Penelope and I trailed Conley and his men about a quarter mile down the street. The crowd was much thinner here, and Conley paused and glanced around before ducking into an alley. The merchants and miners were still averting their eyes, and Penelope and I had no choice but to follow the foreman.
As we walked along, I skimmed the minds of the six men.
Someone needs to grease the wheel on this thing . . .
Why couldn’t we do this after lunch?
Going to drink my fill at the tavern tonight with my cut of the money . . .
That last thought all but confirmed my suspicions that the wheelbarrows were full of tearstone.
I reached out with my magic again, this time searching for Topacia and trying to locate her warm presence, but she must have been deeper in the city, because I didn’t sense her. Even if I did call out to her, there was no guarantee she would hear me. Usually only mind magiers, or those with strong, special bonds like Grimley and me, could mentally communicate with each other with any regularity over great distances. Although, sometimes if I was close enough, I could whisper thoughts to Topacia, given our long-standing friendship.
I reached out yet again, this time searching for Grimley. I easily sensed his cool, solid presence, like he was the stone masthead attached to my internal ship, but our connection was weak, indicating that he was miles away. He must have gone hunting with the other gargoyles in the countryside.
I was on my own.
Beside me, tension and guilt radiated off Penelope, the emotions strong enough to cause my gargoyle pendant to grow warm against my skin. Her worry increased my own, but unlike Penelope, I wasn’t concerned about Conley, his men, or where we were going.
No, mine was an old, familiar, insidious fear—that I would lose control of my magic, of myself, and drown in the sea of thoughts and storm of emotions swirling around me. That I would become frozen, paralyzed, useless. That people would get hurt—that people would die—because I was too fucking weak to save them.
Just like Uncle Frederich, Lord Hans, and the other Andvarians had died during the Seven Spire massacre.
Phantom screams ripped through my mind, causing my heart to pound and sweat to gather on the back of my neck. I raised a shaking hand to my chest. I couldn’t touch the gargoyle pendant, since it was still tucked underneath my clothes, so I settled for pressing it against my heart. The silver base dug into my skin like a hot coal, but the discomfort helped me to shove away the horrible memories. My fear, guilt, and shame lingered, though. I had never been able to get rid of them.
Cowardice tended to stain one’s heart for all time.
“Gemma?” Penelope whispered. “Are you okay? You look sick.”
Her worry churned in my stomach again, but this time, I blocked it out, along with my own fear. The pendant cooled against my skin, and I dropped my hand from my chest.
“I’m fine,” I whispered back.
Penelope gave me a disbelieving look, but we had no choice but to keep following Conley.
The foreman led us through several alleys. None of the men said a word. Penelope and I didn’t speak again either, and the only sounds were the muffled tink-tink-tinks of the chunks of ore rattling around inside the wheelbarrows.
Conley ducked into yet another alley, and I slowed down, glancing around. Dented metal bins overflowing with spoiled food and other garbage, broken glass littering the ground, a wide crack zigzagging through one of the walls. An eerie, unwelcome sense of déjà vu filled me. This was the same alley I had come through this morning, and I had a sneaking suspicion I knew exactly where we were going—and even worse, whom we were meeting.
Conley marched out the far end of the alley, through the trees, and into the clearing beyond. He stopped near the center of the open space, and the two men set down their wheelbarrows. The other four miners spread out, still holding their pickaxes, while Penelope grabbed my arm and jerked me to the side.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you involved in this.”
Surprise filled me. Had she done this before? Was she part of Conley’s crew?
Before I could ask Penelope any questions, half a dozen men stepped out of the trees on the opposite side of the clearing.
No crests adorned their black tunics, leggings, and boots, but they were all wearing purple cloaks that clearly marked them as Mortans. People in Blauberg didn’t wear that color because they didn’t want to be mistaken as being from the other kingdom. The men were clutching swords with the ease and familiarity of seasoned soldiers, and they all oozed cool confidence, unlike Conley, Penelope, and the other miners, who were radiating rigid tension.
