The Confectioner Chronicles Box Set

by Claire Luana

  More and more trailed in until they were forced to risk lighting more lanterns, moving from the hallway into one of the large meeting rooms flanked by marble columns.

  There had to be at least a hundred people crowding into the room.

  “There are more outside,” Trick said. “All the guildmasters brought as many of their guards as they could. The infused bread has worn off, and they’re angry. When we told them that there’s a chance to strike back and save Callidus and Pike in the process...they were eager to help.” Trick grinned.

  Lucas felt a swelling of hope. With these men, and the Falconer’s Gambit, and Ansel’s mercenaries...maybe they could actually pull this off.

  “There’s more,” Olivia said, pushing through, her eyes shining. Guards sporting the livery of different Guilds were depositing baskets and platters of food, jugs of ale, bottles of wine. A cornucopia of food was filling the tables, overflowing onto the ground, being set against the walls. Bran deposited two crates that bore the seal of the Confectioner’s Guild.

  Chandler pushed through the crowd, holding out his hand to shake Lucas’s. “Guildmaster Chandler of the Distiller’s Guild,” he said. “Your brother and sister have told us what you hope to do. First overthrowing the emperor, and what you’d like to do after. We’re with you. It’s time the Gifted stop living in the shadows. Time this secret comes out.”

  Lucas nodded, gratitude welling in him. “You and the other guildmasters are very, very welcome in our little alliance. But what’s all of this?” He pointed to the food.

  “All of us emptied our larders of all the infused food we have. Few of us are warriors. If we’re going into battle, we might as well be fully equipped.”

  “This is all infused?” Lucas’s eyes widened as big as saucers.

  “Indeed. Before we battle, let’s eat.”

  Wren marched next to Hale, her head held high. The two Aprican guards trailed them through the polished marble hallways.

  “This is a new low, even for you,” she said, struggling to keep back tears. It made it worse, the familiarity of having him at her side. A presence that should have been comforting, that should have made her feel safe. This betrayal stung her wounds anew. She’d thought he was working with the Falconer. That he was on their side. Apparently, Killian had been wrong.

  Hale said nothing.

  “Did you know?” she asked. “How could you be a part of this? Lucas is dead. His brother and sister. Olivia!”

  He seemed to flinch at the last name. “It’s not my call anymore, Wren.”

  “I don’t understand how you can work with him,” Wren tried again. “I know why you helped them in the beginning. You were mad with grief. It wasn’t right...but I don’t blame you. You weren’t yourself. What’s your excuse now?”

  “Maybe I’m tired of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Hale said, finally looking at her.

  His comment struck her strangely, but that thought vanished as they turned the corner into a room. It was a large kitchen of sorts. Cabinets, a sink, burners, glass flasks, and jars. But the chair. Black leather, reclining. Like a dentist’s chair. The chair was wrong. This wasn’t a kitchen.

  She looked at Hale, the need to flee this place rushing over her in a wave.

  Pity was etched across his face.

  A whimper escaped her.

  The two guards took her hands and pulled her into the chair even as she fought them, struggling, falling backwards, her feet trying to dig into the ground. But the floor was slick tile and they overpowered her easily, lifting her into the chair. They strapped down her arms and legs and buckled a piece of leather over her torso.

  “Hale,” she cried, struggling against the restraints.

  He stood against the counter, his back to her, his head hanging low.

  “Excellent,” a voice said from the door, and her stomach dropped into the floor. Daemastra strode over, wearing a white cuisinier’s smock. “Miss Confectioner. So happy our paths crossed again. Sim Firena tells me you have quite a marvelous Gift.”

  Hale turned, his handsome face a mask.

  Wren said nothing. She would give nothing to this man by choice.

  “Hale, did you have a chance to finish what you were working on?” Daemastra asked.

  Hale’s mask slipped a little at that, his face going pale, his mouth narrowing to a thin line. In that moment, he looked like he had aged ten years. “Yes,” he responded. He pushed a small glass jar filled with what looked like white powder across the counter towards Daemastra before withdrawing his hand like it had burned him.

