Shadow Crown

by Kristen Martin

  A gold pocket watch.

  RYDAN HELSTROM

  A WEEK WITHOUT food, water, sleep, or social interaction really does have negative effects on the mind. Rydan can’t seem to discern between his waking and sleeping hours, between hallucinations and real life. It all feels the same. Stuck in this miserable cell, in this miserable life.

  But what’s really driving him batty is not knowing what actually happened to Elvira. Seeing as King Tymond isn’t one to be fickle with prisoners and their punishments, he’s most likely already decided his poor friend’s fate.

  Nightmare after nightmare has visited him, and it’s getting more difficult to tell whether they’re real or just something he’s made up in his head. He can only hope that the events in his nightmares are imaginary. For Elvira’s sake.

  With trembling arms and legs, Rydan presses against the damp stone wall to bring himself to his feet. Slowly, he takes one step at a time toward the cell door. It takes tremendous effort and, by the time he places his hands on the metal bars, he’s panting, completely out of breath.

  Food. Water. Elvira.

  The only three things circling the confines of his mind.

  Heavy footsteps echo from down the hall, as if two of his prayers have suddenly been answered. He tries to stay conscious, forcing his eyes to remain open, as a figure comes into view. The shadow moving toward him is thick and burly, and, for a moment, Rydan fears it’s just the guard coming to take him back to the Great Room, back to King Tymond. His lips pull into a tight line at the thought.

  But as the figure draws nearer, Rydan can see a tray in its hands, just like the one Elvira used to bring him. The thought of her sends sharp pains through his stomach, and he keels over, barely able to keep himself upright. But he manages to lift his head as the figure comes into the light.

  Much to his surprise, it’s a woman. Her face is full of wrinkles, ragged and tough. Her dark eyebrows are bushy and sprinkled with flecks of white. Her graying hair is pulled back in a messy braid, and she wears a uniform similar to those of Tymond’s guards, although hers looks outdated by at least a couple of years. It doesn’t take much for him to realize that this woman is Gladys.

  His new handmaiden.

  Without speaking, Gladys shoves the tray between the cell bars, the vegetable broth sloshing over the edge and landing at Rydan’s feet. He takes the tray and mutters, “Thank you.” The words come out as more of a croak. He eyes a canister of water and takes it off the tray, setting the rest of the food on the ground.

  Gladys watches him with an unrelenting gaze, but Rydan hardly notices. He’s too busy trying to get the food and water into his body so that he can feel somewhat human again. After keeping his hands steady enough to bring the food to his mouth, it only takes a matter of minutes before he’s scarfed it all down. He purposely knocks the tray off his lap. Gladys doesn’t move an inch as it clatters to the ground. He gives her a look, then picks up the tray and slides it through the cell bars. Gladys continues to stare at him, but doesn’t move.

  Feeling entirely uncomfortable, he scoots to the back of his cell and lays down with his back facing this strange woman; this woman who hasn’t uttered a single word or sound. Perhaps she’s mute? Or, perhaps the more likely scenario, she misspoke and King Tymond cut out her tongue as punishment. He wouldn’t put it past his Highness.

  Rydan closes his eyes, hoping that now that his stomach is full and somewhat satisfied, he’ll finally be able to get some shuteye. He lies still for a few moments, eyes closed, but he can feel Gladys’s gaze burning into the back of his head. He almost has the nerve to turn around and snap at her to leave, but thinks better of it. Despite his wishes, if this is going to be his new handmaiden, he may as well not make things worse.

  “Thank you for the meal,” he calls out, with his back still facing her. There’s no response, but a short moment after, he can hear the shuffling of feet and the clinking of the tray. And when he finally decides to turn around, Gladys is gone.

  DARIUS TYMOND

  DARIUS SITS AT the round table in the Great Room amongst his Savant. Keeping an eye on Aldreda over the past couple of days has been exhausting, but she seems to be keeping to herself for the most part. Clive, too.

  Good. He has enough to worry about anyway.

