Legacy of the Curse

by Deborah Grace White

  Jocelyn took a deep gasping breath, then spat on the floor, trying to rid herself of the awful taste.

  “Goodness,” said Lord Randall mildly. “That’s not very proper behavior for a princess.”

  “How dare you?” Jocelyn hissed at him. “How dare you attack me, and keep me here? When my father gets hold of—”

  “By the time your father is aware of your predicament,” said Lord Randall calmly, “he will no longer have the power to do much of anything.” He settled himself on an upturned barrel, and fixed her with a humorous look. “But never mind that. I’m desperately curious to know what tipped you off last night. Was it my magic you recognized, or my identity?”

  “Your identity?” Jocelyn repeated, confused. She could feel power leaving her with her words, but it just seemed to bounce off the warped, unnatural man in front of her.

  “So it was the magic, then,” Lord Randall said. “That is more impressive, and more concerning. Let’s hope there aren’t too many others running around with secret magic who might recognize my…gift.”

  Jocelyn snorted at the word gift, but she didn’t understand his other comment. How would she recognize his identity? She knew no one from the Balenan court, other than Aunt Scarlett. And the royal family, who were Aunt Scarlett’s cousins on her mother’s side.

  She stared at Lord Randall, who was smiling serenely, and suddenly it hit her. Aunt Scarlett had other family, too. There was a reason his features had reminded her so much of Aunt Scarlett, beyond the race.

  “Your name isn’t Randall,” she said slowly. “It’s Wrendal, isn’t it? Aunt Scarlett’s name before she was married. I remember she had a brother called Scanlon. You’re Lucy’s uncle.”

  He raised a haughty eyebrow. “I know no such person, and I certainly wouldn’t claim relationship with any mongrel brat of my harlot sister’s.” Jocelyn recoiled involuntarily from the poison in his words. “But yes, of course my name is Wrendal.” He gave her a contemptuous look. “Aunt Scarlett, is it? My sister is a bigger fool even than I realized.”

  Jocelyn bristled in defense of her beloved second family. She cast around for something scathing to say, wanting to discomfit the despicable nobleman.

  “That’s why your nose is crooked, isn’t it?” she asked innocently. “Uncle Jonan broke it when he punched you. I heard the whole story about how they thwarted your little military coup when they visited Balenol that one time.”

  Lord Randall—or rather Lord Wrendal—leaped to his feet. Jocelyn hadn’t missed the way his face had twitched in fury at the mention of his brother-in-law’s name. He crossed the cellar in two strides, seizing Jocelyn by the hair and dragging her up from the floor.

  She cried out as pain shot through her, and Scanlon once again brought his face uncomfortably close to hers.

  “Do not try my patience, you Kyonan filth. It would be delightfully easy to decide to simply end your life and be done with the inconvenience.”

  He threw her to the ground, and she landed in a crumpled heap, pain blossoming from every point of contact with the hard floor. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

  For a moment he stood there, looking down at her, still breathing hard. Then he abruptly resumed his seat, his expression once again benign.

  “But where were we?” he asked, and his polite tone made Jocelyn shudder more than his preceding anger. This man was clearly unbalanced, and she was in his power. “What can you tell me about your magic?” he asked calmly. “Or any insights you care to share regarding your brother’s?”

  She glared at him, still drawing deep gasping breaths. “How did you convince the dragon to forfeit his power to you?” she asked, instead of answering his question.

  A look of shock flitted across Scanlon’s face, but he recovered quickly. “It wasn’t a matter of convincing,” he said in amusement. “The stupid beast practically begged me to take it.” Jocelyn felt ill at the thought of such a mighty creature brought so low. “I consider myself fortunate no one else saw the truth in the foolish stories being spread around, and beat me to Valoria to investigate.” He smiled in a self-satisfied way. “But I had long been doing my own research on how I might turn the power of the dragons who supposedly haunt the North Lands to my own purposes.”

  He looked back at her. “Far from needing to convince the dragon, I was in a position to impose conditions of my own.”

  “What conditions?” asked Jocelyn uneasily, but Scanlon just gave her an unpleasant smile.

