by Gwynn White
Chapter Thirty-Two
As soon as Lynx awoke, she dressed and went to Kestrel’s door. It was time to tell her sister everything. She cracked it open and peered into the room. “Kestrel? We need to speak.”
There was no reply.
She pushed the door open and stepped into the room. “Kestrel? Are you here?”
Silence.
Lynx bit her lip and then noticed the sun streaming into the room. Kestrel was probably down at breakfast. She considered joining her and decided against it. No conversation would be possible in the great hall. Troubled, she returned to her room.
She sought the offending candle sconce, covered with a blanket. When her father had asked her to discover what she could about the gemstones, neither of them could have imagined that technology like cameras and voice recorders existed.
It was time to tell him what she had learned.
She called to the bland-faced guardsman manning the entrance to the apartment. He was new, not one of her regular watchdogs, and she wondered when he’d arrived at her door. “Corporal, can I trouble you with request?”
He bowed. “Of course, Highness. How can I assist?”
“I won’t be attending breakfast. Please, can you arrange for food to be sent to me?”
He bowed. “It is done.”
Her father had said she was not to write to him, but it was apparent the Chenayans had no intention of giving her time alone with Uncle Bear. She briefly contemplated slipping out of the palace to call on him at his home but rejected the idea as fast as it formed. With their spy technology, they would catch her before she even reached the wolf enclosure.
The possible consequences made her shiver.
As it was, she anticipated punishment from Mott for thumping Lukan. Her bruised fist itched at the thought. Those consequences made it even more imperative that she communicate with her father, before she vanished into one of Mott’s dungeons.
She pulled out her writing parchment and quills to write a letter to her father. By the time her breakfast arrived, the paragraphs telling him how much she loved and missed him and her family were complete. Now, all that remained was to tell him about ice crystals and informas.
She pushed her dirty breakfast plate away and sighed at the almost impossible task. Even if she managed to explain this incomprehensible technology, she still needed to get the letter past Felix’s censorship. For that, she needed allies. People who didn’t support the Chenayan Dragon, people who would be willing to see it safely to Norin.
But where to find those like-minded souls was the big challenge.
Axel seemed an obvious choice, but any help from him came with strings attached. Tempting ones that made it unspeakably hard to fulfill her oath to marry Lukan. Best to avoid Axel.
Stefan Zarot had impressed her, but she didn’t know him well enough to trust him with something like this.
That left Tao. Was it possible Mott’s youngest son could be the man sought?
A knock sounded on the door. It had to be the summons from Mott about her and Lukan’s fight.
Fear, visceral and unexpected, chilled her to her core. Regardless of her best efforts to control herself, she trembled as she stood to meet her fate. Lynx opened her mouth to command the person to enter when the door flew open.
Axel stood on the threshold.
Despite rejecting him, her heart skipped a beat, both with relief at her reprieve and at the sight of him enticingly dressed in a casual faded blue shirt and black trousers. She cleared her throat. “What do you want? I told you last night that we’re done.”
He made no move to enter the room. “We’ve got to talk. Breakfast is as good a place as any.” His eyes focused meaningfully on the candle sconce.
She guessed her blanket didn’t stop the hateful thing recording their voices. The idea sent a shiver down her spine.
“I have a prior engagement.” She pointed to the parchment and quill, and her dirty breakfast plate on her dressing table. “My family will be anxious to know how Kestrel and I are doing.”
Axel frowned but still didn’t step into her room. “Your letter writing can wait. This is more important.”
Struck by the gravitas of his tone, Lynx frowned back, wondering what had affected his usual banter. She longed to ask, but she had already taken too many risks with Axel. As much as it hurt, it was time to sever her ties with him.
“Thanks, but no. If you don’t mind, close the door after you.” Lynx sat down, picked up her quill, dipped it into her ink pot, and made a show of writing on her parchment.
Axel swore. Loudly. She risked peeking at him from behind a curtain of hair.
He tapped the doorjamb with his fist, opened his mouth, seemed to change his mind, and then blurted out, “Suit yourself. But I think you’ll regret not coming with me.”