  He gazes around the table at his men. Benson Hale, Conjurer, sits directly across from him, his hazel eyes poring into his own. His brown hair is unkempt and greasy, and it appears the poor lad hasn’t bathed in months. Benson is a newer member, having only been with the Savant for two years. Tymond had searched for what felt like ages for someone who could conjure the elements—fire, water, air—and when he’d stumbled across Benson and his abilities in the Crostan Islands, he’d thanked his seemingly many lucky stars. Benson had accepted his invitation to join the Savant immediately and had moved to Declorath shortly after, no questions asked.

  Sitting next to Benson is Landon Graeme. One of the older members of the Savant, Landon’s abilities remain the most intriguing and one of Tymond’s favorites. As a Curser, Landon has the ability to enchant objects, people—anything really—and produce highly negative effects. His skills have come in handy on more than one occasion. And, as his most trustworthy member, Landon has quickly become the king’s closest confidante.

  Across from Landon, and two seats down from Darius, sits his least favorite member of the Savant, Clive Ridley. But try as he might, Darius can’t seem to justify getting rid of him. As a Caster, Clive has the ability to create illusions—ones that alter his enemies’ senses and overall perceptions of their surroundings. A terrifying talent, surely, but Darius is almost positive he will need it for his own protection one day. That’s the only reason he keeps Clive around. Otherwise, he’d be gone at the snap of his fingers.

  Next to Clive sits Julian Enfield. A short, snarky fellow, he appears innocent and too plump to do any harm, but his capabilities make him incredibly powerful and dangerous. As a Multiplier, he has the ability to create lesser beings. With strength in numbers, he brings armies to life and is able to control them with his mind alone. A truly remarkable talent, and one Darius had jumped at when he’d realized the potential.

  The king’s eyes scan the last seat at the table, the one next to him. It’s empty. His heart weighs heavy in his chest. The last member of his Savant has been missing for nine years—no one has seen him or heard from him.

  His thoughts scatter as one of the Great Room doors creaks open. In walks Aldreda, looking marvelous as per usual. Her long blonde hair sits in loose waves below her shoulders, and her formal gown is much more formfitting than he’s used to seeing. A royal purple corset accentuates her chest, and a bright ruby necklace adorns her neck.

  The sight of her alone is breathtaking.

  Darius notices that all eyes are on her, and for good reason. Normally, this wouldn’t bother him—then again, normally her ex-lover isn’t present. The breath of everyone at the table catches as she approaches. Without uttering a word, she takes the empty seat next to Darius. He begins to raise his hand in protest, but she quickly catches his wrist and gently presses it back down.

  “I hope you don’t mind my joining you,” Aldreda purrs. Her eyes flit from Clive to Darius. “I haven’t had a proper meal all day.”

  Darius clears his throat. “We were just about to discuss Savant business—”

  “About the Eliri girl?” Aldreda cuts in.

  Each of the men suck in a sharp breath at the last name, and Darius’s eyes flit to the chair Aldreda is sitting in. Her blunt interruption catches him off-guard. “That, amongst other things,” he says quietly, hoping she won’t make a scene.

  Her gaze is unwavering. “I would like to be in attendance. I believe I can add value to your discussion.”

  Again, Darius is about to protest—that is, until his least favorite person decides to pipe up.

  “I agree,” Clive says as he stands from his chair, goblet in hand. “We’re still mi
ssing our final member and it’s unlikely he’ll even show up. Not to mention, no one knows where he is or where to even begin looking for him.”

  The men at the table nod, except for Darius. “I just think—”

  “—You just think what? That because she’s the Queen, she shouldn’t be involved? I’ve known Aldreda for quite some time, and I move that she stays.”

  The words cut into Darius like a blade.

  Silence fills the room.

  No one says anything.

  No one moves.

  After a few moments of contemplating his choices, Darius finally gives in. Clive always seems to get what he wants. No use fighting it. “Fine. My Queen, you are permitted to stay.”

  Aldreda leans back in her chair with a smug look on her face. “Thank you, My King.”

  “Now, the first order of business . . .”

