Chapter 11 The Forgotten Heir #2
Something in Asterious sparked. If only she understood how he would absolutely relish what it would feel like to hold a dagger at her throat when she threw out her callous accusations.
If only she knew how much it was in her best interest that he couldn’t.
But she knew nothing. She’d been sold the lie like everyone else, yet her judgements still stung.
And the inexplicable way that it bothered him was salt in the wound.
“I’m hardly the monster you think I am. I took no pleasure in killing for my father. I wasn’t given a choice. But perhaps you can be the first of my own choosing.” Asterious bared his teeth, settling to tip her chin toward him with a finger instead of the dagger he’d like to imagine.
“Don’t touch me.” Caramyn hissed, yanking her face away. “Why are you toying with me? If you’re doing all this behind the King’s back, it’s only a matter of time before he comes looking for you. So even if it’s not your plan to kill me, he certainly will.”
Asterious stepped away with a sly smile and began to pace, folding his hands behind his back. She’d managed to pique his interest in her personal secrets, and perhaps trading secrets was the key. So he decided to throw out one he could spare. One that might even get her talking.
“I wouldn’t be too worried about that.” He glanced back to watch her reaction. “Because King Daemar is dead.”
He could see the way her body tensed even from over his shoulder, just as he expected. “You killed your own father?”
“No, no. I assure you, I did not have the pleasure. No one is quite sure who did, actually. It was a successful assassination and the key to my freedom.” He whipped around, fighting back a grin.
“Was it you? Perhaps that’s why you were out running in the wilderness and won’t tell me anything. Now it’s all coming together.”
Caramyn shot him a withering look. “I didn't realize I impressed you that much. You really think I could kill the king and escape?”
Asterious stepped toward her, prodding further as his game grew more interesting. “Why not? Maybe you killed him with magic. What more reason to want the man dead who placed a bounty on your kind?"
“I’m not magic. I’ve never even used a simple rune spell.” Caramyn began to fidget, but then put her hands at her sides, her robe slipping open an inch. "My mother was half-Lightborn, like you. And you know as well as I do that magic does not transfer to children of half-breeds…”
“And your father?”
She flinched at the question. “I don’t know.
My father…he left before I was born. But if he was of magic blood, my mother would’ve told me.
..” Something in the girl’s face shifted.
The mask she wore slipped for all but a second as she threw her gaze to the floor and then back up.
He noticed the way she kept her hands at her sides, but twisted the edges of her silky garment nervously.
“I see.” He breathed in, truly intrigued. “And may I ask what was your mother’s gift? Could it have had any bearing on your unusual eye color?”
“She…she was a wind weaver. One white eye, one sky-blue. She always told me she believed the reason I was born with eyes like these was because I was sick in the womb. And she found someone who used magic to save me…to keep me from dying. And it did this. I don’t have magic of my own. Believe me, I've tried.”
“You know there’s only one kind of magic said to be capable of bringing back the dead…and it does not come without consequence.” He raised an eyebrow.
“It wasn’t Shadow magic, if that’s what you’re getting at. I wasn’t dead. Just dying. Either way, it wasn’t my choice to make. Healing magic has its own price. Mine was this—a deformity. The mark of a mistake. Of someone who wasn’t meant to survive.”
“And yet you did.” His words came out softer than he meant them to. He was merely stating a fact, but she perked up at his voice and stared at him as if expecting more. That hard exterior she wore like armor cracking just a bit further.
But just as suddenly it returned, and she withdrew herself, crossing her arms. “You’re damn right. I did.”
“It’s quite entertaining the way those eyes of yours catch fire when you’re irked.
” She scowled at his words, blushing as she looked away out the window again.
He paced for a bit, letting her simmer a second longer before bringing the conversation back around.
“You have no reason to worry. At least not about being tried for high treason. I have a strong suspicion of who the assassin might be, and it’s certainly not you. ”
“Then shouldn’t you be there at Blackwynd doing something about it?” Caramyn raised her chin. “Or are you running from your duties like you ran from the bandits?”
Asterious pressed his lips together. He wouldn’t let her get under his skin with such a childish comment.
“If that’s what you want to call it, sure.
But it wouldn’t matter anyway. I’m the forgotten bastard heir, remember?
The throne is out of my reach…for now.” He raised his hand casually, studying the ridges of his knuckles.
“So, for the time being Evylere is without a king, and the Blackwynd Court’s facade is falling because the news is spreading.
But you see, my father’s death wasn’t merely.
..convenient. It was calculated. Precise.
Not the work of some vagrant spell-dodger in the woods.
” His eyes flicked to her. “No offense.”
“I’m not offended,” she said flatly. “Just waiting for you to get to the point.”
“My point,” he continued, “is that my father’s murderer was someone who knew the palace, the guard rotations, the hidden passages.
Someone with the authority to get close, and the skill to vanish afterward.
Someone who stands to inherit everything and who was starting to hate him almost as much as I did.
” He walked to the window, touching a finger to a blood red section of the stained glass. “And someone who hated me, too.”
Caramyn’s eyes begged him to go on, but she didn’t say anything as he let the words hang in the air.
“So, yes. I ran. I ran from Blackwynd. Because there festers a dark power that grows stronger each day, and it was only a matter of time before it turned its gaze on me. And I refused to become the next pawn in the game, to be hunted or used—least of all by the one person I believed would stand beside me—my dear own sister.”