She raised her head to face him. “You are one arrogant bastard, Axel.”
He shook his head, then pointed to the sconce. “Remember, Princess, there are always plenty more where those came from. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode away.
She flung down her quill and strode to her balcony. The memory of Mott’s threats to mount her parents’ heads on pikes in the courtyard below didn’t make for pleasant or peaceful viewing. She paced back to her letter and was about to continue writing when yet another knock sounded. Trying to calm herself, she stood up and stomped to the door.
“It’s like a marketplace here today.” Lynx wrenched the door open and snapped, “Yes, I’m here. Not gone anywhere. Can’t go anywhere. Even if I wanted to.”
The new corporal stepped back in obvious surprise.
“So this is it?” she asked. “Can I at least gather my cloak? I guess Chenayan dungeons are cold, droughty places.”
He cleared his throat and held out a golden tray, on which rested a hen-sized, blue-and-gold egg. He bowed before setting his offering on her table. Then, to Lynx’s astonishment, he smiled at her. “Sorry to disappoint you, Your Highness, but perhaps you will get a chance to visit the dungeons another day.”
He’s teasing me! Genuinely joking with me! It was positively refreshing. Lynx choked out a laugh. “As you say, Corporal. Maybe another day.”
She waited for him to leave before picking up the curious egg. Made from gold-plated enamel, it was encrusted with sapphires and diamonds—or ice crystals made to look like gemstones, her cynical side decided. The top was hinged like a lid.
She cracked it open, not knowing what to expect—gold yolk or velvet lining perhaps—but certainly not the ray of brilliant white light that blasted out at her. It looked identical to the beam from Axel’s informa. She tugged on the corner the way she’d seen Axel do. Her breathing hitched as an image of Emperor Mott’s face appeared before her.
His voice rang out clear and sharp as if he were in the room with her. “Princess Lynx of Norin, your behavior disappoints. I told you to bed my son, but instead you played with my nephew. As much as you relish Axel’s kisses, he cannot give me a grandson. His talents lie in other areas, such as leading the raid on Norin to bring me your parents’ heads. You may have forgotten my threat, but I have not. If you do not present me with blood-stained sheets the morning after your wedding to my son, Axel will leave Cian for Norin. You can expect your parents’ heads soon thereafter.”
Lynx dropped the egg as if it were a viper. Her stomach cramped, doubling her over with pain.
Then anger took over. Had Axel betrayed her?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Felix was struck by how pale and exhausted the handsome crown prince looked. That changed when Lukan saw the image of Axel and Lynx kissing.
Face infused with red, the crown prince hissed, “So it’s true. Morass was waiting outside my apartment for me. He told me Axel and Lynx spent last night talking about the Dmitri Curse and that Axel kissed her.” His fists clenched—an unusual action from Felix’s wimpish nephew. Perhaps Thurban’s voice was finally goading
Lukan into manhood? “I came here to find out if he was lying.”
From his nephew’s tone, it was obvious Lukan regarded the kiss as the greatest sin, not Axel’s breach of security nor the threat of the Dmitri Curse renegade.
But Felix didn’t have time to worry about those details now. Morass’s betrayal, again, was troublesome in the extreme. Felix was using the obsequious cretin to test an improvement to his ice crystal programming, but clearly, his tweaks had failed.
Yet another thing to rectify after this meeting.
“Yes, it’s true, Lukan.” Mott half-rose to his feet and then slumped back down. “And Axel’s indiscretion is all thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me?” Lukan shouted as his hand lashed out toward the image. “How am I responsible for that?”
Eyes calculating, Felix pursed his lips and settled back, hopefully to watch an argument fomented through the skillful use of Thurban’s voice in Lukan’s and Mott’s heads.
Mott didn’t disappoint.
“Lynx rejects your advances, so what do you do? Like the coward you are, you desert her at a ball.” Mott thumped his fist so hard on the desk, the legs groaned. “When the hell are you going to learn that if all conquests were easy, we could halve our army and spend the savings on chenna?”
