Shadow Crown

by Kristen Martin

  Darius bites his lower lip. In all honesty, he hadn’t considered that. Aldreda was the one who maintained closer relationships with each of the Cruex members. She’d observed them for quite some time, learning of their internal ranks with little to no interference. In this scenario, her word is probably better than his, but Darius isn’t about to let her win so easily. “Even so, their respect for their king and the obligation to do the right thing should outweigh their respect for a disloyal member of their group, no matter how deep the ties run.”

  “Should,” Aldreda scoffs, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean it will.”

  Darius keeps his eyes on hers. Impossible woman. If it weren’t for her beauty, he probably never would have married her. As brilliant as she is, her need to constantly challenge his every statement is downright exhausting. It makes him appear weak, and that is something the reigning King of Trendalath cannot, and should not, stand for.

  His expression turns cold. “It seems we’ve reached an impasse.”

  Aldreda holds his gaze. “It seems we have.”

  “And what of Arden? Do you suggest we allow her to roam the castles freely with Rydan, too? Two traitors with free rein! A truly inspired idea.”

  Aldreda bristles at the mockery in his voice. “It seems unjust that you would lock up one and not the other, especially when they were on the mission together.”

  Ah, so the queen doesn’t know. Either she was misinformed or uninformed, but either way, Darius realizes he now has the upper hand. Not that he’d ever intentionally try to make his wife feel stupid, but she’d been rather irritating lately.

  Too irritating.

  “Interesting point of view,” Darius remarks as he rubs his thumb over his chin. “And how would you suggest I lock up Arden when she never returned from the mission?”

  Aldreda regards him with wide eyes, clearly shocked by this discovery. “Arden . . . did she not return with Rydan?”

  Darius shakes his head, his face stoic. “She did not.”

  Aldreda bows her head. “My sincerest apologies, My King. It appears I do not have all the details to provide proper counsel.”

  As much as Darius wants to revel in the moment, he can’t find it in his heart to make a mockery of his wife. It’s rare for her to make mistakes, and this is certainly no exception. Belittling her will prove nothing and will only make his reign more difficult in the days to come. With this in mind, he decides to take the high road. “It’s quite all right, My Queen. You were misinformed to no fault of your own.”

  “Your forgiveness is greatly appreciated and will not be forgotten.” She gazes back up at him with eyes a deeper blue than the Great Ocean itself. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “May I ask how you plan to proceed?”

  “First and foremost,” Darius says as he takes her hands in his, giving them a light squeeze, “we must find Arden Eliri.”

  ARDEN ELIRI

  IT TAKES A few days to travel to wherever Estelle is taking me, but I don’t utter a single complaint. After stumbling upon me in my wounded condition in the forest, she took it upon herself to lead me to a nearby cliff where I could finally dispose of the Soames’s decapitated heads. I said a quick prayer before throwing the bag into the abyss, hoping that Erle and Radelle Soames have found peace in whatever realm they now reside in.

  Estelle is a decent guide, and I can tell she enjoys sharing her knowledge with me. She’s constantly pointing at trees and bushes, informing me of the plants I can eat and ones I should stray from. Her affinity for nature is something I’ve quickly come to admire. Juniper trots happily beside me, constantly glancing in my direction to make sure I’m okay. If I’m being honest, the little fox is growing on me. I sneak her berries every chance I get, as long as Estelle isn’t looking.

  We approach a thick brush, probably the densest one yet, and Estelle advises me to stand back. She pulls out a dagger with an enormous blade and begins swiping at the branches, quickly forming a walkable pathway. Her determination is commendable, and I find myself drawing my chakrams to help. Estelle glances at my weapons, then at me. She smiles. We continue carving off the branches until a path forward makes itself clear.

  I’ve come to learn that Estelle is not fond of superfluous conversation, so I’ve tried to keep my talking to a minimum, but I have so many questions that need answering. First of all, it’d be nice to know where she’s taking me. “I didn’t know the Thering Forest went this deep,” I say in an attempt to strike up conversation.

