Jules stepped forward and pulled out the sketch he’d drawn using Margaux’s description. “We’re looking for this man and we have reason to believe he’s a customer here. Perhaps even a worker.”
“It’s not an exact likeness but…this looks like Leon.”
“So you know this man?” Joren said, urging her to have a second look.
“Well, yes. What’s my fool brother done and gone that has a king looking for him personally? Is this about the mugging? I told him to report it but the idiot swore nothing was taken.”
Muir and Joren exchanged glances.
“Mugging?”
“He came in all roughed up and limping a few days ago, his face a bloodied mess. When I asked him what happened, he said he was mugged in an alley, but that he hadn’t gotten a good look at them. I cleaned him up and told him to see the healers, but he’s never liked going.”
“Do you know where Leon is now, by chance?” Jules asked. “It’s important we speak with him.”
Rosalyn twisted her hands together. “He’s been staying in my stockroom since he finally returned to Jonquilles last month. I hadn’t seen him for years before then. He’s a mess.”
“Kind of you to let him stay, but does he have nowhere else?”
“Well…he had a falling out with our folks, you see, ages ago. He wanted to go to that collegium off the coast of Creag Morden, but we were poor folk and didn’t have the funds. He swore he’d find a way. Packed up his things and took off on some merchant ship, never to be seen again. Well, until now.”
Jules frowned. “And he returned last month, you say?”
“Yes. Wandered into my shop one day and told me he’d traveled the world. I barely recognized him, but he’s my brother so when he asked if he could stay…” She licked her dry lips. “I thought it would only be for a week or two, while he looked for honest work, but now the git won’t leave.”
Honest. Joren bit back a scoff.
“Please, has he…has he done something?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Jules said. “Now then, is he here?”
“Yes, sir. He came in an hour or so ago and went to bed.”
“Is there a back entrance?” the captain asked.
“Yes.”
“Please take the captain around outside and show him this back entrance. Prince Joren and I will go through the building, if you can tell us which way to go.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. It’s straight down the hall through the door behind my counter. Last door on the left.” She moved to follow Jules but hesitated near the door. “You won’t hurt him, will you?”
“That is not my intention,” Muir assured her. Joren couldn’t say the same.
With the captain moving around to cover the back, Joren led the way through the building. He’d been to the workrooms once before, having been curious to see how Rosalyn made her wares. She kept her building neat and tidy, everything in its proper place. They passed a room on the right filled with flowers and herbs hanging from drying racks. The room across from that housed bricks of soap set out to cure.
“Up ahead, there’s only the one door,” Joren said in a quiet voice. “How do you want to do this?”
“Quietly if at all possible,” Muir replied.
In mutual agreement, Joren opened the door without knocking. The small office contained a desk and a cot, with a single barred window. A man bolted upright form the cot with a knife in his hand. Joren immediately recognized him from the sketch, and the bruises on his face matched Coral’s accounting of the assault.
Before they uttered a single word, their suspect launched himself forward, wild as an animal. Joren lunged forward and threw up his hands, light blazing from his fingers in a spreading circle. Leon’s blade clanged against it with a resounding chime.
Showing the restraint necessary to avoid wrecking Rosy’s shop, Joren hissed the incantation to a short-ranged frost spell, firing it point-blank into Leon’s face. His opponent rolled under it as if it had been predicted, twisted into a footstep, and took Joren’s legs out from beneath him.
Before the prince’s back hit the floor, Leon was on him with a knife, stabbing for his stomach, though it wasn’t as unprotected as it seemed and golden light intercepted the blow. Undeterred, the man bounced against the magical barrier and twisted, using it to propel himself toward Muir.
Cold dread flooded Joren’s gut. He’d seen the maneuver before at the Collegium during a battle class, demonstrated by a mysterious visitor and acquaintance of the headmaster. The woman had countered spells and weaved around them with remarkable flexibility, turning magic and acrobatics into an art form he couldn’t comprehend.
