Bastian was not so proud of it.
He was measured in reaching for the old farmer’s clothes he’d commandeered. Bastian’s body was stiff, and he wondered if it was because he was the most newly risen of the group, or because the magic had to put a greater hold on him to stop him from following Celena. It was true—he would’ve followed her the very second he felt her make her way off the bed.
“She’s not here,” Bastian whispered.
Both Tamlen and Vale froze near the bedroom’s door, pausing to glance back at him, staring at him like he was crazy. And maybe he was. He didn’t feel too whole after coming back. It still hurt to close his eyes. The darkness felt stifling, full of anxiety and terror. Maybe his death had addled his mind a bit too much.
“She’s gone,” he added, once neither of them responded or said anything.
“Bullshit,” Tamlen swore. “We wore her out last night. There’s no way she would’ve…” He trailed off, perhaps realizing how stupid he sounded. He left, presumably to check every room in the farmhouse.
Vale stood motionless, his mouth thinning. “Why would she leave us here?” His voice was wounded, as if it hurt him to think Celena would purposefully leave them all.
These men were full of love for her, but they didn’t know her as well as they thought they did. They didn’t know her as well as Bastian.
“She thinks she’s doing what’s right,” Bastian said.
“If we are together, we handle difficulties together. We do not run from one another.”
Bastian didn’t know what to say to Vale. It was not his job to make the man feel better about his relationship with Celena, but he did feel a pang of sympathy for him. “She’s not running from you. She’s running to help the other mages in the College.”
Silence permeated the space between them. It was an uncomfortable silence, one neither man knew what to do with. They were only a few rungs above strangers. Bastian knew next to nothing about Vale, besides what little Celena had said.
Buried in a tomb of old heroes. Though one was a hero and one was the leader of the Grey Revolt, something he knew little of. It might shock some to learn that the orphanages in Sumer did not teach much history. What he did know, he’d learned as he trained to become a chevalier. The Empress had soldiers scour every street, every orphanage, for young recruits. Bastian was one of them. But even from that first day, even when he had his first warm meal, he knew he owed no allegiance to the Empress.
Even as a child, he was smart enough to know she only wanted disposable soldiers.
Chevaliers were higher than the standard military soldier. They knew how to wield nearly every weapon their kingdom favored, how to navigate battlefields and the intrigue of the Court. It was what made them such good spies.
“Do not be upset with her for simply doing what she thinks is right,” Bastian whispered, meeting Vale’s sorrowful blue gaze. With his light yellow hair and his gaunt cheeks, he was a handsome enough man, he supposed. Very much a native of the southern reaches of Rivaini. Bastian was quite the opposite in appearance with his dark, tawny skin and his thick, curly black hair.
“I am not upset, just…” The other man sighed. “I wish she would have at least said goodbye.”
“She’ll come back to us.”
“And what if she doesn’t? What if something happens to her, and we’re too far from her to help her? You weren’t here but, when Gregain took her, he hurt her. Tamlen and I felt it. We knew she was in trouble, and we knew exactly where to go to find her. We’re farther from the city than we were before. If she gets caught, if—”
Bastian silenced him by taking a step closer, setting a strong hand on his shoulder. He squeezed gently, the action meant to be comforting. “She will be fine. Celena is stronger than any of us know.”
As he said it, he hoped it was true.
And, anyway, even if she wasn’t stronger, she was never alone. Zyssept was with her; he was always with her. The old god would never let her come to harm…Bastian hoped.
The next time her cell opened, Lena was asleep from exhaustion. Turned out, being locked up wasn’t fun at all. Go figure. She thought it’d be loads of fun. Truthfully, she thought she wouldn’t be locked up at all. What a futile dream that was. She underestimated the way the King would react. Of course, she knew he wasn’t overreacting at all.
Necromancy was bad.
It. Was. Bad.
Maybe if she thought it enough, she’d return to her old mindset that primarily involved a heap of oh, shits when she accidentally rose Tamlen and Vale. Her dissertation, the study of runes, seemed a far memory, one she could scarcely recall. Such a stupid thing, really, when there were now lives at stake.
Seneschal Henrik looked well-rested and fed and…strangely happy. The man smiled down at her as she struggled to sit. She was slow to get to her feet, finding her muscles sore. Sitting on a stone floor for hours on end was worse than uncomfortable. It was akin to torture.
She shouldn’t think that, even in jest. These people could very well torture her using knives and other sharp instruments, and they’d gladly do it, since they knew she could not cast with the chains around her.
“Hello, Henrik,” she said, her voice dry. Before she spoke, she didn’t know how thirsty she was, how cracked her lips were. Gods, were they going to kill her like this? Seemed a cruel fate, especially since she did nothing to deserve it.
Okay, maybe a bit of necromancy. Some dark magic. But nothing on the scale Gregain had. Not with his vicious intent.
Henrik held his hands behind his back; it seemed to be his permanent stance. His eyes were knowing as he said, “Tell me how you escaped the College with Gregain.” When she said nothing, only blinked at him with probably a stupid, clueless expression—because she didn’t know, she was unconscious for that part—he added, “Things will go easier for you if you simply tell me the truth now. The sooner the King gets his answers, the sooner this can all be put behind us.”