  “I don’t think that’s something you need to know, my dear.”

  “And were you able to choose what form it would take?” Jocelyn pushed on recklessly. She had the sense he was about to leave, and she wanted to get as much information as she could while he was still talking.

  He raised his eyebrows. “You seem to be singularly well-informed, Princess. Do I take it that your own magic was acquired in the same way?”

  “Of course not,” Jocelyn shot back in disgust. “Your power is a travesty of dragon magic, and mine is nothing like it. I am not an abomination.” She spoke with conviction. Perhaps for the first time, she really believed the words.

  Scanlon just chuckled at the epithet, not offended. “I chose its form, yes.”

  Jocelyn’s mind was whirring. “So what, you asked him to make you some kind of silver-tongue, able to convince people you were right?” She frowned. “No, that’s not it, is it? It’s not in your words—you had me wanting to trust you when you’d barely opened your mouth.”

  “Very good, Princess,” approved Scanlon lazily. “You and your brother are woefully limited, but my magic is not restricted to my words.” He sighed. “But there were limitations, as it turns out. The dragon was not able to give me whatever I desired, without boundary. I thought long and hard about what to ask for. I was tempted to seek the might required to destroy Kyona from the outside. But I decided in the end it would be much more poetic to watch the kingdom tear itself apart from within. The presence of the escaped slaves was the perfect fracture point. It really only needed a little push. And it was a delightfully neat scheme, after all. Revenge against your upstart king, revenge against the slaves, revenge against the whole kingdom for the humiliation and ruin it has visited on Balenol.”

  Jocelyn frowned. “This isn’t about Balenol,” she said softly. “Your ego is too big for that. It’s personal.”

  “You had better believe it’s personal.” Scanlon was once again on his feet, and Jocelyn cowered away in spite of herself. “Every day my sister spends as the wife of that dog is an offense. I will destroy them and their spawn and restore the honor to my noble house.”

  Again Jocelyn recoiled, her terror for Lucy and the rest of the family mingling with horror. Spit was flying from Scanlon’s mouth, and he looked quite mad. Had he always been this way, or had the stolen dragon magic done this to him?

  “But it’s more than that,” he raged. “Your father took everything from me when he liberated his precious slaves. And my revenge will be deliciously personal when he watches his own son lead the way to civil war.”

  “What have you done to Eamon?!” Jocelyn shouted, her power flaring uselessly from her with the words.

  “Why, nothing,” said Scanlon, in false surprise. “Just talked with him a little. We’ve become friends—we see quite eye to eye on a number of issues. And,” Scanlon’s eyes glinted maliciously, “he’s been most helpful in convincing the rest of your father’s court. I’ve barely needed to be involved.”

  Horror swirled inside Jocelyn, as strongly as her power. If Scanlon had identified Eamon’s power, if he had found a way to manipulate Eamon into using it for the Balenan’s purposes, the danger to Kyona was greater than she’d feared. Eamon had always been better at controlling his power than she had. On a good day, he could convince a room full of dissenters to fall into line with only a few well-chosen sentences.

  “Eamon will never be taken in by you,” she spat, wishing there was m
ore conviction in her words.

  Scanlon chuckled. “Ah, but I’m so sincere. You said this was personal, Princess, and you were quite right.” His strangely glittering eyes grew dark. “I should have been the most influential nobleman in Balenol’s court. My father was the Overseer of Slaves, as I would have been after him. My sister was supposed to marry our cousin and become queen. The house of Wrendal was well-respected and powerful.”

  He ground his teeth. “And it was all ripped away from me by a pack of filthy slaves. Thanks to my father being fool enough to get himself killed by Scarlett’s pet Kyonan before he could see his plans through, he came out looking like an imbecile and a traitor. The soft-hearted fools in my country, including most of the royal family, were never going to trust me because of my relationship to him. And all the ones who should have been my allies didn’t trust me because of my relationship to my sister, who betrayed her kingdom when she started her repulsive slave resistance.”