Leon had the same abilities, at least the physical aspects. As far as Joren knew, he hadn’t used a single spell.
Muir backed into the hallway where there was more room, managing to dodge the strikes and kicks Leon aimed at his body. Joren followed with an explosive wave of force against their opponent’s back. Leon stumbled forward, off-balance long enough for Muir to break his defense and land a solid punch against his jaw.
Bloody spittle fell from the man’s mouth. He wiped his chin and stared at them both through narrowed eyes.
“There’s no escape, Leon,” Joren warned when he saw the man’s gaze flick toward the nearest door. “You can’t outrun every spell I cast, not in here.”
“You wouldn’t do anything to ruin this place,” Leon spat.
“I would if it meant stopping a killer. I’d burn it to the ground and help your sister rebuild with my own hands.”
Leon smirked. “I’ll bet you would, prince. You like helping ladies, the way I hear it. Like your little mute charity case. She was a fun tussle.”
The pulse in Joren’s temple throbbed. “I know what you’re trying, but it won’t work. Judging by the bruises still on your face, that ‘little mute’ kicked your ass. That must have lost you some respect on the street, beaten by a girl half your size.”
The taunt goaded Leon into action. Faster than Joren could follow, Leon twisted and threw his blade at Muir. It hurtled faster than a bolt launched from a crossbow and pegged the shifter in his shoulder. Then he was on Joren with another, slashing less wildly than Caecilia had demonstrated in her pantomime of the events. These weren’t the strokes of a terrified mugger, these were the difference between a man taken by surprise—or by the balls, as the case had been—and a man with a battle plan.
Joren stumbled back from the furious attack, each strike of Leon’s blade sparking against his mageshield with a strength that threatened to shatter the spell.
One offensive chant—just one powerful invocation would be enough to incinerate Leon down to the bone, but he wanted to take the man in alive to answer for his crimes. More importantly, he didn’t want to harm his sister’s husband. Muir had no such magical defenses, though he healed extraordinarily fast.
Forced on the defensive, Joren lashed out with carefully aimed spells, wielding blinding sparks and icy shards. He didn’t dare to use electricity in close quarters, refusing to endanger Muir. Leon dodged some with uncanny reflexes, while others he seemed to simply ignore and shrug off—until Joren followed through with his threat and conjured a fireball in his hand.
Leon relented in his furious assault, allowing precious space between them, a moment of breathing room which Joren desperately needed.
Footfalls pounded down the hall. “The hell is happening in here?” Jules demanded from the doorway. Before the man could rush to their aid, Rosalyn darted into the room.
“Leon, don’t! They’ll hang you for attacking the king!”
They’ll hang him for murdering defenseless young women, Joren thought.
The rest happened in slow motion however, Rosy throwing herself between Muir and Leon. Her brother twisted like a cyclone in the air and grasped her by a handful of hair, clasping her against him and raising the blade to her throat.
“You fiend!” Jules seethed. “Coward!”
&
nbsp; Leon chuckled. “Ah, a group of gallant gentlemen, I see. Look how quickly the prince puts down his magic for a two-silver whore. She’d take each of you for a couple gold more.”
Fury boiled inside Joren with each degrading word. How could any man disparage his own sister with such cruel barbs?
“This is between us. Let’s handle this as men should. Set down the weapon.”
“Piss off,” Leon spat at Jules. “Leave now, or I’ll slit her throat. All three of you. Especially the beastman.”
“We can’t do that,” Joren said. “What guarantees you won’t harm her anyway once we’ve gone? You’ve already shown a severe disregard for her safety.”
“You can’t escape this now. Come with us, and perhaps we can still show you some leniency,” Jules said, though his eyes burned with fury and disgust. If the royal guardsman hated anything, it was the abuse and mistreatment of women.
“Then I have no choice,” Leon said.
Then the cutting began and Rosalyn cried out as blood welled from her throat. Joren didn’t think this time—he acted, lunging forward and forcing all of his focus into crossing the distance. He’d never passed most of his teleportation tests, finding the magic difficult even when he wasn’t under duress.
