Shadow Crown

by Kristen Martin

  “Breathe,” Estelle soothes. “Breathe and focus.”

  I close my eyes and do as she says. After a minute, my breathing slows, my chest loosens, and my body relaxes. I feel her hands release from mine and the pounding in my chest vanishes. Finally.

  A rustle in the brush distracts me from my calmed state. My eyes fly open. Juniper hops off of my lap as I immediately shift from a sitting position to a crouch. I scan the area before me, quickly realizing that Estelle is nowhere in sight. Perhaps the rustling came from her, although it seems unlikely she could get over there so quickly. “Estelle,” I hiss. “Where are you?”

  I jump as a figure suddenly appears right next to me. I fall back on my heels, almost losing my balance completely. She grabs my arm and steadies me, bringing me back to my crouch. Just as an obscenity is about to fly from my mouth, she brings her index finger to her lips, her grip still tight on my arm.

  Four men on horses reveal themselves from the brush, swords at the ready. My eyes are immediately drawn to their black and red armbands. I wouldn’t miss the Tymond House symbol if it hit me between the eyes. Apparently, Estelle also knows who they are and where they’re from. She mumbles something under her breath that sounds like “traitors”, but I can’t be sure.

  My foot twitches as I attempt to move backward and hide behind the tree, but Estelle squeezes my arm with tremendous force. I grimace in pain and stay put. “We need to hide,” I urge. But she just shakes her head and puts her finger to her lips again to silence me.

  I try not to panic, but the guards are closing in. Surely they’ve seen us by now; we’re out in the open, clear as day crouching by this darned tree. One of the guards dismounts his horse and walks directly toward us. The leaves on the ground crunch mercilessly beneath his feet. I stifle a breath as his steel boots land just an inch from my own. I lean back against the tree, confused as to why he hasn’t motioned to the other soldiers to come over and take us hostage. Or kill us.

  Knowing King Tymond, it’d probably be the latter.

  “Here!” one of the other guards shouts. “There are tracks in the leaves.”

  The guard standing in front of me looks right at me. My eyes widen as my breathing stops. Surely we’ve been caught. But then he averts his gaze and turns away from me—from us—and rushes back over to the group of guards. He nods at his fellow comrade as he mounts his horse. “We have a lead. This way!” he shouts, and before I can even register what’s happening, they take off. The sound of hooves becomes quieter and quieter until it’s so silent that no one would ever guess they were here in the first place.

  Estelle finally releases her death grip on my arm and it’s in that moment I understand exactly what just happened. “You shielded us so they couldn’t see us. Your power . . .”

  Estelle grins. “I’m a Cloaker. I have the ability to cloak myself as well as those I touch, making us invisible to the human eye.”

  “Cloaker.” The word feels odd on my tongue.

  Estelle nods, then puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles. Juniper comes flying out of a nearby bush and lands back in my lap, just like before.

  “I suppose I should thank you,” I say, feeling weirdly at ease now that Juniper is back in my lap, “for showing me that I can heal myself and for cloaking us from those guards.”

  Estelle jumps to her feet and fluffs her cloak. “You’re welcome.”

  I gently pick Juniper up and place her next to me as I stand. Although I still feel weak, I’m in a much better position than I was an hour ago. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I say. I look to my left and locate the bag containing the Soames’s heads. I can feel Estelle’s eyes on me as I pick it up, then begin to retreat further into the Thering Forest.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Her voice stops me. I turn around to look at her. “To find a cliffside and dump this bag. And then . . .” I shrug, not knowing what to say next.

  Estelle takes a few steps in my direction. “I know of a cliffside. I’ll take you there.” Her eyes flick to mine as she passes me, grabbing the sack along the way.

  “Hey!” I shout, but it’s too late. She’s already opened it.

  I’m almost sure she’s going to turn around and berate me, to tell me how disgusting it is for a person to kill and then carry around the heads as a trophy. But instead, she does the last thing I’d ever expect.

  She laughs.

  “Come on,” she says, swinging the bag so that it barely misses the ground. “I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine.”