“I am not responsible for what Axel does.” Lukan lurched over and wiped the desk clean with a sweep of his hand, sending Felix’s informa, his goblets, and his crystal decanter to shatter against the office wall.
Felix clenched his teeth behind a tight scowl as blood-red chenna sprayed over his precious painting of Axel, handsome in full military uniform. It dripped down onto his cream-colored silk carpet.
A small sacrifice to pay for the potential final showdown between father and son.
Since Thurban had invaded Lukan’s head, his nephew’s rigid control had begun to falter. The same couldn’t be said for Raklus. From his troubled expression, he wished to be anywhere but here.
Mott gripped the desk with both hands and tossed it over. Felix and Raklus jumped back, sending their chairs toppling.
In the chaos, Lukan scooped up the dagger. He hesitated, looking at it askance, and the knife teetered in his hand. Then his nephew’s face hardened, and he slipped the knife behind his wrist.
Felix melted into a smile.
Mott thrust his chin into Lukan’s face, shouting, “Even with the title of Crown Prince of All Chenaya and the Conquered Territories, you failed to command enough presence to keep a hormonal girl at your side for one night. One night! And you think to rule my empire after my death?”
Wiping spit off his cheeks, Lukan snarled, “Lynx is not some hormonal girl. She’s . . . she’s—”
Felix leaned forward expectantly, but his nephew hesitated and didn’t finish his sentence. Not that it mattered. The moment Felix got a chance, he would lock himself away in the chamber where he kept his most prized invention—the device that enabled him to discern Lukan’s thoughts.
“Man up, boy,” Mott bellowed. “Lynx is nothing but a Norin troublemaker riding the back of a mythical curse.”
Mott’s words seemed to flush his nephew’s anger. Felix jolted his head up, concerned at that change. Something must have happened since the ball. Felix itched to leave the room to see what Lukan had been up to since deserting Lynx on the veranda.
It had to wait.
Then a thought struck him. Had Dmitri visited with Lukan the way the dead seer had when Felix enjoyed the title of crown prince? It seemed likely as the cursed Dmitri made a point of harassing all direct to the throne.
When Lukan spoke, his voice was incredulous, confirming Felix’s fears. “Really? A mythical curse?” Still hiding the knife, Lukan spun, his eyes searching the carpet. He pounced on Felix’s informa, lying in a pool of chenna, and thrust it at Mott. “So explain why we have these.”
With a disparaging wave, Mott brushed the broken informa away. “For four hundred years, crown princes have dreaded the day they must marry, and for four hundred years, they have been proven wrong. The Dmitri Curse is nothing but a legend designed to castrate us.”
“And that explains why you and he” —his nephew lashed his hand out again, this time smacking Felix in the chest— “monitor everyone who moves?”
“We monitor people so we can stay in power. A concept you would do well to grasp, Crown Prince,” Felix said, trying to further goad Lukan’s anger. It always puzzled him that Mott could so blithely disregard knowledge of the curse that Dmitri would have imparted to him before his marriage to a Norin princess. But that was Mott, through and through.
Lukan glared at him. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Mott answered. “Power comes with succession, Lukan. This empire has stood for four hundred years because Avanov men have always subdued the Norin beauties Thurban provided for us. But what a disappointment you are. I doubt you have the balls to bring Lynx to heel. She will never submit to you.” Mott shoved Lukan’s shoulder hard enough to send him stumbling back. “Axel will have her, just as surely as Axel will govern Chenaya when I fulfill all your wishes and die. He’ll be the true ruler while you strut around, pretending to be emperor.”
Felix watched Lukan with cold detachment, wondering how the crown prince was taking that unpleasant truth, finally aired. Lukan’s face was deathly white, yet his eyes burned.
Felix prayed for an explosion of rage, but when Lukan spoke, his voice and face were eerily calm.
“Actually, Father, I have a better idea.” The steel dagger flashed into Lukan’s hand, and his arm arched toward Mott.
Felix grunted with pleasure as Lukan plunged the blade at Mott’s chest. His pathetic nephew had finally become a man. Pity he wouldn’t survive long enough to enjoy the experience. The Fifteen would take care of that once news of his regicide reached them.
