Magic of Fire and Shadows

by Raye Wagner

  Evzan was the type of handsome that made her stomach flip and her mouth go dry. Up until now, she’d only been interested in his skill and willingness to train her. But something of Mari’s words sparked a new awareness in Adaline. You’ll never be queen, so maybe you could marry for love.

  Obviously, she couldn’t even look at his face without the strange thoughts assailing her. Adaline blushed, her gaze seeking refuge on the empty pathway until she realized she was giving him too much power over her. She pushed away the odd fascination and forced herself to look back at Evzan, only to meet his disapproving scowl.

  “If you’re not careful, your stubbornness and pride will get you killed,” Evzan said, his golden features darkening. “You need someone to keep you progressing.”

  “Stubbornness and pride? Progression? Look who’s talking.” His hypocrisy did a fantastic job of banishing her strange thoughts of him.

  “Really? It’s been how long? A week?” he asked. “Already your strikes are losing their form.”

  “My strikes are powerful and direct, flawless.” Just as he’d taught her. She straightened to her full height and glared at him. “They are not losing their form.”

  “Within a month, you’ll lose all of the progress I’ve made with you.”

  The progress he’d made with her? She glared at the arrogant guard, clenching her teeth with frustration. “Are you in earnest?” When he said nothing, she continued, “You’re absurd.”

  He met her glare with one of his own. “I beg your pardon. I was, perhaps, too generous with my estimation; I’m not sure you’ve retained anything I’ve taught you.”

  Adaline’s rage boiled over, and she punched at Evzan, aiming for his solar plexus.

  The guard didn’t even flinch as he swept his forearm in front of his body and smacked her strike away.

  Humiliation stained her cheeks, and she narrowed her eyes. Why did she let him get to her? She was acting like a petulant child, not a princess of Cervene. Rubbing her arm, she grumbled, “I apologize. That was rude.”

  Evzan’s smirk disappeared. He raised his eyebrows and with mock solemnity said, “I should be apologizing to you. Either I’ve been a terrible teacher, or you haven’t retained a single thing I’ve taught you. I was clearly mistaken when I said you had an aptitude for battle; perhaps, you should take up crochet, Princess.”

  How dare he? She widened her stance, her hands clenched once again, and snarled, “If I take up crocheting, will you stop stalking me?”

  “It is my job to stalk you—so even if you commanded me to stop, I wouldn’t.” He mirrored her pose but with a broader stance.

  “You’re unbelievable,” she snapped.

  Evzan heaved a sigh and shook his head. “I’m tired of this fight between us. I’m tired of you acting like a child; I was just following orders to protect you. Please, get over your imagined offense, and let things return to normal between us.”

  “Your audacity is limitless. Imagined offense? My parents made me stay home while the rest of the family went to a party, and you encouraged them to exclude me.” Perhaps he didn’t know how much that exclusion hurt; maybe he didn't understand how much being included would’ve meant. “If you’re tired of how I’m acting, then go. I’m tired of being in a cage. Even a beautiful cage is still a cage.” She threw her hands out, gesturing to the pavilion. “When you said you’d train me, I’d hoped this would be something of my own, a bit of freedom. But you act like I’m something to control. I don’t need or want someone else to control my life; I already have plenty of people telling me what to do, Evzan.”

  He clenched his jaw, and several moments of silence passed. His expression darkened, and then he said, “I hope you never have to learn how good you’ve had it, Princess.”

  His insinuation, that she was ungrateful and spoiled, was another blow. She stared up at him, her mouth agape, but before she could form a response, he closed the distance between them.

  “What’s the matter, Adaline? Is that the first time anyone’s dared to tell you the truth?” He stared down at her, his eyes bright with emotion. “It must be such an awful cage to have everyone telling you exactly what you want to hear all day, every day.”