  “I’m guessing your own attempt to carry out a military coup didn’t help, either,” Jocelyn interjected scornfully.

  Scanlon gave her a nasty smile. “Just another count against my sister and her mongrel. They’ll pay in full, don’t worry.” He took a deep breath. “All of that is in the past now, because that pathetic dragon gave me what I most lacked.”

  “A heart?” said Jocelyn sarcastically, but he ignored her.

  “Trust.” He smiled angelically at her. “People tend to trust me, Princess. And you’re right, it’s not in my words, although they help. It’s just my presence. That indefinable something about me.”

  An involuntary shiver ran down Jocelyn’s spine at the memory of how even she had reacted that way to the nobleman on first meeting. But now she recognized his power for what it was, she knew she would never be deceived by it again. Everything about him felt unnatural and sinister, barely human.

  “At what cost?” she whispered. “You got the magic you wanted, but it’s warped you.”

  Scanlon just laughed lightly. “I’m not squeamish, Your Highness.” He stood, stretching his limbs. “I think I’ll leave you now. I’m expected in Kynton, you know.”

  “If you so much as—”

  Her empty threats were cut off by the gag, which Scanlon shoved mercilessly back into her mouth. He tied the cloth around it even more tightly than before, and Jocelyn could barely keep from gagging on it.

  “I wouldn’t want you to have any unhelpful chats with my men in my absence,” he explained cheerfully. He strolled to the door, pausing to make sure she was listening as he addressed someone on the other side. “Keep her here until I decide how best to put her to good account. Don’t remove the gag, for any purpose.” His eyes sparkled maliciously as they met hers. “I do hope you ate your fill at that lovely birthday feast of yours, my dear.”

  Then he was gone, and darkness descended once more.

  For a moment Jocelyn remained on the floor, stunned and horrified. Then she pushed herself to her feet and hobbled toward the door. She could hear nothing, and it took only a minute to ascertain that there was no other route of escape from the room. Clenching her teeth against the pain, she wrestled with all her might against the bindings on her wrists, but it was futile.

  She was a little ashamed of how quickly she gave up, but with every muscle on fire, it was so much easier to just slump on the floor, letting tears run silently down her face. She remembered with a sudden hysterical laugh that she had told Elddreki the night they’d met that she couldn’t be less free if she was locked in a cage.

  She had been wrong.

  As wrong as the Valorians, and apparently Eamon, had been to trust Scanlon.

  As wrong as she’d been not to use her power when she had the chance. Maybe she could have changed the Valorian royals’ minds about their underhanded guest.

  As wrong as Kincaid had been when he said she wouldn’t hurt him. And now she might never get the chance to tell him she chose him after all.

  The thought of Kincaid was too much, and for several minutes she wept openly, not caring if her guards heard her. But eventually she stilled. If they really weren’t going to feed her, she had better conserve her energy. She rolled over, and felt her dagger in its place on her leg, uncomfortable beneath her.

  They hadn’t found it!

  She shuddered in momentarily relief that no one had searched her that thoroughly while she was unconscious. But why would they? Princesses didn’t carry weapons concealed under their ballgowns. She smiled grimly. Not ordinary princesses.

  It took a while, and it hurt quite a lot, but she managed to contort her body into the right position to grasp hold of the blade. After a lot of fruitless effort, she was forced to conclude that due to the angle at which her hands were bound, she wouldn’t be able to use the dagger to cut her bonds. At least not without slicing her hand off. She shuffled around so her back was to the wall, holding it loosely behind her. She had no idea if she would have an opportunity to use it, but she wanted to be prepared just in case.

  The day crawled on interminably. As the effects of whatever drug Scanlon had used on her wore off, Jocelyn’s head mercifully stopped pounding. But it was only a small improvement. Her thirst battled with the pain in her limbs for the position of her greatest discomfort, and the continued presence of the gag in her mouth was almost more than she could take. She had no way to tell the time, but it felt like endless hours had passed when she next heard a sound.

  She had slumped against the wall in her exhaustion, but the sound of the heavy door opening caused her to scramble up into a proper sitting position, her knife clenched tightly in her hand.

