“And a good morning to you too,” I drawled. “Do you greet all your guests this way?”
“You are not a guest,” he growled. “In case you missed it, this is the part where you start begging for your life.”
I laughed.
After everything that had happened yesterday, the threat of this man running me through with his sword didn’t bother me at all.
“Well, go ahead then,” I said. “Although it would be a shame to ruin this jacket with my blood. Is this Andvarian silkfleece? It’s exquisite. Not to mention the pillow. Floresian down, right?”
I wasn’t sure why I said that. Maybe yesterday’s horrors had addled my brain. Or maybe I was simply tired of biting my tongue. Of always having to do and say the polite thing, the nice thing, instead of what I really thought and felt. And what had all that politeness and nicety gotten me? Nothing —absolutely nothing but memories of death in my mind, screams echoing in my ears, and the stench of blood in my nose.
So, no, I wasn’t going to cower, and I certainly wasn’t going to beg for anything, not even my own miserable life. No, from now on, I was going to do and say exactly what I wanted, when I wanted, and damn the consequences. It was the first step in keeping that promise I had made to myself to never be weak and helpless again.
“Who are you?” he growled again. “How did you get in here?”
“The door was open.”
It wasn’t a total lie. The door had been open . . . after I had snuffed out all his lightning.
The magier’s eyes narrowed, and he dug the point of his sword a little deeper into my throat. Not enough to break the skin, but almost. I resisted the urge to retreat and sink deeper into the pillow propped up behind my head.
“That door is never, ever open,” he said in a soft, deadly voice. “So how did you get in here? What do you want?”
“Well, I, for one, would like to have a civilized conversation instead of all these vague threats that you keep spewing.”
He turned the sword point the tiniest bit, like it was a nail he was about to hammer into my throat. “My threats are anything but vague.”
“Perhaps vague was the wrong word. How about nonexistent ?”
He blinked in surprise. “Nonexistent?”
I shrugged. Well, as much as I could with his sword still at my throat. “If you really wanted to kill me, you would have done it while I was sleeping. Not woken me up in such dramatic fashion.”
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t argue with my logic.
“So, why don’t you let me up, and we can have a normal conversation like two adults.”
My gaze locked with his, and I carefully reached out and touched my finger to his sword. He tensed, but he let me slowly push the blade away from my throat. After a moment, he stepped back, although he kept his weapon raised, ready to stab me if I did anything he didn’t like.
I scooted out of the tight space and into the middle of the floor, but then I realized how cold, heavy, and numb my legs were.
“Well?” the magier demanded. “What are you waiting for? You’re the one who wanted to talk, so get up.”
“Um, this is a bit embarrassing, but my legs are asleep.”
A cold, evil light flared in his eyes. “Really? Well, let me help with that.”
He snapped up his hand, and blue lightning crackled on his fingertips. Before I could move or react, he stepped forward.
And then the bastard shocked me.
I shrieked as his magic slammed into my legs. In an instant, my limbs went from cold, heavy, and numb to hot, twitching, and burning. I started to smother his power with my immunity, but I thought better of it and gritted my teeth instead. I might not be at Seven Spire anymore, but I couldn’t let anyone know about my immunity, especially not some magier.
I expected him to keep shocking me, but after about fifteen seconds, he released his hold on his magic, and the lightning on his hand vanished.
“How is that, highness?” he mocked. “Are your legs feeling a bit livelier now?”
It took me a moment to unclench my jaw. “Oh, yes. Thank you ever so much.”
A razor-thin smile creased his face. It made him look even more handsome. Bastard. “You’re quite welcome. Now get up.”
My legs felt like they were on fire, but I reached out, grabbed hold of one of the weapons racks, and pulled myself to my feet. Then the magier and I faced each other.
In addition to the sword still clenched in his hand, a dagger gleamed in a slot on his black leather belt, and I got the impression that he could wield both weapons as easily as he did his magic. But perhaps the most curious thing was the fact that he wasn’t wearing the black swan emblem. No crest of any sort adorned his clothes. Odd. You would think that the magier would wear his troupe’s symbol.
His icy gaze swept over me. Once he determined that I didn’t have any weapons, he focused on my face again. I raised my hand to my cheek, wondering what he was staring at, and winced as my fingers touched the puffy bruise. Oh, that.
“I’ll ask you again,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I want to speak to Serilda Swanson. She’s the one who runs things around here, right?”
A speculative look filled his eyes, and another razor-thin smile creased his face. Handsome and smug. A dangerous combination.
“You want to talk to Serilda?” he drawled. “I’m happy to arrange that, highness.”
The magier grabbed my arm. A firm grip, but not tight enough to bruise. Seemed he had a bit of manners after all, despite shocking the shit out of me. I was still wearing his jacket, and before he could drag me away, I leaned down, snatched the pillow off the floor, and stuffed it under my other arm.
“What are you doing?” he snapped.
I shrugged. “I should get something out of sleeping on the floor. Besides, do you really want it back after I’ve drooled on it all night?”
He opened his mouth to argue, but once again, no words came out. He sighed and shook his head, admitting defeat.