  “Is this all of it?” Daemastra frowned, holding up the jar.

  “The rest is still being...processed,” Hale said haltingly. “I thought you’d want this bit.”

  Daemastra nodded, satisfied with the explanation.

  There was a label on the jar. Wren squinted to make it out. Maximus Pike. Wren drew in a sharp breath, her mouth going dry, her body numb.

  “What did you do to him?” she whispered, looking to Daemastra.

  He wore a self-satisfied smirk on his face. ”Guildmaster Pike has generously volunteered to help our cause,” Daemastra said. “As will you.”

  “And what cause is that?”

  “Ensuring the might of Aprica, of course. And securing my rule.”

  “Don’t you mean the emperor’s rule?” Wren asked.

  Daemastra smirked. “Unfortunately, the emperor is quite ill. I fear he won’t last the month. You can imagine how many people would be lost if the Empire fell to civil war after he passes. It is critical that someone strong step in behind him, for the good of the empire.”

  “Let me guess. You’re that someone.”

  “I’ve been at the emperor’s side for the better part of two decades. I know better than anyone how this Empire runs. And I understand better than anyone its best asset. The Gifted.”

  “You want me to work for you,” Wren said. At this point, strapped to this chair, staring at a jar with Pike’s name on it and Hale’s sweaty, pale face, working for Daemastra sounded just fine.

  “I’m afraid I have something different in mind for your special talents. I have spent years searching for particular Gifted with particular Gifts. Strength. Healing. Physical Beauty. Intellect. Magnetism and Virility. Most of them I found in Aprica. A few in Tamros. But I knew there was a trove of you in Alesia. I’ve been searching for you for years, Wren. The power of good luck. To turn each day into a series of delightful surprises. For everything to go your way.”

  “It hasn’t worked out so well for me,” Wren said.

  “That is the strange irony of you Gifted, isn’t it? The more you use it, the less you have it for yourself. You must have been cooking quite a bit, for me to find you.”

  Actually, she hadn’t made any confections in a few days. She should have had some luck saved up. But it never seemed to be there when she needed it. She said nothing.

  “Well, I want you to know,” Daemastra went on. “You will be part of something special. Something completely new, something yet untried. By combining the best of the Gifting with the power of your friend, Guildmaster Pike, I will become the best of all of you. Me and a select few men, my Golden Guard. Together, we will usher the Aprican Empire into a new era of prosperity.”

  Wren’s stomach flipped. The way he’d said Guildmaster Pike. The way his eyes had flipped to that jar. What was in that jar? She looked at Hale, willing him to meet her eyes, but his gaze was fixed on the floor, the muscles of his jaw working furiously.

  She had to think of a way out of this. Think, Wren. She’d gotten out of worse spots before. “I’ll cook for you,” Wren said, struggling against her bonds. “Whatever you want. You can have all my Gift, all my magic. Infused confections for as long as you want them. Please.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not enough. I need the essence of your Gift.”

  “Then take it. I’ll give it to you freely. How?”

  “It’s in your bones, Wren,” Daemas
tra said. “I’m afraid you can’t give it to me. At least not while you live.”

  Wren’s eyes flew to the jar. The jar of white powder. Bones. Ground bones.

  She was going to be sick. She strained at the bonds, twisting enough to throw up over the side of chair, rather than onto herself. Her vomit splattered on the ground, onto Daemastra’s black shoes.

  His mouth twisted in distaste. “It’s all right, dear. You don’t end up in my line of work without being willing to get a little dirty.”

  Wren panted, her stomach heaving. She thought more might come up.

  Pike was dead. Ground into dust. And that was her fate.

  Daemastra walked over to the cabinet, pulling out a syringe and a jar of clear fluid. He turned. “I’m not a monster, Wren. I’d like to assure you that this won’t hurt a bit. It’s just a body. You won’t even miss it once you’re gone.”

  Wren let out a keening sound, shying away from Daemastra. Why had she come back here to Maradis? She should have run, should have fled, like Ansel had offered. Now he was dead. Lucas was dead. Olivia was dead. Hale was worse than dead. Hale. Her eyes focused on him. “Hale!” she cried. “Stop him! Don’t let him do this!”

