Crystal Storm

by Morgan Rhodes

  “You were afraid enough that you allegedly took a potion to save your life,” Jonas pointed out. “Did you know she planned to kill you?”

  Any amusement fell from Ashur’s handsome face. “I didn’t know. Not for sure. And the potion I took . . . it was well before my journey and primarily to protect myself from King Gaius, should he attempt to use my presence in his kingdom against my father. I had no idea that the potion would even work.”

  “But it did,” Jonas said. “We need to find this apothecary, or witch, or whomever you used. Resurrection potions for everyone. Magic like that could save a lot of people.”

  “Death magic is nothing to be tampered with,” Ashur snapped. “Not for any reason.”

  “Yet you did tamper with such dark magic to save your own life.” Cleo was sure that the prince flinched at her accusation, which seemed very unlike him. “Do you feel guilty about that?”

  “Of course not.” Still, he wouldn’t meet her gaze directly.

  “No, no more lies, Ashur. If you’re trying to give us the impression that we’re all on the same side here, then you need to be forthright with us. There’s more to this potion than you want to say. It’s dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “Many potions are. Poison is simply a potion meant to kill.”

  Cleo took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling she was on the verge of uncovering a secret. “I’ve found that all magic comes with a price. What price did you pay for the chance to live again?”

  “I’ve found that magic’s price is often the opposite of the magic itself. For great power, you will experience moments of great weakness. For pleasure, there will be pain. And for life . . . there will be death.”

  “So you killed someone,” Jonas said, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Or many people. So much for your claims of altruism.”

  Ashur moved to the window to look outside, his arms crossed over his chest. “You know nothing about me, Jonas. I have killed when I’ve had to. I haven’t always been a pacifist. The apothecary warned me of the price I’d have to pay, but I didn’t believe it. Amara unwittingly paid the same price when she was resurrected.”

  Cleo frowned deeply. “Amara was resurrected?”

  “She was,” Ashur said solemnly, then proceeded to tell Cleo and Jonas about what happened when Amara was only a baby, saved from drowning by dark magic and her mother’s ultimate sacrifice.

  Cleo found that she needed to take a seat, unexpectedly moved by this story. In Auranos—in Mytica—while women were valued for their ability to be mothers and cooks and nursemaids, they weren’t prevented from doing other things, should they choose to. And a princess was able to be the heir to her father’s or mother’s throne without worrying about being murdered simply for the alleged crime of being a girl. Cleo wasn’t sure whether she admired Amara’s mother for valuing the life of her daughter—a girl—enough to sacrifice her own life or whether she blamed the woman for the fact that her daughter grew up to become a monster.

  “Who died for you?” Cleo asked softly.

  Shadows slid behind Ashur’s faraway gaze, and he glanced at Jonas briefly before continuing. “I didn’t know for sure, but I knew someone did. That’s what I’ve been doing the last month. Traveling, visiting friends and past lovers. It was someone I spent a single summer with. I had no idea he still cared for me . . . that he’d never stopped caring.” He swallowed hard. “Of everyone I’ve ever known in my life, someone who knew me for only a season loved me so much that he had to die for that love. I can’t . . . rationalize it. I knew this price, but I selfishly ignored it. I’m told he suffered for days. He described it as a blade slowly being pushed into his chest. They tell me that in his last moments he cried out my name.” Ashur’s gray-blue eyes glistened. He took a deep breath. “The guilt I feel over his suffering, his death, and the fact that I erased any chance he had to live out a full and happy life . . . it will torment me forever.”

  All went silent in the room as Cleo tried to process what he was telling her. This Ashur seemed more like the sincere man who’d gifted her the night of her wedding with a Kraeshian bridal dagger meant to take either the unhappy bride’s life or the life of her new husband. This Ashur wasn’t spilling out riddles as a way to divert attention from his grief.

  But then something occurred to her.

  “This is why you’ve been so strange with Nic,” she said. “He doesn’t understand, thinks you’re different, that you feel differently toward him, toward everything. But he’s wrong, isn’t he?”

  Ashur didn’t reply to this, but he looked down at his feet.

  “You’re afraid he might fall in love with you and that you might hurt him because of that love.”

  Jonas stayed silent, his brow furrowed. She hoped he wouldn’t choose to say anything now that might distract the prince from speaking the truth.

  “I had other plans for visiting Auranos,” Ashur finally said. “I didn’t mean for anything like this to happen. But something about Nicolo called to me, and I couldn’t ignore it. I know I should have. All I managed to do was complicate his life and cause him unnecessary pain. But now, I won’t let anything bad happen to him for his mistake of caring for me.”

  “Nic deserves an explanation,” Cleo said, her throat tight.

  “It’s better that he thinks any feelings I might have had have changed.” Ashur cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I feel I’ve already said far more than I planned to.”

  Cleo didn’t say a word to stop him from leaving the room. Her thoughts spun, some connecting, but most just confusing her more.

  Finally, she glanced at Jonas.

  “So,” he said, still frowning. “Nic and Ashur, huh?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Strange . . . I thought Nic liked girls, and you in particular. I’m not usually wrong about these sorts of things.”

