Chapter 34 - Meryn #2
I can’t make out nearly as many details as I did when I witnessed Queen Chiara, but judging by the pale stone and regal furniture, I’m in a room in the Astreonan castle.
Staggering slightly, I float out of my skin, then settle back into my bones.
Just as I get my bearings, there’s a soft moan from behind me. I spin around, thinking someone is wounded or dying. Readying myself for the pain of tragedies long past.
But it’s not pain I heard.
My mouth drops open and my hand flies up to block out the scene before me. I’m in a lavishly decorated bedroom, the candlelight low and flickering.
And Lucien is in flagrante with three other people on a massive bed.
There’s a woman to his left, a man to his right, and another woman between his legs. They’re all naked, and it’s just skin and bodies and sweat.
Seriously? I want to scream. The fucking bastard took me to a vision of an orgy.
What is wrong with this guy?
I knew I was right about him. He’s messing with me. Of course he is.
He’s hundreds of years old and probably bored.
I spin back around, covering my heated cheeks with my hands and trying to unsee and unhear all of it.
The moment I turn, the door in front of me slams open against the wall so hard it bounces back and rattles. A dark-haired, older-looking woman is at the door.
“Your fa—” She gasps and stumbles back as if she’s been slapped. Then she lifts her hand to protect herself from the visual assault the same way I did. “Lucien! For crying out loud!”
Lucien chuckles from his bed as the man kisses down his neck, clearly unbothered by this woman’s sudden presence.
She keeps her eyes skyward and sighs deeply. I have the sudden suspicion this is a common occurrence.
“The king has called an emergency council meeting. You need to come right away.”
“Everyone hear her?” Lucien replies with a smile, letting his head drop back briefly before lifting it again. “It’s time to come.”
“Right away,” one of the women giggles out. The other woman lowers her mouth between Lucien’s legs again, enthusiastically following orders.
The older woman gives up and pins Lucien with her glare. Her hands curl into fists, and her delicately arranged hair quivers against her cheeks.
“Lucien. I don’t have time for your frivolities. Your father needs you, now. It’s about Alistair.”
Lucien immediately sits up. His smile is gone. His bedmates complain, moving away from him. His chest rises and falls a few times as he stares at the woman in the doorway, then he’s shifting to stand.
I curse under my breath and turn my eyes away as he quickly dresses his admittedly chiseled body. His partners have started back up, apparently unbothered by his absence.
I’m grateful to leave them behind as Lucien follows the woman’s hurried gait down the halls. They don’t exchange a single word all the way to what looks like a formal audience room with a throne on one end of the space.
I can’t make out much detail beyond the blur of long banners waving in the breeze from a wide-open balcony that stretches the length of the room.
A man sits on the throne, flanked by guards and attendants.
He’s much clearer than his surroundings, with white-blond hair like Lucien’s and the same sun-bolt crown that brought me to this vision.
He appears older than Lucien, maybe in his fifties if he weren’t a Siphon, and shares none of Lucien’s playful, feline charm.
This regent is serious. Angry, maybe, though it’s hard to tell whether the deep lines between his brows are just always there regardless of his mood.
The king—Lucien’s father—doesn’t greet his son as he arrives. He watches Lucien as he strides up toward the throne to take a lower seat beside him.
I follow Lucien, studying the tense expression on his face. It’s the same look he got in his eyes when he told me about Alistair’s vendetta.
Serious, clear, penetrating. He looks more like his stern father when he stares forward like this.
The doors burst open once more. Guards appear dressed in sparse but elegant half-plate armor, dragging with them a disoriented-looking man.
Their prisoner looks so much like Killian I almost recoil. He has the exact same sweetly deceitful eyes, the same shade of dark blond hair, the same pointed features. My stomach knots.
The guards throw him down onto the pale pink stone floor. He cries out on impact and remains kneeling as he lifts his head.
Stay on all fours, dog, I growl internally.
“There’s been a very serious accusation against you, Alistair,” the king says, staring down at his son icily. I’d freeze over entirely if that look were directed at me. “It is said that you have been creating thrall bracelets.”
That word again. Thrall.
Alistair looks up at his father with blatant shock on his face. “I… Father, I would never do such an abominable thing!”
