Chapter 44
A fire brooded within me. My veneer had fallen after I left the prison’s stairwell, and I now stalked the castle as a weeping rose. Once Constantine and I parted ways, the bind of the Shadow lessened. With seething rage, I was able cast it from my blood. Deceit had returned shortly after, sifting through my conversations in the dungeon.
As I chased corridors, the god dissected my memories, making me relive each moment. Gwendolyne was alive in my mind, and Wylie’s words echoed on repeat—
Mourn those whose death is imminent. This is their place in the tapestry of fate.
There was an entanglement of rage and sorrow in me, stuffing my heart to the point of ache.
Did you know about Sight’s vision? I shot my anger at Deceit. I was weary of the secrets, weary of all left unspoken—be it from a lord, a prince, or the god himself.
Plucking another strand from my mind, Deceit stole the memory of Alistair and me in his chamber.
My anger deepened with balled fists. I said, do not touch that memory.
Deceit ignored me. His whetted nail followed the path of my memory, causing it to rattle in my recollection. In my mind, Alistair’s silhouette spasmed, and the hearth’s light shook. This moment should have remained untouched, but the god made it as brittle as autumn leaves.
His timbre leached into my skull, The visions of Sight are like threads beside blades. If a vision is cut, Sight will be guided by another twining that leads to another outcome. As Deceit’s nail maimed within me, I thought he might break my memory in two. But instead, Deceit sucked a breath and set the memory back where it had been.
What does that mean, that a vision is cut?
He hummed another breath. Paths are many weavings, sown together by consequences. Sight follows a path most plausible, though, with the unseen work of Shadows, the god can only be so sure. The fall of the guild, we did not foresee, because it was the work of Shadows laboring beyond our eyes.
Turning another corner shielded by shadows and stones, I asked, So there is still hope?
His breath wrung through his teeth in a sneer. Hope, Princess?
Hope that the guild might live, and… My words died. This fear—uplifting the crown—it was a fear I never knew to have.
Deceit snatched my dread.
Two points stabbed my skull—his vile smile returned. Hope does not breathe in these days. Not when the end of all beckons. Deceit curled himself like a cat in the wallowing darkness. Even as he lay, the god’s weight was agonizing.
He snatched my dread and grief in his bony fingers and strangled them into silence.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, and my mind quieted.
I had learned some control over my thoughts and emotions while he was gone—taming the lurid noise in my mind that he’d often silence. But, I had to admit, it was easier having him here to vanquish the relentless thoughts for me.
Perhaps his godly burdens were simply the price for a quiet mind.
I wandered through the castle halls as a stranger to these stones. Though these passageways did not know me, I knew them. Guiding myself further from the dining hall’s stream of music, I neared the throne room where my father conversed with hordes of men.
Claiming your crown?
Shut up, I threw my voice at the god.
Two hollow armors were stationed beside a thin hallway.
I fell from torchlight and into the thin hall, varnished in darkness. The stones were cold against my fingertips. I closed my eyes, taking patient breaths, and reached far back into old memories. Leaning forward, I set myself near my childhood height. An indent marked the beginning of a secret passage, and a crumbling stone marked the end. Three stones higher, I placed my hand and pressed down.
The wall groaned, and dust unsettled. A small opening welcomed back their princess, and my lips curled at the castle’s obedience. Treading into the forgotten tunnel between walls, the steps guided me upwards. I crouched low, unable to stand as I could when I was little, and followed the distant light denoting the throne room.
Voices echoed in the secret passage. Hearty laughter filled my ears.
“Another trader to our cause,” a deep tone rumbled. A kingly tone.
“Only fools believe their king knows not their acts.”
I situated myself at the end of the passage before a thin crack. Through the splice, I sat just below the chandelier’s height. It was a monumental collection of crystal reflecting the nothingness of this age’s light. Pillars lined the edge of the throne room, acting as spires of obstructions to my sight. Through the secret crevasse, I saw the thrones to my right and the lords to my left. All were there, a collection of lost souls, exalting sinner’s crown. Beyond forty men stood before the three monarchs, surrounded by further guards and servants.
Deceit scraped my eyes as he prowled.
“Sire,” another voice called.
“We had no warning of Lord Halious’s treachery. Are you certain?” The man’s linens had a golden emblem upon his chest. He was a royal advisor, begging reason from the unreasonable.
The king’s undying grimace hardened. Lifting his hand, the king struck the naysayer across the face. Everyone remained still as the advisor fell down the platform stairs and into a pool of blood where a man—a Lord Halious—lay lifeless.
Prince Knox rose from his throne and cast his glare downward to the advisor.
“Do not question your king, you damn heretic.” And to the guards, the heir gestured for the advisor to be taken away.
The king offered his son a nod of assent.
Before the advisor could rise and grovel, guards seized his arms and dragged him away. The advisor’s robes leaked blood, painting a red pathway.
Maids trembled before the throne. Three heaved away the lifeless lord, and others prepared to wipe away the blood.
“Leave it,” the king demanded.
“Let it be a reminder of what happens when men forget their place.” My father looked out at his people.
“Lord Douglas, step forward.”