  Darius somehow carries on with the meeting, even with Clive and his wife making eyes at each other the entire time. He promises to himself that he will dismiss the man from his Savant at some point, but deep down, he knows that there is no getting rid of him. As much as it pains him, Clive is here to stay.

  For good.

  CERYLIA JARETH

  OPAL HAD INSISTED that Cerylia take a couple of days to prepare herself for the time travel. As much as she’d wanted to go back at that very moment, she knew the girl was right. Nausea, fever, and slight dementia are all possible side effects from time travel, and if one does not prepare for the strain on a mental, emotional, and physical level, the aftermath can be irreparable. Being so close to finally getting the answers, Cerylia decided it wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.

  But, after a few days of preparing and deep thought, she’s ready. Delwynn will be in the vicinity with the healer when it happens—which gives her a certain level of comfort—just in case either of them needs tending to upon reentry into the present.

  A knock on her bedchamber door startles her from her thoughts. Her heart thumps in her ears. She swallows, noticing how dry her throat is.

  “Your Greatness, are you ready?” a voice asks on the other side of the door.

  Cerylia nods, even though Delwynn can’t see her. She tugs on the bottom of her tunic, feeling out of character in the clothes of common folk. She must admit, though, that it’s much more comfortable than her robes and royal gowns, even on a good day. Her heavy boots clunk against the floor as she walks out of the room and down the corridor. Delwynn stays close behind her. She can hear him stifle a laugh as she struggles to pick her feet up.

  “They make these heavy on purpose, don’t they?” she jokes.

  Delwynn finally lets out a hoot he’d been holding in. “They most certainly do not, Your Greatness.”

  “Well,” Cerylia says as she reaches the door to Opal’s bedchambers, “it’s safe to say I have a newfound respect for the townspeople of Sardoria. No wonder everyone moves at a glacial pace—especially in the snow.”

  Delwynn seems to be at a loss for words, so he just smiles and opens the door for her. “After you, Your Greatness.”

  With a gracious nod, she enters the room. Opal is standing by the fireplace warming her hands. She’s dressed in similar clothes, her gaze steady on the fire. Embers crackle and pop. She seems mesmerized.

  Delwynn clears his throat. “The Queen has arrived.”

  His announcement snaps Opal straight out of her daze. She looks Cerylia up and down. “Don’t you look—”

  “—like a commoner?” Cerylia finishes.

  A wide grin stretches across the girl’s porcelain face. “It’s a good thing, I assure you. When we arrive, we don’t want to raise any suspicion. Wouldn’t want to seem out of place.” She shrugs. “This is the best I could think of.”

  “You’re the expert,” Cerylia agrees.

  Opal turns toward the fire and picks up a large canister of water. She dumps it over the flames, watching as they hiss and dissipate. Setting the empty container down, she walks over to a spacious part of the room and pushes a wooden chair out of the way, then rolls up the wool rug and places it in a corner. “Are you ready?”

  Just as Cerylia is about to say yes, the door creaks open. She whirls around at the noise, feeling relieved to see that it’s only the healer. “Now that we’re all here, Delwynn, can you please secure the door?” She gives the healer a sharp look, feeling foolish for being so startled, as if she were doing something wrong. This is her castle, her Queendom. She can do as she pleases.

  And do as she pleases she shall.

  “Stay right here, no matter how long it takes,” Opal instructs Delwynn and the healer. “We will be back. I just don’t know exactly when.”

  The two men exchange nods. “We’ll be here,” they say in unison.

  Opal turns her attention to Cerylia and extends her hand. “Shall we?”

  Cerylia sets her hand gently in Opal’s and nods.

  “Here we go,” Opal whispers as she squeezes the queen’s hand.

  Cerylia closes her eyes as a rush of wind surrounds them. Her stomach turns over once, twice, and, just when she feels as though she can’t take it anymore, the sensation stops. When she opens her eyes, she’s in a familiar place: Trendalath. From their discreet spot in the forest, she can clearly see the castle in all its glory, circa fifteen years ago.

  Back when she and her late husband had ruled.

