The Confectioner's Truth

by Claire Luana

“Could it be friendly?” Callidus asked hopefully.

  “I don’t know who,” Wren said. “Everyone’s dead.”

  “What did you see, Wren?” Callidus asked.

  Wren looked at them with pity in her eyes. She didn’t want to be the one to have to tell them. But maybe if Daemastra took her, he wouldn’t need Thom or Callidus. That could be some small mercy.

  “He’s a monster,” Wren said. “Completely insane. He’s figured out how to take magic from us. To turn it into something he can take. Something he can give soldiers. To make an inhuman army for him.”

  “How?” Callidus asked, recoiling.

  Wren shook her head, closing her eyes. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “Wren, come on,” Thom said. “Please.”

  “Bones.” She whispered the word. “It’s in our bones. When they take me back, they’re going to kill me and chop me up and grind up my bones.” Her voice hitched, growing high and hysterical.

  Silence hung in the air. She opened her eyes to look at Thom and Callidus. They wore twin expressions of shock and revulsion.

  “We have to get out of here,” Thom said.

  “Hale,” Callidus said. “Hale came in here. How could he be a part of this? I don’t like the man, but he never struck me as a madman!”

  “I think he’s helping against his will. Daemastra’s poisoned him and is holding the antidote over his head to get him to cooperate.”

  “So maybe he can help us,” Thom said eagerly. “Get out of here.”

  “I don’t know,” Wren said. “I think...if I could have gotten him alone, I might have been able to get through to him. But now Daemastra is going to infuse his soldiers with some sort of formula with all of the Gifts. To make them supernatural. Then he’s going to take it himself. He’s found a way to make it permanent. When that happens...it won’t matter even if we have Hale’s help. Daemastra will be able to have his way with all of us. The whole world.”

  “What about Pike?” Callidus asked, clearly trying to account for all possible allies. “Did you see him? Is he all right?”

  She shook her head, eyes on the floor, a lump growing in her throat.

  “What—?” Thom began, but he trailed off when he likely realized. When he took in her meaning.

  “Sweet caramel,” Callidus breathed, leaning back, running a shaking hand through his hair. “These really are the end of days.”

  A shout sounded outside their door, followed by muffled curses and a clash of blades.

  They all stood in a blink, shying away from the door.

  “What’s going on?” Thom asked.

  Wren didn’t think she could handle whatever horror was bound to come through that door. Whatever fresh hell had been dreamed up for them.

  A thunk made Wren jump.

  Thom twined his fingers through hers, squeezing tightly.

  Keys jangled outside, and then the door swung open, a huge form darkening the opening. Ansel stepped through.

  Wren’s knees went weak beneath her. Thom grabbed her, holding her up, blowing out a breath with a shaky laugh.

  “Turns out badgers have nine lives, too,” Ansel said, sheathing his sword, flashing his chipped-tooth grin.

  Wren ran to him and threw herself against him with as much force as she could muster, crushing herself to his chest. “There has never been a more welcome sight,” she said, her words muffled in the leather of his armor.

  Ansel squeezed her back, putting her down gently. “And I ain’t even told ya your boyfriend’s alive yet.”

  Wren’s hands flew to her mouth, her heart stuttering back to life. “Lucas...”

  “We all made it out. Took some doin,’ but everyone’s okay.”

  “Trick?” Thom asked eagerly.

  “All of us means all of us,” Ansel said with a wry smile. “But if we wanna keep it that way, we should get ya the hell outta here.”

  “Where?” Wren said.

  “We’re rendezvousing at the Tradehall. Seems the Guilds have found their senses again and ain’t too pleased about what’s been goin’ on the last few weeks.”

  Wren breathed out a sigh of relief. The bread had worn off. Liam’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain.

  “And where’s Lucas?”

  He hesitated. “We...got separated. Hopefully on his way to subdue the emperor. There were some...circumstances we didn’t expect. Now come on,” Ansel said, and they hurried out into the hallway, where a group of Ansel’s men were standing guard, swords out. They started down the hallway, but Wren’s feet slowed, stopping.