It felt like ripping apart his skin, tearing himself to pieces, and gluing the bits together again. But he was there, with one hand on Leon’s wrist. He dragged the blade away and freed Rosalyn, then smashed his fist into her aggressor’s nose. Sobbing, she dashed away, caught by Jules and taken into his arms.
The moment Rosy was clear of danger, Muir’s golden-furred body slammed into Leon from behind, finally knocking the man flat to the floor and pinning him there. Joren bent forward, hands braced against his knees, and sucked in several breaths. His skin still prickled over every inch.
“About time you did that.”
Muir mantled his wings and snapped his beak in warning at the groaning man beneath him. “Would you rather I had knocked him and his blade into your chest before?”
“Fair enough.” He crouched down beside Leon and frowned. “If you’d come quietly, you’d have received a fair trial for your crimes. Now you’ll lose your head for attacking the king.”
Chapter 13
Camden tested the limits of his freedom within the keep, utilizing every opportunity to roam the halls and the manicured grounds as a chance to learn their layout. Few areas were barred to him, though he met resistance when trying to go down to the lowest levels of the castle.
He assumed the heavy oaken door led to the dungeons, for the guards allowed no one through and stood watch at all hours. As for the palace grounds, he couldn’t pass beyond the outermost wall, which formed a rectangular barrier two or three miles from the palace and remained under heavy guard, with bowmen patrolling from atop the forty-foot-tall structure. During his strolls through the meadows, he never came across a section without guardsmen patrolling the top.
Blast. They’d never escape without Cara’s magic, and he’d have to find a tool to break her shackles again. Prying the lock had taken him days before, a weeklong process he couldn’t afford to rush at the time. He’d feared the wardens would notice him tampering with them.
Heavy hoofbeats fell upon the path behind him. Cam closed his eyes and sighed, knowing without turning to acknowledge her that the queen had found him yet again.
“Are you quite finished testing the perimeter today?” Brynhildr called from the back of a powerful mare with an ivory tail, butterscotch coat gleaming under the noon sun. The golden beauty must have stood at least twenty-two hands, her mane sporting beaded war braids and ribbons.
“I test nothing,” he replied, forcing civility into his voice for the sake of his sister. “But I’m a man used to activity and hard work. Freedom,” he said, stressing the last word. “I find a walk keeps me from going stir-crazy.”
“Could you walk these palace grounds to your heart’s content if you had no freedom?” she asked, stifling her amusement. “If work is what you desire, I can find plenty of it for you. There’s certainly no shortage to be done.” She kept an easy pace alongside him, though the mare turned her head once and nosed Camden’s shoulder.
He ignored the horse, neither shying away nor showing it affection, though he thought it gorgeous. “You keep your castle isolated out here. I’ve never seen anything like it. Then again, I suppose having a bustling city near at hand would make it too easy for your slaves to escape and hide.”
Brynhildr pursed her lips and studied him while her persistent mount nibbled his hair. “It has nothing to do with keeping our satisfied thralls under guard. The king and I enjoy the peace. In fact, I find you Eislanders and Samaharans are quite strange, keeping your most valuable cities near the coast. Easier to raid and ill-protected.”
“Easier targets for you, you mean. Samahara is a desert wasteland across most of the kingdom. They wouldn’t survive without being close to the sea to trade for goods. A fact you take advantage of, sending your ships to steal away children.”
“We give their young a far better life than they receive in the blistering desert. You said it yourself. Samahara is a wasteland. Their poor live in filthy, dusty streets without access to clean water, and they raise their children in equally squalid conditions. Tragic. The only ones that receive an ounce of interest are their mages. There are green plains there, you know, to the northwest. But only the wealthy and their mages are valued enough to see them.”