The lord of Hollow Spire broke from the others—the one who took the estate after Percy and Lord Morrigan’s passing. The one who upheld the elvish slavery barters.
Without hesitation, Douglas planted his feet in the blood, bathing his soles in red.
Evandor sat at his throne, his back curving with his seat and arms crossed over his chest. He upheld himself as a spectator behind the king and the king’s heir.
My father looked down from the bridge of his big nose, standing before his throne.
“Tell me, Lord Douglas, what honor have you brought your king?”
“Your Majesty.” Douglas set his hand upon his chest and bowed.
“The elvish barters are stronger than their days beneath Morrigan Calhourn. My crest has fortified your work, and more elves fall to chains upon each day.”
The king glared.
“Then tell me, Douglas, why have I heard news that Lord Alistair’s keep of Cindermoor has been overrun?”
Douglas’s feet stirred the blood.
“With respect, Your Majesty, my directions were to allow the Raven Estate to defend their lands without my hand. I had offered my graces, though I had been denied.”
“Ah, yes, the pride of a Raven knows no ends.” The king lifted his hand.
“Lord Alistair. Come forward.”
A young man was divided from the aged, his dark hair denouncing the light. He looked far less kept than the rest. Where many men had combed hair and pleated jackets, his hair was unruly, and his shirt was wrinkled. I sighed, the sight of him pulling me into my mind—Alistair tearing the shirt off his body and lifting it off mine.
Dammit, child, focus, the god snapped.
Alistair bowed before the king.
“Your Majesty.”
Evandor straightened in his seat with careful eyes.
“You denied Lord Douglas’s aide in fending off the elves,” the king stated.
Austerity was unceasing as Alistair stood with legs shoulder-width apart. Hands clasp behind his back, he did not give any tell of alarm.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
So much for keeping his advisors informed. I uttered to myself, my words meeting Deceit.
Alistair continued with a tilted chin.
“I would have accepted Lord Douglas’s aide, though he had an interest in my right over Tharen Crest—the jewel of my father’s lifework. But Cindermoor was inconsequential. The people were few, poor, and dying of infections. Tharen Crest, however, remains strengthened and uncontended.”
The king’s eyes scraped away from Alistair.
“Lord Douglas,” my father’s octave dropped.
“You sought to shift the scales of privilege in my kingdom.”
“No, my King. I only sought what I was owed.” Douglas pinched the crease of his trousers with slumping shoulders.
The king scoffed.
“Owed? You are owed nothing,” he bit, square jaw in a tense.
“I grant titles, I grant wealth, and it is my seal that endorses reign throughout the kingdom.”
The air thickened with tension.
Knox sauntered behind our father with a sickening delight at the edges of his stare.
The scarlet waters Douglas stood in now appeared like a foretelling of his own fate.
“And now,” the king growled.
“A town has fallen into elvish hands.” In brazen steps, the king marched towards his subject and held himself at the edge of the stage. His palm rested on the pommel of his blade.
Evandor winced with low brows. Knox’s lips curved.
Alistair and Evandor locked eyes for a split second.
“Tell me, Douglas.” Black ink chased the king’s veins and surged to his eyes. His hand flexed at the sword’s hilt.
“When did you doubt your king’s decree of naming the Raven’s rule over the western lands?”
A batting breath trembled Douglas’s demeanor.
“Doubt, Your Majesty? I have never doubted you.” Feet splashing in the blood, he knew what was to come.
“Disgraceful!” Another voice joined the cause. Evandor broke his spine from the throne and joined his family at the altar.
“Questioning the king, disregarding his verdict of powers, and playing the monarch in your own land.”
Three crowns twisted on the stage.
“When did the lords discard their faith?” Towering above Douglas, Evandor then stepped down from the stage. He knelt beside the pool of blood and dipped his fingers in red. Wiping it down Douglas’s face, Evandor stained the lord’s skin in omen. The prince affirmed his fears.
Douglas’s hands violently shook at his sides.
“I-I-I do not lose faith.”
Evandor snarled.
“Then why did you seek power where power was not offered?”
As Evandor stood a tyrant, my father and Knox gardened pride in their eyes. The two lengthened their spines with broadened shoulders. Waiting.
But there was something unspoken happening here—where the king drew conclusions without explanation, Evandor posed questions that required answers. The king and Knox may have been too blind to notice, but Evandor was granting this lord an opportunity to justify his actions.
“Speak quickly,” Evandor demanded.
Douglas’s shoulders shook.
“I thought my name on Tharen Crest might further my reach of the slavery barters. I heard the elves were pressing the borders from their haven in the West, and my right to the stronghold could support the king’s aims of enslaving the elves.”
Evandor lifted his palm, halting further words, and rubbed his chin as though he was grooming his thoughts.
“So, your defiance was in aims to benefit the crown?”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Douglas’s hips bent in a subtle bow.
“My life is in homage to the Torrance reign.”
“Lies.” Knox paraded forward to stand beside his father and brother.
“You cannot defy the king and then expect to live. Your insolence ends with your final breath!”
“A breath that has been devoted to our father’s reign,” Evandor said calmly and set his hand upon his brother’s chest, acting as a barrier between him and the lord—between Lord Douglas’s life and death.
