Entangled (Cursed Magic Series, Book 2.5)

by Casey Odell

  “Just say the word, brother, and you won’t have to deal with them any longer.”

  Líadan grinned. “I know you want to be rid of them as much as I do, but I narrowly avoided a war this time over Lord Kasían. I can’t have you causing a second Great War.”

  Farron shrugged. “I would feel even less remorse over those old men’s death than Lord Kasían’s.”

  “Be that as it may, I still value my life, along with my son’s. I’m trying to save the kingdom, not destroy it. And you are going to help me, whether you like it or not.” His face grew serious again. “Now, when can you leave?”

  “The sooner the better,” he replied. The less interaction he had with the Council, the better.

  “A battle?” Claire inquired uneasily. But it wasn’t the prospect of a fight that had made her scared. It was the brown and white spotted pony she was currently sitting atop of. Her hands were sore from gripping the pommel so hard, her legs tired from trying to balance. Somehow Jerrod had convinced her that riding a horse would be fun, but so far she’d found the experience to be the exact opposite. She’d worn slacks especially for the occasion; a dress on a horse just didn’t seem like a good idea. Jerry had grown used to her attire by now, thankfully. “That you would have to fight?”

  “Of course,” Jerrod said. He walked alongside the horse, holding the reins, leading the way along the edge of the southern woods. “I am a member of the town guard, after all. But I hardly think it will come to that. Lendon has been asking us to join their kingdom for years now, and so far King Harold has not done anything so drastic. But he is old and growing more feeble by the day, and I hear that his son Philip isn’t so peaceable.”

  “Let’s hope that King Harold lives forever then.” She couldn’t even imagine her sweet and kind Jerrod in a battle. She’d seen him practice before, and he was proficient enough with a spear and bow, but he’d never seen a real fight. None of the defense squadron ever really had. If Stockton were invaded tomorrow, they’d be part of Lendon before the sun set.

  “Would,” Jerrod began on a softer note, “would you miss me if I did have to go fight?”

  Claire looked down at the top of his blonde head. What kind of question was that? Of course, she would. She’d even been mulling over the whole ‘love’ idea her friends had brought up at their picnic. Perhaps it wasn’t such a crazy thing after all. They’d grown closer over the past few months, so much so that if she were to lose him now, she wouldn’t know what to do. He’d become such an integral part of her life, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he were to suddenly leave. Especially if it was to fight a battle he might not come back from.

  He looked up at her when she didn’t answer, worry showing clear in his green eyes.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Of course I would.” She left out the part where she would slap him when he returned for leaving her in the first place. Not to mention how he’d have to deal with her mother. After meeting her mother a few times, he would probably much rather fight in a battle than face her wrath.

  He slowed the horse then, pulling on the reins until it stopped. “I would do it, you know, to protect you,” he said, then turned his face away from her again, his cheeks flushing. “A-and my family, of course. The town…”

  Claire reached down and pulled a tuft of his hair to make him look at her again. “Although I am flattered, you don’t need to fight a war to prove how much you care for me.” She smiled down at him. “You’ve already done enough for me. Thanks to you, we hardly ever have a problem at the tavern anymore. Besides, if you go off to fight a war, who will protect me from all the swine that come back in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m surprised your mother hadn’t scared them all away before.” It was his turn to smile, having witnessed first-hand just what Marion was capable of.

  “She’s the reason they came back.” Claire sighed. She wasn’t sure if that was flattering or not. Mother certainly didn’t think so, but she was the one the boys were lining up to woo, after all. But, then again, the types of men that came left much to be desired. So many weeds, not enough flowers.

  But Claire finally had her very own flower right before her, and she’d been terrified she’d scare him away. Would scare him away. They’d been seeing each other for a while now but had yet to make any sort of long-term commitment to one another. She had yet to see a key.

  But who knew, one may not be far off.

  “Well, you’re the reason I come back,” Jerry told her, grinning like a fool.

