However, Prince Lorrek had found his way here and now knelt in the center of the dusty, cracked floor. Beams of moonlight poured from the windows, showing the paleness of his skin in contrast to his raven black hair. Around him mist had gathered, and on the screen of the fog, Mordora saw images and faces—memories, she realized.
Without even trying, Lorrek used magic.
He had lied after all.
For some reason, Mordora wasn't surprised.
She took a quiet step toward him to study the images in the fog. She recognized Honroth, Heldon, and Theran, but then she saw Princess Atheta and her father, Roskelem. She remembered some of these scenes, but they came from a different point of view, and she realized she was seeing them from Lorrek's viewpoint. She saw the time when they went hunting and Theran got them lost. as a huntress enabled her to lead them out of the wilderness.
Another memory crossed the fog the time when Atheta and Mordora accompanied Lorrek on a diplomatic mission. Now that she saw it from Lorrek's point of view, Mordora noticed how often Lorrek looked at Atheta with admiration for the grace with which she handled stressful situations. Mordora also saw the moment when Atheta crossed swords with Theran in the training arena back in Cuskelom and challenged him to take back his words. How Theran laughed at her challenge—only to grow serious when Atheta nicked his face with her sword.
Time and time again Atheta came into focus—her smile, laughter, ferocity when fighting, a kind word, and encouraging spirit.
And then one time found them alone, and Lorrek kissed Atheta.
Mordora looked away from the memories. She felt like she was intruding. She always knew Lorrek had been fond of Atheta, but she assumed that the other princess preferred the rougher Prince Theran. Now she was not so sure, but none of that mattered since Atheta was gone.
Feeling eyes on her, she lifted her gaze and found Lorrek staring at her as he remained kneeling—the images gone from the fog, and the mist fading away. He raised his brows as he considered her, and then he tilted his head as if indicating the memories. “Did you see them?”
Her first instinct was to deny it and back out of the room, but she realized this was her palace, and she could stand firm, so she nodded. “I saw everything. What was that? You said your magic was bound; the magic minder even confirmed this!” Her hands curled into fists as she approached him, close enough to hear his chuckle as he shook his head and rose to his feet.
“Magic is not something you can imprison and lock away. It is not an illness, a choice, a religion, or a relationship. It is simply part of one's mind.” He tapped his finger on the side of his head as he cocked a smile. “When you know this, when you embrace it and learn to master it, you can convince others that it is not there if necessary, but you can never lose it.” He advanced toward her. “You would do well to remember that. We all have our secrets, and you will say nothing of mine.”
She stepped backwards as he drew closer, but she tried to sound brave. “And why would I do that?”
“Because...” He flashed a chilling smile as he lifted the back of his hand to brush across her cheek. “Only those with magic could have seen what you just saw.” He motioned back to the center of the room where the fog was now gone. “So tell me, Princess Mordora, when do you plan to inform your loving father that you possess the very trait he loathed in your mother? When will you tell him that you have magic?” His questions required no answer. Mordora opened her mouth to respond, but he hushed her and shook his head. “Fear not.” He pulled back his hand—his eyes hard and dark. “I will tell no one of your secret, but you should be thanking me.”
Mordora's eyes flashed with indignation. “Thanking you? For what?”
“For cutting your hair with magic all that time ago—for convincing everyone that your hair turned black because of my magic.” Lorrek shook his head as he took a step backwards and then another. The smile lingered on his face. “I knew of your magic before you did. I also knew if your father saw your hair turn slowly black, he would become suspicious and have the magic minders tear apart your mind to strip you of any magic until all that was left was a fragment of your mind—a shell of who you are.”
Mordora crossed her arms as she glared at him. “What does black hair have to do with anything?” She noted his dark hair and how different it was from his three brothers, but she refused to let herself think of what that might mean; she'd rather have Lorrek tell her.