  He was entirely too close, so close she could feel his body heat through the space between them. Her heart fluttered, and she cursed its betrayal of her sensibilities. She pushed him, uselessly, and then took a step back, snapping, “Like anyone ever criticizes you, Evzan. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  He took another step toward her, and she held up her hands to stop him. The air charged, the energy drawing them together, and Adaline stammered, “Don’t come any closer.” She pressed her fingers into his wet shirt and blinked, startled with what little space there was separating them. When she spoke next, her voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t pretend I’m perfect, and I don’t only have people tell me what I want to hear.” She glanced up through her lashes at him. “You, of all people, should know. And I’m not expecting you to make anything easy for me, but . . . You don’t have to be cruel either.” She dropped her gaze, her heart heavy with hurt, and blinked back tears. “I shouldn’t have bothered to tell you how I feel. You don’t get paid to care.”

  “I’m not dismissing your emotions,” he said, his voice husky and thick. He didn’t move, but somehow, even with her hands between them, the distance shrank. “I just think some self-reflection is in order.” He brought up his hands to grip her upper arms. “I only want the best for you, Princess.”

  Desire spread through her chest and down into her belly, the sensation both startling and unfamiliar. Adaline stepped back, shocked with her vacillating feelings for her intense guard. Her mouth dried, and she felt the urge to run. “I believe you’re right; we should take some time to reflect. And”—her mind grasped for something, some way to escape—“maybe I’ll hire a different fighting instructor.”

  “He won’t be as good as me,” Evzan said, frowning.

  She laughed. He was right; the other soldiers had said as much, even many of the generals, but Adaline wasn’t about to feed his ego. “Thank you, Evzan, for modeling such astounding humility.”

  Despite the warm air, Adaline shivered as Evzan’s dark gaze traveled down her thin frame.

  “It’s not ego if it’s true.” He shook his head and then met her gaze. His eyes flashed fire, and he said, “I’ll give you the rest of the day to feel sorry for yourself. I expect you ready for training at the usual hour tomorrow morning.”

  “No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. Evzan was playing games with her, but with no grasp on the rules, she was finished competing. “At this point, do the job my father pays you to, but aside from that, leave me alone. Forget the training.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, an invisible fist squeezed her insides, and she waited with baited breath, hoping he would defy her.

  Evzan stared into her eyes with an unfathomable expression on his handsome face and said, “I’m sorry, Princess. I’ll not leave you alone until I know you’re safe. That is my job.”

  A cry rose from deep within the castle, a distinctive cacophony of women wailing and men shouting, interrupting their argument. A fraction of a second later, the bells of the Celestial Sisters’ cathedral tolled.

  Adaline swallowed. Looking toward the keep’s stone spires, she counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And then no more.

  Her stomach turned, her mind supplying the interpretation of the bells’ chimes. Mourning. The tolls of a royal death.

  4

  Vasilisa

  Vasi stood in the receiving line, wringing her sweaty palms as she shifted from foot to foot. The rushing in her ears overwhelmed the murmur of the gossiping courtiers, many of whom, like Vasi and her family, were lined up to approach the royal family of Beloch. Waiting became more trying as the peers of the realm crowded and blocked the royal dais and the one person she was anxious to see. He was the reason her heart threatened to pound out of her chest, the reas
on she put up with Marika and Roza tonight; he was the only reason Vasi had come to Lord Baine’s house. The crown prince, Nikolai Baine, had finally returned.

  A tall man bent over, and Vasi gained a moment’s view. Even five years later, she recognized her childhood friend, although Prince Nikolai was twenty now, and unlike at fifteen, he filled out his pressed uniform. His boyish face had thinned into chiseled and ruggedly handsome features, and his once-blond hair had deepened to tawny brown. He wore his hair cropped, his face clean-shaven, and his bright-blue eyes lit with humor as he laughed with a group of generals before him. The crowd shifted again and obstructed Vasi’s view.

  “Vasilisa,” Roza said, her voice breaking through the din of the crowd. She gripped Vasi’s wrist, yanking hard until she turned to Roza. “If you speak to the prince, make sure you include me.”

  Roza stood just a couple inches taller than Vasi, but tonight her sister’s dark locks were sculpted into an impressive height with braids and pearls woven in, giving her another five inches. A stuffed dove nestled on top, its lifeless eyes staring unseeing out at the crowd. Roza leaned in, and Vasi pulled away, not wanting the dead bird’s wing to brush her cheek.

  “Don’t hog his attention. It’s rude.” Roza’s lower lip jutted out, a sure sign she was thinking, and then she added, “Perhaps it’s better if you don’t speak at all.”