  Daemastra looked back at the frozen figure of Hale and gave a little chuckle. “I’m afraid he won’t be able to help you. If he did, he’d be dead in less than a day.”

  Wren looked between the two men.

  “See, even now, the black poison creeps through his veins.” Daemastra pointed at black lines that crisscrossed Hale’s hands, which were wrapped tightly around each elbow, his arms before him. ”Only the antidote I give him each morning saves him. So I assure you, Hale is well and truly bought. He will follow me in all things.”

  Was it true? Was Hale only helping Daemastra because the man was holding his life hostage? Did it excuse what he was doing? Standing here, complicit to these horrors? If it was her, wouldn’t she rather die than be a part of this? She didn’t know. Self-preservation was a powerful force. Whatever the truth, in some way, it comforted her. To know that her Hale was in there somewhere. That he wasn’t totally lost to her. That he hadn’t become this monster entirely by choice.

  Daemastra was filling the syringe from the vial now, and Wren felt herself come unmoored. She didn’t care anymore about being strong or unflappable. She couldn’t rescue Thom and Callidus, or Hale. She had tried to be clever, tried to be brave. Tried to play the game with kings and emperors. She had been desperately outmatched. There was no plan, no surprise ending. No allies to pull her out of this fire. She was going to die.

  Chapter 44

  Hale had seen his share of death. He had watched his brother die, his life slipping away before Hale’s eyes as his blood had leaked into the dry Aprican soil. He had watched his beautiful mother go from a vibrant vintner to a sickly husk of herself as the Red Plague had eaten her from the inside out. And he had watched Sable, the light of his life, breathe her last breath. Felt his soul die with hers.

  He had even chopped Guildmaster Pike’s arm off at the elbow—cut through the muscle and flesh and sinew to reach the bone that Daemastra needed. He had taken that gruesome task on himself in the mad hope that he could save the rest of the man, who was recuperating in a deserted storeroom until Hale figured out a way to smuggle him out of the palace. Hale still had red under his fingernails, even after washing his hands a dozen times. Maybe he would always have that man’s blood on his hands.

  Hale had thought there was nothing left in him that could mourn—that could feel horror or sadness or anything at all. But watching Wren set her jaw and stand up to Daemastra, even hopeless, strapped to a chair...gods. Watching her crumple in on herself...watching the realization pass through her eyes, the realization that she was going to die... It broke him. He thought he was as broken as a man could be, yet in that moment, he fractured further.

  He didn’t care if the black poison took him. Let it pulse through his veins and still his heart. He wouldn’t stand here and do nothing while that monster killed her.

  He knew Daemastra took all sorts of infusions daily—healing, strength, reflexes. But the man wasn’t a god yet, and he didn’t think even an infusion could heal a knife to the heart. So as Daemastra sucked the poison into the needle he would inject Wren with, Hale slowly pulled a knife out of the knife block. And raised his hand to strike.

  A deafening boom rang out, reverberating through Hale’s chest and rocking him against the counter. He set the knife down hastily as Daemastra turned to him. “What was that?”

  Another concussive boom sounded and dust rained down from the stone ceiling.

  “I think we’re being attacked,” Hale offered.

  “Curses.” Daemastra set down the syringe on the counter, next to the knife Hale had just deposited. Please don’t wonder why that’s sitting there, Hale prayed.

  “Hale, with me. We need to find Mister Willings and the Golden Guard. If we are truly being attacked, we’re moving up the administration of the formula. We can do it without Wren’s luck. Guards!” Daemastra called, and the two legionnaires stationed outside ran in.

  “Take this girl back to her cell. Guard it with your life.”

  Hale silently cursed as he followed Daemastra out of the room, throwing a final glance at Wren. There had to be a way to get them out of this mess.

  Lucas’s belly was full as he snuck through the alleys of Maradis, the head of a silent horde approaching the palace. There was no way this number of people could stay secret for more than a few minutes. Already, citizens had spotted them moving through the dark, and if any were allies of Aprica, they’d be reporting them to the emperor.