* * *
The magier strong-armed me out of the house and onto the street. The sun was up, but it was still early, and only a few folks were moving through the compound. Two men were sitting on a bench outside the dining hall, drinking mochana. The rich, steaming fumes tickled my nose.
“W ho do you have there, Sullivan?” one of the men asked. “Another runaway?”
They both snickered. Must be some kind of inside joke. Although I supposed that I was a runaway, despite the fact that I was too old for that sort of thing.
“Something like that,” he muttered, and muscled me on past them.
“Sullivan?” I said. “So the mysterious magier has a name.”
“Yes,” he snapped. “My name is Lucas Sullivan. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Sullivan is a bit formal, don’t you think? Especially after I’ve spent the night drooling on your pillow. I’ll call you Sully. I think that it’s appropriate in this stage of our relationship.” I was rather enjoying this whole speaking-my-mind thing, especially when it came to needling him. Besides, words were the only way that I could wound him.
His nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched. Not a fan of nicknames. “I wouldn’t worry about it, highness. You’re not going to be here long enough to call me anything.”
“We’ll see.”
We kept walking. Eventually, we turned off the street and stepped onto a path that led around the side of the dining hall and into a series of connected gardens with towering trees, winter flowers, black wrought-iron benches, and fluorestone streetlamps. Sullivan marched me through the gardens and across a stone bridge that arched over a stream that disappeared into the trees.
The path led to a three-story manor house surrounded by more trees and flowers, along with an iron gate. Stone turrets topped with silver spires stood at all four corners of the house. Serilda Swanson had to live here, since it was much nicer and larger than the other homes.
The arena, the o
ther buildings, the gardens, and now this manor house. Running a gladiator troupe paid far better than I’d realized. How else could Serilda have gotten her hands on such a large piece of property in the city? Much less built all of this?
Sullivan knocked on the front door, but he didn’t wait for a response before opening it and dragging me inside. Stained glass lamps, gilded silver mirrors, and dark mahogany furniture filled the rooms. Oh, yes. Serilda had done very well for herself since leaving the queen’s guard.
Sullivan strong-armed me into a library that took up the back half of the manor. The furnishings in here were as fine as everything else, with a crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling, bookcases covering two of the walls, and a large mahogany desk perched in the center. But the most prominent thing was the white pennant that featured a black swan with a blue eye and beak that adorned the back wall.
An impressive collection of weapons adorned the rest of that wall. Swords, maces, daggers, axes, spears, and shields glinted in the early morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. Each object featured a variety of jewels and was polished to a high gloss.
I started to look past the weapons when I noticed a separate set tucked away in the corner—a sword, a dagger, and a shield. Unlike the other weapons, with their fist-size rubies, emeralds, and more, this set boasted only a few small jewels, although I was too far away to tell exactly what the gems were.
Several delicious scents tickled my nose, and I glanced to my right. Silver platters piled with scrambled eggs, black-pepper-crusted bacon, and fried fruit pies perched on a table, along with carafes of mochana, hot chocolate, teas, and juices. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since those two bags of cornucopia last night. But my gnawing hunger was the least of my worries, so I focused on the people in the library.
Cho Yamato, the ringmaster, was standing next to the table, surveying the breakfast spread with a critical gaze. Paloma, the gladiator, was sitting in a chair in front of the desk, next to another female gladiator with auburn hair and light brown eyes. Emilie, a mutt with speed magic. I remembered her from the show. She had been one of the few who had actually challenged Paloma and made the other woman work for her victory.
And finally, there was Serilda Swanson, who was sitting in a white plush chair behind the desk.
She was wearing a fresh white tunic with the same black-thread swan design that she had had on last night. She was tallying numbers in a ledger, and several bags of gold, silver, and bronze crowns lined the desk. I drew in a breath, tasting her scent. Sharp, hard, and metallic, like coldiron mixed with blood. A warrior’s scent.
Sullivan shoved me forward, and I staggered to a stop on top of a white rug that I had already ruined with my muddy boots.
Serilda didn’t look up from her ledger. “Yes?”
“I found her sleeping in my house,” Sullivan growled.
“I didn’t realize that having a woman in your bed was such an unusual occurrence, Lucas.”
I hid a grin. Seemed like I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed needling the magier.
Sullivan stabbed his finger at me. “It is when I come home this morning and find her snoring in the corner.”
“I don’t usually snore,” I said. “It must have been your fine Floresian pillow.”
Sullivan’s right eye twitched. So did the fingers on his right hand, as though he wanted to shock me with his lightning again.
My quip finally made Serilda look up at me. Her short blond hair was slicked back from her face, smoky shadow brought out her dark blue eyes, and red gloss covered her lips. She was quite beautiful—except for the sunburst-shaped scar near the corner of her right eye.
I had seen more than one fight between noble ladies, so I recognized the mark for what it was. Someone had backhanded Serilda, and her ring had left behind a lasting impression. Still, any bone master could have fixed it, so why have a scar like that? Especially on your face, where everyone could see it?
