Crystal Storm

by Morgan Rhodes

  “Fancy,” Magnus said, his entire body tense and ready for a fight. “Was your mother a witch?” he guessed.

  “Yes. She was an Oldling, a witch who worshipped the elements with blood magic and sacrifice.”

  “I’m sure you’re telling me this for a reason.”

  “I am. I asked you to guess how many people I’ve killed.” Taran sheathed the sword. “The answer is one. Only one.”

  A trickle of perspiration slid down the length of Magnus’s spine. “Your mother.”

  Taran nodded grimly. “Oldlings believe twins are filled with powerful magic.” He shook his head, his brow furrowing. “There’s a mostly forgotten legend that says the first immortals who were created were twins—one dark, one light. My mother believed dark magic was far more powerful, so to increase hers, she chose to sacrifice the light twin.”

  “Theon.”

  “Actually, no. It was me, five years ago, when I was fifteen years old. Perhaps she thought I’d let her use this very sword to kill me, but she was wrong. I fought back, and I killed her. Theon arrived then, only to see me holding a blade, our mother dead at my feet. He didn’t know what she really was. I only recently found out the truth for myself. He swore I would pay with my life for taking hers, and I knew he’d never understand. So I ran as far away as I could, and I didn’t look back. Until now.” He laughed, and the sound was dry and hollow. “It seems we have this in common: We both were forced to take a life to protect ourselves, an act we can’t allow ourselves to regret, because if we hadn’t done it, we wouldn’t be here today.”

  Magnus couldn’t find his voice; Taran’s confession had managed to render him speechless. He concentrated on the market’s buzz and activity, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

  When he opened them again, Taran was walking away from him through the crowd. He followed at a distance, considering the short conversation they’d had and feeling grateful that he hadn’t had to fight for his life today.

  When they returned to the inn, Jonas was in the meeting hall, as if waiting for their arrival. He stood up from his seat and put down the book he’d been reading. Magnus noted with surprise it had been the same one about wine that he’d been reading.

  “Taran, we need to talk,” Jonas said. “Out in the courtyard we won’t be overheard by prying ears. Felix is already there waiting. You too, your highness.”

  Magnus cocked his head. “Me?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Now I’m deeply intrigued. Very well. Lead the way, rebel.”

  Behind the inn was an outdoor space that the innkeeper and his wife referred to as the courtyard. Really, it was a patch of brown grass bordered by a small flower-and-vegetable garden and containing two animal pens—one of chickens and one of fat warlogs that chattered angrily at anyone who came close to them.

  Magnus and Taran followed Jonas to where Felix stood in the far corner of the garden.

  “We have information about Amara,” Jonas finally said. “She’s here in Paelsia.”

  Magnus tried not to let any intrigue show in his expression. “Information from whom?”

  “There are rebels everywhere, your highness.”

  Magnus’s first impulse was to remind Jonas that most of his rebels were dead, but he chose to hold his tongue. “Very well. Where in Paelsia?”

  “Chief Basilius’s compound.”

  “And where precisely is that?”

  “A day’s journey from here to the southeast. I’m surprised you don’t know, considering it is a major point on your father’s Blood Road.”

  “Imperial Road,” Magnus corrected.

  “Blood Road,” Jonas said again, gritting his teeth.

  Magnus chose not to get into the subject of that road with a Paelsian, nor the subject of how it was constructed so quickly on the backs of Paelsian workers at his father’s command. No wonder the citizens of this kingdom were so welcoming to Amara. “And did this informant also tell you why she’s come here?”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t matter why she’s here,” Felix said. “This is our chance.”

  “To what?” Magnus asked. “Assassinate her?”

  “That was the general idea.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Jonas said, glaring at his friend.

  “Killing one empress doesn’t change the fact that my father gave this kingdom to her family. That her soldiers are everywhere like green splotches of mud. What about Ashur? You bring him here as if you trust him, yet we don’t know what his plan is.”

  “Ashur is a problem, I admit it,” Jonas said. “I have Nic keeping an eye on him, reporting any unusual behavior.”

  “Oh, yes.” Magnus crossed his arms. “That should turn out just fine. So you”—he addressed Felix—“want to kill her. And you”—to Jonas—“want to wait and see.” He nodded. “Excellent decisions all around. I can’t imagine Amara will stand a chance against this alliance.”

  Jonas blinked. “Taran, weren’t you planning on killing him?”

  “I was.”

  “I’m beginning to warm up to that possibility again.”

  “Clearly,” Magnus began, “if we know Amara’s location, the best course of action is to send scouts to gather more information about her current plans, why she’s here, and where she’s hidden the water Kindred.”

  Taran groaned. “I hate the fact that I agree with him, but I do. I can go. There’s no reason I should stay here with nothing to do but stare at the walls.”

  “I’ll go too,” Felix said eagerly.

  Jonas gave Felix a wary look. “You think you can handle that without doing anything reckless?”

  “Absolutely not. But I still want to go.” Felix sighed. “I promise, we’ll scout for information. That’s all.”

  Magnus would rather take action, like Felix, and simply wipe Amara from the face of the world, but he could see how information would be useful in the broader sense of two kingdoms at war. “Shall we tell Cleo about this? Or Cassian?”