  RYDAN HELSTROM

  A PEBBLE SHOOTS through the air as it leaves the toe of Rydan’s boot and lands just a few feet in front of him. He approaches the pebble again and kicks it harder this time. A sharp pain shoots from his foot to his knee, and he curses under his breath as he hops on one leg, squeezing the toe of his boot to make the stinging go away. The pain subsides and he continues to hobble along the cobblestone path leading into the town of Lonia.

  Yesterday, he’d searched for hours trying to find Arden, well into the evening, as well as all day today. He assumed Barlow would be worried, but boy was that assumption wrong.

  Rydan narrows his eyes as he makes his way down the road to the docks. He scans the area before him, quickly realizing that the ship they’d arrived on is gone. Barlow left without them. Correction: without him.

  Bastard.

  Bringing himself to the edge of one of the piers, he plops down onto the uneven wood planks. He hastily pulls both of his boots off, tossing them carelessly to the side. Tiny fish swarm the area as he dips his feet into the water. He gazes out at the clear blue sky and emerald green sea. The combination of the two immediately reminds him of Arden and her piercing green eyes.

  He shakes the image from his mind, feeling momentarily foolish for trusting in someone like Arden. The girl was damaged beyond repair before he’d ever even met her. He’d known it, too. And yet, he’d still befriended her, still trusted her, when no one else in the Cruex would. Perhaps they were the smart ones after all.

  Rydan slowly lowers himself onto his elbows and leans all the way back so that his body is perfectly horizontal, except for his legs. Rays of sunlight shine through every inch of his body. The heat is so intense that he has to shield his eyes with his arm. But with the sun on his face and his feet in the water, it’s the most at ease he’s felt in years.

  His thoughts turn as Tymond’s voice invites itself into his head. You’ll assassinate the Soames. And as proof, you’ll bring me their heads.

  He can’t go back to Trendalath, not after everything that had happened here. There’s every possibility he’d be exiled from the Cruex, and it’s even more likely that a worse punishment awaits him. But where to go? He’s miles away from Trendalath, miles away from the northern lands. Besides the Thering Forest, Lonia appears to be his best option. But how could he expect to assimilate into their society when he’s a trained killer? His track record isn’t even close to flawless, and the townspeople would probably hang him before he’d even found a place to live and settle in.

  Quite the predicament.

  As Rydan weighs his seemingly limited options, he notices from behind closed eyelids that the sun is not nearly as bright as it was before. In fact, it seems as though a dark cloud has rolled over it, or perhaps it’s disappeared altogether. But then the sound of metal clinks, and his eyes shoot open. Standing over him is a burly Trendalath soldier, and by the sound of multiple swords being drawn, he’s not alone.

  “Rydan Helstrom?” the soldier asks, his tone gruff.

  Rydan gulps, but doesn’t respond. This could either end very badly for him or . . . well, very badly. Options don’t seem to be on his side these days.

  “Answer me and you will be spared,” the soldier says. “Are you Rydan Helstrom?”

  He closes his eyes as he nods his head. “Yes.”

  “And your partner?”

  They want to kn
ow about Arden. Rydan stays silent, trying as fast as he can to formulate a believable story, but the words won’t come.

  The soldier kicks him in his side. He lets out a small yelp. “Where is Arden Eliri?” he roars.

  Rydan slowly brings himself upright, clutching his pulsating ribs. He looks up at the soldier and motions for him to come closer. As he lowers, Rydan grabs him by the collar of his uniform and pulls him in. “She’s dead,” he snarls as his fist collides with the man’s temple.

  “Arden Eliri is dead.”

  CERYLIA JARETH

  CERYLIA APPROACHES THE door to Opal’s chambers. A breeze makes its way through the hall, sending a shiver down her spine as she raises her hand to knock. Cerylia stares at her hand, fingers curled into a fist, then lowers it. It’s late, well into the evening. Surely after a few long and gruesome days of training, Opal is sound asleep. With a shake of her head, she turns away from the door and retreats down the hall.

