Capture the Crown

by Jennifer Estep

  Leonidas’s eyes glittered with a cold light. “I’m not going anywhere. This is just as much my home as it is Milo’s.”

  I ground my teeth in frustration. His stubbornness was going to get us both killed, so I tried another tactic. “What about Maeven? Surely, the queen will want to know that her captain tried to kill her son.”

  A bitter laugh spewed out of Leonidas’s mouth. “Mother prefers to let her children and other relatives settle these sorts of . . . disputes amongst themselves, just like she did when she was the head of the Bastard Brigade. Even if I told her what was going on, she wouldn’t help or intervene. She would just sit back and watch and congratulate the winner in the end, just like she’s done ever since I was a boy.”

  My heart ached for him. Mothers were supposed to love and protect their children, not throw them into the deadly gladiatorial ring of palace politics and see if they managed to survive.

  I would never, ever admit it to anyone, but part of me understood Maeven’s actions at Seven Spire. She might have chosen to engage in wholesale slaughter, but she had also been trying to improve her kingdom’s fortunes. She’d had a goal and a reason for her actions, no matter how despicable they were. But not helping your own son, even when he was battling your other son . . . Well, that was just heartless.

  Leonidas must have seen the worry on my face, because he came over to me. “Trust me. This is how things are done here. Milo set a trap for us, but it failed. He’ll retreat, at least for now, and I’ll take the usual steps to protect myself—and you too. In the meantime, we’ll all pretend like nothing is wrong and that we aren’t all plotting to kill each other.”

  I shuddered. “Pretending nothing is wrong is even worse than your brother trying to murder you.”

  “It is what it is, and we are who we are,” Leonidas replied, his voice as cold as I’d ever heard it. “Milo isn’t going to change, and neither am I.”

  Thwack-thwack-thwack. The sharp, wet sounds of those glass shards plunging into the guards’ bodies whispered through my mind. He had killed all those men with no hesitation and no mercy. Perhaps Leonidas was more like Milo—like Maeven—than I’d realized.

  I thought of the rage that had gripped me, and how I’d wanted to use my magic to rip the guards to shreds, even after they were wounded and no longer a threat. Maybe I was also more like Milo and Maeven than I wanted to admit. I shuddered again.

  Leonidas hesitated, then dropped to one knee, reached out, and took my hand. He wasn’t wearing his usual gloves, and he stroked his thumb over my skin, as if he were trying to bring some much-needed warmth back to my ice-cold fingers.

  I stood there, torn between tearing my hand away and wrapping my fingers around his. Despite everything that had happened, and all the awful things we had done, part of me was still desperately, crazily attracted to him, and I had to fight the urge to cup his face in my hands, lean down, and press my lips to his.

  Hot sparks flared in Leonidas’s eyes, as if he were sensing my treacherous thoughts. His thumb stilled, and his hand tightened around mine, as if he were going to stand up and draw me into his arms. I didn’t know what I would do if that happened. Probably kiss him like a fool.

  But the moment passed, and his grip slowly loosened. Regret pinched my heart, and once again, I had to force myself not to reach for him.

  “Don’t worry about Wexel and Milo,” Leonidas said. “I can handle them. Besides, I promised not to let any harm come to you. If you believe nothing else I’ve said, then believe that. Please?”

  His last whispered word made me shudder for a third time, but this motion was not one of fear or revulsion—more like a last-ditch effort to stop myself from doing something supremely stupid.

  “I suppose I don’t have any choice but to believe you,” I replied, not sure how to respond to the hot sparks still flaring in his eyes and the answering heat simmering in my own veins.

  The sparks dimmed, as though my obvious lack of trust disappointed him. “One day, I hope that you’ll believe me because you know it’s the truth,” he said, his own voice hoarse with all sorts of emotions I didn’t want to hear right now.

  Leonidas leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles, just as he had on the balcony last night. His lips scorched my skin, and the heat of his touch blazed all the way down into my bones, like a wildfire I couldn’t extinguish no matter how hard I tried. My fingertips tingled, but not from any magic this time. No, this sensation was my own desperate, foolish yearning for him.

  Still, the unwanted sensation helped ground me. Leonidas could spout all the pretty promises he wanted, but he would turn me over to Maeven in a heartbeat if he knew who I really was. Letting myself feel anything for the Morricone prince was a path to certain disaster, and I had already taken far too many steps in that dangerous direction.

  I flexed my fingers and tugged my hand out of his. The sparks died in Leonidas’s eyes, and he stiffly climbed to his feet.

  “Try to get some rest.” His face was carefully blank, his voice flat and remote again. “It won’t be long until it’s time for the ball.”

  He bowed to me, then left the chambers, waving his hand to shut the doors behind him. I stood there and watched him go, wishing my traitorous heart wasn’t already longing for him to return.

  * * *

  I waited until I was sure that Leonidas was gone, then trudged into the bathroom, stripped off my ruined clothes, and washed the blood, dirt, and grime off my body. I dressed in a fresh tunic, sat down at the vanity table, and combed my hair, trying not to notice how my hands were trembling.