  Ansel, who held her hand, stopped before her, turning. “What’s wrong? We gotta go.”

  Wren shook her head. This was madness. All she wanted was to run, to flee from this place. From Daemastra’s chair, from that jar with Pike’s name on it. Lucas was with Ansel’s men, and Hale...Hale had made his bed. But still, her feet felt like weights beneath her. Could she really leave?

  “Wren, we’ve done what we came here to do.”

  “But we haven’t,” she said. “We came back to Maradis to free the city from the Apricans. If we let Daemastra do this...it won’t be safe anywhere. For anyone.”

  “Daemastra, the cuisinier? You’re not talkin’ sense. I came here to get ya. And I’m gonna get ya out. Now come on.” Ansel grabbed her wrist, pulling her forward.

  She took two steps before digging in her heels. “I can’t go. You said you were helping us defeat the Apricans. You can’t leave now.”

  “There’s no way. There’re men here—I’ve never seen anythin’ like ’em. They’ll kill everyone in their path. I don’t plan to be there.”

  Wren shook her head. “But what about Lucas? Did others breach the palace with you?”

  “Forget ’em, Wren. We’ve got once chance to get outta here alive, and this is it. I don’t plan on leavin’ without ya. I ain’t losin’ ya again.” He pulled her towards him, and before she realized what was happening, his arms were around her, his lips were on hers.

  Ansel tasted of salt and mint, his mouth firm against hers, steady in its resolve, his tongue parting her lips with a deft flick. Ansel’s hands pulled her tightly against the expanse of him. Surprise warred with something deeper and older within her, something that had longed for just this in the dark recesses of her heart, so many years ago.

  Wren pushed him from her with sheer force of will, gasping for breath, for space between them to let her spinning thoughts settle to earth. “What are you doing?”

  “Ya, Wren. It’s always been ya,” Ansel said. He crushed her hand in his against his chest, where the tattoo of the wren lay in stark black ink beneath the leather of his armor. “Your world is falling apart. This city. There ain’t nothin’ for ya here anymore. It was a valiant effort the Guilds put together. A worthy last hurrah. But the Apricans’ll regroup and crush ya. They’re comin’ even now. Ya and me—we can build a life together. A new life. Nothin’ but the wind in our hair, the sun at our backs. Free, Wren. I can protect ya. Provide for ya. You’ll want for nothin.’” He was pressing his lips to her hands now, and Wren felt the floor tilting beneath her.

  His eager words rang harshly in her ears. Everything was wrong. Once, she would have wanted nothing more than this offer. To hear Ansel profess his love, to promise to take her from this place and take care of her all the days of her life. But something had changed.

  “I can’t,” she said with a shuddering sob, pulling back from him. “I can’t leave Lucas. I can’t leave Hale. The other guild members...”

  “You’re losin,’ Wren. If ya don’t come with me right now, it’ll be all over,” Ansel said, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arm.

  He was right. If she ran back into the fray, back towards that chair, she might not make it out of this palace alive. She had thought she was going to die before. When Killian was going to execute her. And she had been saved. Callidus, Hale, even Pike. Just moments ago, she had faced her death again—Daemastra’s needle, that chair with
its leather straps. And again, her friends—the Guilds, they had gone to impossible lengths to save her. To save her and Thom and Callidus.

  “No one expects ya to die for them. No one is asking ya to,” Ansel insisted.

  Wren pulled in a breath, straightening. “They don’t have to. I’d rather die beside my friends than live a life where I only care about myself.”

  “Wren—” Ansel’s face darkened.

  “I have always cared for you, Ansel, and I always will.” She put her hand to his cheek. “But my place is here. Whatever comes.”

  “You’re choosin’ them. Him?” Ansel asked, hurt etched across his handsome face.

  Yes. The Guild. Her friends. Lucas. This city. She was choosing all of it. This life. She wasn’t ready to give it up. Not without a fight. “Yes. And I’m choosing to not be afraid anymore.”