  The thought makes her stomach turn again. She tries to choke her sadness down, but it comes out as a guttural groan.

  Opal turns to her with a concerned look. “Your Greatness, are you not well?”

  Cerylia can feel the color draining from her face. “I know we’ve only just arrived, but I need to sit for a moment.”

  Opal guides her to a nearby barrel of hay and sits beside her. She rifles through her bag and pulls out a large cylinder. “Drink this.”

  Cerylia looks at her questioningly.

  “It will calm your nerves,” Opal reassures as she presses the container into the queen’s hand. “Trust me.”

  Cerylia pops the lid off and, without a second thought, gulps it down. Hints of rosemary, thyme, and other spices slide down her throat. It tastes awful. She removes the container from her lips and turns her head to spit some of it out, then shoves the vile concoction back in Opal’s direction. “That’s really something,” she says.

  Opal lets out a small laugh. “I didn’t say it tasted good.”

  Cerylia swivels back toward her. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she already feels better.

  “There. The color seems to be coming back to your face.” Opal tucks the canister back into her bag before saying, “Follow me.”

  She climbs through the forest, stepping over fallen logs and branches along the way. Cerylia follows, feeling grateful for her thick trousers and leather boots. She may look more common than she’s accustomed to, but she has to give Opal credit for suggesting they wear practical outfits on this rendezvous. Her delicate skin would have been scratched and torn to bits by now.

  When they reach the edge of the forest, Cerylia notices that Opal begins to walk toward the back of the castle, not the front. “If you’re looking for the front, it’s the other way,” she points out.

  Opal shakes her head. “I know where I’m going. Trust me.”

  The queen doesn’t say another word, just follows in Opal’s tracks. They continue to sneak around the back perimeter of the castle, the ground growing muddier and harder to walk through. Cerylia’s legs burn, feeling heavier and heavier with each step. Clumps of mud, twigs and leaves stick to the underside of her boots and bottom of her trousers, weighing her down even more. She’s about to ask if they can sit once more when Opal stops in her tracks.

  Thank the lords.

  Without warning, Opal yanks the queen deeper into the forest behind the castle. She ducks behind a fallen tree and pulls Cerylia down with her. With wide eyes, she puts her index finger to her lips. Cerylia nods and imitate
s the motion. A few minutes go by until Opal peeks out from behind the log. She scans the area, then motions for Cerylia to follow.

  Hoping that the coast is clear, she obliges. They don’t get very far when Opal stops yet again, this time behind a large oak tree. Cerylia almost runs into her, but quickly realizes why they’ve stopped. In front of them is a brown tent, its flaps swaying in the breeze. Muffled voices can be heard from inside and Cerylia wants more than anything to move closer to hear the conversation.

  Opal seems to sense this and silently shakes her head.

  Cerylia knows better than to disobey her—she’s been right about everything so far—but her patience is wearing thin. She just wants to know the truth. She wants to know who killed her husband.

  After what feels like an eternity, two cloaked figures finally emerge from the tent. They each have a set of bow and arrows on their backs, and speak in harsh undertones. Cerylia strains to hear what they’re saying, but her efforts are futile. Their voices are too hushed.

  Then, out of sheer fortune, one of the figures removes its hood to reveal curly copper hair and hazel eyes. He looks young, but at second glance, Cerylia realizes he’s about her age, fifteen years ago.

  Having no idea who he is leaves her feeling disheartened. She lowers her gaze to the ground. Perhaps she’ll never know who killed her husband. Perhaps her quest for justice is just a waste of time.

  Opal elbows her in the side, cocking her head toward the two figures. With a harsh glare then a sigh, Cerylia focuses back on the scene. As the man pulls his hood back over his head, the second figure’s hood comes off. A braid of white-blonde hair appears, and Cerylia gasps as the woman turns to the side, giving the queen a perfect view of her side profile. She lifts a familiar dagger from its holster and spins it in her hand. Her stomach twists and turns as the truth hits her like a ton of bricks.

  Aldreda Tymond killed her husband.