The Mortans parted, and a seventh man strode into the clearing. He was more than six feet tall, with short black hair, hazel eyes, bronze skin, and a body that was all thick, solid muscle. Heavy stubble darkened his square jaw, and he would have been handsome, if not for the cruel twist of his lips.
He too was wearing a purple cloak, and a fancy cursive M surrounded by a ring of strix feathers was done in gold thread on his black tunic, over his heart. The Morricone royal crest marked him as a captain, although instead of a sword, he was holding something much more unusual—the end of a long coldiron chain.
The captain stopped and yanked on the chain, as though it were attached to some poor dog that he wanted to drag forward and whip to within an inch of its life.
“Come on,” he growled. “Don’t make this any harder on yourself.”
He gave the chain another yank. The captain must have had some strength magic, because another man stumbled into the clearing. This man’s hands were bound in front of him with coldiron shackles that were attached to the chain, and a coldiron collar glinted around his neck.
The captain stuck his foot out, tripping the other man, who landed in an undignified heap. Pain spiked through my own skull, making me wince. That fall had definitely hurt, although the injured man didn’t make the smallest sound of discomfort.
The captain sneered down at his prisoner, while the six guards stepped forward and kicked the other man, driving their boots into his ribs, hips, and legs. The prisoner huddled on the ground, his head tucked down, his back toward me, and his arms wrapped around his sides, trying to protect himself.
More pain spiked through my skull, and sympathy pricked my heart like a red-hot needle. Thanks to the Seven Spire massacre, I knew exactly how awful it was to be down on the ground, alone and helpless, and surrounded by enemies. How fearful it was to never know when or where the next blow was coming from, or how much it would hurt, or if the next attack would be the one that finally killed you—
“Enough!” the captain bellowed. “You’ve had your fun.”
The guards stopped their assault and stepped back. Silence dropped over the clearing. The prisoner rolled over onto his stomach, then pushed himself up to his hands and knees and leaned back on his heels.
The injured man raised his head. Black hair, dark amethyst eyes, tan skin. Shock knifed through me, even sharper and harder than his pain had.
The prisoner was Prince Leonidas Morricone.
Chapter Four
I sucked in a loud, surprised breath, and Leonidas glanced over at me.
Our gazes locked. Even though I had seen him earlier, this was the first time I had looked him in the eyes since we were children. For once, phantom screams didn’t ring in my ears. No, all I could hear was the sudden, painful hammering of my heart, picking up force and speed with every passing second.
I held my breath, waiting for recognition to erupt in his eyes, and anger to stain his cheeks as he realized exactly who I was, but his features remained blank and impassive, except for the tiny frown that quirked his lips, as though he wasn’t sure what to make of me.
“Get up,” the captain growled.
He yanked on the chain again, almost jerking the prince back down to the ground, but Leonidas stiffly climbed to his feet. He glared at the captain, his amethyst eyes as dark as storm clouds
. The cold fury in his features made me shiver. Even shackled, he was still extremely dangerous.
Leonidas’s gaze darted over to me again. Magic flared in his eyes, although it was a dull, dim flash, like a match trying to sputter to life in a monsoon, given the coldiron collar and shackles that were dampening his abilities. Still, his power brushed up against me, as light as a feather tickling my skin, but with a hot, electric undercurrent that made my stomach clench with anger, worry, and something else that was far more troublesome.
The faint, weak sensation was as soft and polite as a servant’s knock on a door, but I immediately swatted his magic away with my own power, as hard and fast as Grimley knocking a vase off a table with his tail.
The feathery, electric feel of his magic vanished, but Leonidas’s eyes narrowed, and he studied me even more closely. I cursed my own foolishness. I shouldn’t have reacted to his power, much less batted it away with my own. Now he knew I was more than what I appeared to be.