  Ansel’s face twisted, becoming an ugly thing. “Then you’re already gone.”

  “You said you wouldn’t leave me. That you’d never betray me again.”

  “This is your choice, Wren, not mine. If ya want to sail off a cliff for your ideals, I can’t stop ya. But don’t expect me to come with.” He turned from her and whistled, a sharp sound that reverberated through the hall. In the distance, a whistle answered back. “What is that?” she asked.

  “Retreat,” Ansel said. And then without another word, he turned and jogged down the hallway, leaving Wren standing openmouthed in his wake.

  Chapter 46

  Hale was done following orders. He was done serving Daemastra. You’d think seeing a dozen men transformed into god-like monsters from a storybook would have done it, but that wasn’t what had broken him. It had been Wren. He needed to get her out of here.

  Daemastra had ordered him and Willings to rally the legion and defend the palace with the Golden Guard, and though Willings had protested, he had obeyed. Hale knew the sniveling man would take the earliest moment to circle back to the workshop where Daemastra was perfecting his formula. There was no way Willings would risk being left out in the cold when Daemastra sampled the perfected version.

  Hale had slipped through the chaos at the intersection of corridors, men and swords filling his vision. The fighting hadn’t reached through the west wing yet, and so the way to Wren’s cell was clear.

  A huge man with red hair and leather armor came into view as Hale rounded the corner into the hallway that held Wren’s cell. He stilled, pressing himself into a doorway. Who was this man? Who did he work for? The guards before the cell door challenged him, and he made quick work of them, felling both in rapid succession with powerful blows from his sword. He kicked one of the men over, reaching down and retrieving the keyring from his belt. So a new friend?

  He watched as Thom and Callidus hurried out and as Wren slowed, stopping the man, their hands intertwined. He couldn’t hear the words exchanged, but from their gestures, he could tell that Wren didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to go with him. Hale weighed his options. Should he approach?

  Then the man kissed Wren, and Hale’s eyebrows raised. She pushed him away, but not as quickly as Hale might have imagined. What happened to Imbris? Was he out of the picture?

  The man grew angry and stormed off, and Wren, after pausing a moment, turned and hurried down the hallway towards him. So intent was she on her destination that she didn’t see him. He snaked out a hand and grabbed her arm.

  She screamed, jumping halfway across the hallway.

  “Shh!” he said. “It’s just me!”

  She let out a shuddering breath, a hand to her heart. Then their eyes met, hers filled with wariness, and something else he recognized. A sliver of hope.

  “I wouldn’t have let him do it, Wren,” Hale said. “I wasn’t going to let him kill you.”

  With those words, she sprang at him, throwing her arms around him.

  He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms gently around her fragile body, burying his nose in her hair, breathing in the sugar scent of her. Of Wren. “Gods, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

  “Me too,” she said, her toes dangling in the air.

  And in that moment, the madness around them slowed, pausing for an inhale of breath, allowing him to revel in the feel of having his friend back again. Because for all the heartbreak Sable’s death had caused, he hadn’t recognized that another part of him had been missing. This part right here.

  He set her down, finally breaking off their embrace. “Where to?” he asked.

  “We need to help Lucas,” she said. “Ansel is withdrawing his men. They’ll be undefended.”

  “Ansel...” Hale nodded in the direction the redhaired warrior had gone. Thom and Callidus were reemerging around the corner, arguing in hushed voices.

  Wren nodded. “Please. I know we should go for Daemastra, but Lucas could be undefended.”

  “Lead the way,” Hale said.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” a voice sneered behind them. Hale swore. Willings and two Golden Guard blocked their path, swords drawn.

  Lucas ran through the hallways of the palace towards his father’s old room. He didn’t know what he would find there, but he knew what was on their heels. Supernatural men who fought like the hounds of the Huntress herself. And a whole host of regular ones. Trick, Bran, and a few of Bran’s men followed close on his heels as he skidded around a corner. He didn’t know where the rest of them were, where Ansel and Ella and the others had gone. All their careful planning had descended into chaos the moment the huge warriors had appeared.