  “You’re not wrong. He does like girls.”

  “But Ashur”—he glanced toward the door—“is definitely not a girl.”

  “Don’t try to think too hard about it, rebel. You might injure your brain. Just know that it’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t everything?” He came to sit next to her. “Now that I know Ashur’s little secret, and that it’s not a personal threat to you or me, I need to focus on getting my hands on the orb the king has hidden. Do you think it’s here in the inn?”

  “I have no idea. I wish I did. I was going to tell you . . . to unlock the magic, we need Lucia’s blood and the blood of a Watcher.”

  His surprised gaze met hers. “That’s the secret?”

  Cleo nodded.

  “That won’t release the god?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why it’s so important that we find Lucia, to find out more from her and what went wrong with Kyan.”

  Jonas’s brown eyes got a faraway look in them. “The prophecy . . .”

  “What?” she prompted when he fell silent.

  He shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll tell you more when I figure out if it’s true or not.”

  “The trouble is, I don’t know how to find a Watcher.” She bit her bottom lip. “Sure, there may be a handful of exiled Watchers still alive, but I think it needs to be a full Watcher. I’m hoping Lucia will be willing to help when the time comes.”

  “Don’t worry about finding a Watcher.” He didn’t speak for an extended moment. “I have that covered.”

  Her gaze shot to his with surprise. “How?”

  “Olivia,” he whispered. “She’s one.”

  She gaped at him. “You’re not serious.”

  “It’s another secret, but I’m going to trust you to keep it.” He gave her a half grin then, one she’d always found equally charming and frustrating. “There’s been so much that’s been sacrificed on this road we’ve traveled together. So much loss for both of us. But I hold tight
to the thought that it will all be worth it in the end.”

  She nodded. “Me too.”

  “I think you should know that Lys liked you.”

  “Now you’re lying.”

  “She might not have even realized it herself, but I know she respected you more than you might think. You share the same thing: strength,” Jonas’s voice finally broke. “You just show it in different ways.”

  Cleo’s eyes began to sting at the sight of Jonas struggling not to let the tears welling in his eyes fall.

  She took the rebel’s hands in hers, drawing him closer to her. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Jonas. I mean that from the very bottom of my heart.”

  He just nodded, his eyes trained on the floor. “She loved me. I didn’t even realize it until it was too late. Or maybe I did and I wasn’t ready to accept it. But now I see . . . she was kind of perfect for me.”

  “I have to agree.”

  “We could have had a life together. A house, maybe even a villa.” He grinned again, but it was sadder this time. “Children. A future. Who knows what could have happened? I only know one thing for sure.”

  “What?”

  “Lys deserved far better than me.”

  “I have no doubt about that,” Cleo agreed, pleased that the surprised look Jonas gave her managed to erase the pain in his eyes. She gave him a warm smile. “My sister believed that those who die become stars in the skies. So every night we can look up and know they’re watching over us.”

  His expression grew skeptical. “Is that some Auranian legend?”

  “And if it is?”

  A lock of her hair had fallen over her forehead, and he tucked it back behind her ear before leaving his hand against her cheek. “Then I like Auranian legends.”

  Cleo rested her head on Jonas’s shoulder, and they sat there, taking comfort from each other. There was a connection between her and Jonas—something very powerful that she’d never been able to ignore. And there was a time, not so long ago, that she could have loved this rebel with all her heart.

  And she did love him, but not in the way that Lysandra had.

  Come what may, Cleo’s heart belonged to another.

  CHAPTER 18

  MAGNUS

  PAELSIA

  It was clear to Magnus that Enzo and Milo were holding back in their sparring session, worried about harming a prince. Magnus left them both bleeding as punishment for this and went back inside the inn, feeling the surprising need to sketch.

  He paused at the doorway when he saw Jonas and Cleo in the meeting hall. They were sitting close together, their voices low. Magnus inched closer to hear, but instead he watched as the rebel stroked Cleo’s hair without protest from the princess, then stroked her cheek. Their eyes lingered on each other’s for a second too long.

  Magnus’s vision turned blood red.

  Part of him wanted to storm in there, to tear them apart and kill the rebel before he cast Cleo out of the inn and away from him forever.

  His more rational mind told him that not everything he saw was the truth and that he shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

  Still, if he went in there and confronted the pair, surely someone would die.

  Instead, he stormed out of the inn and headed down the road directly to the tavern, growling at the barkeep for wine. He lost track of how many goblets he’d drunk before he began to calm down.

  He already knew the princess cared for the rebel, that the two had some romantic history he had not wanted to think much about. Why wouldn’t she want someone like Jonas? Someone brave and strong—albeit poor and pathetic and a deadly jinx upon all he’d enlisted into his command as a rebel leader in the past.

  Magnus could still see how someone like Jonas, who openly gazed at the princess as if she were a shining star in the night sky, would be tempting. At least in comparison to Magnus, who was dark and moody and quick to violence.

  He stared down into his empty goblet. “With a million other worries and troubles upon me, I am now obsessed about where her true feelings lie.” He glared drunkenly at the barkeep. “Why is my cup empty?”