Of course I didn’t know the answer, so I studied the rest of her. The top few buttons of her tunic were undone, revealing a small black swan pendant that rested in the hollow of her throat. The jet shards that made up the swan’s body glittered with every breath she took, as did its blue tearstone eye and beak, making it seem as though the swan was floating on top of the steady pulse beating in her throat. Jet was another jewel that deflected magic, although not nearly as well as tearstone. Interesting. I would have thought that a famed warrior like Serilda would have worn rubies to increase her strength, or emeralds to increase her speed.
But the most striking thing about her pendant was the fact that Alvis had made it.
The jeweled shards. The simple, elegant design. The delicate silver chain. I recognized his work immediately. My heart lifted, but I doused my hope with cold reason. Serilda had been Cordelia’s personal guard for years. She could have gotten that pendant—and her matching swan crest—from Alvis at any time. It didn’t mean anything, not really, and it certainly didn’t indicate whether I could trust her.
Cho also stared at me, and Paloma and Emilie turned in their seats so they could see me too. I shifted on my feet and tried not to grimace at how dirty and disheveled I was.
“And how exactly did she get into your house?” Serilda murmured. “I thought you kept all the doors and windows locked with your magic.”
“I do,” Sullivan growled. “I don’t know how she got in. I thought you might want to question her before I throw her out.”
Not exactly a warm welcome. I chewed on my lip, debating what to do. Cordelia had told me that I could trust Serilda, but right now, I didn’t trust anyone. Not after watching Vasilia, Nox, Felton, and Maeven slaughter the rest of the royals. For all I knew, Vasilia could have Serilda in her pocket too.
“Why would I want to question her? She didn’t break into my house.” Serilda waved her hand. “Take her to the front gate and throw her out if you’re so inclined. Just make sure that she doesn’t come back.”
I should have realized that something like this would happen, but I didn’t know how to stop it. Panic rose up in me. If Sullivan threw me out of the compound, I didn’t know what I would do or where I would go.
I moved toward the desk. “No, you can’t do that—”
Before I could take another step, Paloma surged up out of her chair, grabbed my arm, spun her body into mine, and flipped me over her shoulder. I landed hard on my back on the floor, and a fresh wave of pain shot through my battered body. I also lost my grip on the pillow that had been stuffed under my arm, and it rolled end over end across the floor before silently plopping to a stop.
Sullivan grinned again, while Emilie snickered, both of them enjoying my suffering. Serilda made another note in her ledger, while Cho grabbed a fried pie from one of the platters. The sudden bit of drama bored them.
Paloma bent down over me. Not only was she a skilled gladiator, but she was also quite pretty with her braided blond hair and beautiful bronze skin. I focused on the morph mark on her neck—a snarling ogre face with the same golden amber eyes that Paloma herself had. The ogre reminded me of the one on Lady Xenia’s neck, right down to the lock of blond hair that curled around its face. Both Paloma and the ogre regarded me with a flat expression.
As much as I would have liked to lie still until the pain subsided, it would be a sign of weakness, so I forced myself to roll over onto my knees and push myself up and onto my feet. I might have wobbled a bit—I might have wobbled quite a bit—but I lifted my chin and faced them all again.
“You can’t throw me out,” I said.
Serilda arched an eyebrow. “Paloma just proved that she can throw you out quite easily.”
“You don’t understand.”
Serilda rolled her eyes, set down her pen, and leaned back in her chair. “Let me guess. You came to the show last night, hid out in the compound, and now you want to join the troupe.”
“Yes! Exactly! I want to join the troupe.”
They laughed at me.
Sullivan, Emilie, Cho, Paloma, even the ogre on Paloma’s neck opened its lips and silently chuckled. The longer they laughed, the angrier I got. It was just like being back at the palace and listening to Vasilia and her friends snicker about how small, shabby, and insignificant everything about me was in comparison to them.
The only one who didn’t laugh was Serilda, who watched me closely, her blue gaze taking in my clenched fists and stiff posture. But even more than that, I felt like she was looking past my bruised face and false bravado and actually seeing into me, and I had to stop myself from shivering at her intense scrutiny. She waved her hand, and the others quit laughing. She stared at me another moment, then waved her hand again.
“All right then. Tell me your life story, girl, such as it is.”
I bristled. I hadn’t been a girl since my parents had died, but I swallowed my anger. This was my one chance to convince her to let me stay. My mind spun, trying to figure out how to tell her what had happened with Isobel, Cordelia, and Vasilia without revealing my true identity.
“I don’t have all day,” Serilda snapped. “Now or never.”
“My . . . foster mother recently passed away, as did our . . . mistress, the woman we both served. The new mistress wasn’t as . . . kind as the old one had been.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. I had just left out some pertinent details. Names, dates, places, murders.
“So this new mistress is the one who gave you that nasty shiner?” Serilda asked.
“No, not exactly. She told her . . . men to give it to me.”
“So you ran away from home, came here, and now you want to join the troupe so you can get your revenge on her,” Serilda finished in a bored voice.
Revenge? Of course I wanted revenge on Vasilia, but I also knew that I could never, ever get it. She was the fucking queen now with practically unlimited money, magic, and resources. I couldn’t have gotten close to her, much less actually hurt her, not even if I’d had an army at my disposal.
Kill the Queen (Crown of Shards #1) Page 51