The Apostate Prince (Godswar Chronicles Book 2)

by CJ Perry

  “I don’t know. Blocking off our only escape route was not part of the plan. Deetra will be back any minute with half the Red Knights in the city. That pillar won’t keep them out long.”

  He rose to his feet, still shaky from his brush with death. James’s body lay a few feet down the carpet runner, his severed head next to his knee. The uneven floor left islands of gray stone in the pool of blood.

  “You shouldn’t have killed him,” Justin said.

  “You do not seem to care much. Why should I?”

  Her words smacked him in the face. “I loved my brother,” Justin said, and the braziers turned red with a whoosh. Justin sighed. “I hate this place.”

  There had been times when Justin felt close to James, but never love. James’ loyalty was to Deetra, who hated him. Which meant that whether James wanted to or not, part of him hated Justin too. It had been there in his eyes as he choked Justin on the altar.

  Celia looked at the pile of rubble, then at James’ body on the floor. She shook her head. “I am sorry, Justin. He seemed… honorable.”

  The body of James still gripped his broken sword in one hand. If Celia had not stopped him, James would have strangled Justin to death. The memory of Deetra’s scream at watching her son die sent a chill up his spine.

  “He was.”

  Justin did not move. He had lost his family and his home, all in the name of stopping a war that had now reached the tipping point of inevitability. In moments, Deetra, his mother, and dozens of Red Knights would clear the pillar and pour into the room. Celia was a great knight but without armor, and in the face of such odds, not even the sword could grant her victory. She would die and Justin would stand trial. Even if his mother found him innocent - somehow - he would have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of his life.

  A stone fell from the breach in the ceiling and smashed on the floor, causing another shaft of sunlight to cut through the darkness and dust. It shone on the other pillar in front of the door. Justin held out his hand to Celia.

  “Give me the sword.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Deetra’s Confession

  Ayla sat in Freedom Hall, an untouched glass of wine on the table in front of her and a cold knot of anxiety in her chest. Acolytes came and went in their navy tunics, setting the tables and preparing for the unveiling of the new heraldry and the dragon skeleton her son had constructed. Ayla had allowed him to do the job in honor of the Dark Queen and the Tempest but Justin had never intended to honor anyone but himself.

  Victor walked under its open jaw and ran his hand along the bone. “When he and James pulled these bones out of the sand, I never imagined this. It’s magnificent.”

  The acolytes had cleaned the Guardian’s blood off the flagstones and replaced the table where she’d stabbed Deetra through the chest. No trace remained of the incident that sparked the events of the last two days. She prayed that it all served some purpose, that the Dark Queen’s plan for Justin would come to fruition through the pain and tragedy that transpired.

  He was taking his time deciding. Either his feelings for this Guardian exceeded what James and Deetra believed, or his stubbornness and pride would not permit him to come down to Freedom Hall and do the right thing. Either way, Ayla grew more impatient with each moment that passed.

  Perhaps she should not have cornered him into a decision, or used the Guardian as leverage. She had been angry. Deetra, the funeral, the families, the fires, and James’ constantly-running mouth had pushed her to her limit. Ayla had fought for Justin’s right to choose for himself since he first refused to attend temple services. She always believed he would see the beauty of the Dark Queen’s blessings and that a soul should only come into the dark fold out of love. But Justin had forsaken all that the Dark Queen had bestowed upon him for too long. By the Dark Queen’s grace he was born and by the wealth and influence of Her Empire he attended the school in Drokin.

  She lifted her goblet to her lips for her first taste and the side door of Freedom Hall burst open, causing her to splash wine across the table and in her lap. She slammed her other hand down on the table and before setting down the goblet, prepared to scream at whatever fool decided to open the door like that.

  Deetra stood in the doorway, chest heaving, tears coursing down her cheeks. Ayla’s heart all but stopped. Deetra did not cry. Ayla pushed out her chair and stood, choking on the anxiety of what could bring Deetra to such a state.

  “What?” Ayla demanded, and rushing around the table toward her wife.