  “How funny,” Vasi said, raising her eyebrows. Roza’s desperate vying for male attention never ceased to amaze. “I’m pretty sure we were invited because of my friendship with him. Wouldn’t it be a little strange if I didn’t even thank him for the invitation?”

  Roza glared, but Vasi glanced toward the royal dais again, refusing to engage further with her stepsister. She stood on her tiptoes, wishing for another glimpse of her friend.

  Former friend.

  “Mother,” Roza called, still gripping Vasi’s arm, “Vasi vows she will occupy all of Prince Nikolai’s time.”

  Marika glared down her nose at Vasi. “How very typical of you, Vasilisa. For the love of Aksel, try to reign in your selfishness and greed.”

  Marika’s companion, Lady Granth, gasped, clutching a hand to her ample bosom. “How rude.” Her ruddy complexion became splotchy as she sputtered, “You sh-should be ashamed. You’re not suitable to even be considered an eligible match, selfish girl. Don’t monopolize his time, stealing it from someone deserving.”

  Marika sniffed and then waved at Vasi. “Look how she dresses. As though the occasion were nothing more than a walk in the park. She disgraces me at every turn.”

  “I quite like the dress,” Vasi lied. Part of her wanted to fight the unfairness of the accusation. Marika had not only sold Vasi’s gowns but also picked out her dress, going so far as to say Vasi couldn’t go in any other attire. She could tell Lady Granth, but what was the point?

  As they made their slow approach toward the front of the line, ladies buzzed around Marika, wafting in clouds of lavender, lilac, and rose. When only one couple separated them from the royal family, Marika turned to her companions and said, “You’ll have to excuse us.” She puffed her chest out like a peacock, and her crimson lips pulled into a poorly disguised sneer. “As personal guests of the crown, we’re going to pay our respects.”

  The ladies tittered and shot looks of envy, delicacies for Marika’s insatiable pride.

  Vasi rolled her eyes and then fixed her attention on the portly, sweaty lord talking to Prince Nikolai, wishing the older man would move along. Beside him, the lord’s young, willowy wife batted her eyes at the other three men on the dais.

  Tsar Baine lounged across a high-backed, red velvet-cushioned throne, a wine glass dangling from his hand. The once handsome ruler Vasi remembered had clearly over-indulged in food and wine long enough that his skin was sallow and sagged. His oiled hair still held its golden hue, but it had thinned so that patches of his scalp peeked through the strands. The Baine royal crest hung behind his seat, the bright lion contrasting with the dark mahogany. The woman, standing before the tsar in a low-back, silk dress, was Vasi’s age, perhaps a few years older, and the tsar’s attention was fixed on the young beauty. He leaned forward, tugging at her skirt as he patted his lap. The woman giggled and shook her head, coyly refusing but not moving away.

  Beside the tsar, leaning against the mahogany, stood a young man Vasi did not immediately recognize although he certainly was a Baine. Vasi shook her head after a moment, remembering Henryk, Nikolai’s twin brother. She had no memories with the younger prince, for in all the years Vasi visited the palace with her papa, Henryk never once came out to keep company with her.

  Where Nikolai was warm and golden, Henryk had midnight-black hair and grey eyes the color of secrets. But, aside from their coloring, the two looked very much alike.

  Perhaps feeling her gaze, prince Henryk glanced her way and caught Vasi staring. He quirked a dark eyebrow as a smirk lit across his full lips. Heat licked Vasi’s cheeks, but she held his gaze for a moment before shifting to look at the remaining occupant on the dais.

  Her attention collided with Lord Baine’s, and his gaze crawled down Vasi’s body, filling her with gratitude for the ugly, unflattering dress. Lord Baine’s expression darkened, and Vasi was reasonably certain he was not as grateful for Marika’s choice. Vasi wanted to look away, but Lord Baine’s intensity kept her riveted, some primal part expecting him to lunge at any moment.

  Lord Baine took a step toward Vasi, and her previous excitement to be at the ball turned to icy dread.

  “Vasilisa? You came,” Nikolai said, stepping in front of his older cousin. The prince’s voice had deepened, maturing like the rest of him, but his blue eyes were still lit with laughter.

