Illusions: Faction 4: The Isa Fae Collection

by Jade Kerrion

  “Give me another chance, please. Just tell me what I have to do. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. My son—he needs medicine, please.”

  Nithya held her breath through the long silence.

  The nobleman spoke. “Perhaps I can still use you. I want you to stop the prince.”

  “Stop…What do you mean?”

  “Oh, don’t be naïve. You know exactly what I mean.”

  “You want me to kill the prince? But—”

  “Do you want me to help your son?”

  “Yes, and I was…am…ready to die for it, but I can’t kill the prince. He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “Nothing wrong? I will be the judge of that. You will do as you’re told, or would you rather your son die? Can you keep watch by his pallet as his shivering finally subsides, as his body cools beneath his thin blankets?”

  “No,” the first voice stammered. “I will do as you say. Anything at all. Just help my boy.”

  “Then you will stop the prince, and soon. There isn’t much time before the blood moon.”

  “Yes, of course. As you command.”

  Footsteps stomped toward her. Nithya shrank back against the far wall and threw an illusion over herself. A panel in the wall opened and a male fae walked out, unremarkable in every way, except that he had just agreed to kill a prince.

  His gaze flicked across the corridor. Not seeing anyone—not noticing the little mouse crouched in a corner—he scurried out the way Nithya had come.

  No one else emerged. Nithya darted forward as the panel slowly swung shut. She caught a glimpse of a darkened room and a door on the other side, closing. The other person in the room must have departed another way.

  She hurried down the corridor after the fae, careful to keep her distance. The illusion of the tiny mouse was only as strong as belief; it did not trump reality. She did not occupy any less physical space. Anyone who came too close to the mouse would collide into her.

  The man she was following looked over his shoulder as the floorboards squeaked beneath her feet. He stared, eyes narrowed, but his gaze glazed over Nithya, seeing only a mouse huddled in pools of wavering moonlight.

  Nithya kept a much more careful distance between her and the fae, but his head start allowed him to slip out of the castle. She lost track of him in the crowd milling around the night market in the town square.

  Her pulse racing, she returned to the palace, but the guards refused to escort her to the prince. He was busy and not receiving visitors. Who was she anyway to demand an audience with him?

  Nithya resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “What about Ariel Grimaldi? Can you take me to her?”

  Ariel was in her suite, snuggled in front of a blazing fireplace. She looked up with a delighted smile as Nithya was announced. “Nithya, you’re back. Did you speak to Varian?”

  “No, I was told he wasn’t taking any visitors.” Nithya gave the guards a bland look. They had the grace to flush before walking away.

  Ariel tilted her head. “You look serious. Is something wrong?”

  Quickly and without leaving out any details, Nithya described the conversation she had overheard.

  Ariel, eyes wide, sat up straight in her chair. “Someone is going to kill Varian? We have to tell him.”

  Together, they hurried to the western wing and arrived at the double doors protected by a pair of palace guards. The door opened as they approached, and Tristan stepped out. Surprised, he bowed gracefully. “What are you doing here so late in the night?” He flashed Nithya a warm smile. “Have you finally decided to accept my dinner invitation?”

  “Is Varian all right?” Ariel asked before Nithya could say anything.

  “He just turned in for the night.”

  “You’re sure he’s all right?”

  Tristan nodded. “We were discussing the faction treaties not five minutes ago.” His eyes narrowed. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Nithya’s overheard a plot to kill Varian.”

  “What?” Tristan’s jaw dropped. His flirtatious manner vanished as he turned to the soldiers. “Double the guard, and make sure all the entrances, including the windows, into the western wing are magically sealed. No one crosses the threshold without clearing it with me, not even the dowager princess.”

  “Shouldn’t we tell Varian?” Nithya asked.

  “In the morning,” Tristan said. “He’s exhausted. If we drag him into this now, he’ll be up all night trying to get to the bottom of it. He’s safe in his suite. Let him sleep, and we’ll tell him in the morning.” He ushered them toward his suite in the northern wing.

  The rooms were large and comfortable, befitting the best friend and trusted adviser of the prince. A servant lit the fire and then scurried out. Tristan poured two glasses of wine for Ariel and Nithya, before filling one for himself. “Tell me everything.”

  After Nithya repeated her story, Tristan frowned. “The other speaker…was it male or female, witch or fae?”

  “I don’t know. The voices were too muffled to make out. For all I know, there could have been more than two people in the room.”

  “And you didn’t recognize the one you saw? Will you be able to if you see him again?”

  “If he wears the same face, probably, but in a world of glamour, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to find your way back to the corridor where you overheard the conversation?”

  “I think so,” Nithya said. “Why? What did you have in mind?”

  “You said there was another exit from that secret room.” He rose. “Let’s see where it goes.”

  “Shouldn’t we bring more guards with us?” Ariel asked as they followed him from his suite.

  “Too conspicuous. If Nithya is right, then at least one of the traitors is still somewhere in the palace. A contingent of guards would give us away. We’ll be all right.” He assured her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I can handle any physical fights, and you’ve got the magic covered.” Tristan grinned. “We’ll deliver the traitor’s head to Varian for breakfast.”