He meandered around the room—aimless and without purpose but not without confidence. “You see, Princess Mordora, we practice tainted magic. Although we are born with magic, we are not raised in magic, and too often we must hide our skills—only practicing alone and when we dare. Yet magic marks us—black hair is a common feature of users of tainted magic. Are all black-haired individuals in possession of magic? And do all magic users have black hair? No, of course not—that would make things too easy, too simple. Take those in Athorim, for example. They reek of magic, but their hair is so blond it is almost white.”
“What do you want from me, Lorrek?”
He whipped around and considered her. Now that she knew he was aware of her secret, she felt she owed him something for his silence, but she would never know how many secrets he kept for others. He kept them to himself, and the lies and deception became a part of his reality because it was what others wanted to believe. When she asked this question, she did not quite understand what he knew.
He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Nothing, Milady. I want nothing from you.” He set his eyes on her. “But I do have a question. Where is the good Queen Annetta?” He glanced around. “This was her sanctuary, yet it has fallen into disarray.” He fixed his gaze back on the princess with genuine confusion, and he watched her.
Mordora stared at him for a long moment but then had to laugh. “Can it be true? Can the all-powerful Prince Lorrek be clueless on the matter?”
Lorrek’s face grew dark as he lowered his voice. “Tell me.”
“She is dead, Lorrek. My mother died when a plague rampaged through our kingdom several winters ago.” Then Mordora’s voice softened. “And, as I’m sure you know, magic users can only heal others but not themselves.”
“My condolences.” Lorrek bowed to her. “Your mother was a gracious woman.” Then he straightened. “Did she ever teach you in the way of magic?”
Mordora’s dry laugh cut through the shadows of the room as she began to meander around. “Teach me? No. I don’t even know if she was aware that I had magic.”
“Impossible. She should have been able to sense it as surely as I do now.”
The princess locked eyes with Lorrek as she grew still and softened her voice. “Then she never acknowledged it.” She shook her head.
Lorrek narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t imagine a woman as wise as Queen Annetta purposely not teaching her daughter the fundamental lessons of magic when she knew, without a doubt, that Mordora possessed her gift. Had she truly feared her husband enough to risk it? He wasn’t sure, yet he knew one thing. For the time being, he was stuck here in Nirrorm until he could work up the courage to return home and untangle that mess. In the meanwhile, perhaps his skills could be used here, so he looked at Mordora.
“I offer you my assistance. I shall say nothing to your father of your magic just as you will say nothing to him of mine, and I will train you in the finer arts of the craft because...” He approached her. “If you do not learn to control it now, it will control you, and all your father believes about magic—how it is the darkness that brings all chaos and destruction—will be proven right. Do you agree?” He offered his hand for her to shake.
She looked at his pale hand in the moonlight. It looked cold to touch—almost blue. Her gaze shifted back to his face—an expression of expectation, a devious smile at the corner of his lips, and in the darkness of his eyes—all because he knew a secret she couldn't afford to be known. Still, she didn't want him to think she could be so easily played, so she scowled at him, but that caus
ed his smirk to grow even wider. Then she reached for his hand.
Before her palm touched his, a noise behind her startled both of them, and she gasped, yanking her hand behind her back and spinning around.
Her eyes sought the shadows of the ballroom and found the small form of her little brother watching from the doorway. “Moren?” She went to him and drew him out of the shadows—her hands moving over him to make sure he hadn't hurt himself in another fit of sleepwalking.
However, the child looked wide awake and stared up at Lorrek.
Lorrek watched the dark-haired, pale-skinned boy, and then he began to chuckle. “Ah, it seems you are not the only one with magic here, Princess Mordora, and you know it.” He looked from one of the siblings to the other then shook his head, amused. “And who exactly is this, Princess?”
Realizing Lorrek had been banished from Nirrorm before Moren’s birth, Mordora placed her hands on her brother’s shoulders as she introduced them. “This is my brother Moren. Mother died when he was five years of age. Little brother, this is Prince Lorrek of Cuskelom. Be wary of him.” She gave Lorrek a look, which Lorrek ignored as he observed the youth.
