Immortal Reign

by Morgan Rhodes

  “So careless of me to leave them behind,” she chastised herself under her breath, seated in the back of the horse-drawn carriage she’d hired to take her to her destination.

  She should have kept the invaluable orbs on her at all times, like Cleo did. The princess had refused the offer to place the aquamarine crystal in the locked box with the others.

  Lucia had told no one where they were, trusted no one with the secret.

  She prayed this journey would not take her long before she could return.

  When she’d realized Lyssa was missing, panic had controlled her thoughts and actions.

  Since then, she focused on one thing to help ease her maddening fear about her daughter’s kidnapping.

  The fire god believed she had both the means and the magic to imprison him.

  If he harmed Lyssa, if he so much as singed a single piece of her downy hair, he would surely expect that Lucia would go to the ends of the earth in order to end him rather than help him.

  She believed that the fire Kindred would keep Lyssa safe. The baby was an assurance that he had something that Lucia valued above all else.

  It had taken her nearly a week of travel to reach Shadowrock, a small village in western Paelsia. It was one of the few villages in this area close to the Forbidden Mountains, and it had once had a neighboring village five miles south.

  As Lucia’s carriage drove past the deserted, blackened remains of that village, she peered out the small window and winced at the sight. She clearly remembered the screams of terror and pain from those who’d made this their home, those who’d watched that home burn or burned with it.

  Lucia knew she couldn’t change the past. But if she didn’t learn from it, and do better going forward, then those people had suffered and died in vain.

  As Shadowrock loomed in the distance, she glanced down at the palm of her hand. The cut she’d made to draw enough blood in her attempt to summon Kyan would have taken a month to heal, but she had found enough earth magic within herself to help the process along. Only a scar remained, though at her best and most powerful, there would not have been a single trace of the injury.

  Scars were good, she thought. They were an excellent reminder of a past not meant to be repeated.

  Lucia acquired a room at the inn where she’d previously stayed. It had comfortable beds and decent food. She would rest here for the night before continuing into the mountains tomorrow.

  And now, she supposed, it was time to deal with him.

  Jonas Agallon had followed her from the City of Gold all the way to Shadowrock, by foot at times, by horseback at others. He’d been far enough in the distance that he probably thought she hadn’t noticed.

  But she had.

  Lucia had chosen not to confront him and instead allowed him to think that he was as stealthy as a shadow in the night.

  She left through the inn’s back kitchen door so he wouldn’t see her exit through the front. Then, she walked up a narrow side-street so she could approach Jonas from behind.

  He stood on the stoop of a cobbler’s shop across the street from the inn, leaning against a wooden beam with the cowl of his dark blue cloak over his head to help shield his identity.

  But Lucia had come to know the former rebel leader well enough that she would recognize him no matter what disguise he wore.

  She recognized the lines of his strong body that always appeared tense, like a wildcat about to pounce upon its prey. She recognized the way he walked without any hesitation, picking a direction and swiftly taking it even if it meant he got lost in the process.

  Not that he would ever admit such a thing, of course.

  She knew without even seeing his face that his mouth was set in a determined line and that his cinnamon-brown eyes looked serious. They were always so serious, even when he joked around with his friends.

  Jonas Agallon had lost so much over the last year, but it hadn’t changed who he was deep inside. He was strong and kind and brave. And she trusted him, even when he secretly trailed after her. She knew without a doubt he’d done this in a misguided attempt to protect her.

  Now, observing him from distance of only six paces, she sensed the magic Jonas held within him—a pleasant, warm, and tingling sensation that she’d begun to associate with the rebel.

  It had felt much stronger ever since leaving Amara’s compound, and she had to admit that it troubled her that Jonas’s magic had grown stronger while hers had continued to weaken just when she needed it the most.

  She drew even closer to him, his gaze remaining fixed on the inn.

  Close enough that she could hear him mutter to himself.

  “Well, princess . . . just what is your plan in this little village now that you’re here?”

  “I suppose you could simply ask me,” she said.

  He jumped, then spun around to face her, his eyes wide with shock.

  “You . . .” he began. “You’re right here in front of me.”

  “I am,” she said.

  “You knew—?” he began.

  “That you’ve been stalking me like a hungry ice wolf for days? Yes, I knew.”

  “Well, there you go.” He scrubbed his hand through his brown hair, then he turned his painfully earnest gaze toward her. “Are you well?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were so distraught at the palace. Rightfully so, of course. And your hand . . .”

  Lucia showed him the palm of her previously injured hand. “I’m better now. Thinking more clearly. And I have a plan.”

  “You want to talk to Timotheus.”

  “Yes, that’s the plan.” It would be so much easier to continue on alone, without anyone to answer to or concern herself with. But if that had been her decision, she would have confronted Jonas earlier and told him to go back to Auranos.

  “Tell me, are you hungry?” she asked.

  He turned a frown on her. “What?”

  “Hungry. We’ve been traveling for many hours today, and you’ve kept me in your sight all that time. I assume you’re starving.”