  Surprisingly enough, my tactic works.

  “Do you travel to Lonia often?”

  That’s probably a rhetorical question. I bite my tongue and mentally slap myself in the forehead. This is my first time in Lonia and the Thering Forest, and I’m guessing Estelle already knows that. Nice going.

  She must sense the hesitance in my response because she stops walking and turns to face me. Her violet eyes bore into mine. I know better than to lie, so I drop my head and mutter, “No, this is actually my first time to Lonia. And to the Thering Forest.”

  She lets out a small laugh. “I know you don’t actually care about how deep the forest is, so if there’s something you want to say or ask, then just do it already.”

  Blunt much? “I just . . .” The words are there, but they don’t want to come out.

  “You just what?” she presses.

  I sigh. “I’d just really like to know where we’re going, that’s all.”

  She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “It’s not that,” I fib, “but I did just meet you, and you seem to know a lot about me and my . . . abilities.” I struggle to get the last word out. “I’m sure you can understand why I’m hesitant.”

  Estelle stands taller and lifts her chin ever so slightly. Her midnight hair dances in the wind. Radiant is the one and only word that comes to mind. “If you don’t trust me, then we should go no further.” I narrow my eyes, and Estelle mirrors my expression. “Really. I’m being serious. We should part ways this instant if you can’t find a way to trust me.”

  Trust. Such a small word that carries tremendous weight. I trusted King Tymond all these years and look where that got me. Okay, so maybe I didn’t fully trust him, but I loyally served under his reign—something I wish that, now, I could take back. Same with Rydan. Where had that trust gotten us? Oh, that’s right. To a breaking point where I had to bash him over the head with a lantern on a mission that was intentionally designed to destroy us.

  He’ll probably never see it that way, though.

  I push my thoughts of Rydan and King Tymond aside. Estelle is still standing in front of me, blocking my path. “Can you just give me something? Some sort of inkling as to where we’re headed?”

  She smirks. “You’ll be safe. That’s all I can tell you.”

  For a moment, I think about turning to run, of abandoning ship and starting over by myself. But something in me tells me to stay, to trust this mysterious woman who already knows so much about me. I give a slight nod of my head. “Well,” I say, looking from Juniper back to Estelle, “I suppose that’ll have to be enough.”

  CERYLIA JARETH

  CERYLIA STARES AIMLESSLY through a window from the top floor of the Sardoria castle. She shudders as a crisp breeze floats inside, ruffling her wavy chestnut hair. She pulls a blanket from her bed and wraps it around her, immediately soaking up the warmth it provides.

  She closes her eyes, feeling grateful that she stood her ground all those years ago when Delwynn had advised that she be easily accessible, in case of an emergency, and had suggested she reside on the ground floor of the castle. Much to his dismay, Cerylia had wholeheartedly negated this idea. As queen, she deserves the best view in the castle, and it just so happens the best view is on the top floor, where she can oversee not only Sardoria, but the surrounding areas: the once-thriving Eroesa (sadly now a wasteland due to King Tymond’s tirade), Chialka, Miraenia, Declo
rath, and off in the distance, the Isle of Lonia. The Vaekith Mountains in the north are also a sight to be seen, especially in the winter months—nothing like white snow-capped mountains to make one revel in nature’s beauty.

  A knock on her bedchamber door startles her. Who would be disturbing her at such an early hour? The sun hasn’t even started its ascent yet. She quickly walks toward the door, tightly securing her robe along the way. She opens the door only a crack, then pokes her head into the hallway.

  Delwynn stands before her with one hand holding a torch, the other in the pocket of his trousers. One look at the grim expression on his face is all it takes for her to slip through the doors and follow him down the hall. They reach the main stairwell and rush down the castle steps. She notices that he’s not hobbling—on the contrary, he’s moving a lot faster than usual.

  “Delwynn,” Cerylia pants in the middle of descending the staircase, “I can tell that something urgent has happened, but you need to brief me on the situation so that I know what I’m about to walk into.”