  Deetra shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, her chest hitching with sobs.

  “What?” Ayla insisted, as she grabbed Deetra by her armored upper arms. “What happened?”

  “James is dead. And…” She trailed off and bit her lower lip, her whole body trembling.

  Ayla’s heart twisted in on itself. Deetra said the words but Ayla’s ears were ringing. She reached back for the table, but it was too far away. Her knees buckled. Victor caught her, holding her up.

  “I had to!” Deetra cried, in near hysterics. “He was running at me with it! Please, Ayla. I'm sorry.”

  “What’s going on?” Victor growled.

  Deetra took a breath. “Justin and the Guardian killed James, and I…” She shook her head, unable to continue as the sobs overwhelmed her again.

  Ayla lunged and grabbed her wife by the throat with both hands. She squeezed with every ounce of strength her pain and horror granted her. Deetra did not fight back. Her face went red and her eyes bulged, tears soaking her cheeks as Ayla wrung her neck. Ayla screamed, digging in her nails. The image of Justin with her wife’s glaive protruding from his guts played over and over in her mind.

  Victor pried her hands from Deetra’s throat but Ayla fought him, kicking at Deetra as she collapsed to the ground. He turned Ayla around and shook her. Ayla glared at his tattooed face, barely recognizing him. He shook her again, harder.

  “Stop!” he roared, and his voice finally broke through the rage that had robbed her of her senses. Deetra coughed, gagged, and wheezed behind her, armor scraping on the stone as she crawled.

  Blood dripped from Ayla’s fingertips, oozing out from Deetra’s flesh that had caked under her fingernails. Victor lifted her chin with one finger and Ayla met his eyes, perhaps for the first time since the day he was born on the walls of Hornstall. The mix of emotion in them went beyond what Ayla ever thought him capable. They showed rage, pain, and a determination she had not known since her days of the Battle of Hornstall. She availed herself of his grip and took a step back.

  The entirety of the keep shook, rattling plates, goblets, the dragon skeleton above. The acolytes had all cleared the room. Victor looked up at the ceiling.

  “We need to get up to the Sanctum, now. It sounds like the whole thing is collapsing.”

  Ayla turned and squatted down. “I'm going up there. If you leave this room, you die. Do you understand?”

  On all fours, with blood trickling from the deep scratches in her neck, Deetra nodded and reached for her face. She let the hand caress her cheek for no other reason than to let Deetra feel the frigid cold that had crept into her soul

  Ayla stood back up and put on her Empress face. “Pray until my return but do not heal yourself. May the Goddess be merciful to you because, I will not.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fleeing the Sanctum

  The second pillar lay on top of the first, half obscured by a mountain of debris from the collapsed section of room. Another stone fell and smashed on the floor a few feet away from most of the damage. The sunlight revealed the stark gray walls and the fact that not all the pillars matched. They must have been newly added supports. The whole roof was unstable.

  The sunlight pouring into the Dark Sanctum dispelled Justin’s long-standing fear of the room, - fear he had refused to recognize until it left him. He dropped one hand into his hidden pocket, and held out the other.

  A guard called out from one of the keep towers. “I
’m getting conflicting reports. Is the Empress in there?”

  Another guard replied, shouting at the top of his lungs: “I can’t get close enough to see. The roof is falling apart.”

  Commotion erupted in the hall - armored boots and more shouting. If they planned to escape, the time was now.

  “Give me an eyelash and hold out your hand,” Justin urged.

  He dropped the piece of quartz into her waiting hand. Celia plucked an eyelash and laid it on top. Justin cupped his hand around it, preventing his breath from blowing it away as he spoke the incantation. The eyelash sizzled, the spell left his memory, and Celia vanished. He pulled out an eyelash of his own and repeated his last memorization of the spell.

  He retrieved another component from his pocket, a pair of tiny wing feathers. Justin dreaded the next part; he hated heights. He’d never had any bad experiences with high places but the very idea made him nauseous. The words came and he fanned his breath with the feathers as he spoke. They puffed out of existence in his palm and his feet lifted into the air.