  Claire couldn’t help but smile. It may have been sappy, but it was nice to hear things like that for once and have it actually mean something. She swung her right leg over the saddle and placed her hands on his shoulders as he reached up to help her down. But when her feet touched the ground, instead of letting go, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him in for a kiss, soft and tender. Jerrod tensed slightly, his hands still at her sides. It wasn’t the first time they had kissed— which had been after a month of seeing each other, during a walk after the sun had set— but he was still the same nervous wreck each time. He may have been good with a spear, but was surprisingly shy when it came to women. Claire found it terribly endearing.

  After a moment she drew back and looked up at him. “I just hope you keep coming back,” she teased.

  It was late in the afternoon by the time she returned home. The tavern would be opening up soon. Mother would have been furious if she hadn’t taken care of her duties beforehand.

  Claire opened the back door that led into her kitchen. The sweet smell of tea and honey greeted her— one of her mother’s favorite drinks that wasn’t wine. Marion leaned against the far counter, sipping from a delicate, steaming cup. Laura, their bar maiden, sat at the tiny island in the middle of the room with a cup in front of her. She and Marion had become fast friends ever since she had started working at the tavern, and she would come over long before her shift even started to visit, often to enjoy a cup of tea, or more often a glass of wine. Perhaps that was why the woman had stayed with them for so long.

  “Out with your little guard-boy again, eh?” Laura said, grinning, as Claire entered the kitchen.

  Her mother hid a smile behind her cup. Laura had been teasing her ever since she had started seeing Jerrod. “Why yes, I was. And it was wonderful.”

  “I’m certain it was,” Laura replied, then took a sip of her tea. “But let me know if you ever grow tired of him, I’ll snatch him up faster than you could blink.” She winked one of her sapphire blue eyes. Her blonde curls were pulled back from her face in a high, bouncy ponytail. “Though, to be honest, I’m surprised your mother lets you see him at all the way she looks after you.”

  Marion straightened up, squaring her shoulders a bit. “It was bound to happen eventually,” she said with a frown. “Some boy would come to steal her away from me. I’m just glad it wasn’t any of the men that frequent the tavern.”

  “Jerry is a perfect gentleman.” Claire crossed the room to their old stove, grabbed the teapot warming on top, and poured herself a cup. She joined the other two around their little island, like so many times in the past, and poured sugar into her cup. She liked honey but just wasn’t in the mood for it. Jerrod’s words still bothered her a bit. “Though he said he may have to go off and fight if Lendon attacks us.”

  The atmosphere of the room plummeted, her mother and Laura growing quiet.

  “Well,” Laura said to break the silence. “I don’t think you have to worry about that anytime soon. Old King Harold is still alive and kickin’.”

  “People have been talking about that for years,” Marion reassured her with a smile. “But anything has yet to happen. Though, to be clear on one thing, if he ever hurts you he won’t need to go off and fight a war to get killed.”

  Claire sipped at her tea, relaxing slightly. They had been safe for all these years. For as long as she could remember, actually. She didn’t have anything to worry about, did she? But the sam
e couldn’t be said for Jerrod if he ever had to face her mother’s wrath, that was for sure.

  Solaniki was as exotic as it was familiar. A port city where all the cultures from the southern islands, the Far Continent across the sea, and Derenan mixed together to form its own unique blend. It was here where most of the sea trade came into Lendon, and it was the reason Farron had come. After his stunt with Lord Kasían, the families of Solaniki had stopped all trade with the north. An unfortunate situation he was tasked to fix.

  Farron didn’t do well with negotiations. He was too impatient for them. He found it much easier and more efficient to get things done by the blade.

  But his brother had insisted he try and play nice first. Then if they didn’t cooperate, he could use any means he wished. As long as it didn’t start another war— a promise he couldn’t exactly make. Humans were fickle and emotional, willing to sacrifice hundreds in revenge for one. There was no telling what they might do.