  Warm joy burst inside her, and she grinned. “Nikolai.” Gasps rose around them, and Vasi blushed and quickly amended as she dropped into a low curtsy, “Your Highness.”

  He chuckled, a low throaty sound that rolled to her and reeled her in. He extended his hand, and she rose, his masculine scent washing over her as he leaned forward and kissed her fingertips. He still smelled of pine, but the scent of steel was new as was the musky scent of man.

  “I barely recognized you.” He smiled, his gaze turning serious as he studied her. He placed her hand on his arm and led her to the line of his family, the rest of her party following.

  “I wasn’t sure you would remember me at all,” Vasi said, the truth springing from her lips. She forced a laugh in an attempt to make her statement light, but an old ache pulsed in her heart.

  Nikolai’s gaze didn’t waver, but the light in his eyes dimmed, and his smile faltered. He swallowed before continuing, “And risk you sending the djinn after me?” He leaned toward her conspiratorially and asked, “Do you still leave them offerings every day, or are you over it?”

  “Yes. Of course, I leave them offerings,” she said. But the question irked.

  Nikolai turned and said over his shoulder, “You hear that, Henryk? You and Vasi are the only two adults in Beloch who still believe in magic and djinn.”

  “Is that so?” Henryk replied. His dark eyes pinned Vasi, and his smirk wavered a moment before solidifying with a feral twist.

  Vasi stepped back, her heart racing. Honoring the djinn wasn’t a phase to get over; it was part of who she was. She pushed away her moment of fear and returned her attention to her childhood friend. “Are you two laughing at me? I just got here . . . I came to see you . . . I waited two hours in line—”

  “No, no.” His eyes widened, and he brought his hands up to grip her shoulders as he ducked down to meet her gaze. “Blessed djinn, no. I’m so pleased to see you, Vasi, but I’m acting like a fool.”

  His quick apology and rueful smile doused her spark of anger. There was a gravity riding under the surface of his jovial façade, a haunted look in his eyes that hadn’t been there when he’d left to join the army.

  “Will you dance with me?” Nikolai asked.

  Vasi’s heart softened, and she allowed herself to hope, for t
he first time in years, they would be friends again. “Yes, of course.”

  A wicked smile she knew well tugged at his lips, and his expression turned teasing. Suddenly, he looked just as he did at fifteen, and he whispered, “For every dance of the ball?”

  Marika burst forth, interrupting them. “Oh, I do apologize, Your Highness.”

  Nikolai dropped his hands to his sides, his tanned skin blanched, and he nodded shallowly. “Viscountess. Please, forgive my impertinence.”

  “Oh no, it is I who should apologize, Your Highness.” Marika placed a hand over her heaving breast, her features twisting in a look of faux-contrition. “I was in charge of my daughters’ dance-cards, and I assumed you would only be dancing with those of noble birth, those worthy of your hand. If I had known you would indulge a merchant’s daughter, I would’ve reserved as many dances as you wanted on Vasilisa’s card.” Her gaze fell to the floor, full lips pouting before continuing with a gleam in her eye. “Unfortunately, Vasilisa’s card is full. I’m so sorry, Highness. I do believe, however, you have a dance or two with my darling Roza.”

  “Prince Nikolai,” Roza said, pushing forward and batting her eyes.

  Nikolai held two hands up as if to ward her off, but Roza only stopped when she was next to Vasi and then dropped into a low curtsy beside her.

  “We have missed you dearly during your military tour,” Roza said, waiting.

  Nikolai’s face froze, and an impassive mask fell over his features as he extended his hand to lift Roza’s. “Roza de Plest, a pleasure to see you again.”

  A low, throaty laugh rolled out from behind Nikolai, and Vasi glanced up to see prince Henryk’s shoulders shaking with mirth as he watched.

  Even though Roza was not a friend, Vasi felt a pulse of humiliation on her stepsister’s behalf.

  Roza didn’t seem to notice, however, and she shot Nikolai a coy smile. “You’re so much taller and more handsome than when we last saw you. You fill out your uniform so well.” She leaned forward and dusted some invisible lint from his jacket in a gross breach of etiquette. “I’d love to hear of all of your heroic deeds. I hear you have many.”