  “Ready for your meal, Your Royal Highness?”

  The man who came in was burly and rough. She noted with interest that he wasn’t Balenan. His voice, heavy with mockery, betrayed him to be Valorian. Probably from the North Wilds, she thought wryly.

  Her stomach had grumbled hopefully at the mention of a meal, but he had no food with him. He had a pitcher in his hand, however, and Jocelyn was more than ready to take what she could get.

  “I’d bring you food, but how you’d eat it with that in your mouth I couldn’t say,” grinned the man, obviously delighted with her helplessness. “But I thought you might be thirsty.”

  Jocelyn glared at him, but she was in fact so thirsty that she didn’t protest when he tipped the pitcher up and poured water into her face. She coughed and spluttered, but enough of the liquid made it past her gag to soothe her dry throat. The man guffawed at the sight, but she refused to let him rattle her. When he turned to leave, she struggled to her feet, grunting for his attention.

  He turned around, raising an eyebrow at her. “Sad to see me leave, darlin’?” he asked with a jeer. “I’m not surprised.” He sauntered back toward her, leaning into her face. “I do have a way with the ladies.”

  His breath was foul, and several teeth were missing. He ran a meaty hand down one of her arms, and if she hadn’t wanted to gag before, she certainly would have now. But his proximity was exactly the opening she needed. In a flash, Jocelyn turned around, bringing her bound hands to the man, and plunged her dagger into his thigh.

  He let out a scream of rage and pain, and Jocelyn didn’t even pause to retrieve the blade. Forcing her flaming muscles to move, she ran for the open door, emerging into the glowing light of a summer twilight. She was surprised it was so late in the day, but she didn’t pause to think about it. A swift glance back showed she had indeed been held in a vegetable cellar. It wasn’t connected to any building, but not far away stood a simple farmhouse, to which it must belong.

  Any hope she had that the owners of the farm might be unaware of the goings on in their yard, and might come to her aid, was dashed when three thickset men emerged from the building, alerted by their comrade’s shout.

  Jocelyn took off sprinting, moving as quickly as she could manage. She could only imagine what a picture she presented. Half drenched from the water, collapsed curls flying wildly, hands bound behind h
er back, glorious ballgown disheveled. But there was no one to observe the sight, no one to help her. She raced down a dirt track, the main road from which it ran visible a little way ahead.

  A shout told her the men were gaining on her, and she pushed herself faster, her muscles screaming. She had almost reached the main road when, to her horror, a group of men hurried off it, starting up the dirt track to the farm. She skidded to a halt, and they froze at the sight of her.

  “What’s the prisoner doing out?” one of them roared, and any slim hope that they weren’t part of the plot disappeared. She tried uselessly to dodge as they raced toward her. The two groups of men converged on her, rough arms seizing her shoulders. She bit back a scream as someone grabbed her burned hands and pain lanced through her body.

  “Get her inside!” yelled one of the newcomers. “This is a disaster! The prince is coming, with his blasted knights.”

  “What?” yelped one of the men from the original group, his eyes going wide. “We need to get her out of sight, now!”

  Jocelyn’s heart soared and flopped at the same time. She struggled against her captors with all her might, determined to stall her removal as long as possible in the hope the rescue party would reach them before she was once again hidden away.

  It was a relief that the Valorian royals had realized she’d been taken and hadn’t run away again. And of course she wanted Prince Ormond to get there in time. Of course she did. She had no desire to go back in that vegetable cellar. But still…the only thing more awful and humiliating than being outmaneuvered and captured by Lucy’s evil uncle was being rescued from that uncle like a damsel in distress by none other than the handsome prince. The handsome prince whom she’d just decided to reject. She grimaced even as she wrestled with the men.

  She heard the sound of pounding hooves a second before the men did. She turned her head hopefully toward it, but at that moment a cry of fury drew her attention back in the other direction.

  The man she had stabbed was limping toward her, unaware of the approaching rescue, and clearly enraged beyond the point of reason. The other men shouted to him, but he ignored them, his eyes trained on Jocelyn.