  It was late when he rode Niava, his black mare he’d received as a gift from his brother when he’d first arrived at the castle a few years back, into Solaniki. The sound of his horse’s hooves pounding on the cobblestone echoed through the nearly empty streets. Like in Aloniki, he could taste the salt from the ocean on the air. Marble columns and carvings made up the facades of many of the old buildings, some overtaken by vines. The whole city was built on a slight decline around a massive harbor, so from almost any vantage, one could glimpse the sea beyond and Solaniki’s most striking feature: the massive lighthouse perched at the mouth of the bay. Built before the Great War by the elves, Nieste et Straía, The Star of the Night, was the tallest building in Solaniki, the white marble shining just as bright during the day as the flames at the top did at night.

  It took him the better part of an hour to find the inn his brother had personally reserved for him. He was on official business, or as official as it ever got for him. Dressed in his finest with a dark cloak over his shoulders, he had assumed his most used identity, Aedán Lyran, and dyed his hair dark brown. He was in disguise as a liaison of the king. His brother had even taken the liberty and sent a trunk of fine clothes to the inn before Farron had Left Derenan to help complete the deception. If he’d shown up as himself, his head would have ended up on a pike along the city walls as soon as he’d entered, even though his brother had paid handsomely for it.

  The building was an elaborate two-storied, columned affair called Paílle Fluer. He wasn’t certain what the name meant. He had only ever learned a few words of the Solinian language used in many of the southern cities. But compared to some of the hovels he’d stayed in in the past, it looked like a palace.

  An elderly man emerged from the grand double doors, wearing a stately red coat, followed by a younger boy with mousy brown hair at his heels.

  “Master Lyran, I presume?” he asked in an accented voice. Small lanterns on either side of the entrance cast the man’s face in flickering shadows, making the lines deeper and darker than they actually were.

  He unmounted Niava and the boy rushed to take the reins. Farron reached inside his shirt as he strolled up to the man and took out the folded note with the king’s seal on it.

  The gentleman glanced at it before taking it and bowing. “You must be tired, Master Lyran,” he said, straightening.

  “Very,” Farron replied in a stern voice, making the man cringe. The gentleman must not have seen many of his kind in Solaniki. He’d gotten the same sort of looks since he’d entered the city, though they weren’t nearly as bad as the attention he would get if he left his hair in its natural state.

  The man just nodded and turned to open the doors. Before entering, Farron reached into his pocket and dug out a few silver coins and tossed them to the boy.

  “Take care of her, boy,” he said in the same stern tone. Part of his act, he figured the colder he came across, the less people would ask questions.

  Inside was just as opulent as the exterior foretold. An immense crystal chandelier still glowed brightly in the middle of the ceiling. The rest of the entrance was dimmed for the night. Orange and white flowers were interspersed between red upholstered furnishings. The man led the way up the main grand staircase, made of the same off-white marble as the façade, and down the left hall to the end. He reached inside his coat and took out a brass key and unlocked the door. The room was large, taking up the entire west end of the floor. A luxury courtesy of the King.

  “Your belongings arrived earlier,” he said.

  Farron just nodded and entered the room. He was tired after a full day of riding and wanted the man to leave as soon as possible. When he had done just that, Farron crossed the room to the trunk his brother sent, opened it up and began digging through the clothes, strewing them out on the floor around him until he found what he was looking for: his twin daggers, thin hidden blades, and his black attire.

  For if Master Lyran couldn’t succeed, then Sin de Reine would.

  Upbeat music filled the town square. Two drummers sat in the middle of the plaza while the flutists and violinists weaved in and out of the twirling couples. The fall festival was in full swing, an annual event in which the whole town celebrated the upcoming harvest by drinking as much alcohol and doing as little work as they could for a week. Stockton was packed to the brim with merchants and traders, travelers, and the extended families of almost everyone who lived there.

  Business was booming at the Blazing Stallion, but Claire was able to get the night off for one of her favorite events of the year: the Fall Festival Dance, held every year on the third night of the week-long affair. Brightly colored streamers crisscrossed the night sky, torches and candles dotted every nook and crevice, making the ordinary plaza look like a dreamscape.

  But the night was turning out to be anything but that.