  “For now, no,” Jonas replied. “The fewer who know, the better.”

  Magnus didn’t like the thought of keeping this from Cleo, but he couldn’t fault Jonas’s logic.

  “Fair enough. We’ll keep it between the four of us.”

  Jonas nodded. “Then it’s settled. Taran and Felix will leave tomorrow at dawn.”

  CHAPTER 17

  CLEO

  PAELSIA

  “Have you seen Prince Ashur anywhere?” asked Nic.

  Cleo looked up from the book about Chief Basilius’s life that she’d chosen from the shelf downstairs. Her thoughts were so scattered, she must’ve read the same page, which covered all five of his marriages, ten times.

  Nic stood at the door of her private room. Enzo stood guard outside, her constant protector, but she’d made sure to tell him that Nic was not to be barred from interrupting her.

  “Not today,” she admitted, still stunned that the prince had returned from the dead. “Why? Is that odd?”

  “He likes to wander off and not tell anyone.” His expression darkened. “Does he seem different to you than before? I can’t figure it out.”

  “He seems much the same to me, but I didn’t know him well,” she admitted.

  “Neither did I.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Sometimes it doesn’t take years to know someone. A handful of conversations can be more than enough to know someone’s heart.”

  “If you say so.”

  Cleo knew that Nic and Ashur had known each other well enough that her friend had grieved the prince’s loss deeply. And she also knew there was more than a simple friendship between the two, emotions they were only beginning to explore, perhaps now forever unresolved.

  “Taran and Felix also seem to be missing,” she said. “Where are they?”

  �
�An excellent question. I thought I was allied with Jonas, but now it seems he conspires with Magnus.”

  “What?” The very thought made an uneasy laugh rise in her throat. “If you’ve seen the two in discussion, the subject is very likely about the king.”

  Ever since Jonas had successfully— yet unsuccessfully— sunk his dagger into the king’s chest two nights ago, the king had remained in his room, his mother constantly by his side, fearful her son was too close to death to survive long enough for the secret magic she promised to restore him.

  Cleo did worry that if he died before the witch found Lucia, she’d refuse to help them, but she didn’t mind at all the thought of him suffering in a tiny room in Paelsia.

  A fitting end for a monster.

  What had Gaius Damora been like back when he had known her mother? What horrors had he subjected Elena Corso to? It was a question that had plagued her ever since he’d spoke her name.

  “Do you trust him?” Nic’s voice broke through her thoughts.

  “Who? Magnus?”

  He laughed. “No, of course not him. Jonas.”

  Did she trust Jonas, the boy who had kidnapped and imprisoned her—not once, but twice—and at one point wanted her dead for being present when his brother was murdered?

  But he was also the boy who rose up to become a leader. To fight for his people. The boy who had risked his own life to save hers.

  “I do trust him,” she admitted.

  So much could change in a single year.

  “So do I,” Nic said.

  She nodded. “If he’s speaking with Magnus, then it must be important.”

  “I still don’t like it if he’s keeping secrets from us.”

  Neither did Cleo, especially if it was a secret Jonas and Magnus now shared. Cleo vowed to get some answers for herself. She didn’t care for being left in the dark.

  Later that day, she got her chance. After Magnus asked to see Enzo in the courtyard, Cleo began hunting through the inn for information of her own. She happened quickly upon something potentially interesting in the meeting hall: Magnus’s sketchbook.

  She’d seen him drawing in it, his fingers black from the charcoal he used. Limerians didn’t appreciate art as Auranians did, seeing beauty as a gift the artist shared with the world through his or her unique vision. No, if a Limerian drew anything, it was meant to be an exact likeness of the subject to aid in reference and education.

  To this end, Magnus had attended a summer of art lessons on the Isle of Lukas several years ago, a trip many young royals and nobles—including Cleo’s sister and mother—experienced in their youth. She’d seen Magnus’s previous sketchbook, one that contained incredibly detailed pictures of flora and fauna . . . as well as multiple portraits of his sister, each drawn with unmistakable admiration and attention to every inch of Lucia’s perfect face.

  This, however, was not that sketchbook. It was a new one, and it intrigued Cleo down to her very bones.

  “I really shouldn’t look,” she told herself. “He hasn’t given me permission.”

  However, such an argument had never stopped her before.

  The first drawing was that of the garden outside, clearly a quick sketch, but the dimensions and accuracy were uncanny. Before he’d abandoned this sketch, he’d focused on the detail of one rose bush, and even with the roughness of the charcoal stick, he had captured its beauty in shades of black and gray.

  The second, third, and fourth pages had been roughly torn out.

  The fifth page didn’t have a sketch on it. It had a message.

  Snooping around for a portrait of yourself, princess? Apologies, but you won’t find one today. Perhaps one day I shall draw you. Or perhaps not. We’ll have to see what the future holds.

  —M

  Cleo slammed the book shut, equally embarrassed and annoyed.

  The sound of shouting drew her next to the windows, draped in rough canvas to block the light, that looked out into the courtyard at the back of the inn.