“I don’t know how we got out.” When Henrik raised a single eyebrow—a very Tamlen-like expression on a face that was far from her lover’s handsomeness—she knew she better explain the entire story. “It was after breakfast, after the initiates and apprentices were told the College’s gates were down because there was undead spotted outside the city. I went back to my room and found it ransacked.”
“Any idea what the ransacker was searching for?” Based on his dry tone, she figured he already knew.
There was no point in trying to hide the truth now.
“I found a book in the library, the one your guards took from me at the inn.”
“A book, you say? What did this book contain?”
Lena felt her back straighten as she wondered if this was a test, a way to get her to confess to using dark and illegal magics. She’d never outright claim she’d used necromancy. To do so would be to sentence herself to execution, and dying was the last thing on her agenda. She needed more time, to make sure Ingrid was okay and the College would not be annihilated.
And she needed more time with her men, but that should go without saying.
“I don’t know. It was in another language. I couldn’t read it,” Lena answered, hoping she sounded convincing.
Henrik tilted his head. “And why did you not take the book to an enchanter? Even an…initiate, like yourself, should know all works originating from Noresah were banned. That book should have been burned years ago.”
She shrugged, quite helpless. “I had a meeting with High Enchanter Gregain a few days prior to the…undead incident. He mentioned he was looking for a book with a hand and an eye on the cover. There was something weird about it, so I kept it in my room, fearing the worst.”
“You kept an illegal tome to yourself because you suspected your High Enchanter to be involved with dark magics?”
Lena nodded.
“Why did you not report it to another enchanter?”
“I…I don’t know. I should have.”
“Y
es, you most certainly should have, because right now, it appears as though you and Gregain are accomplices. How are we to believe you had nothing to do with what took place in the farmlands?”
“When I came back to find my room tossed,” she tried to speak as calmly as she could, which was hard, given the accusatory demeanor on the Seneschal’s face, “Kyler came and said the High Enchanter wanted to meet with me. He looked sick, pale—like he should’ve been in bed instead of up and walking around. I tried to ask him if he was all right, but he kept repeating the same thing over and over. He was supposed to take me to the High Enchanter. He would not say anything else.”
That got Henrik to pinch the bridge of his nose. He looked almost in pain as he listened to Lena tell the story, as if he knew Kyler’s actions were because of blood magic.
“I followed him to the High Enchanter’s office,” she said. “Gregain wasn’t there, but the book was. It was hexed. The moment I touched it, a wave of drowsiness swept over me. I couldn’t fight it. When I fell to the floor, I saw Kyler. He was…impassive, as if he wasn’t there. Like his mind was gone. I passed out.”
“And when did you wake up?”
“I don’t know how much time passed. All I know is when I finally came to, we weren’t in the city anymore. Gregain and Kyler were there. Kyler was still…off, and Gregain wore a black robe with a skull painted on its front.”
Henrik blinked, sighing out, “Necromancer’s robes.”
Lena found herself nodding along. “I figured he was the one who rose the dead outside the city. He had that tome cradled to him like a baby. I told him he could do what he wanted to me if he let Kyler go—”
“And let me guess, he failed to agree with you?”
She swallowed. “He said the blood bond between them was draining Kyler, that he was going to die soon and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He also said he used…persuasion to get us out of the city without anyone realizing it.”
Henrik studied her, as if he thought he’d see something new, something that would give him all the clues to piece together this particular puzzle. “Assuming your story is true and you had nothing to do with it, why in all of Rivaini would Gregain take you? You have been an initiate for possibly the longest time in the College’s history. Your instructors say you refuse to cast spells, even when your tests require them. What makes you so special that Gregain used blood magic to steal you away?”
Should she tell him about everything with Zyssept? If she did, Lena had the feeling whatever hope she had of being released would disappear. They wouldn’t let her go if they either believed she was nuts—because who believed in old gods anymore—or that she told the truth. If they believed her, they’d probably wish to study her, investigate Zyssept and think of ways to use them to their advantage.
So, after a quick mental debate, Lena whispered, “I don’t know. I know I’m not special. I don’t like magic. Gregain knew that. I think he…I think he wanted something else from me. He said things, and then he…touched my face, my knee.”
“What did he say?” Henrik’s tone was deadly. Did he believe her story? Most of it was true, though she hid certain aspects of it, kept some of it to herself.
“He said he wanted me.” Zyssept would give her to him. Lena’s body shook as she recalled it. “I’m sorry. It was…horrible. I can’t—I trusted him. I would’ve trusted him with my life, and he…” Her eyes teared up at the memory. These tears were unapologetically real, and she hated seeming weak, especially now.
“How did you get away?”
Shit. How was she supposed to tell this part of the story without explaining her black blood and how it was acidic to anything it touched? How her blood had killed Gregain? She bit the inside of her cheek. “He left me tied to a chair for preparations for some ritual. I was able to wriggle a wrist free and untie myself. By the time he came back, I found a dagger. I…I killed him.”