“You are training him in the arts of magic, are you not? Even when you know so little of it yourself.” Lorrek was impressed.
“You know magic?” Moren moved to approach Lorrek, but Mordora's hand on his shoulder kept him back.
“Indeed!” Lorrek snapped his fingers, and instantly a blue, fiery orb hovered above his hand. He brought it down to Moren's level. “You see, little one, magic is not to be feared.” Motioning with his fingers, he directed the orb to become a moving canvas of horses galloping across a field, and butterflies flew off the flowers as the horses passed by. He closed his fist, and the images disappeared, leaving behind a wisp of blue smoke.
He leaned closely into Moren's face and lowered his voice. “You will not tell anyone what you just saw. Otherwise, I will reach into your mind and strip you of all your memories!”
“Lorrek!” Mordora pulled Moren away from Lorrek and glared at the chuckling prince of Cuskelom.
Lorrek drew back, but the smirk remained on his face. He then brought his hands together, steepling them, and brought them to his still smiling lips. “Ah, yes, your mother was exceptionally wise. She had her haven of magic built in the one place populated by the most people during her lifetime—this very room.”
He stepped back to admire the abandoned ballroom—elegant in gray-scale shadows. “No one would suspect such a room would be her working place for magic. Aye, those of us with magic knew it!” He turned back around to Mordora and Moren. “But we saw no reason to inform your king, though now I think he knew all along. Why else would he abandon such a beautiful room to ruin? He must have sensed something, but he never really knew—never understood that tingling feeling on your skin, those voices in your head—that are not really yours—and those memories you know you never experienced before. However,” Lorrek lifted a hand, “Since the king refuses to grace this room with his presence, he will never look for us here. We begin your lessons,” he lowered his hand and gave the siblings a hard stare, “in the morning.”
Mordora pushed her brother behind her, acting as a shield between Lorrek and Moren. “And how do we know we can trust you?”
That devilish grin spread across his face once more, and Lorrek shook his head. “You don't. You'll simply have to wait until tomorrow to see if I speak the truth.”
Mordora scowled at him. She wanted to press him for further specifics, but Moren was tugging on her hand. He wanted to talk to Lorrek too, but she wasn't willing to let that happen just yet. With one final glare at the prince, Mordora turned on her heel and guided her brother out of the room.
Lorrek watched them leave.
Once they had left the room, he dropped the smirk and bewitching aura. With a sigh, he let his hands hang loosely at his sides with his shoulders slightly hunched, and he lowered his gaze to the floor—ducking his head.
People would believe what they wanted to believe. They had formed an opinion of him long ago, and now he no longer fought that projection of himself.
In the end, the truth would come out, and he would have always known it, but for now no one cared for such things as truth.
He would wait.
3
In the kingdom of Cuskelom—known for its forests of evergreen trees and white fields in harvest time—the High Court gathered to hear out the delegates from the southeastern country of Jechorm. Prince Heldon looked around for any sign of his twin brother, King Honroth. The long square room offered few places to hide—unless Honroth hid behind the pillars that lined the room, which Heldon doubted. The barons preferred to stand near those pillars to get out of sight if negotiations ever went wrong. Even now, Heldon saw them shifting on their feet as they stood, uneasy with their king's absence.
Heldon gathered an anxious breath and cast his gaze heavenward—absentmindedly noting the complicated painting on the ceiling that appeared to be too many events blending into one. For a moment he wondered—not for the first time—why anyone would paint such beautiful images on a ceiling far above anyone's heads when few ever looked up, but he forced a smile on his face and lowered his gaze.
Honroth had gone for a ride. He never cared for the diplomats from Jechorm because they always requested the one thing he could not do, so he did what he could to prevent their advances—even if that meant not showing up for an important council meeting. Heldon had heard talks among the other barons of the court; a few spoke poorly of the king's habit, but most said nothing—Heldon saw in their eyes and refrained posture that they agreed with their king.