His voice cracks. His eyes well. He looks so vulnerable and afraid. Earnest. He looks like he isn’t lying.
The king nods to the guards. Through my vision, they move in a blur, reappearing moments later with additional people. Several men and women stand around Alistair, their expressions all grave.
The guards step forward and pull up the sleeves of the men and women, exposing bracelets on all of them—gold, with bloodred jewels at their centers.
My stomach bottoms out. My horror spills through the vision in a wave, staining everything in its color-drained dread.
Thrall bracelets.
Identical to the engagement bracelet shackled to my wrist.
The scene goes on despite my terror. Lucien leans back as if to create space between himself and what’s happening. His upper lip curls, and I swear he’s sharing in my revulsion. I don’t know what it all means yet, but the look Lucien wears is a warning.
Alistair’s face drops. His trembling, terrified act vanishes just as quickly as Killian’s kindness did. He straightens and shakes his head.
“Fine. You’ve caught me. But it’s for the good of our kingdom, Father.”
The king raises his hand abruptly. “I have no desire to hear your lies. You’ve broken one of the foundational laws of Astreona, and in doing so, proved once and for all how unworthy you are of your royal name. You are to be exiled, and your brother, Lucien, instated as heir to my throne.”
Lucien whirls on his father, eyes widen with clear panic. “Wh-what?!”
“You cannot do that to me!” Alistair bellows. “I am your heir! Your firstborn! This is—”
“Quiet!” the king shouts. His voice moves like violence. Fast, fast, and then a heavy impact that settles over the room and starts to bruise. “This is how it will be. Alistair, I don’t ever want to see you near Brightbane again.”
Alistair’s hands curl into weapons.
“I’m sorry it had to come to this, Father,” he intones, blue eyes glinting for an instant before he shuts them.
I blink, and then the people wearing the thrall bracelets are glazing over, shivering, convulsing. Within the space of a moment, they explode into frantic motion, attacking everyone close to them.
Fangs flash. There are screams. Guards turn weapons on their captives.
Lucien bolts to his feet, watching the scene with wild eyes, and then runs to protect his father, the king.
But he’s too late. His father’s attendants have already turned on him, thrall bracelets flashing on their wrists. One of them fends off the loyal guards. Another draws a long dagger and swiftly beheads the king, face eerily dispassionate.
Lucien reaches his father just as it happens, catching the body as it slumps down over the throne, pouring blood. He howls in anger. Then he draws his weapons and strikes down the attendant who, I gather, acted not of his own accord.
In one smooth motion, Lucien snatches the Astreonan crown from where it fell to the ground, placing it on his head.
Suddenly, there are a dozen Luciens, each racing forward, sword upraised, in pursuit of Alistair. I’ve never seen Siphon magic like it, illusions so real and vivid, and visible to everyone at once.
It must be the crown amplifying Lucien’s power, I realize, and shiver.
I’m not the only one taken aback; the guards and attendants under Alistair’s control scatter and shout, confused by the convincing image of their prince attacking from all sides. Alistair barks orders at them, veins bulging in his face as he fights to maintain control of his unwilling army.
Here and there, I spot the real Lucien as he slaughters more of Alistair’s thralls.
Lucien’s speed seems to have been buoyed by the crown’s powers as well.
He moves so fast I can barely see him. He tears through their defenses with ease, cutting short scream after scream.
Blood runs thick across the marble floors.
Alistair frantically summons more of his thralls to stand between himself and the line of advancing Luciens.
“You don’t want this, brother,” Alistair says almost gently, backing toward the door. “You and I both know it’s too much responsibility for you.”
He’s back to acting humble and misunderstood. How quickly he spins from personality to personality.
“You’re meant for a life of pleasure and luxury,” Alistair continues. “Give the crown to me, let it be my burden.”
Lucien stares directly at his brother, eyes like ice as he cuts down another two thrall warriors. “Not a chance, you sadistic asshole.”
Alistair’s face contorts in a snarl. “You will live to regret this, Lucien. I promise, I will take my throne back. No matter the cost.”
And before Lucien can reach him, Alistair whirls away, vanishing out the door.