Glint (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 2)

by Raven Kennedy

  My men close in while Jeo flings his arm protectively over my head, making sure that nothing hits me. I duck down, steps quick as we rush forward inside our wall of steel and strength. Soon, we’re ushered inside the carriage, and the driver lurches forward the moment the door is shut.

  The shouting is louder now, a dull roar emitted from hundreds of malcontent mouths. I flinch when things are thrown at the carriage, something hitting and nearly breaking the window.

  Jeo is wound tight, his movements jerky as he yanks the curtains closed while he still holds an arm over me.

  I shove him away, vexation filling me, anger piercing through like splintered ice at how quickly the tables turned.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I cut him a look. “Of course not! All my efforts were just wasted,” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth. “I spent the last hour handing all of that out, and now, these ungrateful rats think that they can rebel against me?”

  My mind spins with what to do as the carriage rolls on, putting more and more distance between the angry mob and me.

  I wanted open dissent against him. Not me.

  I played my hand wrong, and that incenses me more than anything.

  My father used to say that people are just an unlit wick ready to catch. I was supposed to get them to hold a candle for me, not burn me instead.

  “What a bloody mess,” I seethe to myself. “I want that woman punished.”

  Jeo says nothing, which is probably best for him, because my temper is an arctic bitterness ready to bite.

  The carriage takes a sharp turn, making me nearly fling against the wall, and then it jolts to an abrupt halt.

  Jeo frowns and looks out the window. “Seems we took a side street to get away from the crowd. There’s some kind of cart in the way.”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” I snap before I shove open the door.

  “My queen!” Jeo calls, but I step out and slam the door in his face. I’m finished with this day. I want to get back into my castle and regain control.

  Stalking forward, my guards jump from their horses to follow me, but I wave them off. “My queen,” one of them says, rushing forward. “We’re taking care of it. You can go back inside where it’s warm.”

  I ignore him, getting to the front, ready to lay into whoever dares to block a royal carriage.

  In front of me is a weathered cart hitched to two horses, their brown coloring letting me know they’re not from Highbell. My driver and two guards are arguing with a man, urging him to move aside so we can pass.

  “What is the meaning of this?” I demand.

  All four heads turn to look at me, but my gaze hooks onto the man standing in the center. He’s not a Highbell peasant, I can see that immediately.

  He wears finely tailored blue clothing, his shoulders are straight instead of hunched, and he dons a clean-shaved face. His blond hair is cut short against his scalp, and his eyebrows are a shade darker than the hair on his head. They arch up dramatically, giving him a look of intrigue.

  He’s handsome, but there’s something more than just that, something that makes me want to keep looking at him. He’s magnetic.

  “My queen...” one of the guards says.

  “Why are you blocking the road?” I say, my attention on the man.

  As I stop in front of him, I notice that his eyes are a peculiar color. Not blue, but gray and almost...reflective.

  “Queen Malina.” He bows with practiced ease.

  “What is your name?”

  “Loth Pruinn, Your Majesty,” he replies smoothly.

  I rack my mind to connect his family name, but for the life of me, I can’t. Strange, considering I know every nobleman in Highbell. “Sir Pruinn, you’re in our way.”

  He smiles, a dazzling display to appease me. “Apologies, my queen. My wheel broke, and I was only mending it. I’m finished now, so I’ll make quick work of getting out of your path.”

  “Good. See that you do.”

  I turn to go back to the carriage, but he says, “Might I offer you a token? To show my appreciation for your patience.”

  Facing him again, I hesitate for a moment, while the sky above us blows down soft flakes of snow.

  “Please, Your Majesty,” he says, placing a hand over his chest in supplication. “It would greatly honor me.”

  I nod, his respect somewhat calming my anger. “Very well.”

  The guards and my driver move away while Pruinn beams and walks to his cart. It’s built like a covered box with a latch at the back. He opens it with a flick of a hook, lifting up the back wall and sliding it into a notch at the roof.