“A better life? I’ve seen the traumatized children you’ve stolen away from their homes and families. The magical children you threaten to beat if they don’t cast their spells on your behalf. Where is the kindness in that?” He shook his head and resisted the urge to jog away, knowing how futile it would be with her on horseback. That, and he refused to give her the satisfaction of fleeing.
“Have you encountered any unhappiness here?” Brynhildr asked, abruptly changing the subject. “I trust my captains wholeheartedly to do what must be done on the seas for the safety of all, but I’ve never encouraged beatings of innocents, Camden. Such is against our laws.”
“No one dares speak against you here,” he said, leaning away from her horse’s mouth.
“Freki, stop that, lass. He’s had enough.”
“Th—” The appreciation died on the tip of Cam’s tongue. What thanks was there to give to one’s slaver? He cleared his throat and continued. “As I was saying, the sea is different. If you blindly allow your captains leeway to do wrong in your name, you share in their evil. The fact is, you abduct people from other lands and subjugate them. That is why our kingdoms are at odds and why good men like James Hook will continue to attack your ships and liberate the poor souls bound for your quarry.”
Her fair brows rose, and then she gave a husky chuckle. “Meanwhile, your people turn a blind eye to the wrongs committed in their own lands. What makes our wrongs more egregious than yours? Did you know there are still harems in Samahara?” she asked easily. “Did you know there are children in Creag Morden who go hungry so that their mage brother or sister may eat? I am not all-knowing, Camden. I’ve never professed to be, but we’ve done the best that we can to help those deemed unworthy by their own kingdoms.”
A crease furrowed his brow. “The old sultan kept a harem. Grand Enchanter Joiadane did away with that practice, so your argument has no further merit. As for Creag Morden, I have little experience with the country. Even so, I don’t understand how you justify slavery as a better life.”
“Is that what you were told?” she murmured, gazing straight ahead. “The old sultan was only one of many. Saying that you’ve done away with a practice and enforcing the new law are not the same thing. They are a vile country, and this so-called Grand Enchanter is a despicable, hypocritical man.”
“He’s a good man—”
“While he and his family remain protected in their spire, their kingdom’s women are ravaged and beaten, used for the desires of men. Is that any way to live, Camden?” Her pal
e cheeks flushed red with rising indignation. “They dare judge our ways but ignore what happens in their own backyards.”
Her blue eyes sparked like the heart of a flame, bright and wild in her face, but somehow still alluring. Noticing her beauty now, when she was riled with fury, made him uncomfortable.
“Say what you will. I only know what I’ve seen of Ankirith and Naruk, and the people there are happier since the sultan was defeated. But they whisper of your kingdom, and speak of death pits, bloody battles for entertainment, and slaves taken to pleasure your officers.”
She narrowed her eyes upon him. “Then you saw a fraction of their kingdom. A slice of a puzzle and only what they want you to see. I would kill any man in my service who touched a woman against her will. It is not our way.” She pressed her lips together, glaring angrily ahead of him, shoulders tense and jaw clenched. He’d wanted her silent, and now he had his wish. But she didn’t leave.
“I’ve only seen a fraction of yours,” he shot back, though without heat. There was enough truth in her words to give him pause and make him consider her point of view. He stared ahead, content to continue his walk through the outer meadows. He hadn’t seen a single farm during his outings, just stretches of beautiful, pristine grassland and groves of poplar trees. The farms must have been beyond the walls.
“And if I tried to take you anywhere as my companion,” she said after a time, still gripping the reins in a white-knuckled grip, “would you try to thwart me each time my back was turned?”
“You know I won’t. You’ve made it clear you’ll put a blade in my sister’s heart yourself if I disobey.”
“I should have for the failed uprising.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I knew in slaying her, we would have to take your life as well, and I saw promise in you.”
He laughed bitterly. “You destroyed our ship. Did you really expect us to give in without a fight?” A chill ran through Camden as he thought back to the moment in the quarry, witnessing the queen place a blade against Cara’s throat. He would have gone after Brynhildr like a wild animal, and he would have died. He was smart enough to admit that truth to himself.
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