  If Delwynn had been more thorough when it came to explaining Opal’s progress, the queen wouldn’t be roaming the corridors at all hours of the night. Nope, just a few updates every here and there, with little to no detail regarding the progression of her current powers or development of any new ones. Sometimes it felt like he simply “forgot” to give her an update at all. Unacceptable. “I’ll have to demote him and find Opal a new trainer,” Cerylia mumbles to herself.

  Just as she’s about to turn the corner back to her quarters, a door creaks open. She whirls around just as Opal’s head pokes through a narrow crack, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. Her eyes look darker in the dim lighting—a forest green as opposed to emerald—and her pupils are large enough to swallow most of the hue.

  “Your Greatness?” she asks as she rubs one of her eyes. “Have I missed something? Do you require my assistance?” There is urgency in her voice, although she’s fighting a yawn as she speaks.

  Opal steps through the door, the hinges creaking behind her as it shuts. Her white nightgown just barely brushes the floor. The delicate lace sewn into the hem seems to clash with the seemingly harsh, yet confident woman Cerylia has come to know. As Opal takes a few steps forward, the queen imagines her as a child whose innocence was too quickly ravaged by reality—a doe-eyed lamb wholly exchanged for an unforgiving warrior. She’s always had to be tough, to build her walls higher and higher. Just like me.

  Opal stops just a few feet away as Cerylia raises her hand. “Not here,” the queen whispers. She rushes toward Opal and grabs her by the arm to lead her back into her rooms. The door slams shut behind them and a chill immediately runs down her spine. She glances at the open window, the curtains billowing in the crisp night air. Opal seems to sense the queen’s discomfort because she hands her a wool blanket, then wraps one around herself. “I like the cold,” she murmurs with a sheepish smile. “If it’s unpleasant, I can close the window.”

  Cerylia shakes her head. “No, it’s quite all right.” She pulls the blanket tighter around her, soaking in the immediate warmth it provides. “If I’m being perfectly honest, I, too, enjoy the cold.”

  Opal tries to stifle another yawn, but her exhaustion wins. “Apologies, Your Greatness. I wasn’t expecting any company this evening and my sleep schedule is a little off due to—”

  “—your training,” Cerylia finishes. She purses her lips before speaking again. “That’s precisely what I was hoping to speak with you about.”

  Opal tenses. An unusual expression crosses her face, one that Cerylia hasn’t seen from her yet: fear. “Have I failed you in some way, Your Greatness?”

  Cerylia smiles as she shakes her head. “No,” she soothes, her voice light and airy, “that’s not it at all.”

  The girl immediately relaxes at the response, her shoulders releasing their former tension, but her mouth twitches. She’s still slightly on edge. “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  Cerylia bites the inside of her cheek as she attempts to properly word what she wants to say next. “I came tonight . . .” She trails off as Opal leans forward, her undivided attention on the queen. “I came tonight because I need you to do something for me.”

  Opal bristles at the request, but keeps focus. “I’m listening.”

  “There’s somewhere I need to go . . . somewhere in the past.” Cerylia stumbles with her words, feeling foolish for not having rehearsed this earlier.

  “To change something?”

  Opal’s candor leaves Cerylia speechless. What a brave soul, to directly ask the queen of her intentions. She shakes her head.

  “Apologies,” Opal starts, realizing just how direct she’d been. She fiddles with the ends of her hair then says, “It’s just a question I always ask. When people want to change things, I want to know why. I’m sure you understand how risky it can be to change past events.”

  This feels more like an insult—unexpected and accusing—but Cerylia maintains her air of calm. “I don’t desire to change anything, rather I need . . .” She looks out the window, her eyes landing on the bright yet solemn moon. “Clarification.”

  “You have uncertainty about the past?” Opal presses.

  Cerylia pauses, unsure as to just how much she wants to share with the girl. “About some events, yes.”

  Opal’s eyes seem to glow at her response. “Just say when and where and off we’ll go.”