  Inside, there are shelves that reach all the way to the front from bottom to top, the space cramped and loaded with too many items to count.

  My eyes skim over the shelves. There seems to be a little bit of everything. Glass vials filled with exotic perfumes, baubles, shiny gems, books, spices, teacups, honeycombs, and candlesticks. It’s all a mishmash of odds and ends, my eyes unable to take in every piece.

  “You have quite the collection. Are you a traveling merchant, then?” It would explain why I don’t recognize his name and why he looks and behaves the way he does.

  “Something like that, Your Majesty,” he replies with an ambiguous curve of his lips. “I collect rare and priceless items.”

  “Is that so?” I muse, picking up a silver hair brush and testing its weight and shine. Real. I can’t help but be intrigued. “What is the rarest and most priceless thing you have then, Sir Pruinn?” I challenge.

  His magnet-gray eyes latch onto mine. “That would be my power, Your Majesty.”

  My brows rise up in surprise. “You have magic?”

  He nods. “I do.”

  For the second time today, jealousy wells up inside of me. If only I’d been born with magic, then I wouldn’t be here now, struggling to take control of my own damn kingdom.

  “What kind of magic?” I ask, eyeing him in a new light.

  A wry grin pulls at his cheeks. He leans an inch closer, and that sense of being pulled toward him returns. “I can show someone how to gain their greatest desire.”

  All of my interest fizzles out, and I pull back with a disinterested sigh. “I don’t take kindly to charlatans,” I tell him, my tone cross.

  He shakes his head adamantly. “No tricks, Your Majesty, I swear it.”

  I arch a condescending brow. “I’m sure,” I say sardonically.

  “Please, let me prove it to you,” he says, probably because he knows I’m quite close to calling my guards over and having him arrested for being a swindler.

  “And how will you do that, Sir Pruinn? Have me close my eyes while you read a crystal ball?”

  “Not at all. I only need to hold your hand.”

  “You won’t be touching the queen,” one of my guards intervenes.

  Sir Pruinn ignores him, his attention staying on me. “No tricks, Your Majesty.” He holds out his hand palm-up.

  I don’t take it. “If you think I’m going to fall for silly palm reading, then you are a very poor charlatan, sir.”

  “Again, not a charlatan,” he vows. “And I won’t be reading your palm. Like I said, I’ll only be holding it.”

  I’m impatient now, but I can’t deny that I’m also quite curious. My guards are watching warily, hands on the hilts of their swords, but they know that ultimately, they have no say whether he touches me or not.

  I study the man, trying to get a read on him. “Alright, Sir Pruinn. Prove it to me.”

  I place my hand in his, his palm surprisingly smooth for a traveler who’d be catching his own food and fixing his own wagon. The guards move closer.

  Sir Pruinn gently curls my fingers into a loose fist and wraps his hand over mine.

  The moment he does, there’s a sensation—a static that pops on the surface of my palm and the back of my hand, the energy jumping between us.

  My gaz
e shoots up to his face, but his gray eyes are closed, arched brows tucked down in concentration.

  “My queen...” my antsy guard says nervously.

  “Quiet.”

  I stare down at my hand in awe, because I can feel it. I can feel the magic coursing over it, coming from his touch. It crinkles and snaps, little bursts of magical bubbles that nearly sting, but not quite.

  Inside my fist, my palm begins to heat. I feel something form, small at first, and then it grows, until my fingers are unfurling to accommodate the size of the object that just appeared in my grasp out of nowhere.

  I wear the wide, unblinking eyes of shock.

  Amazement, surprise, doubt, excitement, confusion—all of these conflicting emotions fly through me in a swarm that wants to get out.

  I look at the piece of rolled parchment now held in my grasp, my lips parted with a dazed gasp. It looks innocuous, harmless, but my heart is pounding in my chest.

  Sir Pruinn’s hand falls away, taking the magnetic crackle with it. “There you are, Your Majesty. Open it.”