  “I doubt he’ll enjoy it too much,” Nithya murmured. “He doesn’t look like the type.”

  “And what type is that?” Tristan asked.

  “The type who would crow over a fallen enemy.”

  For a moment, Tristan looked startled, and then he nodded. “You’re probably right. He’s got too much on his to-do list to spend time on a celebratory dance around a head on a pike.” He gestured to Nithya. “Which way?”

  After a few wrong turns, she managed to lead them back to the tangled maze of corridors. Tristan scowled. “This section of the palace is a warren. Varian and I used to play hide-and-seek in here, until the day I lost my way. It took all the guards, servants, and courtiers hours to find me. That was the last time Varian and I ever ventured in here. Is this the panel that opened?” he asked as Nithya ran her fingertips along a section of the wall.

  “Somewhere around here.”

  “Here, let me.” Tristan pushed several sections of the wall. He grunted, muscles straining, as one of the panels slowly swung open.

  Ariel, mouth agape, looked in. “There really is a room here.”

  “Did you think I made it up?” Nithya scowled.

  Ariel’s hands glowed with conjured light, dispelling the darkness in a room as long and wide as Nithya was tall.

  “What about the other door, Nithya?” Tristan strode to the far wall. “Was it somewhere here?”

  She nodded, and Tristan heaved and pushed until a wooden panel swung open into a darkened corridor. He drew his blade and followed the corridor as it wound upward, twisting and turning, until it ended in a tiny alcove. Glimmers of light seemed to frame a door, but Tristan slid it aside. “It’s just a tapestry.” He stepped from the alcove, looked around, and frowned. “We’re in the executive wing.”

  “Only council members and the top ministry officials have access to this wing,” Ariel explained to Nithya. “The palace guards who protect V
arian have their offices here too.” She looked back at Tristan. “This isn’t good.”

  “Someone close to Varian, someone he trusts, is trying to kill him.” Tristan’s lips pressed into a grim, straight line. “There shouldn’t be too many people around at this time of night. It can’t be too hard to narrow down.”

  One of the doors at the far end of the corridor opened, and two fae lords strode out. Ariel clutched hard at Nithya’s arm, her nails digging into flesh. “Daddy?” Her voice was a squeak.

  “Ariel.” Lord Grimaldi wore a smile that scarcely concealed the furrow between his eyes. “You shouldn’t be in this wing of the palace.”

  Lord Sauvageau stood behind Grimaldi, his narrow-eyed gaze flicking among the three young people. His skeletal fingers interlaced in a caressing gesture that shivered unease down Nithya’s spine.

  Nithya stepped into the silence. “I came to visit Ariel, and I told her I’d never seen the palace. I wanted to know where the real work happens, and we thought we wouldn’t be in the way, seeing how it’s late and no one’s about.”

  Grimaldi chuckled, the sound bitter. “The real work happens in the prince’s study, where he makes decisions without consultation with anyone. Anyway, this section of the palace isn’t open to just anyone, not even you, Ariel.”

  Ariel flushed. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” She tugged at Nithya’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  At that moment, two other fae lords walked out into the corridor to join Grimaldi and Sauvageau.

  Tristan frowned. “Lord Montagne. Lord Baudin. Was there a council meeting no one told me about?”

  Grimaldi waved Tristan’s offended tone away. “Does this look like the entire council? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Tristan stiffened like a puppy smacked across the nose. “Does it concern Varian?”

  Lord Baudin’s already florid face turned a deeper red. “Most things in La Condamine concern Varian, but this does not concern you.”

  “Varian trusts me.”

  Baudin sneered. “Your family has leeched upon the goodness of the Delacroix for too long.” His contemptuous gaze rested on Tristan’s lusterless atern bracelet. “Blood eventually betrays itself. Yours will too.”

  “You know nothing about my family, about my blood! Rainier owes me more than you can ever understand.”

  “Prince Rainier. Varian may have given you permission to call him by his first name, but Prince Rainier will remain just that to you.” Baudin grunted. “The children these days—absolutely no respect for their elders.”

  “You can’t handle the fact that Varian has set me above you, while your son wastes away, unsummoned, in your country chateau, instead of standing beside the prince, advising him.”

  Ariel tugged harder on Nithya’s arm, and Nithya followed her friend through the doors into the main palace. Ariel’s breath shuddered out of her. “They were going to start yelling at us next.”

  Somehow, Nithya did not think so. “What did Baudin mean when he said Tristan’s family has leeched upon the Delacroix family for too long?”

  Arial dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “He’s grumpy that Tristan was raised in the palace after Tristan’s father lost his title, land, and his head.”

  “Tristan’s father was executed?”

  “High treason.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Ariel shrugged. “It’s the excuse given when someone irritates the prince, and the prince can’t find a legitimate, legal reason to get rid of him.”

  “So Tristan’s father didn’t actually do anything wrong?”

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly.” Ariel hemmed and hawed.

  Nithya glared at her friend. “Why are you dragging this out?”

  “Because there’s no polite way to say it.” Ariel bit her lip. “I heard that Tristan’s atern bracelet, as an infant, was brilliant.” She winced, her expression pinched. “Tristan was three years old when his father was executed, and he was sent to the palace to be fostered and raised as Varian’s companion. By then, his bracelet was gray.”