  “Come here,” Justin said. “I have to hold you.”

  Justin found her invisible form and lifted her off the floor in his arms. Celia wrapped one arm around the back of his neck. Her body pressed against his from breast to hip. Justin's breath caught at the feel of her breath whispering against his neck. He focused and they rose up into the air. Though they rose no faster than a walk, Justin’s heart pounded harder in his chest the higher they went. As they floated out of the hole in the ceiling, his stomach did somersaults. It reminded him he had not eaten all day.

  The courtyard and street spread out before him as they rose higher into the air. The people of Hornstall were crowded into the inner ward in preparation for the dragon’s unveiling. Thousands of them filled the streets leading up to the castle. Guards and Red Knights filtered through them, some headed for the keep and others pushing people back out toward the street.

  Justin directed them toward the back alley behind the keep where a steaming pile of refuse ran the length of the entire alley and stood a dozen feet tall. The people of Hornstall referred to it as ‘The Pit.’ The Pit was home to rats, roaches, and an Otyugh, a tentacled beast that sustained itself on the keep’s trash. Even some fifty feet in the air, the smell alone made Justin’s eyes water.

  Celia made a disgusted sound and whispered. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Our invisibilities won’t last much longer and I can’t fly us far enough to get out of the city. We need to land someplace no one will look for us and make our way out on foot.”

  Forced out of the courtyard by the guards, the people crowded the street all the way around the keep, including the exit from The Pit. He had to land them on the pile of trash itself, or risk someone noticing. His feet touched down in a depression at the top of the pile, keeping them hidden from the road on either side. His feet sank calf-deep into spoiled food. He retched, almost dropping Celia into the trash, but managed to set her down without incident. The din of the crowd’s grumbling and shuffling feet a few dozen yards away filled the alley. Guards and knights shouted for the crowd to keep moving.

  A tickling in Justin’s eyelashes signaled the expiration of his invisibility. Celia appeared first, eyes watering, one hand over her nose and mouth with the other holding the sword down at her side. Justin retched again, doubling over, suddenly thankful he had not eaten.

  “Stop,” she whispered. “You are going to make me do it.”

  “Sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

  Rotten food sludge seeped into the top of his boots. The fumes made his head swim, so he lifted the lapel of his robe over his nose. His height exposed his head over the top of their garbage cradle and he ducked down.

  He recalled the words to a spell, hoping he could hold his breath long enough to complete it. Hands weaving the motions in the air and lips racing through the words, the ethereal sigils appeared around him. His skin itched like mad as his body shrank and his hair shortened. His robes transformed from red to a drab gray.

  The sigils faded and Justin let out the rest of his breath and drew another. The stink hit him again and his tongue curled as he gagged. Celia rubbed his back, one hand still over her face. He stood back up, wiped his eyes once more, and ran his hand through his Altered hair. He had chosen a light brown bowl-cut, the most common color and style combination in Hornstall.

  “How do I look?” he asked, suppressing another gag.

  “You should have chosen an old woman to match your constitution,” she replied wryly.

  Justin covered his nose with the wide sleeve of his gray robe. “Or changed you into an Orc to match your sense of humor. Speaking of which...”

  He signaled for her to come closer and she shook her head. “You will not change me into an Orc.”

  Justin rolled his eyes. “It was a joke. But that hair of yours will get us spotted for sure.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said and took a step closer.

  Justin had wanted to touch her hair from the first time a lock and fallen across her brow when she first arrived at Freedom Hall. He held his breath and reached for it with both hands. For once, she did not shy away from his touch. She closed her eyes as his fingers touched her brow and slid between her flaming curls.

  Justin whispered the Alter spell and her locks untangled as his hands moved through the silken waves. Her hair darkened in the wake of his palms, turning black. His heart ached as the curls straightened, falling down to her shoulders a jet black. His fingers reached the tips of her hair at her back as the spell completed, leaving them almost nose to nose.