Then someone screamed. Raklus.
Felix watched with some irritation as the count hurtled into Mott, sending him flying out of the trajectory.
Lukan swore as the dagger thwacked harmlessly into the wood paneling.
“Raklus!” Lukan yelled. “I’ll make you pay for getting in my way. And you”—his nephew kicked out at Mott—“maybe it’s about time you learned just how real the Dmitri Curse is.”
Despite, the failure of his assassination attempt, Felix’s mouth gaped with delight. Never before had Lukan raised a finger in self-defense when his father had beaten him. A drop of spittle ran down Felix’s chin. He wiped it away with a quick swipe of his hand.
Thurban’s manipulative voice had been a resounding success.
Lukan kicked Mott in the kidneys, something Thurban had suggested more than once that Lukan should do. Raklus tried to protect his liege, only to catch Lukan’s boot in the stomach. Mott, knotted up on the floor with Raklus, did nothing but grunt. After landing a final kick to the emperor’s ribs, Lukan stormed from the room.
Thrilled with one success—but disappointed that it hadn’t translated into Mott’s death—Felix leaned against his chenna-stained wall, arms folded, as his brother wrestled to disentangle himself from Raklus. Once on his feet, with a presence of mind that astonished Felix, the emperor strode over and ripped the dagger out of the paneling.
“My mind is made up,” Mott announced. “I wanted to wait until Lukan provided me a grandson before I acted, so the succession wouldn’t fall to my other worthless son, but I can’t take any more chances. Lukan must die. Now.”
Felix snorted. This was Mad Mott at his best—also helped along by the skillful use of Thurban’s voice. Felix’s lips twitched with a smile. Hearing people whisper about Mad Mott’s insanity was gratifying payback for his brother’s decision to rob him of a place in the succession. And, in the end, it didn’t matter how Mott—or Lukan—died, as long as Axel got the throne.
Felix righted a chair and sat in it. “So, the future of the empire depends on that wimp, Tao, with Kestrel. What a lot we have to look forward to after your death. Tao will have given everything a
way to the low-born before you’re even cold in your grave.”
Through Thurban’s voice, he had tried hard to persuade Mott against organizing a bride for Tao, but his brother had proved stubbornly resistant to that suggestion.
Mott glared at him, then gestured with the dagger to Raklus to right a chair for him to sit on. Raklus leaped to obey. He picked up one for himself, too, but didn’t get to sit. Once enthroned, holding his dagger like a scepter, Mott commanded Raklus to leave. Raklus’s dark eyes shot to Felix, looking for answers.
Although Felix knew enough of Mott’s thoughts to guess what was coming, he shrugged as if he, too, were clueless. While Raklus left the room, Mott ran his fingers down the blade of the dagger, as if testing its sharpness.
Once the door slid closed, his brother said, “Who mentioned anything about Tao living long enough to inherit my throne? I don’t trust him any more than I do Lukan.”
Felix faked a sigh. “For someone who claims not to believe in the Dmitri Curse, you are unreasonably paranoid about your sons.”
“Only someone who isn’t emperor of the richest, most powerful dynasty in the world could be naïve enough to make a comment like that.” Mott cleared his throat and then added, flippantly, “It’s why I’ve never remarried. At least my bastards have no legitimate claim to my throne and are therefore not inclined to fling daggers at me.”
Felix took a moment to think on how to steer this discussion—and Mott’s mind. “I foresee problems if you pursue this course.”
It was his brother’s turn to sigh. “You always do.”
“If you slaughter Lukan and Tao, who will provide the grandsons?” Face expressionless, Felix eyed Mott over steepled fingers. “I assume you’re hoping Axel will father sons for you to claim as your own?”
Mott snorted. “And have the succession shift to your side of the family? The next emperor will come from my loins, not yours. I will not go down in history as the man who failed to provide a decent heir to a four-hundred-year-old dynasty. My sons are pathetic, but I have a plan to solve that problem.”