  Delwynn stops in his tracks and turns to face the queen. “Of course, Your Greatness. Please forgive my brash behavior.” The words flow so easily from his mouth, but his hasty glance down the stairwell says otherwise. “It’s just that we need to get to the healing ward immediately.”

  All the color drains from Cerylia’s face. “Is it Opal?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Delwynn nods solemnly.

  “Let’s not waste any more time,” she snaps, even though their stopping was of her own accord. “Take me to her immediately.”

  There’s no mistaking that he hears the urgency in her voice because he takes her through secret passageways, unbeknownst to her or any of her guards. He leads her through chambers, bobbing, weaving, and turning, rushing through areas of the castle that she didn’t even know existed until now.

  When they finally reach the healing ward, Delwynn flings the door open and ushers Cerylia through. There, in the dim morning light, lies Opal, stark white and unmoving. Cerylia rushes to the girl’s side and reaches to grab her hand, but thinks better of it. She looks around the room until she spots the castle’s healer, his back facing her. He appears to be making some sort of tonic, taking herbs and spices from different areas of his workstation and mixing them together with a mortar and pestle.

  “Healer,” Cerylia calls out, her voice strained.

  He immediately turns to face her, mortar and pestle still in hand.

  For a brief moment, Cerylia feels guilty for not knowing his name, but quickly dismisses the thought. There are greater things at stake here. Much greater. “What happened?” she presses.

  The healer takes his time finishing the tonic mix, then pours it into a mason jar. He studies the liquid for a minute and, only when he appears to be happy with it does he walk over to them. The only thing keeping her from lashing out at the boy is the mysterious tonic he holds in his hands.

  The healer sits on the ground next to Opal, across from the queen, and sets the tonic down beside him. “As you’re aware, Opal has been working diligently to expand her abilities and improve upon them.” His eyes flick toward Delwynn. “She doesn’t want to disappoint, Your Majesty, so she’s been working longer and harder every day. Early this morning, she pushed herself too far.”

  Cerylia averts her gaze from the healer to Delwynn. “As much as I want her to expand her abilities, I never ordered that she work herself to the point of being harmed.” She narrows her eyes. “Explain.”

  Delwynn’s mouth falls into a frown as he shakes his head. “I have been pushing her, but this . . .” He gestures to Opal’s lifeless body. “This was her own doing.”

  “It would appear that her desire not to disappoint you is far greater than her own well-being,” the healer states.

  His condescending tone is enough to make Cerylia want to backhand him across the face, but she resists the urge and takes the dignified approach. This healer, whoever he is, may be Opal’s only hope for survival. “What is this . . . state she appears to be in?”

  “She’s still alive, but she’s asleep in a sort of paralysis state.”

  “And how did she come to this state?” Cerylia pries, trying not to meet the healer’s intense gaze.

  Delwynn chimes in. “She attempted to travel back further than she ever has before.”

  A lump forms in Cerylia’s throat as her mind wanders to the last conversation she had with Opal. The unspoken words. She’s not powerful enough yet.

  The room starts to sway even though she’s sitting on the ground. “How far back?” she croaks.

  The healer stares at her with narrowed eyes, as if he already knows that this is all her fault. “Fifteen years.”

  His response is enough to make the room go black.

  BRAXTON HORNSBY

  SNEAKING THE YOUNG boy into the Hanslow Inn hadn’t been an easy feat. Thankfully, the darkness had helped some, but not when it came to actually entering the inn. The lack of burning lanterns made it difficult to see, and there were a few times where Braxton had almost knocked dishes and other various items over. He’d knocked the boy unconscious, so maneuvering through the tight spaces throughout the inn proved to be even more challenging than usual.

