Chapter Sixteen
The hall empties, and I stand to make my escape, only to find my way blocked by a maelstrom of shadows. I shudder, the ruthless killing power of all those tendrils front and center in my brain. If they meant me harm, I’d already be dead, so I reach for calm and stay still.
In the next heartbeat, the king appears in the middle of the mass, the whorls of shadow sinking into his luminous brown skin, climbing his throat and settling into place.
Aether pillar, I think—moving through darkness has to be kinetic—and the ease with which he does it proves that he’s undoubtedly of sovran rank, which I suspected already.
Ashes below, the man is scarily large. Those epaulets make his shoulders seem even broader, the spiked edges adding a ferocity that makes my pulse skip. Or perhaps that’s just his looming presence, the magic within him barely contained by that powerful, lethal body.
I force myself not to notice the sharpness of his jaw as he towers over me, the harsh mouth that isn’t overtly full but sensual nonetheless, and the darkly possessive look in those eyes as they roam over me from head to toe.
Though what he’s possessive about, I have no idea.
Shutters slam down over his gaze when he notices me staring back, his gaze going purposefully blank as if he hadn’t meant to be so transparent.
I attempt a curtsy and break the fraught silence that throbs between us. “Your Majesty.”
“I knew you would shine more than the brightest star in the sky,” he rasps. “That suits you well.”
Oh. The gown. I’d forgotten I was wearing what he had chosen.
“I’m not a doll you can dress to your specifications, you know,” I tell him, despite the indecent—and categorically unwanted—rush of pleasure at his words.
One of those dark eyebrows vaults, his lips curling into the tiniest smirk. “I don’t make it a habit of playing with dolls, my lady. At least not until I’m behind closed doors.”
The underlying gravel in his words makes that reply far more provocative than it should be . . . and has me unsettled. “By the maker, is that a joke from the cruel nightmare king?” I shoot back, his nearness and his smoke and rich oud scent clouding my good sense.
“Cruel nightmare king?” he echoes. “I suppose I’ve been called worse.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
Instead of responding, he runs a hand through his hair, his fingers making the silken silver strands catch the light of the nearby sconce. “I wager you’re as stingy with those as you are with your truths.”
I sniff. “I do not offer praises lightly. Like many things in life, they have to be earned. And I’ve told you the truth as I know it.”
“Though not as it may be,” he replies cryptically.
Why does it feel like every time I speak to this man he knows far more than he is saying? A lot more, from the riot of emotions burning in that midnight gaze, the least provocative of which is that strange undercurrent of possessiveness.
And worse, why do I feel so drawn to him?
“Are you compelling me with your magic?” I ask softly.
His dark gaze drops to the cuffs at my wrist. “I could not even if I tried. There are runes on those that prevent another’s influence.
Even mine.” I blink in surprise. “The binding runes on those cuffs are spelled to not only reduce your magic but to inhibit it. And whenever your magic threatens the integrity of the cuffs, the dormancy runes force you to sleep.” He exhales.
“In truth, I suspect there are runes that tampered with your memory as well, in case you fell into the wrong hands.”
“So it’s not a brain injury?” I ask, frowning.
He shakes his head. “Your magic would have healed you by now. That’s what it has been doing all along, slowly but surely.”
Once more, I want to tear the cursed bracers from my body and lay waste to them with every ounce of my being. Powerless anger blooms. My magic, like my body and my mind, is mine, no one else’s.
“We will find a way to get them off,” the king promises, and I startle at the viciousness of his tone as if he’d heard me.
My eyes narrow on him, face heating. “Can you read my thoughts?”
The slow, sexy smirk that curls one side of his mouth shouldn’t be that devastating. Or so mesmerizing. Stars above, what would a full smile look like on him? It would be a weapon of unmitigated destruction, leaving a slew of broken hearts—and ruined undergarments—in its wake.
“Why, Starbright? Afraid?”
“My name is Suraya,” I snap, peeved at myself for feeling so much as a whisper of delight at the nickname. “No, I’m not afraid. I have nothing to hide from you or anyone.”
“Noted,” he says, and then cants his head.