“See something you like, princeling?” the captain mocked. “I had no idea you were so fascinated by miners. Why, I thought you were too good to tumble with the palace servants.”
“Just marking the faces of my enemies,” Leonidas replied in an icy tone. “I will kill you for this, Wexel, along with everyone else here.”
He looked at first one guard, then the next with cold calculation, as though he was figuring out how best to murder them all, despite his shackles. Some of his captors shifted on their feet, while a couple sidled back a few steps.
Wexel was the only one who didn’t shrink away from the prince’s glare. “I don’t take orders from you. Never have, never will. You should have stayed in Morta. Not stuck your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Forget him,” Conley snapped. “Let’s get down to business.”
Wexel’s gaze swung over to the foreman. To his credit, Conley didn’t wilt under the captain’s hot, steady glower, which made him both brave and foolish.
The captain strode forward, still clutching the coldiron chain, which clank-clank-clanked. The harsh, ominous sound made me wince. Beside me, Penelope stood rooted in place, her breath escaping in shallow gasps. The other miners hefted their pickaxes a little higher, and even Conley swallowed, betraying his nerves.
Wexel stopped in front of the foreman and smiled, his white teeth flashing like sharp, pointed pearls. “What were you saying?”
“I—I—I brought what you wanted,” Conley stammered.
“Then quit wasting time and show it to me,” Wexel growled.
The foreman flapped his hand at the two men with the wheelbarrows, who rolled the containers forward and set them down. Conley ripped the black tarps off first one wheelbarrow, then the other.
Jagged chunks of tearstone glinted in the sun, their colors shifting from light gray to dark blue and back again.
Wexel grabbed a chunk of tearstone and hefted the ore in his hand, as if testing its weight. He nodded, apparently satisfied, then tossed the piece over to one of his men, who caught it. “Load it up.”
Four guards strode forward and transferred the tearstone from the wheelbarrows into several large black leather satchels. Those men must all have had strength magic, because carrying the bulging bags didn’t seem to bother them.
Leonidas eyed the satchels. “What are you going to do with the tearstone?”
A low, ugly laugh rumbled out of Wexel’s mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He sneered at the prince, then looked at Conley. I tensed again, thinking that Wexel might order his guards to murder the foreman, along with the rest of us. Conley must have been considering the same thing, because he wet his lips and took a step back, as though he was ready to run for his life.
Several seconds ticked by in utter silence. Worry blasted off Conley, Penelope, and the other miners and squeezed around me like a python strangling its prey.
Wexel jerked his head, and a guard stepped forward and threw another, different satchel down onto the ground in front of Conley. Several clink-clink-clinks rang out, and a few gold crowns spilled out of the bag. Instead of a Ripley gargoyle, the gold was stamped with a woman’s face, with two tiny coins forming her eyes and a third coin forming her mouth.
The coined woman was the crest of the DiLucris, the powerful, wealthy family behind the Fortuna Mint, a bank that dealt with all sorts of unsavory characters and engaged in its own dark deeds. Smart of Wexel to pay Conley with DiLucri gold so that the stolen tearstone couldn’t be traced directly back to the Mortans.
Greed surged off Conley, the hungry, gnawing emotion even stronger than his worry, and he dropped to his knees, scooped the errant coins back into the satchel, and hoisted it onto his shoulder. Conley climbed back to his feet, staggering a little under the satchel’s heavy weight, but more greed surged off him, and he steadied himself.
Conley started creeping backward, but Wexel held up a hand, and the foreman froze.
“I need you to take care of something else,” Wexel said.
Conley frowned. “I’ve told you before. I need at least a week to stockpile this much tearstone, as per our usual schedule.”
“The usual delivery schedule is fine. I have a more pressing problem.” The captain stabbed his finger at Leonidas.
Conley frowned again, still confused. “What do you mean?”
A cruel, thin smile split Wexel’s face. “He needs to disappear—permanently.”