At last, hurried footsteps echoed in the hall, and Heldon recognized the sound immediately. He broke away from the rest of the High Court and walked along the side of the room until he came to a corridor off to the side behind the throne. He saw Honroth, still wearing his riding clothes, snatch his crown off of a pillow held by from a servant and set it on his head with practiced ease.
Honroth locked eyes with his twin as if to silently ask if the delegates had given up and left. Heldon shook his head, turned on his heel, and fell into step with his brother. Honroth never missed a step.
Entering the High Court, Honroth walked briskly to his throne—elegantly carved from a single, ancient tree—and signaled for the doorkeepers to allow the ambassador in. He sat down just as the man entered the room. Honroth nodded to him. “Ambassador, what does Jechorm have to say to us now?”
The man in royal blue garb bowed to King Honroth but then straightened and met his gaze. “Your Gracious Royal Highness, Jechorm first sends you her greetings and blesses you. She wishes you good fortune in the future and in all your endeavors.”
Heldon looked at Honroth to see how he would accept this, and Honroth merely nodded, so the man went on.
“However, as I have previously stated in recent visits, the Senate of Jechorm will speak with no one of this pending war except your older brother—the rightful king—Prince Theran.”
His words immediately unleashed a fury of retorts from courtiers. “King Honroth is our rightful king!” “Hold your tongue, Ambassador! You know not what you speak.” “Such words are punishable by death!”
Yet through it all, the ambassador never broke eye contact with the king—and he never backed down.
Honroth noted this and lifted his hand. At the king’s gesture, all fell silence, and he addressed the man. “As stated before, Prince Theran has no representation in this court at this time, and we have repeatedly denied any and all accusations of staging war against Jechorm.”
“It is an act of war when you do not surrender the promised item for peace.”
Honroth narrowed his eyes. This was new. For months now, Jechorm had been trying to provoke war with Cuskelom in order to prove their superiority in a battle of technology against magic. However, Honroth never entertained the thought, but it seemed Jechorm had found a new reason for war. Honroth wasn't sure
whether or not he wanted to know how this had happened, but he knew he had to ask. “And what item might that be?”
A slight smile touched the corners of the ambassador's lips, and he bowed his head. “The handblade of Prince Theran. When he came before the Senate requesting permission to scour our cities for your lost brother, he offered the handblade to us.”
Honroth's eyes flashed with fire, and he clenched his hand into a fist. “That is the heritage of the Cuskelian royal lineage—not a tool of negotiation.”
“But he does not use it, does he?” The ambassador raised his brows. “Not on all his travels or adventures searching for what he cannot find. It lies locked in your weapons vault—never to be used.”
“And what do you want with this handblade?” Honroth lifted his chin as he regarded the query. “It is a mere...bracelet.” Even as he said this, he felt the lie pass through his teeth. The sheathed form of the handblade took the appearance of a bracelet, but when the master of the weapon was threatened, the bracelet morphed into a gauntlet over the master's hand, and a sword—unlike any blade forged by smiths—would slide out from the bracelet over the top of the gauntlet. Aside from its form as a weapon, the handblade possessed other abilities, which Honroth refused to allow into the hands of the people of Jechorm.
The ambassador's face hardened. “Nay, Your Majesty, we know the true power of the handblade. You wear one as well.” He motioned to the black bracelet on Honroth's right wrist. “This is the agreement upon which the prince and the senate agreed to let Prince Theran wander through our cities in search of Prince Lorrek.”
Honroth was careful not to shift his expression when he heard this. He knew that since Lorrek's death, Theran had traveled into every kingdom to find a way to repair the broken bridge between the two worlds. Theran was convinced Lorrek still lived, but that he simply could not find his way home with the path broken, so Theran set out to find their little brother and return him home.
Someday I'll Be Redeemed Page 2