  They were close to his father’s old chamber. In the back of his mind, Lucas noticed the familiar hallways, saw the faded squares where portraits of his family had been taken down by the invaders, where a statute beloved by his mother had been replaced. But none of that mattered—he needed to focus on the task at hand.

  There were only two doors between him and the Aprican Emperor. Two doors between him and Alesia’s future.

  A sharp whistle sounded in the distance, and beside Lucas, Bran looked up sharply. “What is that?” Lucas panted.

  “Retreat,” Bran said apologetically.

  “Retreat?” Lucas exploded. “We’re almost there!”

  “I take my orders from Ansel,” Bran said. “We all do.”

  “The hell with Ansel,” Lucas said. “We’re here, Bran. You’re here with us. I respect you, man. You helped us start this. Help us finish it.”

  Bran’s eyes flicked from the door in front of them to the hallway from which they had come.

  “You’ll have to fight your way back through those monsters,” Lucas said, trying to summon the man’s sense of self-preservation. There were likely several guards in the emperor’s antechamber, and then the emperor himself. Lucas didn’t know if he and Trick could take them. And even if they got in, even if they...finished the emperor...they still needed to get out of here alive. And if Ansel’s men were retreating...

  “Please,” Lucas said, his voice low. “We’re not soldiers. Don’t leave us here alone.”

  “Come with us now and we’ll cover your retreat,” Bran said. “I follow orders. But I’ll get you all out of here.”

  Lucas bit his lip, looking from Bran to his brother, a gash over one eye, an Aprican sword drooping in his hand.

  Another whistle sounded.

  “Retreat!” Bran called in a booming voice, and his men turned on a dime, streaming past them back towards the hallway they had just fought and died to pass through.

  “You coming?” Bran asked as the last man jogged past.

  He and Trick looked at each other. “If we don’t finish it now,” Trick said, “we’ll never be safe. We’ll never have a life.”

  Lucas nodded. “We’re staying.” He straightened.

  Bran nodded. “God speed,” he said before turning, his bulk moving rapidly down the hallway.

  Lucas turned back to the door, suddenly feeling unsure. Exposed. He hadn’t wanted this. Had done everything to run from this all his life. Yet
still here he found himself. Blood on his hands, about to murder another ruler. In the world of court politics, it was kill or be killed.

  Trick seemed to sense his thoughts. “If we do this—maybe we can make a better world. A better way.”

  “Or die trying,” Lucas said.

  “Then we’ll see Mother and Virgil again soon,” Trick said.

  Lucas blew out a breath and with a prayer to the Sower, lifted up a booted foot and crashed it against the door, kicking it open, breaking the hinges. With a cry, they poured through the shattered frame into the king’s antechamber. His father’s old rooms. Lucas stumbled, coming up short at the sight that greeted him.

  The sitting room looked much like Lucas remembered it from his youth. He hadn’t been here in perhaps five years, since he had moved out of the palace. The emperor was sitting in a chair by the fire, a book in his hand. At their entrance, he picked up a bookmark and carefully marked his page, setting the book down on the table.

  “Young Imbris, if I’m not mistaken,” he said with a grandfatherly air about him. Lucas’s sword tip drooped slightly. “I’m sorry for all this business.”

  “You’re...sorry?” Lucas said. “For murdering my family and seizing our country?”

  The emperor offered an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid to report that we’ve both been playing parts in a drama that was set in motion long ago. My role, as I suspect you will realize very soon, was a bit part. Perhaps yours as well.”

  “What are you talking about?” Trick asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Kill me, capture me,” said the emperor. “I am at your mercy.”

  “But you’re the ruler of the Aprican empire,” Lucas protested. This was not going at all how he expected.

  “Not for long, Mr. Imbris. Not for long. I suspect he’s using your attack as the perfect cover for his takeover. I suspect that even as we speak, he is consolidating to him power more horrible than this continent has ever known.”

  “Who?” Lucas asked.

  “Daemastra,” the emperor said, a spark of anger lacing his tone.

  “The cuisinier?” Trick asked.