  “I . . . suppose I am.”

  “Come.” Lucia began walking toward the inn. “I’ll buy you some dinner.”

  Jonas didn’t argue. He followed her into the tavern connected to the inn. It was a small room that held a dozen wooden tables. Only three were filled with patrons. One table held a pair of Kraeshian soldiers.

  “The occupation continues, even here,” Jonas said under his breath.

  “It doesn’t bother me.” Lucia watched him as he removed his cloak and placed it over the back of his chair. Something gold at his belt caught the last remaining traces of early evening sunlight coming through the large window. “Don’t tell me you went back to that inn during our journey here and retrieved that horrible dagger of yours.”

  Jonas’s hand shot to the sheathed weapon, covering it from view, his brows drawing tightly together. Then he took a seat, a smile stretching his cheeks. “You guessed it. I’m an idiot, what can I say?”

  She shook her head. “That’s not the word I’d use to describe you.”

  “Oh? And what word would you use?”

  “Sentimental.”

  Jonas held her gaze for a moment. “Princess, I wanted to say that I am sorry for your loss. How I felt toward the king . . . it certainly doesn’t lessen your grief.”

  “My father was a cruel, power-hungry man who hurt many innocent people. You have every right to have hated him.” Lucia blinked, her eyes dry. She had cried more than enough tears in the last few days to realize that they were no help to her at all. “But I still loved him, and I still miss him.”

  He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I know. And know that I will help you in any way I can to find Lyssa.”

  “Thank you.” Lucia frowned down at her hand in his. “I feel
so much magic in you, Jonas. More than ever before.”

  He released her hand immediately. “Apologies.”

  “No, that’s not what I . . .” Lucia trailed off as a server approached them, a girl with bright red hair and a wide, friendly smile.

  Lucia recognized this girl immediately and stared up at her in shock.

  “We have potato soup today,” the red-haired girl said. “And some dried meats and fruits. The cook apologizes for the lack of variety on today’s menu, but our shipment of supplies from Trader’s Harbor has been delayed.”

  “Mia . . . ?” Lucia asked, her voice cautious.

  The girl cocked her head. “Yes, that’s my name. Have we met before?”

  Oh, they absolutely had. After the battle with Kyan when his fiery, monstrous form had been destroyed near the mysterious crystal monolith, Lucia had found herself in the Sanctuary’s grassy meadow with the Crystal City visible in the distance.

  Once she’d reached the city itself, finding the massive, sparkling metropolis as quiet and empty as a ghost town, her path had crossed a lovely and helpful immortal who had taken her to see Timotheus.

  “Don’t you remember?” Lucia asked. “It wasn’t so long ago.”

  “Apologies,” Mia said. “Please don’t think me rude, but I’ve recently forgotten much of my past. I’ve visited several healers who tell me that amnesia like this can happen from a hard bump on the head.”

  “Amnesia,” Lucia repeated, her heart quickening. “Impossible.”

  “Not impossible.” Mia shook her head. “I do hope to regain my memories soon, but until then the owner of this inn has promised to look after me.”

  Jonas leaned forward. “Promised who?” he asked.

  Mia’s gaze grew faraway, her brow furrowing. “I remember it like it was a dream, really. Unclear and distant. But there was a woman—a beautiful, dark-haired woman. She was so kind to me and promised that everything would be all right, but that I had to trust her.”

  Lucia listened, barely breathing. The girl wasn’t lying; this is what she believed.

  “Trust her with what?”

  “I don’t remember.” Mia’s frown deepened. “I know she had a sharp, flat piece of black rock.” She looked down at her arm. “I think she cut me with it, but it didn’t hurt very much. And after that, I found myself here. Oh, and the strangest thing . . . her hand . . . it wasn’t a hand at all. I can’t really explain it.” She shrugged. “I must have hit my head very hard.”

  Lucia searched her face. “Is that all you remember?”

  “I’m afraid so. So if I’ve met you before, please forgive me for not recognizing you. Hopefully I will again one day. Now, can I get you both some of the potato soup? I assure you, it’s delicious.”

  Lucia wanted to stand up, to shake Mia and have her tell her more, to try to use her magic to extract every last bit of truth from her lips.

  None of this made any sense.

  Mia was an immortal who lived in the Sanctuary with the handful of other immortals still in existence. Timotheus had recently chosen not to let any of them leave through their stone gateway into this world, not even in hawk form, for fear that Kyan would kill them.

  How did this happen? And who was the dark-haired woman who’d cut Mia’s arm?

  “Yes, soup would be lovely,” Lucia said instead. “Much gratitude.”

  Mia nodded and moved off toward the kitchen.

  Lucia fell silent, lost in thought about what could have happened to Mia. Had it happened to anyone else?

  “Trouble?” Jonas asked her.

  “I think so, but I don’t know what it means yet.”

  He watched her, his close scrutiny distracting her from her thoughts. “Your brother wants you to come home. He’s worried about you.”