  “But…”

  “He was practically a baby. He couldn’t even speak in full sentences.” Ariel’s voice quavered.

  Nithya shuddered from the chill wrapping around her spine. “His father did it?”

  “No one knows for sure, but the rumors…” Ariel shrugged. “The weak excuse for Lord Merodes’s execution—people talk. They’ll make stuff up, especially when they’re not told anything.”

  “So Prince Rainier punished Tristan’s father and then fostered Tristan…”

  “And Varian gave the Merodes land and titles back to Tristan when he became prince.”

  “How is that leeching upon the Delacroix?” Nithya demanded.

  “It’s not. I agree with you. The prince’s family has been extraordinarily kind to Tristan. He lost so much, more than he will probably ever realize, and he needed someone to fight for him. He found his champion in Prince Rainier.”

  “Kindness shouldn’t be looked down upon.”

  Ariel shrugged. “It’s the old lords on the council. They’re calculating. Everything’s carefully assessed, as if all actions are worth something tangible. Credits, debits. It never balances. Someone always owes someone something. Tristan can never repay the debt he owes to the Delacroix, and Varian’s not planning on collecting, but of course it’s not how the others see it.”

  “It’s not as if the prince’s kindness to Tristan diminished the prince’s kindness to them.”

  “Ah, but they’ll never know that for sure, will they?”

  Nithya stared at Ariel. “Are all the fae so devious?”

  “Well, it’s something to pass the time. It’s not as if there’s any planting or harvesting to do, is there?”

  They both fell silent as the door opened, and Tristan strode out. His handsome face was set in taut lines.

  Ariel touched his hand gently. “I’m so sorry they said that to you, Tristan. Don’t let it get to you. It’s just how the old people are. We young ones have to stick together.”

  “One or more of them is behind this; I’m certain of it.” He ground his teeth. “The insults—they’re trying to throw me off track, but I’m not going to let them distract me. Varian’s the only one who matters right now. As long as he’s all right—” Tristan drew a deep breath and managed a grim smile. “—everything’s fine.”

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, the sun was scarcely a sliver against the horizon when Varian strode toward the stables. He tugged his heavy cloak around his shoulders, his breath misting with every exhalation. His thick leather gloves and boots provided little protection against the biting cold.

  He did not have to be up so early, not when lack of sleep stung his eyes.

  He did not have to visit his father’s mausoleum.

  But he had no one else to talk to—no one else to whom he could reveal his true doubts and fears without unthinkable repercussions.

  No one told me being prince would be so lonely.

  The stable boys were still fast asleep in their warm beds, so Varian saddled Jet. He was about to mount his horse when Tristan hurried into the stables, his winter coat askew, his hair uncombed.

  Varian chuckled. “I’m just going for a ride. No need to tag along.”

  “You’re going to the mausoleum.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Tristan hastily saddled his horse, and together, they rode from the palace, through the city’s back gate, and toward the snow-covered foothills.

  “Why the change of heart?” Varian broke the silence.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve never wanted to come with me to visit my father’s grave before.”

  Tristan shrugged. “I’m too busy serving the living to cater to the feelings of the dead.”

  Varian burst into laughter. “I can’t object to that.”

  “So why do you?” Tristan glanced at Varian. “You’ve been spending lots
of time recently at your father’s grave, as if you’re expecting him to talk to you.”

  “It’s quiet there. I can think without feeling like there’s something else I should be doing.” Varian shrugged. “He’s probably the only person who would really understand what’s going on in my head. It’s an odd thing to feel closer to your father when he’s dead instead of when he was alive.”

  “Sometimes death brings people together, instead of separates them.”

  “You’re feeling philosophical today.” Varian shook his head. “I’ve been feeling it drag at me too recently.”

  “Philosophy?”

  “I hated it; I thought it a waste of time when so much in the world needed attention and action instead.” Varian pulled Jet’s reins and turned his horse so that he could breathe in the view of La Condamine, cloaked in white, pristine beneath the pale light of dawn. “It’s down there, Tristan. Everyone and everything I love in the world is down there in that city, and yet, how small it is.” His breath whispered out in a sigh. “It’s humbling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am prince of a faction, and yet, that’s all it is. Four hundred and ninety-nine acres and 32,000 people.” He swept his hand over the city-state. “My job is to make this…better. That’s it. Just one job. So simple and so impossibly difficult.” He swallowed through the tightness in his throat. “And I could fail. Utterly. Spectacularly.” The knot in his stomach coiled into the hardness of a clenched fist.

  Tristan asked, “Are you afraid?”

  Terrified. Varian turned his horse around and rode on, grateful for Tristan’s company, and even more grateful that Tristan did not push for further conversation. Their many years of close friendship kept the silence comfortable.

  Tristan was the first one off his horse when they arrived at the marble mausoleum. He walked around the gleaming structure, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  “Is something wrong?” Varian asked.

  “I want to be sure it’s safe.”

  “Who would come out here? My mother doesn’t visit his grave. I still don’t know why you’re out here with me.”