Knox scorned his brother with a wolfish glare.
“We must ensure,” Evandor vindicated.
“the elvish barters remain intact. Should the reins on the elves loosen, they might unite with those who serve the gods. With Lord Morrigan’s passing, we need to guarantee there is no further void in powers.”
Knox’s skin burned red.
This place where the brothers stood, divided by wisdom and rage, was timeless. And I saw years of anger structured on the deep creases of Knox’s glare and the sharp eyes on Evandor.
In the silence between brothers, all turned towards the king.
My father took his place above all, returning to his throne. As he turned and sat, his veins appeared to be rinsed of the Shadow’s hold.
“Lord Douglas, you best be gladdened for my mercy this day. If words reach of any treachery, you will die like the swine who serve the gods.”
At the king’s decree, a life was pardoned.
Knox grunted and marked his little brother. Like a beast trudging through the undergrowth, Knox lumbered to his throne.
Evandor’s gaze softened as he turned to Lord Douglas. Alistair and Evandor exchanged quiet eyes before the prince returned to the stage, and Douglas stumbled back into the mass of men.
“Lord Alistair,” the king remarked.
“To what honor have you brought your king?”
As Alistair stood before the crown, he neither straightened his crinkled shirt nor tamed his unkept hair. Though it did not matter. As he stood at the red puddle’s edge with practiced eyes and unreadable lips, Alistair’s stoic temperament held him far more fearless and honorable than those around. Worthy of standing before a king.
“Your Majesty.” His voice hung low.
“Tharen Crest is near complete. More men have been recruited to serve beneath Captain Tynan, and we continue to become the unbreakable wall between the elves and the rest of Andrael. Losing Cindermoor was not ideal, though insignificant. Plans are in motion to retaliate against the elves, retake Cindermoor, and press their borders back to the seas of Caelithien.”
“Yes, my son has told me of your plans. But what of the elvish haven?” The king’s fist rested beneath his chin as an elbow stabbed the armrest.
“The God of Sentient protects them.”
“We have yet to step upon their grounds—”
“The king’s grounds,” Knox added.
“Yes, the king’s grounds where the elves stay in safety, protected by the God of Sentient.” Alistair took a slow breath.
“We have yet to encounter such a god in the war. His strength, I have yet to know.”
“Your father served the crown well in his lifetime,” the king stated.
“I am pleased to see you resume his work and know the Shadows live within you.”
Alistair’s hair fell as he tilted his head.
“It is my honor, my king.”
I listened to the lie slip from his lips, smooth and sure.
The king continued.
“You will take a group of my men with you when you return west. They will be the lesser of men I have. Stronger than a damn peasant, but disposable nonetheless. They will venture to the elvish haven. Should they return, they will report on what powers the God of Sentient holds.”
Knox and Evandor remained motionless in their hallowed seats.
“Your gift is well received, King Paden.”
“It is not a gift.” The king’s massive stature shifted in his seat.
“It is an opportunity for you to take back control over the lands.”
“I understand, your grace.”
“Remember, Alistair, your camaraderie with my son grants you favor, not immunity,” the king confessed.
“The generosity of a king does have an end. Should I hear of further loss at the hands of elves, you will see the limits of my grace.”
Alistair’s eyes sharpened.
“The elves will fall. I’ll be sure of it.”
Deceit’s hum vibrated my mind. And still, even in promises of death, my servant falls in temptation for the dark lords of this age.
“You best, Raven.” The king lifted his hand and swatted away Alistair’s presence.
With a low bow, the Raven Lord took his leave.
Evandor and Knox traded glares, and the king began, “Lord—”
But he was cut short.
The doors swung open. Metal armors clinked beside footsteps. Gasps. Whispers. A tension strung through the lords as all turned to see who joined. The king was unreadable between the lines of his face, though one brow lifted higher than the other. I paid no mind to Knox, but Evandor’s artful composure shattered for a blink. He and Alistair traded glances. Alistair’s jaw latched near the point of breaking.
Two sets of footsteps continued down the line towards the thrones.
I saw their attire before I recognized the men—one adorned in crimson of his house, balding crown above his plait. Lucien. Another man, slender in navy, held his head high. I saw his face, but I thought my eyes were playing tricks.
My stomach was in my throat.
The god hissed.
He was never meant to walk again—I’d seen him dead—but he was here before the king, setting his soles in the pool of blood. But his blood was rich in the laurel wood. It was. I saw it. He lifted his chin and arms to the king, then swept himself into a low bow. Lucien fell in line, the two men twisting their bodies to the Torrance crown.
This man’s body should be stretched thin—strung up for the crows, never to bow again. Never to torture, never to kill, never to touch me or whisper promises of death. He had died in the laurel wood, his soul dragged to the sands of Oldurem.
Or, so I thought.
The god fell mute, nothing stirring but his slow breaths.
Evandor was pale.
The king marked the man and lifted his hand, commanding he rise. Then uttered the name, and it confirmed my eyes had not deceived me.
“Lord Briarwood.”
“My king.” Briarwood’s lips stretched into a vile grin.