  The prince had his sword drawn and was facing both Milo and Enzo, who also held their weapons. When they attacked, Cleo let out a gasp of horror before she realized what was happening.

  The trio was practicing swordplay. And judging by the force of Milo and Enzo’s attack, Magnus had requested that they attempt to best him.

  Had she never watched him like this before, sword in hand, sweat on his brow, blocking the guards’ weapons with his own? She thought that it might bring back horrible memories of that day—the day she’d lost Theon. But that version of Magnus had been a prince who had no skill compared to a palace guard, and he’d known it.

  I’m so sorry, Theon, she thought, her heart twisting. I never planned to feel this way about Magnus. But I do. I can’t hold on to your memory anymore. I can’t hate him for what happened, what he did that day. He’s so different now.

  Or maybe Cleo was the one who had irreversibly changed.

  “If you ask me, I don’t think they’re fighting nearly as hard as they could.”

  Cleo started at the sound of Jonas’s voice. She looked at him standing next to her, unseen until now, with wide eyes.

  “Did I surprise you?” he asked, amused.

  “That you’d sneak up on someone in a darkened room certainly isn’t a surprise, rebel.”

  Jonas grinned, but his attention was on the trio outside. “I wonder if the prince would be willing to spar with me?”

  “If so, one of you would surely end up dead.”

  “Yes, but which one?” His brow, raised in amusement, dropped at her pained look. “Soon you’ll finally be free of this unsavory arrangement with him, I promise you that.”

  She bit back her reply to this, being careful not to defend the prince. She felt it was still best that no one knew the truth about her and Magnus.

  “He and his father—and Selia—are the means to the answers I need to unlock the earth Kindred’s magic,” she said instead.

  “I told you: There’s an elemental god inside that crystal,” he replied sharply.

  His tone made her flinch. After learning about the elemental gods two days ago, she’d given the matter endless thought and had barely slept a wink because of the gravity of the situation. “If there’s a chance of harnessing that magic without allowing the god to escape, then I still think it’s a goal worth pursuing. There’s too much to lose if we don’t have this power to help us in some way—even a small way.”

  When she met Jonas’s eyes directly, his expression was grim, but his gaze had softened. “I don’t entirely disagree.”

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. “You should know, according to a rather annoyed Nic, you’re keeping secrets from him about Taran and Felix’s current whereabouts.”

  “I’ve come to believe Prince Ashur is every bit of a snake as his sister. Nic knows him but says nothing useful about what to expect. I value Nic, but I don’t trust him with any secrets that he might inadvertently reveal to the prince.”

  Another person entering the meeting hall had caught Cleo’s eye. It was Ashur, only a dozen feet behind Jonas.

  “Jonas . . .” she began.

  “Ashur says he’s this legendary hero raised from the dead to bring peace to the world. What a load of horse crap. He’s just another spoiled royal raised with a silver spoon in his mouth, with any beautiful girl he desires only a snap of his fingers away.” Jonas frowned. “I will admit, that would be quite a perk.”

  Cleo cleared her throat as Ashur crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. “I think that you should—” she began.

  “What? Speak kindly about someone who speaks only in riddles because he’s confused about his evil, power-hungry sister, who will likely destroy the world in her lust for magic and power? He could take the power from her easily. Show up, claim the title of emperor, tell everyone that Amara murdered th
eir family. Finished and done.”

  Her stomach sank with every true but cutting word Jonas spoke.

  “If there’s one thing I’m not when it comes to Amara,” Ashur said, his voice low, “it’s confused.”

  Jonas grimaced. “You could have told me he was right behind me, princess.”

  “You were far too busy enjoying the sound of your own voice.” And, frankly, Jonas’s ramblings about Ashur had refreshed her annoyance with the Kraeshian prince.

  No, not annoyance. Anger, bordering on fury.

  “I would hope you’re not confused about your sister,” Cleo addressed Ashur directly. “She sank a dagger into your chest for crossing her.”

  “Amara’s choices of late have been unfortunate, but I already knew she was set on this path. To be honest, I blame my grandmother for putting her own plans of revolution into action. Ironic that my madhosha would cut down those who equally want change in the empire. She has far more in common with rebels than she might believe.”

  Cleo stared at him, disgusted. “Unfortunate. You call Amara’s choices unfortunate? She murdered you, she murdered her family, and now she’s murdering any Mytican who gets in her way.”

  “She’s lost her way. The sister I know—that I knew—is not one who solves her problems with mindless violence.”

  “Yes, of course. Kraeshians are known to be such a peaceful people.”

  Ashur regarded her carefully. “You’re unhappy with me.”

  She glanced at Jonas before she laughed lightly. “Prince Ashur, why ever would I be unhappy with you?”

  “You’re just like Jonas. You don’t trust me.”

  “Should we?” Jonas said. “You’ve told me nothing of your plans. You disappear for days on end. You keep to yourself. What is that supposed to tell me of your trustworthiness?”

  “You could take the throne from Amara,” Cleo said. “If you’re so keen on helping the world, you could end a great deal of suffering simply by becoming emperor. You’re older than Amara. It’s your throne to take. Are you that afraid of her?”

  Ashur laughed coldly at that. “I’m not afraid of Amara.”