  Cerylia lets out a small laugh. “Oh my dear, how I wish that were the case.” She chuckles again, not taking her eyes off the cream-colored moon.

  Opal furrows her brows, but doesn’t ask the question. Cerylia can see it in her eyes, in her face. She knows. She knows she’s not powerful enough. Not yet, anyway.

  BRAXTON HORNSBY

  BRAXTON HEAVES THE last sack of grains atop an already monstrous pile, his breathing labored from the effort. Just as he bends over to catch his breath, a window swings open and a brusque voice shouts from inside the Hanslow Inn. “Hornsby!”

  Braxton jumps to his feet, feeling sluggish and exhausted as he drags himself toward what is sure to be yet another set of chores. Ever since he arrived in Athia seven years ago and took the position at the inn, Hanslow hasn’t wasted any time. It’s one chore after another after another. Not that Braxton minds—after all, he knew what he’d signed up for from the beginning—but his original title had been ‘barkeep’. To tend to guests—normally weary travelers who’d spent the last week or so aboard a ship—pour their ale, serve their food, listen to their stories. These are things he doesn’t mind doing. It’s the hundreds of other chores Hanslow seems to come up with, completely unrelated to his barkeep duties, that have started to get under his skin.

  Braxton approaches the window and pokes his head inside. Sure enough, Hanslow has disappeared—probably off doing something of little to no importance, but to him, if left incomplete, would be the end of the world and his business as he knows it. For that, Braxton does respect the man. As senile and scatterbrained as he can be, Hanslow’s got a knack for holding things together.

  A white head of hair pops up in the window, startling Braxton half to death. He jumps back and curses, then runs a hand through his unkempt golden hair. “What did I tell you about suddenly just appearing like that?” Braxton scolds. He shakes his head. “If you do that one more time, I swear . . .”

  “I know, I know, you’ll keel over dead from shock,” Hanslow finishes with a shake of his head. “Have the grains been unloaded?”

  Braxton nods, then gestures toward the back of the inn. “Unloaded and stacked right next to the shed, just as you requested.”

  Hanslow gives him a crooked smile, one that pronounces the wrinkles lining his eyes more so than usual. “Well done. I’m expecting a large number of guests to arrive tonight. I assume the duration of their stay won’t last more than a fortnight, but it’s best to be prepared.”

  Braxton tries not to roll his eyes, and somehow succeeds, but can’t keep the weary sigh from escaping his lips.

  Hanslow immed
iately notices his contempt. “I suppose I can always find another barkeep, one that is actually willing to do my bidding,” he scoffs. “It’s not like I compensate you for your work or anything.” A pang of guilt hits Braxton right in the chest as Hanslow tosses him a small sack of silver coins. “Do you accept, or shall I find myself another workhand?”

  Braxton bites his tongue before speaking. “I accept.”

  The old man’s eyes gleam in the morning light. “Good. Now if you’ll come inside, I’ll get you started on the downstairs rooms . . .”

  Hanslow’s voice trails off, leaving Braxton outside by himself with his guilt and the satchel of silver. It crosses his mind to just leave—he’s made enough over the past few months to go somewhere new, perhaps start a new life, a new job . . .

  He pulls one of the coins from the bags and rolls it through his fingers. If only Hanslow knew that he was actually royalty, the son of King Darius Tymond, heir to the Tymond throne, perhaps he never would have hired him in the first place. If he hadn’t left those ten long years ago, he’d be sitting with his mother and father in the Great Room, deciding the fates of those who entered, just like his father had unknowingly decided his own son’s fate. The thought sends a shudder down his spine.

  At least money wouldn’t have been an issue.

  Braxton sighs as he returns the single coin to the pouch, then heads inside, the silver jingling with each step he takes.

  

  Nightfall. Braxton’s favorite time of the day. After hours of being indoors—sweeping the floors, changing the linens on the beds, and stocking the bar—the appearance of stars in the sky is a welcome sight. He steps through the door of the inn, careful not to slam it shut behind him, and lets out a small breath as he gazes upward. The constellations always remind him just how trivial his problems really are.