Chapter 17 Theo
When the undead provost lumbered onto the dais of the Appoline ballroom, Theo’s magic jolted awake.
That voice he had been trying so hard to ignore became a foghorn in his head.
Such magic in your midst.
Such power for the taking.
He fell back, losing himself in a sea of revellers as Anouk shoved her way towards her brother. No way in hell was he going near Ransom Hale like this.
The Saint of Truth was an equally unappealing destination, not that Val was in her right mind either. She was currently vomiting into a vase by the window.
Power rippled against him.
His own magic was a lightning rod, attracting the unseen forces in his midst.
He felt it everywhere, and all at once: the web of Andreas’s compulsions brushing up against his soul like a preening cat; the choking ash of Lark’s death magic; the dark swathe of Ransom’s shadows; the crystalline bell of Val’s truth magic; and the brute force of Anouk’s power trembling under the floorboards.
Not only could he feel it. He coveted it.
He burned for it.
Every last drop.
The need was deep and gnawing. A hunger so ravenous he could barely think beyond it. His hands began to sweat, teeth chattering as he stalked across the dance floor, looking for somewhere to hide.
Rose-bearers swarmed the ballroom, blocking every doorway—
Except for the one the dead provost had just emerged from.
Good enough. Theo crept around the dais, ignoring the prickling along the back of his neck. The door was ajar. He slipped through, and shut it behind him, standing with his back against the wood. His breath punched out of him, the heat in his veins only worsening.
There was magic in here, too.
The room was larger than he had expected. Not a private study but a kind of archive. To the right, chalices and crowns sat along a long shelf. He drifted towards a bronze circlet, fingering a peridot the size of his thumbnail. Still bright.
A plaque beneath read:
The Coronation Crown of King Bertrand I,
the first ruler of the Kingdom of Valterre
Heat stirred, the old voice hissing:
Take it.
Claim it.
You will wear it well.
Theo stepped back. ‘No.’
The word echoed back at him.
Coward.
He turned, making for the other wall, where shields and helmets had been mounted. At the end of the line hung a mighty sword. His reflection glimmered in the blade, his gold eyes hungry.
The plaque read:
Fatebringer,
favoured battlesword of Cadel, Saint of Warriors
Take it, urged the old voice.
His fingers itched, rising of their own accord.
A great leader needs a great sword.
That word hummed in his bones: great.
The sword gleamed. Even now, magic moved beneath the blade. Not steelfire but something older. Truer. A remnant of its wielder.
A voice echoed from the shadows. ‘See something you like, Versini?’
Theo spun on his heel.
Prince Andreas Mondragon Rayere was standing at the other end of the room. With his back to the window, he perched lightly on the sill, watching him.
He must have been here all along.
‘Take it if you like. Consider it a gift.’
‘I don’t want it,’ said Theo, stiffly. ‘And it’s not yours to give.’
The prince’s smile was serpentine. Though Andreas had not deigned to attend his own ball, the Silver-tongue Saint was dressed just as finely as his guests in a crisp crimson suit with velvet lapels. His mask, a canvas of large black feathers and gleaming rubies, was pushed up onto his forehead.
A Strix.
How… Urnican.
Canting his head, the prince said, ‘Here we are, all alone together. Aren’t you at least going to attempt to kill me?’
Theo’s eyes flicked towards Cadel’s sword. ‘I’m weighing my chances.’
A wink of teeth. ‘There’s that Versini intelligence.’
Theo’s magic purred at the compliment. ‘It’s Branch,’ he said tersely. ‘My father’s name was Branch.’
‘But you have your mother’s eyes,’ the prince said leeringly. ‘Your mother’s blood.’
Versini blood.
Hugo’s blood.
Bad blood.
No! his magic hissed in defiance. You were born to be great!
Andreas’s smile slipped. ‘Your eyes betray you, saint.’
Ghosting a hand along the dagger in his belt, Theo drifted towards the prince. ‘Are you afraid of me, Andreas?’
‘On the contrary,’ he said, pushing off the sill, meeting him stride for stride. ‘I’ve never been more intrigued.’
Theo was a quick thinker, but he was no fighter. With hundreds of Rose-bearers on the other side of that door, Andreas had the upper hand. This was his den. His game. Theo had a dagger in his belt and a power storm in his soul. He had no idea what would happen if he let it out.
Touch him.
Take him.
Swallow him whole.
Again, he weighed the risk, imagining giving in to the ravenous bite of his own hunger.
Andreas released a mocking laugh. ‘I could have killed you the second you stepped through that door, Versini. I could kill you now with a click of my fingers.’ He paused, licking his teeth. ‘Do you know why I didn’t?’
‘Because it would be a shame to get blood on a suit this fine?’