  Claire stood among the spectators, sipping on her third glass of red wine of the night, anger slowly building up inside of her. After agreeing to meet Jerrod at the dance, Claire had rushed to get ready, making sure her hair was perfect, and that the dress she’d gotten from Lauren— thanks to help from her mother— fit just so. She’d spent the last two weeks hemming the deep purple frock and nipping and tucking it in places where she wasn’t as ‘gifted’ as her friend. But it turned out to be all for naught. For hours she’d been waiting, like a fool, but he hadn’t shown. At first, she worried that something had happened to him, but ten songs and two drinks later she found herself wishing that something would happen to him.

  She watched as her friends danced, Hannah with her dark-haired fiancé, and Lauren with her father’s latest offering, a handsome older gentleman of about thirty with peppered brunette hair. Judging by the look on her friend’s face, this may actually be the one that stuck. Claire sighed, frowning. Was this a sign of things to come? Was she doomed to wallow away the rest of her life alone? Her friends were sure to get married soon. Hannah would be moving away, and given Lauren’s ambitions, she was likely to leave for a bigger city someday as well. Meanwhile, she couldn’t even get the man she’d been seeing for the past several months to meet her at a dance. Perhaps it was because he didn’t want to. That he was having second thoughts.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t propose after all. And here she was, getting her hopes up. She would never see a key now. Jerrod was her last hope of living a normal life, one she’d been dreaming of since she was a young girl.

  A tear escaped to trail down her cheek. Claire quickly wiped it away and stifled a sob. The festival was supposed to be a happy occasion. She couldn’t spend her time moping around. With a deep breath, Claire downed the rest of her drink. The older woman next to her gave her a curious look. Claire pretended not to notice and walked away towards the drink cart. She slipped through the crowd, holding her skirt up with her free hand, her head slightly abuzz. She knew she shouldn’t drink anymore, but the alcohol helped to take the sting of rejection away. She didn’t care if she became exactly like the drunken sots in the tavern she’d grown to loathe so much over the years
. She even began to sympathize with them a tad. Maybe they were just drinking to dull old heartaches and lost loves.

  But she doubted that was the case. She snorted in laughter, then hiccupped. Claire covered her mouth quickly, heat rising to her cheeks. She looked around her to make sure no one saw that. Not that it mattered. Half the people in the plaza were already drunk. She’d just be fitting in. Besides, Jerrod wasn’t there anyway. Why should she be embarrassed?

  She was halfway to the drink cart when she spotted him. Not Jerry, but the nephew of the man she wouldn’t dance with if her life depended on it: Mr. Martis. At the ripe age of fourteen, the boy was a tad too young for her tastes, not to mention the overbite he’d seemed to have inherited from his uncle. He stood with his uncle and what looked like his father across the plaza, watching the dancers with wide, curious, but somewhat scared eyes. Given his awkward stance, it looked to be the poor lad’s first dance.

  Under any other circumstances, she would have stayed far away from them. But not tonight. Not now. She was too angry for that. She was at a dance, so she was going to dance. And if she just so happened to stir the pot while she was at it, then so be it.

  She set her wine glass down on a nearby table and marched up to the young boy. About an inch taller than her, with dark blonde hair and muddy green eyes, the boy stared at her like she was one of the fabled centaurs that roamed the northern plains.

  “Would you like to dance?” she demanded more than asked. She could see Mr. Martis turn toward them out of the corner of her eye. With a scowl on his face, no less.

  The boy’s mouth dropped open. He stared at her speechless for a few seconds, then extended a shaky hand.

  Claire grabbed it, looked past the boy at his uncle, and stuck her tongue out at him before turning away to drag her new partner out amongst the dancers. The seething look on Mr. Martis’ face was already worth the effort. When they were immersed in the dancing crowd, Claire turned to face the boy. He stood, unsure, his hands out in the air in position as if he were repeating lessons in his head. She just sighed and took his hands, placing one on her waist and taking the other in her own. He may have been inexperienced, but he would have to do.