  But it didn’t matter anymore. The first explosion had sounded, shaking the ground beneath his feet and sending him into the stone wall beside him. The Falconer’s Gambit had worked. It had begun.

  Lucas’s blood sang within him as he surged forward with the rest. He felt like a knight in a tale. He felt like he could fly—energy and magic zinging through him. He felt invincible. He could see as if it were daytime; he could hear a rat scuttle three streets away. He swore he could hear whispers of the thoughts of men next to him, surges of excitement and adrenaline. It was a heady feeling. They had eaten and drank, giving little heed to what powers they infused themselves with. Men laughed out loud as they had jumped as high as the ceiling, as another had become as handsome as a god from a tale.

  Ansel moved quickly through the dark streets of the city at his side, his muscles even larger and more defined than they normally were, as if that were possible. Lucas felt some comfort at the man’s presence, at the bloodthirsty grin on his face.

  “This is good stuff,” Ansel whispered to Lucas, his blue eyes gleaming like beacons in the dark.

  “Agreed.”

  They paused to press against the smooth stone wall of a mercantile. Ansel peeked out. The palace gates were a hundred yards in front of them. Aprican troops milled in confusion as others rushed into the city to contain the explosion. Black smoke was just visible against the dark sky, billowing from the Lyceum Quarter to the east.

  Another explosion rang out, reverberating through his body. This one was close—the back of the palace. The soldiers shouted and pointed as red flames bubbled into the sky above the rooftops.

  “When we get in there,” Ansel said, “I want you and Bran to go for the emperor. You should be the one to subdue him.”

  “I need to find Wren,” Lucas protested.

  “Ya need to secure your rule. The security and future of this city depends on ya defeatin’ the emperor. Many will recognize your claim, but if ya end ‘im, it’ll quiet the rest—make ’em fall in line.”

  Lucas frowned. Though his heart tugged him towards Wren, he saw Ansel’s point. Many more would die if he didn’t deal with the emperor once and for all. Unless he was certain Maradis and the rest of Alesia would accept his rule, however short-lived he hoped it would be. He wanted to be selfish. He had never wanted this crown, never wanted this resp
onsibility. He had never wanted more than a normal life, a job to go to every day, a woman to come home to. Yet he needed to do this. He owed it to his country.

  Lucas nodded reluctantly. “Swear to me on your life you will do everything in your power to get her out. To save her.”

  “I swear it,” Ansel said solemnly. “She was my life, once,” he added softly. “I won’t let anythin’ happen to her.”

  Lucas didn’t get a chance to answer. A third explosion knocked him to the ground. The copper tang of blood filled his mouth.

  He pushed himself to shaky feet, peering out, coughing in the dust. An explosion had taken a section of the palace wall right next to the gates. Dangerously close.

  Men were down—crying, bleeding. Others stumbled, holding hands to ears, probably trying to stop the ringing that sounded in Lucas’s own head. He was grateful for the extra power and healing the infused meal had given him.

  “That’s our cue,” Ansel said, down on one knee. He pushed to his feet, pulling out his sword. “Badgers! Men of the Guilds! With me!” Ansel dashed forward into the open, like a berserker from a storybook, crashing into the first man who had the misfortune to be in his way.

  Lucas darted out behind him, his own sword out, excitement coursing through him. He had never before understood his father’s or older brothers’ bloodthirst, their desire for battle and conquest. But today, he thought he did. A primal rage came over him, filling him with a desire for vengeance against these men, these invaders who had murdered his family and stolen his home.

  An Aprican in a torn blue coat stumbled before him and Lucas didn’t hesitate before running him through with his sword. The sword stuck, stopping Lucas’s forward momentum, and so he put a booted foot to the man’s chest and shoved him back, freeing his blade.

  The soldier fell to the cobblestones, blood leaking from him. It was the first man Lucas had ever killed, some dim voice in the recesses of his mind noted. It wouldn’t be the last. Not tonight.