‘I’d hate to waste a Versini,’ said Andreas. ‘Especially one with magic in his veins.’
‘I didn’t realize you were such an ardent admirer.’
‘There isn’t a soul in this kingdom who hasn’t heard of Hugo Versini. What he did to this country made him immortal.’
‘You mean notorious,’ Theo amended. ‘Reviled.’
‘Remembered,’ said Andreas. ‘Revered.’
Theo’s brows shot up. ‘By whom?’
‘Anyone with a shred of ambition in their bones.’ He swept a hand through his hair, unsettling the fine blonde strands. ‘If you ask me, he didn’t go far enough. With a mind like that, he could have been king. A ruler feared throughout Arthos.’
‘Hugo Versini is a stain on my family’s reputation,’ said Theo. ‘I am nothing like him.’
Yet, whispered the old voice.
‘Then why are you his double?’ said Andreas, looking him over. ‘Fate does not make mistakes.’
‘Your very existence implies otherwise.’
Andreas only shrugged. ‘I took what was owed to me.’
‘You took from Saint Oriel.’
‘And you took from Seraphine Marchant.’ He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘I’m not an unrelenting tyrant.’
A bland smile. ‘Then tell me, Versini, what are you?’
His magic hissed, demanding to be known.
Cleaver.
Taker.
Corpse-maker.
Curling his fists until his nails bit into his palms, Theo shoved it back down.
‘Ah.’ A knowing glance. ‘You don’t yet know, do you?’
Outside, the storm raged. Shadows darted through the low-hanging clouds, snatching at the moonlight. A distant shriek rang out.
Andreas glanced over his shoulder, as a pair of soldiers appeared through a side door.
‘Darius has come, Your Highness.’
Theo moved towards the window, watching in horror as the sky came alive. The Strix were settling on the Appoline, and the largest of them was heading for the clock tower.
‘What are you up to, Andreas?’
The prince was already turning from him, flanked now by his soldiers. They drew their swords, moving on him. Theo stumbled backwards, grasping for his dagger. Too slow.
Andreas raised a hand, halting them mid-strike.
Another act. A show of the Silver-tongue’s power—
And his mercy.
‘When you’re ready to embrace your destiny, come and find me at Bellevue Castle. I could do with another clever mind to bounce ideas off. I find them sorely lacking in my court.’
‘Puppets are not known to think for themselves.’
The prince looked him up and down. ‘But you are no puppet.’
‘I’m not a traitor either,’ Theo snarled. ‘What makes you think I’d ever want to work alongside a tyrant like you?’
‘Because I can give you what your friends cannot.’ Andreas waited a beat, caressing the next word, ‘Greatness.’
Greatness, echoed the old voice.
That hunger returned. Awful. Aching.
‘You will come to me sooner or later, Versini.’ There was an edge to his voice now, a desperate thirst Theo recognized in himself.
‘Because as long as you bear her handprint on your chest, you will belong to her. She will own you, but she will never want you. She will never choose you. You will always be second to the Saint of Nightmares, and one day, when the dark eats through the last vestiges of his conscience, he’ll kill you for standing too close to her. ’
He recoiled from the prince’s words, hating how they wounded him. Terrified that he might be right.
Andreas went on. ‘You will come to me, Versini, because you know what you’re worth.
’ He stepped in close, and it occurred to Theo that he could have killed him then, or at least made a fair attempt, but curiosity stayed his hand.
He stood rooted to the floor, staring into the gold pools of the prince’s eyes, as he said, softer still, ‘And better still, so do I.’
There was a moment then when magic recognized magic, and that word – that goal – of greatness shimmered between them.
Here was a man who was not afraid to take what he wanted from the world, to defy the divine threads of fate and instead fashion his own. A small twisted part of Theo admired him for it. A small dangerous part that envied him for it.
Andreas smiled like he knew it.
Another shriek rang out.
Outside, a monstrous Strix descended on the clock tower, and its rider lurched, snatching something from the upper floor.
It looked like…
Hell’s teeth.
Panic razed through Theo as he flung himself at the window, watching as his friend was snatched away by an Urnican warlord.
‘You scheming bastard,’ he swore, raising his dagger.
But when he turned back, the Silver-tongue Saint was gone.
The side door closed with a thud.
The room was empty.
He had missed his chance.
Outside, more Strix landed in the quad. The ceiling shuddered, a plume of dust cascading over him as weapons tumbled from the wall. Cursing, Theo made for the ballroom, barely making it three steps before the windows of the Appoline exploded.
He hit the floor, covering his head as glass rained down.
Shards nicked his arms and neck, drawing blood.
More weapons fell, crowns and chalices clattering around him.
The night wind swept in with a howl, and when he got to his feet, a pair of moonlit shapes caught his eye as though Saint Maurius himself had illuminated them.