  Not much later, Braxton sits on a nearby crate in one of the spare bedrooms, his eyes fixed on the still-unconscious boy. With the way he’d placed him on the bed, it would appear to an outsider that the boy had fallen into a deep sleep, peaceful and undisturbed. Of course, this couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Braxton tenses as the boy stirs. With a groan, his eyes flutter open and his hand immediately shoots up to the black and blue bruise that’s already started to form along his temple. Braxton’s doing, no doubt. The boy’s crimson eyes meet his own, but instead of looking angry or fearful, he looks . . . tranquil. Relaxed. Almost as if he knew all along that this was going to happen and that he’s meant to be here.

  The thought unnerving, Braxton stands from his crate, his hand clutching the handle of a knife he’d hastily shoved into the back of his pants on his way upstairs. “Who are you?”

  The boy continues to stare at Braxton. He doesn’t say anything, just continuously massages his bruised temple.

  Braxton straightens his posture and clears his throat. “Who are you?” he demands again, this time more brusque.

  The boy remains silent. He closes his eyes and starts murmuring something under his breath. Just as Braxton is about to ask again, a soft yellow glow appears around the boy, as if fireflies were intently outlining every angle of his body. The boy moves his hand from his temple to his face so that his eyes are completely covered. The glow becomes more and more vibrant until the entire room is encased in an eerie shade of yellow. A gray mist appears from overhead and Braxton watches in awe as the boy shifts shape into a . . .

  Into a different person.

  A young man, right around his age, has taken the place of the young boy. The sudden transformation is enough to make Braxton lose his footing, and he stumbles backward into the crate, falling straight onto his behind. In a somewhat compromising position, he finds the nerve to repeat his question, albeit this time his voice comes out as merely a squeak. “Who are you?”

  The man stands from the bed, the paleness of his face accentuating his blood-red eyes, spikes of blonde hair sticking up in every direction. “Xerin Grey.” His voice is raspy, like sandpaper on wood.

  “Why were you in the forest tonight? Who sent you?”

  Xerin shrugs. “I suppose you could say I sent myself.”

  Braxton regards him with narrowed eyes. “What do you want?”

  “To recruit you,” Xerin says simply. He glances toward the door as though there’s somewhere else he needs to be.

  “Recruit me?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, the pieces come together faster than a bolt of lightning in a thunderstorm. “You’re one of them,” he whispers, backing further into the cr
ate so that his back is pressed against the wall.

  A voice bellows from down the hall, making both of them nearly jump out of their skin. “Hornsby!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Braxton looks from Xerin to the door then back to Xerin, but his new accomplice is already darting for the half-open window.

  Braxton pushes himself up from the crate and rushes over to the other side of the room, but it’s too late. He watches in distress as Xerin lands on his feet and takes off down the all too familiar dirt road.

  Hanslow bursts into the room wearing only a bathrobe and some slippers. “I thought I heard voices.”

  Braxton swiftly shuts the window, making sure to lock it in place. “Pesky raccoons,” he mutters in an effort to play it off.

  Hanslow’s jaw drops open. He rushes over to the window and opens it, undoing everything Braxton just did. He pokes his head out into the night and squints his eyes. “They didn’t get the grains, did they?”

  “Huh?”

  “The raccoons? They didn’t get the grains, or did they?”

  Braxton snaps back into his lie. “No, I shooed them away before they had a chance.” Probably better to keep the façade going than to tell Hanslow what had really happened. Finding Caldari this far south? The man would have a cow.

  “Good thing you were up, even at this ungodly hour.” Hanslow shuts the window and locks it, then turns to face him. “Why exactly are you awake?”

  Braxton shrugs, willing his cheeks not to turn pink. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Ah yes, I understand,” Hanslow murmurs. “Well, you ought to try. Busy day we have tomorrow.”

  Braxton nods absentmindedly and keeps his eyes focused on the floor. “I’m looking forward to it.” He remains still until Hanslow exits the room and shuts the door quietly behind him. The innkeeper’s footsteps fade off into the distance, and when Braxton is sure he’s gone, he darts over to his armoire and pulls on his hunting boots. He swipes his bow and arrows from the top shelf and strides over to the window, the locks clicking as they switch positions one last time. He gazes out at the vast expanse before him. He takes a deep breath.