  She opened her eyes and a flush rose to her cheeks. Justin leaned in but she pulled away. He cleared his throat and let out the breath he had held. She flipped the ends of her new black hair.

  “How does it look?” she asked, her cheeks still red.

  Justin gave her a watery-eyed smile as the refuse and nerves threatened to make him retch again. “Good,” he said, before covering his mouth with his sleeve again. “Broke my heart to change it though.”

  Celia smiled at him and Justin’s heart fluttered.

  “You know what I wish?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “That the first time you smiled at me, I wasn't standing calf-deep in garbage ready to vomit.”

  She shrugged, her smile taking a sardonic twist. “At least you aren’t barefoot and practically naked.”

  Justin’s eyes went wide as he looked her up and down, just noticing her scanty attire. The thin linen of her tunic had preserved her modesty in the darkness of the Sanctum but out here the light provided a very clear view of the silhouette of her every curve.

  “I'm so sorry,” he said, cheeks burning hot. He removed his robe - leaving him in buff tunic and brown trousers - and draped it over her shoulders. The robe fit, of course. Magical clothing always fit its wearer. Reaching around her waist to tie the sash, her body brushed against his once more and color rose to her cheeks.

  “Thank-” She was cut off as one leg sank down up to the knee in the trash. The smile wiped from her face and she shrieked. The sword fell from her hand and she planted her palms in the trash, trying to pull her leg out. Her body jerked downward again.

  “Something has my leg!” she yelled.

  The Otyugh. The depression in the trash probably meant they had been standing on top of it the whole time. The din of the crowd at the end of the alley quieted and then picked up again, the echo in the narrow alley rendering words unintelligible. However, they had certainly heard the scream. Justin grabbed Celia by the arm and she latched onto him. He reached for the sword with his other hand but the garbage started to churn and the handle sank into the muck.

  “Someone up there?” a guard yelled from below.

  Justin craned his neck to look over the side but Celia shook her head, urging him not to, black hair sticking to her face. The sword’s silvery blade tilted and pointed up at the sky as it sank. Justin reached for i
t again and grabbed the sharp end before it sank beneath the undulating trash. His legs sunk to the knees. The Otyugh was eating, drawing them down.

  “Hello?” the guard yelled again.

  Justin pulled Celia by the arm but still she sank, now up to her waist in filth. His hand slid off the blade, slicing open his palm. He had no choice.

  “Yes! We need help!”

  From the sound of cascading trash, the guard had started climbing. “Hold on!” he yelled, which was followed by muttered curses.

  Celia stared at Justin, green eyes wide. “It’s got me by the leg. Let go and grab the sword.”

  Justin shook his head. “Just wait. Help is coming.”

  She shook her head again and Justin shushed her. “Not another word, understand? Your accent-”

  The guard’s head appeared over the top of the trash heap, his mustached upper lip twisted in disgust. He crawled over the top, cursing and shaking refuse from his hand. His eyes went to Justin, then to Celia, and he rushed to his feet. He walked over the top of the pile, boots sinking deep into the heaving garbage.

  “What in the Hells are you doing up here?” he said.

  “Grab her!” Justin said.

  The guard grabbed Celia’s other arm and pulled. Celia screamed in pain. Justin and the guard met each other’s eyes. Justin had met him before, though could not remember where, but no recognition dawned in the man’s eyes. He had no idea who Justin was. She winced and bit her lips, eyes squeezed shut.

  “The Otyugh has her by the leg,” Justin said. The tip of the sword slipped beneath the trash. “Its tentacles are covered in hooks. I'm going to have to cut her free.”

  The guard nodded and leaned his hip toward Justin. “Take my sword.”

  Justin left the guards sword in its scabbard and pulled his legs out of the trash. He crawled over to where the sword dipped beneath the surface, hands and knees sinking with each movement. Sweeping armfuls off trash out of the way, his hand burned as he dug, the wound filling with all manner of things he did not care to think about.