Crystal Storm

by Morgan Rhodes

  The tall, heavy gates creaked open to allow the crowd into the compound. Lucia focused so greatly on the people surrounding her, searching their faces for anyone familiar, that she barely registered the stone pathways and clay cottages leading toward the massive, three-story residence in the center of the compound. The Paelsians were being led toward a large clearing there, one with several fire pits and raised stone seating. This made her think of the tales she’d heard of Chief Basilius hosting contests between men who wished to impress him with their strength and skill at combat. Here, there would have been fights to the death for his entertainment.

  The crowd continued to grow, but from the bits of conversation all around her, Lucia heard no mention of the former chief and his pleasures. All she heard was talk of the greatness of their new empress.

  Lucia had no idea Paelsians were so easily fooled. Then again, they had believed that Chief Basilius was a sorcerer for far too many years to count.

  Chief Hugo Basilius. Her birth father.

  And this had been his home—the place where she would have been raised had she not been stolen from her cradle.

  She gazed around at the cottages and streets and fighting arena that made up the compound, expecting to feel something, some sense of loss of the life she might have had.

  But there was nothing. If there was a home she longed for, it was a black palace surrounded by ice and snow.

  The sooner she could leave this dry and unpleasant kingdom, the better. She’d had more than her fill of Paelsian culture after she’d first entered it with Kyan.

  She’d heard no rumors of the fire god causing more havoc and death during her travels. She held tight to the amber orb that she had hidden in her pocket. Timotheus insisted that Kyan couldn’t be killed. But if that was true, then where was he? What was he planning? Had she deeply harmed him in their battle? And if she hadn’t, why hadn’t he gone back to the Forbidden Mountains to reclaim his orb before she found it?

  She curled her fingers around the amber crystal at the thought. Would she be strong enough to fight him if he found her today?

  Lucia hated to admit that she wouldn’t be.

  No, that’s not good enough, she thought. There’s no other choice anymore. I have to be strong enough.

  “She is indeed incredible,” another Paelsian droned on, an old man with a hunched back. “If there’s anyone who can rid our land of its current deadly disease, it’s the empress.”

  “I want vengeance for my family’s death,” a younger woman replied.

  “As do I,” an older woman agreed.

  “What disease are you talking about?” Lucia asked.

  “The disease of the dark witch,” the old man snarled. “Her evil has scorched this land and killed thousands of Paelsians with every touch of her gnarled, ugly hand.”

  Lucia twisted her hands. “I . . . I have heard of these misdeeds . . .”

  “Misdeeds?” he practically yelled in her face. Some of his spittle hit her cheek, and she wiped it away, cringing. “Some say that Lucia Damora is prophesied to kill us all with her fire magic, that she’s an immortal sorceress, born from the King of Blood mating with a demoness during a blood magic ceremony. But I see her for what she is—someone who needs to be slain before she harms anyone else.”

  They knew her name. And they hated her enough to want her dead.

  It didn’t matter that the old man didn’t include Kyan in the telling. What was done was done. She couldn’t go back and change all that had happened.

  Paelsians looked at Lucia as a half-demon witch pulled from the darklands like a hateful weed. A nightmare and a disease that plagued their land.

  She didn’t even try to argue with them, since they were absolutely right.

  The crowd began to cheer as Amara finally took the stage. Lucia tried to see as much as she could of the beautiful girl, her black hair long and flowing, her emerald satin dress with a sparkling embroidered phoenix on it, as she raised her hands. The crowd went silent.

  Amara spoke clearly and passionately about a bright future for the citizens of Palesia. Lucia couldn’t believe the lies she spewed, but when she looked around at the crowd, they were eating them up like a delicious, endless feast laid out before them.

  The empress sounded so sincere in her promises. Lucia had to admire how easily she spoke about changing everything that was wrong with the world. Of making the decisions on behalf of these people who hung on every word she said.

  Lucia stood there, her fists clenched at her sides, hating Amara and waiting for the chance to find out what her enemy had done with her family.

  Then, almost instantly, the beautiful, false words Amara spoke were silenced. Someone screamed, and Lucia couldn’t figure out why until she saw a guard on the stage collapse, clutching an arrow lodged in his throat. Then another guard fell, and another.

  An assassination attempt.

  This can’t happen, Lucia thought frantically. I need to question her. Amara cannot die today.

  With great effort, Lucia summoned air magic. Cool, windy wisps circled her arms and hands in translucent spirals as she strode forward through the crowd and toward the dais, using this invisible magic to nudge everyone out of her path. The sight of Kraeshian guards jumping into the frightened, confused crowd with their weapons drawn only caused more panic to rise. The guards cut down anyone who fought them or stood in their way, be they rebels or civilians, which only made a fight to escape break out.

  Lucia strained to see what was happening on the stage. Amara, accompanied by a girl who looked very much like the servant who used to trail after Princess Cleo, cowered before a tall young man wearing a black eye patch, sword in hand.

  Lucia’s cool air magic shifted to that of fire, ready to burn anyone who kept her from getting to Amara. Someone clutched her cloak, and she sent a glare down at him, ready to set him ablaze. Nicolo Cassian stared up at her, one hand gripping her cloak, the other pressed to a gaping wound on his stomach. When he coughed, blood sputtered from his mouth.