  “I’ll open it, my queen,” my guard offers, tone thick with distrust.

  But Pruinn shakes his head. “It has to be you, or it won’t work, Your Majesty.”

  I hesitate for a moment longer, and then I slip my fingers beneath the edge and unroll the paper. It’s not too large, maybe three hand spans, my mind spinning with spurred curiosity. “What is this?”

  He peers down as I straighten it out, humming in interest. “It would appear that your greatest desire is somewhere quite literal. This is a map.”

  I take in the elaborate lines with a narrowed gaze. Normally, I’d toss the map back at him and question what sleight of hand he used to get it in my grasp. But the magic was real, and something about this paper feels like me, though I don’t know how to explain it.

  After I study it for a moment longer, I frown, my excitement abruptly dimming. “This map is wrong.”

  Orea ends at the edge of Sixth Kingdom, but this shows boundaries into Seventh. Wrong. All that’s there is nothing. Nothing at all—not since the fae came and disintegrated it into the gray abyss.

  My ridiculous spark of intrigue and excitement disintegrates right along with it. I should’ve known better than to believe this con artist. He nearly fooled me with his crepitate touch, but I’m clearly having an off day.

  “Obviously, this isn’t where I can find my greatest desire,” I say with bored irritation. “It’s a misdrawn map you’re trying to pass off as one-of-a-kind.”

  He should look frightened. At the very least, uneasy, since his magical trick failed. I could have him whipped on the street for being a fraud.

  I let the paper roll up on its own, crushing it in my fist before I gaze up at Pruinn with a cool, unimpressed look and try to hand the map back to him. “Seventh Kingdom doesn’t exist anymore—hasn’t for hundreds of years.”

  Pruinn doesn’t look worried or rattled. Instead, a slow, mischievous smile crosses his face, gray eyes glittering as he leans in conspiratorially and says something that sends static chills over my entire body.

  “Are you sure about that, Your Majesty?”

  Chapter 36

  AUREN

  Ranhold Castle is cold.

  That’s the first thing I notice after I’m put into a covered carriage and brought around to the side of the castle through a small set of doors. Six guards escort me—Midas’s favorite number.

  The walls in this hallway look like ice, but it’s a trick of the eye, a triumph in architecture. When I tap a gloved finger against it, I can see it’s made of smooth stone bricks, yet covered with a layer of blue blown glass.

  We edge around what looks to be the main entryway, where purple flags hang from the rafters, a crisscross of white wood that arches up against a window laid into a ceiling that’s shaped like a ten-pointed star.

  Aside from my guards, the space is empty, quiet, while my nerves are nearly rabid, nipping at my skin, breathing down my neck. I don’t even know how I’m able to walk so calmly, to not break out into a run or stop dead in my tracks as I’m led into a narrow hall.

  There’s no doubt that the palace is beautiful. The elaborate glass moldings, the trimmed windows, the curved sconces. Every flair is a celebration of ice, every purple tapestry an homage to Ranhold’s monarch.

  But the further inside I go, the colder I become. Maybe it’s all in my mind, maybe the glacial-looking walls are tricking me into thinking that it’s colder than it really is. Either way, goose bumps have risen across my skin, and I find my ribbons wrapping around me just a little bit tighter.

  I’m about to be reunited with Midas.

  He’s here somewhere, waiting for me, and my heart leaps at the thought. I haven’t seen him in weeks, the longest I’ve ever been apart from him in over a decade.

  I long for his familiarity. To be able to tell him about Sail, about Digby, and have him understand because he knew them too. My life changed drastically since I’ve been away, and I can’t wait to tell him everything.

  The guards lead me to yet another narrow passageway, and still, no one greets us, no one is around. The whole floor is empty, and I frown in confusion as to why I’m not being led through the main parts of the castle. But then it dawns on me.

  I’m a secret.

  Until this second, I didn’t even remember that when he traveled here, Midas used a gold-painted saddle as a decoy. A move that was supposed to protect me—one that didn’t work out so well.