That was as close to the truth as she could get without bringing Zyssept into it.
“And what happened to Kyler?”
She looked down at the floor, staring hard at the line drawn between them. The chains on her wrists suddenly felt so tight. “The moment Gregain died, Kyler fell down. I think he just stopped breathing. It was too late to sever whatever link was between them.”
“Necromancy and blood magic,” Henrik muttered, moving to leave her little cell. “This is worse than we thought.” As he stepped foot outside and the guard slid the metal door closed, he paused. “Where did he take you?”
“An abandoned farmhouse that looked like it was falling apart.” Lena closed her eyes. Her description could describe a lot of the outer farms; it described the house where her men were. She prayed to whatever god would listen they’d stay safe.
Henrik nodded, though his face was obscured by the metal bars separating Lena from the outside world. He took a step away, but she called out to him, practically begging.
“Wait! What’s going to happen to the other mages in the College? No one else knew about Gregain. Please, don’t let the King annul the College for the actions of one man—”
The Seneschal was sluggish in turning his gaze to her, locking her in a deadly stare as he interrupted, “You should know the actions of one man almost always have a rippling effect. Until the investigation is complete, I cannot answer on behalf of the King. However, I will send your message along.” Inhaling a deep breath, he gave her one last look before walking away, leaving her alone once more.
That, she realized, was as good as she would get from the Seneschal.
Lena slumped her back against the stone wall. The manacles around her wrists clinked, metal grinding against metal, as she sank down. This was not how she thought this endeavor would go. She was so stupid. What did she think would happen? She’d storm into the castle and have a meeting with the King himself? No one did that, especially no mage who’d been missing from the College for days.
Her head leaned back on the wall, her eyes closing. Gods, she was hungry, too. Still, she didn’t feel too distressed. Her mind and her body did not cry out for help. She would not seek Zyssept out, nor would she will Bastian, Tamlen, and Vale to come to her aid. She’d handle this.
She’d handle it until the moment she couldn’t.
Chapter Eight
Prince Cailan was utterly and completely bored. He rather hated meeting with his father. Ever since his mother had died, Philip never once let up about him finding a wife. Of course, it was those times when Cailan reminded his father he could very well remarry and have more children. That was never what the King wanted to hear, though.
Cailan was a man of twenty. Old enough to have been married for a few years, and old enough to know the pleasures a woman’s body held. Alas, he was also old enough to realize marriage was not what his father wanted for himself again. He did not wish to share his crown with anyone.
In Rivaini, women and men were mostly equal. Whoever married Cailan would then become a princess, and then a queen, after his father died. Should Cailan die before they birthed an heir, the woman would remain queen.
But of course it was why it was so important to find a woman of noble birth, a woman who, in his father’s words, knew her place. Cailan himself only complained after women grew needy, after they became attached to him. He, unfortunately, was never quite as attached to them as they were to him.
They sat across from each other, a long, hand-carved mahogany table between them. Books and maps sat atop the table, parchments and scrolls rolled up and tied with neat red ribbons. A strange, large book sat near the King, a book whose leather binding was frayed and crudely stitched. A hand and an eye sat on its cover, its pages uneven inside.
A text from some ancient Noresh scholar, Cailan was told. It did not interest him; not at first. Now, he found, he could scarcely take his eyes off it. He wanted to take it—which was beyond bizarre, for he was no mage. He wouldn’t be able to make any use of it.
He sat back, flicking his dark eyes to
his father across the table. The King wore all the royal regalia: the golden crown, the jewels on his fingers, the white fur that lined his sleeves and his pants. He also had the belly to match, round and plump. Cailan hoped he never looked like that once he had the crown.
Philip was busy rubbing his beard, lost in thought. It was an expression he often wore, right before he asked a bout of stupid questions. “Have you given any more mind to the list I had Henrik send you last week?”
The list of possible future wives. Right. How could he ever forget?
“Unfortunately, I haven’t had the time. Been too busy lately,” Cailan answered him, not even attempting to try and hide the boredness in his voice.
“Someday you will take your responsibilities seriously,” Philip practically growled. His hands fell from his beard, curling into fists as he set them on the table. Cailan felt his skin grow colder, but all he did was smile at his father. He’d never give his father what he wanted: a good son.
A good son who bowed down to him.
“Someday, certainly.” Cailan stretched his feet out beneath the table, his back slouched in the cushioned seat. “Alas, today is not that day.”
His father’s cheeks grew red, but before he could start shouting, Seneschal Henrik walked into the room. His presence instantly cooled the temper Cailan had stoked inside Philip. “What news have you, Henrik?”
Cailan watched as Henrik strode closer to the table, holding his hands behind his back. “The mage claims she was not a part of the rise of the undead. She also claims the ex-High Enchanter was working alone. She’s a very good liar, that one.”
“And what if she’s not lying?” Cailan asked. “What if she’s telling the truth?” His question stunned both Henrik and Philip, as if neither man suspected a mage was ever capable of telling the truth.
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