  A mortal wound.

  Her attention went again to the stage, but another choking sound drew her gaze back to Nic, a victim of either the bloodthirsty guards or a frightened Paelsian.

  It didn’t matter who had done this. She could tell at a glance that the wound was deep and deadly. What was this boy doing here, of all places?

  Lucia didn’t have enough magic to fight against thousands. She pressed a hand to her belly as she scanned the crowd, knowing she needed to get to safety. Many were trampling over each other to get back to the gates.

  She took a step, only to realize that Nic hadn’t let go of her yet. “Prinnn . . . cessss . . .” he gasped.

  She cast a tentative look down at him.

  “Please . . . help me . . .”

  The life was fading from his eyes. He didn’t have much time left. But Nic was a close friend of Princess Cleo—a girl Lucia once thought could be a true friend, until she’d betrayed Lucia.

  Yet Lucia’s father had destroyed Cleo’s life, destroyed her entire world.

  Cleo had lost everything over the last year. This friend was really all the Auranian princess had left of her former life.

  If Nic died, Lucia had no doubt that it would destroy Cleo.

  Lucia hated it when her conscience troubled her, especially when Cleiona Bellos was the subject.

  Carefully, she crouched down next to him and pulled his hand away from his wound before pulling up his tunic. She grimaced at the sight of all the blood, the spill of his organs.

  “Tell Cleo,” Nic gasped, struggling to breathe, “that I love her . . . that she’s my family . . . that I—I’m sorry.”

  “Save your breath,” Lucia said, “and tell her yourself.”

  She pressed her hands against his bloody wound and channeled all the earth magic she had within her into him. He arche
d his back and cried out in pain, the piercing sound blending into the chaos surrounding them.

  “Stop! Please!” Nic tried to fight her, to stop her, but he was too weak. He’d lost so much blood that Lucia didn’t know if she had enough magic to fix him. But still she tried. Her hood slipped back from her head, revealing her hair and face, but she didn’t bother to fix it. She drained her own energy and strength in an attempt to save this boy.

  At least, until someone yanked her away from him. She spun around, furious, to come face to face with an ugly man whose lips were curled back from his teeth in a snarl.

  “Look what I’ve found!” he announced, dragging her away from Nic until she lost sight of him. “The sorceress herself preying upon another one of us! Her hands are covered in Paelsian blood!”

  Lucia tried to summon fire or air magic to blast him away from her, but nothing happened. She flexed her hand, desperate now to get away from her assailant.

  “Look at me, witch,” the man said.

  She cast a glare at him, only to be met with the back of his hand striking her across her face so hard that her ears rung.

  “String her up!” someone called out. “Burn the witch like she burned our villages!”

  Disoriented, she was dragged across the dry ground, stumbling over her own feet until her attacker flung her away from him. She fell hard to her knees in the center of a circle of angry faces. Someone hurled a rock at her, and it hit her right cheek hard enough to make her cry out in pain. She touched her face and felt her warm blood.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” she managed, She raised her hands up before her. “You need to let me go.”

  “No, witch, today you die for your evil crimes. Are we all in agreement?”

  The mob that surrounded her loudly voiced their approval. There was no mercy in any of their gazes. Someone handed her original assailant a thick loop of rope.

  “Get her on her feet,” he barked.

  Someone behind Lucia hauled her up to her feet and pinned her wrists tightly together.

  “Greetings, princess,” an oddly familiar voice said in her ear. “Causing more trouble in Paelsia, I see.”

  Jonas Agallon. She strained to turn enough to meet his hate-filled gaze.

  “Jonas,” she managed, “please, you have to help me!”

  “Help you? What? The great and powerful sorceress can’t help herself?” He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Such a tragedy. These people seem to want you dead. Burned alive, I believe I heard, yes? Seems like a fitting end for a witch like you.”

  Her mind reeled. “Where’s my father? My brother? Do you know?”

  “That’s the last thing you should be worried about, princess. Truly.” He turned her around, and his hand brushed against her stomach.

  His brows drew together.

  “That’s right,” she said, grabbing onto any chance at seeking help—even from someone like him. “Will you be so quick to celebrate my execution now that you know an innocent child will die with me?”

  “Innocent?” Jonas’s glare hadn’t softened by a fraction. “Nothing someone like you could bring into this world would be innocent.”

  “I didn’t kill that girl. It was Kyan. He . . . I couldn’t control him. I wanted him to stop. I mourn your loss, and I regret what happened that day. I wish I could change it, but I can’t.”

  “That girl’s name was Lysandra.” Jonas’s jaw tightened, and he didn’t speak for a moment while the other men urged him to follow them to a good place for a witch burning. “Where is Kyan?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she said truthfully.

  He met her gaze. “The child within you drains your magic, doesn’t it?”

  “How do you know that?”

  His frown deepened. “You would have leveled this place by now if you had access to your elementia. Right?”

  All she could do was nod.