  The silence of the guards, the lack of a welcome, and the clandestine routes of emptied servant’s passageways solidifies my guess. It’s probably not public knowledge that I was captured, or that I’ve been traded now, not if Midas has kept up the façade.

  I don’t know how I feel about that.

  I’m led up a bare stone stairway and then led down a path with slits of windows at the high ceiling carrying a smear of light that dusts the narrow hallway.

  Then we seem to exit the servant’s walkways, because I’m herded into a hallway that’s much more decorated. A straight runner of plush purple extends the length of the floor from one end to the next, and gleaming silver sconces hang from the walls, unlit. The windows are tall and wide, curtains pulled back, letting in both the sunlight and a wintry draft.

  Another set of stairs, then a second, and then we finally reach a wing of the castle that isn’t empty.

  I recognize Midas’s king’s guards immediately—six standing against either wall. They eye us, saying nothing.

  I don’t feel my chest rise or fall with breath when one of them raps a knuckle against a set of double doors. I don’t feel my eyes blink when that door is opened. I definitely don’t feel the weight of my steps as the guards move aside, and I walk through the doorway.

  But when I enter that room, when I lay eyes on my golden king for the first time in two months, I do feel my heart leap.

  The door closes behind me as I stop, and then it’s just us. Just him and me.

  He stands in the very middle of a large private study, the entire room bathed in deep purples and blues, all except for him. He practically shines with the golden threads of his clothes, the slightly tanned skin, his honey-blond hair. And those eyes, those warm hickory eyes—they glint most of all.

  He releases a breath, one that’s ragged, short. Like he’d been holding it in his chest ever since he knew I was captured, and he’s only just now able to let it out.

  “Precious.”

  The single word is nothing but a murmur slipping out of his mouth, but the agony of his pent-up worry blares through it, loud enough that it cracks his expression as if it were made of glass. His handsome face shows overwhelming relief that’s so stark, so palpable, I can almost taste it.

  At the sight of him looking at me like that, at hearing him speak, my own face crumples. In the next instant, I’m racing forward to close the distance between us, because I can’t bear to not be in his arms
for a second longer.

  But right before I fling my arms around his neck, his hands come out to stop me, grasping my upper arms to hold me still. I notice he’s wearing gloves too, though his are pristine, while mine are filthy and worn.

  “Precious,” he says again, but this time, I can hear the shade of reprimand tinging it.

  I shake my head at myself as I wipe the tears from my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  “Are you alright?” he asks softly.

  It’s like his simple question throws open the gate that I had shut on everything that happened. The fear and grief of those terrible moments come flooding out. Digby’s and Sail’s faces immediately flash through my head, making a golden tear drip down my cheek.

  His eyes widen slightly. “What’s wrong?” he demands, shaking me a little. “Did anyone touch you? Tell me every single name of who dared to lay a finger on you, and I’ll burn them all to their bones and crush their ashes beneath my boots.”

  Startled at the vehemency of his words, I just stare open-mouthed at him for a moment.

  “Who, Precious?” he asks, shaking me again.

  I immediately think of Captain Fane, but I’m not ready for that discussion. Not ready to tell him what I did. I still don’t even know what I’m going to do about Rissa.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s my guards.” I say with a shake of my head. “Digby and—” I sniffle, trying to shore myself up, trying to get the words out. “After the attack, what the pirates did to Sail...it was horrible. I can’t stop replaying it in my head, of him being murdered right in front of me.”

  My heart feels like someone is squeezing it in a punishing fist, fingers digging in, making it hurt, making it bleed. “I didn’t do anything to stop it. I just let him die there in the snow.”

  My guilt is a writhing, pitiful beast, dragging its claws beneath my skin and ripping me to shreds.

  “They dragged him onboard and they—” The vision of the pirates tying Sail up to that pole makes my throat close up. I’m crying so hard now that I’m not even sure he can understand what I’m saying.