My gaze snapped over to the prince. Leonidas’s face was calm and blank, but his anger and frustration punched into my heart like a red-hot poker.
Who was Wexel working for? I couldn’t imagine the arrogant captain obeying anyone other than the Morricone royals, and the highest-ranking royal was . . .
Queen Maeven.
Shock slammed into my stomach. Would Maeven be so heartless as to order her own son’s execution?
“Well?” Wexel demanded. “Can you handle this?”
Conley wet his lips again. “Of—of course.”
“Excellent. I’m glad we understand each other.”
The captain jerked his head. Two of the guards reached for Leonidas, but he struck first, head-butting one of the men, who grunted and staggered away. Leonidas drove his elbow into the gut of the second guard, who also grunted and staggered away. His attacks created an opening in the ring of men, but instead of bolting into the woods and trying to escape, the prince charged at Wexel, his hands stretching out toward the captain’s throat.
Wexel jerked back in surprise. He was still clutching the chain, and the inadvertent motion sent Leonidas tumbling down to the ground. He growled, surged back up onto his feet, and charged at the captain again.
An instant before he would have reached Wexel, the two guards he’d attacked latched onto the prince’s arms. Leonidas struggled, but given the guards’ strength magic, he couldn’t break their grips, and the coldiron shackles around his wrists, as well as the collar circling his neck, kept him from unleashing his mind magier power.
Even with the restraints, all the guards shot him wary looks, as if they realized that Leonidas Morricone was still capable of killing every single one of them with his bare hands.
Wexel dropped the chain and drew the sword on his belt. The metal made an evil hiss as it slid free from the scabbard. The captain twirled the sword around in his hand.
“Any last words, Your Highness?” Wexel mocked.
Leonidas gave him another icy, murderous glare. “You won’t get away with this—”
Wexel lunged, his sword racing toward the prince’s heart.
* * *
NO!
I didn’t know if I was hearing Leonidas’s silent scream, or if the thought was my own, but I flinched in pain and surprise. More of that treacherous sympathy pricked my heart, and I did something I never, ever thought that I would do again.
I tried to save Leonidas Morricone.
I grabbed the invisible thread of energy attached to Wexel’s sword and flicked my fingers, using my
magic to force the weapon off course. Instead of sinking into the prince’s heart, the blade stabbed into his upper chest, close to his shoulder.
Leonidas screamed and jerked back, but the two guards held him in place.
Wexel grinned and twisted his sword, trying to shove it even deeper into Leonidas’s chest. But once again, I reached out with my magic, this time curling my fingers into a tight fist, and stopped the blade.
The captain growled in frustration, wrapped both hands around the sword’s hilt, and surged forward. Wexel put his considerable mutt strength behind the blow, and his power battered against my own, threatening to break my invisible grip on his sword. If that happened, the blade would punch all the way through Leonidas’s chest, killing him instantly.
Anger spiked through me. If anyone here was going to murder Leonidas Morricone, then it was going to be me.
But Wexel was exceptionally strong, and I couldn’t hold his sword back forever, not without tipping him off that someone was using magic against him, so I aimed my power lower, yanking on his right ankle. His boot slipped on the grass, making him stagger to the side, although he managed to keep one hand on his sword.
Wexel growled again, but he must have thought that he’d mortally wounded Leonidas because he yanked his sword out of the prince’s chest, making him scream again. The guards released Leonidas, who swayed back and forth like a tree about to topple under a woodcutter’s axe.
More pinpricks of sympathy stabbed into my heart. I didn’t know why I’d helped him. Because you’re still a fool, all these years later, my own snide little voice whispered in my mind.
Leonidas’s gaze darted over to me, and his pain-glazed eyes locked with mine, as if he’d heard my silent admonishment. I froze, my breath trapped in my throat and my heart hammering against my ribs again. He opened his mouth, but no words escaped his lips. Then his eyes rolled up in the back of his head, and he collapsed.
Capture the Crown Page 5