  Jonas swore under his breath. “They need you. They’re depend-ing on you. And here you are, stupidly about to get yourself killed.”

  If this were anywhere else, any other time, she would have resented him calling her stupid. “Then do something about it. Please.”

  After another hesitation, Jonas drew his sword and pointed it at the man with the rope. “Slight change of plans. I’m taking the sorceress with me.”

  “Not a chance,” the man growled.

  “This isn’t up for debate. I see that none of you are armed right now.” He swept his gaze around the group. “Stupid move in a crowd like this not to carry a weapon, but it makes this somewhat easier for me. Follow us and you’re dead.” He glared at Lucia. “Let’s go, princess.”

  He gripped her arm and pulled her along with him.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

  “To your beloved father and brother. May you all rot in the darklands together.”

  CHAPTER 21

  CLEO

  PAELSIA

  When Cleo realized that Nic, Jonas, and Olivia had left without saying a word to her about their plans, she wasn’t hurt. She was furious.

  “My goodness, dear girl, you’re going to wear a groove into the floor with all of this pacing.”

  Cleo turned to see that Selia Damora regarded her. The woman made her nervous, but she’d thankfully had little to do with her since they’d arrived. Hard to believe it had only been three days ago. It seemed more like three years.

  “My friends left without saying farewell,” Cleo replied tightly, forcing herself to stop chewing her right thumbnail all the way to the quick. “I find that unforgivably rude and disrespectful behavior. Especially from Nic.”

  “Yes, Nic. The boy with the fiery red hair.” Selia smiled. “I’m sure he meant no harm. He seemed very fond of you.”

  “He’s like a brother to me.”

  “Brothers are known for keeping secrets from sisters.”

  “Not Nic.” Cleo twisted her hands. “We tell each other everything. Well, almost everything.”

  “Come and sit with me for a moment.” Selia took a seat on a lounge chair and patted the seat next to her. “I want to get to know my grandson’s new wife better.”

  It was the last thing Cleo wanted, but she had to pretend to be amiable. It would be wise to make friends with a woman who’d soon be filled with magic now that Cleo’s magic had been stolen away—even if that woman was a Damora.

  Just the thought of what Ashur had done made her tremble with outrage. How had he stolen the obsidian orb without her noticing? That Kindred had represented power to her, and a future filled with choice and opportunity. Now, because she’d allowed herself to become lazy and unobservant, it had been taken right from beneath her own nose.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  Forcing a smile to her lips, Cleo took a tentative seat next to the older woman.

  Selia didn’t speak for a very long moment, but she studied Cleo’s face carefully.

  “What is it?” Cleo finally asked, even more uncomfortable than she’d been to start with.

  “I wasn’t sure before . . . but now I am. I see your father in you. Your eyes are the same color Corvin’s were.”

  The mention of her beloved father made her tense up. “You had doubts about my parentage?”

  “When it came to my son and his”—she hesitated—“difficulties with your mother, yes, of course I’ve had many doubts over the years. I thought there might be a chance that Gaius was your father.”

  The horror at the very idea of such a possibility made sudden nausea swell within her.

  “My . . . my father?” She covered her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “He’s not your father. I’m certain of that now that I see you.”

  Cleo tried to remain calm, but the woman’s unexpected insinuation had blindside
d her. “My—my mother would never have . . . not ever . . .”

  “I’m very sorry to have troubled you with this. But wouldn’t you rather be certain that you and Magnus are related only by vows and not by blood?” She frowned. “Goodness, you’ve become very pale, Cleiona.”

  “I don’t even know why you’d suggest such a thing,” she managed.

  “I didn’t think Gaius had been granted an audience with Elena after their falling out, which I know was well before her marriage to Corvin. But a mother isn’t always told everything when it comes to matters of the heart, even by the most attentive and loving son.”

  The way the king had used what were supposed to have been his last words, his dying breath, to say her mother’s name . . . “I’m sorry, Elena.”

  “I didn’t even know they knew each other until very recently,” Cleo said, her voice tight.

  “They met one summer twenty-five years ago on the Isle of Lukas, when Gaius was seventeen and Elena was fifteen. By the time he returned home, Gaius had become obsessed with her, proclaiming that they would be married with or without his father’s blessing.”

  Cleo struggled for breath. It hardly seemed possible, this story. It was like one from a storybook full of fantasy and imagination. “My father never mentioned anything about . . .” She frowned hard. “Did he know?”

  “I have no idea what Elena may have shared with Corvin about her previous romances. I would assume that he did learn the truth eventually, if only so that he would be better able to protect Elena.”

  “Protect her? What do you mean?”

  Selia’s expression grew grave. “Elena became disinterested in Gaius once she returned home. I don’t know why. I suppose it had only been a passing fancy for her, a way to spend her summer, stringing along the affections of a smitten boy. Nothing more. When Gaius learned of her change of heart, he . . . took it poorly. I confess, I love my son dearly, but he has always had a vicious violent streak. He went to her, demanding his love to be returned, and when she refused him he beat her nearly to death.”

  Another wave of nausea hit Cleo. Her poor mother, subject to the evil Gaius Damora at his very worst.