“I can hear thoughts if they are not properly guarded, or if they are projected specifically to me. Intrusion into the mind is an indelicate, invasive thing, requiring an obscene amount of magic. I am capable of it, of course, but without consent, it is unforgivable. A crime worthy of severe punishment.”
I suppress a shudder. Power of that magnitude, being able to breach someone’s mind, is inconceivable to me. “If you believe I am such a threat, then what’s stopping you from finding out once and for all why I’m here?”
“Because as much as I don’t trust you, that is a path that leads to a place of darkness I don’t wish to traverse.”
Curious, I peer up at him. “Darkness?”
“Fero’s domain,” he says tightly.
The hairs on my nape stand to attention.
Thanks to my mother’s books, I’m familiar with the pantheon of gods and goddesses.
Saru, the god of creation, and Fero, his twin brother and eternal opposite, the god of death, are at the top.
Do the Everleans serve the old gods? No one believes in them in Oryndhr, except for a few arcane heretics.
When magic died, so did any devotion to the gods.
But here, magic is thriving, so the gods must be, too.
An oily feeling kisses my skin—a sensation I have felt before—and I cringe.
My head throbs as the fog in my brain convulses.
The thought of Fero evokes something visceral .
. . the memory of the dark god’s foul touch.
Images burst into light in my mind: an altar and a sacrifice, the chanting of death magi summoning their master to devour my soul . . .
Something instinctive detonates inside of me—an explosion of heat—and the thick fog that has kept me prisoner clears for a few extended heartbeats.
But then my cuffs flare red, knees buckling as my eyes roll back in my skull from the instant compulsion of the runes. Quick arms catch me before I hit the ground, and I am swept up into a strong embrace. I close my eyes and cling to the king for dear life as his magic lifts us into fluid darkness.
When it clears, I’m horizontal and on the softest surface imaginable.
My eyes flutter slowly open. I don’t recognize the room, but opulence is in every detail—in the enormous mahogany pillars at each corner of the bed, the lavish furniture and ornate golden sconces, the rich carpeting and intricate tapestries from ceiling to floor.
“Where am I?” I mumble.
“My chambers,” a deep voice answers, and I feel the caress of it all over me.
As a result, my brain is slower than usual to catch up, but when it does, I balk. Sands, the king’s chambers? His bed? I sit up and instantly blink at the dizziness assaulting me.
The memories I’d regained from the fog hit me next.
How could a queen turned death magi reincarnate a dead god .
. . and use me as a receptacle to do it?
And nearly succeed? Even now I can still sense the chilling grasp of the god of death reaching for my soul, and it feels like a thousand graveworms slithering across my skin, searching for the tenderest parts of me to consume. That cannot possibly be real!
I rub my arms hard, recalling the heated burst inside that had sent me spiraling into oblivion.
“What happened back there?” the king asks. “Why did you react so poorly when I mentioned Fero?”
“You worship the old gods?” I counter. I don’t know the full context of what I’ve remembered, no matter how impossible it is, and I’m not sure I want to share the pieces with him when I don’t understand or believe them myself.
He eyes me, his handsome face vexingly unreadable, as usual. “Don’t you?”
“No. In Oryndhr, it’s heresy.”
A grim laugh leaves him. “That’s rich, considering you are—” His words cut off as he blinks, stopping himself and looking away.
“I’m what?” An abomination? Unnatural?
“Nothing.” He turns and stalks to the window, his fists balling and releasing, standing there with his shadows swirling about him, as if they, too, are agitated by his state of mind. “Magic didn’t vanish from your realm. You were cursed and stripped of akasha by Saru himself.”
My jaw sags in surprise. I remember Ani alluding to a different explanation when I’d said Oryndhrians stopped believing in the old gods and that’s why we lost our magic, but she’d cut herself off before explaining. “What do you mean?” I ask the king now.
“The War of the Gods decimated nearly all of Endara,” he says.
“Mountains turned to dust, cities were broken, and lands were swallowed by the seas. Whole realms were shattered and picked apart by monstrous things, because when gods go to war, everyone suffers. The three realms descended into chaos.”
I frown. “What do you mean three realms? There are only two.”