  “Apologies.” The barkeep quickly filled the goblet until the wine splashed over the side.

  Someone came to sit on the wooden stool next to him. He was about to bark at the man that he needed his space and that if he valued his life he should go elsewhere, but then he realized who it was.

  “Wine never helps one forget their worries for long,” his father said, his face as pale and gaunt as a corpse beneath the heavy hood of his black cloak.

  Since the king had been sequestered in a private room upstairs at the inn with his mother since the night they arrived, it was a surprise to see him here. Magnus glanced around to see if he’d brought Milo for protection, but he didn’t see the guard anywhere. Perhaps he still nursed his injuries from their sparring session.

  Magnus ignored the king’s comment and drained his cup before speaking. “Does Selia know you’re here? I can’t imagine she’d approve.”

  “She doesn’t know. Her concern about my impending death has made me a prisoner. I don’t care very much for the feeling.”

  “The feeling of your impending death or of being a prisoner? No need to answer. I’m sure both are vastly unfamiliar experiences for you.” Magnus grabbed the flask of wine from the barkeep and shooed him away with a wave of his hand. He drank directly from the bottle now.

  “There was a time when I indulged in such sins,” the king said.

  “Wine or intense self-pity?”

  “Are you having trouble with the princess?”

  “I’m sure that would make you very happy, wouldn’t it?”

  “To know that you might wish to separate from someone who I believe will only lead you to your doom? Happy would not be the word I’d choose, but yes. It would be for the best.”

  “I will not discuss Cleo with you, not now or ever,” Magnus mumbled, hating that his head was so unclear with his father nearby. He’d prefer to have complete control over his senses, but it was too late to worry about that after the amount of wine he’d already consumed.

  “Wise choice,” the king replied. “She’s certainly not my favorite subject.”

  “This hatred you have for her . . .” He turned it over in his mind, this seemingly unrelenting loathing the king had for Cleo. “It must have to do with her mother, yes?”

  “Yes, actually it does.”

  A direct answer. How unusual—and deeply intriguing.

  “Queen Elena Bellos,” Magnus continued, spurred by the wine loosening his lips. “I saw her portrait at the Auranian palace before you had it torn down along with the others. She was a beautiful woman.”

  “She certainly was.” The king turned away from him and wistfully looked out the tavern windows at the dark city street outside. Magnus could see the faintest smile on his ghostly pale lips.

  The realization hit him hard. “You were in love with her,” Magnus said, shocked at his own words but knowing it had to be true. “You were in love with Cleo’s mother.” This accusation drew the king’s gaze back to him, his bloodshot eyes widening slightly as if with surprise. Magnus took a moment to absorb this silent confirmation and another sip of his wine to aid his suddenly dry throat. “It must have been a very long time ago, back when you were capable of such a pure emotion.”

  The smile quickly disappeared from his father’s pale, sickly face. “It was a lifetime ago. Such weakness nearly destroyed me, which is exactly why I wanted to watch out for you.”

  Magnus laughed at this, a loud bellowing sound that surprised even him. “Watch out for me? Oh, Father, don’t waste your breath on such lies.”

  The king slammed his fist down on the bar top. “Are you blind? Utterly blind? Everything I’ve ever done has been for you!”

  The force of his sudden anger made Magnus spill so
me of his drink down the front of his tunic. He glared at the man. “How odd that I forgot that when you chose to end my life—and the life of my mother.”

  “Death would be a relief from this world for many of us.”

  “I will not forget anything that you’ve done, starting with this.” Magnus pointed to the scar on his right cheek. “Do you remember that day as clearly as I do?”

  The king’s jaw tensed. “I remember.”

  “I was seven years old. Seven. Have you for one moment regretted it?”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t have tried to steal from the Auranian palace. It would have caused great embarrassment had you been successful.”

  “Seven years old!” Magnus’s throat hurt as he practically yelled it. “I was a mere child making a mistake, tempted by something shiny and pretty when I was used to living a bland, gray life in a bland, gray palace. No one would have known that I’d taken that dagger! What difference did it make?”

  “I would have known,” the king hissed. “That dagger you wished to steal belonged to Elena. I would have known because I was the one who gave it to her, back when I was a foolish boy trying to woo a beautiful girl. I didn’t know she’d kept it, that she’d cherished and displayed it all the time we’d been apart. When I saw it in your hand six years after her death . . . I didn’t think. I just reacted.”

  Magnus found he had no immediate reply. To have these questions answered after so long, he couldn’t process it quick enough. “That doesn’t excuse what you did.”

  “No, of course it doesn’t.”

  Magnus tore his attention away from the king and tried to focus on something, anything else. It helped to notice that the world went on beyond this conversation. A large man walked toward the bar with an armful of empty cups, his tunic riding up high enough to show a hairy belly. A barmaid coyly slapped the hand of a sailor away. The musicians in the far corner played a lively song, and many clapped along. Several others danced on a tabletop.

  “Power is all that matters, Magnus. Legacy is all that matters.” The king said it as if trying to convince himself of this. “Without it we’re no better than a Paelsian peasant.”