intimidating stature and impressive muscle, Felix Gaebras looked positively sheepish.

  “Um . . . sorry to interrupt? I was . . . uh . . . just moving through.” But he remained still where he stood, then raised his chin. “Pardon me for saying, your highness,” he said, looking at Magnus, “but you might want to be more discreet with the princess from now on.”

  “Is that so?” Magnus hissed.

  Felix nodded. “Nic has happily convinced everyone that you hate Magnus, princess. And that . . . didn’t look like an act of hate to me. He’s going to go out of his mind over this.”

  Cleo stepped away from Magnus, her fingers pressed to her lips and her cheeks bright red.

  “Please, Felix,” she said, almost desperately. “Promise me that you won’t tell Nic about this. Not ever.”

  Felix bowed. “Don’t worry, princess. I won’t breathe a word.”

  “Thank you.”

  Magnus hid his grimace. Something about how she said it, how relieved she sounded that it had only been Felix who’d witnessed them together and not someone whose opinion she valued more, pained him deeply.

  • • •

  If Ashur could seek information about Amara, so could Magnus. That afternoon, he left the inn and strode up the road to the market Cleo had mentioned, which took him by the tempting entrance to the Purple Vine. Once at the market, he barely glanced at the wooden stalls, with brightly colored tarps meant to shield the vendors from the sun, each selling a different Paelsian commodity—from wine to jewelry, from fruits and vegetables to scarves and frocks of all colors, among a plethora of other wares. The busy maze of stalls smelled of sweet fruit and smoked meat, and closer to the docks, the odor of sweat and waste buckets assaulted Magnus’s nostrils. Among the numerous attendees of the market, including crews of ships and regular citizens of the city, a scattering of Kraeshian guards captured his interest.

  He watched as one of Amara’s men spoke with a Paelsian wine seller, who offered him a taste of their product, but the wooden goblet wasn’t presented with trembling hands or fear in the seller’s eyes, but with a smile upon his face.

  It annoyed Magnus to see that so many Paelsians were accepting the fate of becoming a part of the Kraeshian Empire, seemingly without a care in the world. Had it really been so bad for them before that the thought of Amara as their new leader was a gift?

  He continued to watch evidence of this dynamic between Paelsians and Kraeshians until the sun was high in the sky and wearing a hooded cloak became unbearably hot. Since he’d had his fill of the sights, sounds, and smells, both pleasant and foul, of the Basilia market, he decided to return to the inn.

  Magnus turned in that direction only to find that someone stood in his path.

  Taran Ranus.

  Magnus fought not to show that unexpectedly facing the twin of Theon—someone who had nearly successfully taken his revenge on his brother’s murderer—had startled him so much. But before Magnus could figure out what to say, Taran took the liberty of speaking first.

  “I’m curious,” Taran said, his voice low. “How many people have you killed?”

  “That’s a rather personal question for such a public place.”

  He continued, undeterred. “We know there’s my brother, that’s one. Who else?”

  Magnus tried not to flinch, tried not to reach for the hilt of the sword he wore. Taran also wore his sword prominently at his side.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

  “An estimate will do.”

  “Very well. Perhaps . . . a dozen.”

  Taran nodded, his express
ion giving away nothing of what might be going on in his mind as he glanced at the busy market around them. “How many people do you think I’ve killed?”

  “More than a dozen, I’m sure,” Magnus replied. He pursed his lips. “Why? Are you here to taunt me with your sword-fighting skills? To tell me stories of how you’ve made evil men cry for their mothers before spilling their blood? How you would kill a thousand more if it meant that sunshine and happiness would reign supreme in this world?”

  Taran’s narrowed gaze slowly moved back to meet Magnus’s. For someone who’d nearly taken apart the inn the other night with his urgent need to slit Magnus’s throat, Taran seemed eerily calm today.

  “Do you regret killing my brother?” he finally asked, ignoring Magnus’s questions.

  Magnus considered lying, wondered if he should feign remorse. But he instinctively knew he wouldn’t be able to fool Theon’s twin. “No,” he said with as much confidence as he could. “My life was in jeopardy. I needed to protect myself from someone vastly more skilled with a sword than I was at the time, so I acted. I can’t stand here and tell you that I regret taking any means necessary to save my own life, despite my choices at the time not being the same choices I would make today.”

  “What choice would you make today?”

  “Face-to-face combat. My fighting skills have much improved over the last year.”

  Taran nodded once, but his face betrayed nothing. “My brother would have bested you.”

  “Perhaps,” Magnus allowed. “So what, then? I assume you’re here to attempt to take my life before all these people. Are you? Or are we merely having a conversation?”

  “That’s exactly why I followed you here: because I want to decide what to do. The other night it was so simple, so clear in my mind that you had to die.”

  “And now?”

  Taran pulled the sword from the sheath on his belt, but only enough to show the blade that had a series of symbols and unfamiliar words etched into its surface. “This was my mother’s weapon once. She told me that the words carved into it are in the language of the immortals.”