  “I’m sure he is.” Lucia hated the thought that her decisions were causing Magnus even more pain. “But I’m not going back yet. I need to talk to Timotheus. I can’t believe he’s abandoned me now, at my greatest time of need. He wants the Kindred imprisoned as much as I do. Yet I haven’t had a single dream in ages, and I have so many questions for him.”

  “He says his magic is fading,” Jonas said. “That he can’t use it all up to visit the dreams of mortals.”

  It took a moment for Lucia to register what he’d just said.

  Her eyes went wide. “How do you know that?”

  Jonas stiffened. “What?”

  “What you just said—that Timotheus’s magic is fading. When did you learn this?”

  “He . . . visited my dream when we were at the compound.”

  “Your dream?” A mix of anger and annoyance flashed through her. “Why did he visit your dream and not mine?”

  “Trust me, princess, I would have preferred he visited yours. He is a very difficult man. Everything he says is like a new riddle to decipher. He . . . wanted me to continue to watch over you, to keep you safe. And Lyssa too. He knew about her and that you survived her birth. He said he . . . trusts me.”

  Lucia couldn’t let herself be distracted by Timotheus’s choices. She’d always had a difficult time with the immortal; their relationship had been fraught with tension and distrust from the very beginning.

  Finally, she nodded. “He’s right to trust you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re the most trustworthy person I’ve ever known,” she said with complete sincerity. “Even my father and brother have lied to and manipulated me, but you never have. And I appreciate that more than you’ll ever know.”

  Jonas just watched her now, silently, his expression pained.

  Perhaps he didn’t feel comfortable with her compliment. But that didn’t make it any less heartfelt.

  “You’re coming with me,” Lucia said after silence fell between them.

  “I am?” Jonas raised a brow. “Where?”

  She nodded out the window. “Into the Forbidden Mountains. We’ll leave at dawn.”

  Jonas looked toward the jagged black mountains in the near distance. “What’s in the mountains?”

  “The gateway to the Sanctuary.” At his look of shock, Lucia gave him the edge of a smile. “You followed me all this way. Are you really going to stop now?”

  CHAPTER 20

  MAGNUS

  AURANOS

  A week had passed since his father’s murder.

  The city had not gone into deep mourning for their lost king. In fact, they were currently in the midst of a celebration. Auranians always seemed to be celebrating something.

  The last festival had been called the Day of Flames, and citizens wore red, orange, and yellow to represent the goddess Cleiona’s fire magic. This festival was in celebration of her air magic, and it allegedly lasted for half a month.

  Half of an entire month dedicated to a festival called the “Breath of Cleiona.”

  Ridiculous, Magnus thought.

  Cleo had explained to him that citizens of Auranos far and wide would come to the palace city during this time of celebration to read their poetry and to sing songs in praise of the goddess. The breath they used to speak and sing was their tribute to Cleiona’s air magic.

  But really, she’d explained, it was simply an excuse for drinking great amounts of wine and boisterous social interaction that lasted until the wee hours of morning.

  While such celebrations carried on in the city beyond the palace walls, Magnus stood in the royal cemetery, looking down at the patch of dirt that marked the king’s temporary grave. The king’s remains would eventually be returned to Limeros and buried next to Magnus’s mother. Until then, Magnus had had him placed into the earth by nightfall of the day of his death, true to Limerian tradition.

  How odd that he now felt some strange sense of solace from leaning on the same traditions he’d all but ignored his entire life.

&nbs
p; A small black granite marker lay upon the bare soil, chiseled with the Limerian crest of entwined snakes.

  He’d dreamed about his father just last night.

  “Don’t waste time mourning me,” the king had said to him. “You need to focus only on what’s important now.”

  “Oh?” Magnus had replied. “And what’s that?”

  “Power and strength. When news of my death spreads, there will be many who would fight to control Mytica. You can’t let them. Mytica is yours now. You are my heir, you are my legacy. And you must promise to crush anyone who stands against you.”

  Power and strength. Two attributes Magnus had always struggled with, much to his father’s disappointment.

  But he would do as the dream version of his father suggested.

  He would fight. And he would crush anyone who opposed him and wanted to take what was his.

  Beginning with the Kindred.

  He sensed Cleo’s presence before he felt her lightly touch his arm.

  “It’s so strange to me,” he said before she uttered a single word.

  “What is?”

  “I hated my father with every fiber of my being, yet I still feel this incredible . . . loss.”

  “I understand.”

  He laughed darkly, finally glancing at Cleo out of the corner of his eye. She wore a gown of pale blue today, the bodice trimmed in small silk flowers. Her hair fell over her shoulders in long, messy golden waves.

  A vision of beauty, as always.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he told her. “I know how you felt about him. You hated him even more than I did.”

  Cleo shook her head. “You didn’t hate him. You loved him.”

  He stared at her, not understanding. “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong.” She cast a glance down at the grave. “You loved him because he was your father. Because of his moments of kindness and guidance, even in the worst of times, even when barely perceptible. You loved him because at the end you began to see a glimmer of the strong relationship that could have become a reality between you.”