  Making myself presentable helped rein in my emotions and gave me some time to think. Events were rapidly spiraling out of control, but I still needed to accomplish some things before I left Myrkvior.

  So I put the comb down, grabbed the silver compact Leonidas had given me, and pressed it up against the mirror. “Show me Dominic Ripley.”

  The familiar silver light and ripples appeared, although the mirror quickly smoothed out, showing my father’s study. He must have been waiting for me because he lunged into view a few seconds later.

  “Gemma! Are you okay?” Father asked, worry creasing his face.

  “I’m fine. Being here has been . . . stressful.”

  Before he could ask me any more questions that I didn’t want to answer, I told him everything I had learned, including the fact that Milo was making barbed arrows out of the stolen tearstone. I didn’t mention having breakfast with Maeven, or Wexel and the guards attacking Leonidas and me, or me lashing out with my magic. That information would only add to my father’s worry.

  He frowned. “Why would Milo make arrows out of tearstone? Why not just make them out of regular iron?”

  “I don’t know. Reiko asked the same questions.”

  His frown deepened. “Who is Reiko?”

  I told him about the Ryusaman spy. When I finished, Father actually brightened. “I’m so glad you found a friend.”

  I didn’t know if Reiko and I were friends, but I didn’t dissuade him of the notion. “Reiko took one of the arrows to some metalstone masters. I need to track her down and see what she found out.”

  “Well, I hope she learned something useful, but you’ve both done enough. Now that we know Milo is making weapons, specifically arrows, we can prepare. We can figure out the rest of his plot later. You and Reiko need to leave Myrkvior as soon as possible. Bring her to Glitnir, if she wants to come. We’ll protect her. Just come home, Gemma. Please. Before it’s too late.”

  Leaving now felt like admitting defeat, at least as far as my pride was concerned. But given Wexel’s attack, it was highly unlikely that I would be able to learn any more about Milo’s plot. Leonidas might think he could protect himself and me from another assassination attempt, but I had my doubts. I might have risked my life by staying here and swimming in the dangerous waters of Myrkvior, but the tide had turned against me, and now it was time to head back to shore, lest I drown in my own blood. />
  And even more troubling was this . . . warmth that I felt for Leonidas. This bloody softness that made me forget everything that had happened between us as children, and everything his family had done to mine. Leonidas might seem like an ally, a friend, maybe even something more, but he was still a Morricone, and I was a Ripley, and we would always be natural enemies, just like strixes and gargoyles.

  “Very well,” I said. “I’ve learned as much as I can. It’s time to leave.”

  “When?” Father asked.

  “Tonight. I’ll slip out of the palace during the queen’s birthday ball. Everyone will be celebrating, and Grimley and I should be able to leave Myrkvior undetected.”

  Father nodded, although worry creased his face again. “I’ll tell Topacia of your plans so she can be on the lookout for you in Blauberg. Be careful, Gemma. I love you.”

  “I love you too. I’ll see you soon.”

  I leaned forward and pulled the compact away from the vanity-table mirror, breaking the connection. My father’s face flickered, then vanished, and I was left staring at my own reflection, trying to figure out exactly how I had gotten here, all tangled and twisted up inside, and so very far off course from where I had started.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I still had things to check on before I escaped from Myrkvior, so I stuffed my dagger back into my boot and left my chambers.

  I went to the rotunda in the center of the palace and hid in the shadows on the second-floor balcony, studying everyone moving through the area below. Servants, mostly, rushing to and fro with platters of food, trays filled with crystal goblets, and crates bristling with wine bottles, getting ready for the ball. The guards seemed bored by the hustle and bustle, and none of them looked like they were scanning the crowd, searching for me.

  Leonidas seemed to be right about Wexel and Milo retreating after their trap had failed to kill us, but I still skimmed the guards’ thoughts.

  Hope I get a chance to dance with Karina tonight . . .

  Maybe I can steal a bottle of wine while no one’s looking . . .

  Can’t wait for this stupid ball to be over so things calm down . . .

  Well, that made two of us.

  None of the guards was thinking anything sinister, so I went downstairs. I scurried across the rotunda, following along behind some servants. None of the guards here seemed to be loyal to Wexel and Milo, but it was in my best interests to remain as invisible as possible.

  I went to the library where I had last seen Reiko this morning, but she wasn’t there. Frustration filled me. We should have made plans to meet before the ball and exchange information, but maybe I could still find her.

  I stopped a passing servant. “Have you seen Lady Reiko? Do you know where her chambers are?”

  He shrugged. “Not recently, my lady. I don’t know if she is staying at the palace, but you might check the Hall of Portraits. Lots of nobles go there.”

  He told me where it was, then hurried away. I doubted Reiko cared about seeing portraits, but it was the only lead I had, so I headed in that direction.

  The Hall of Portraits was exactly what its name implied—a large, wide corridor with gold-framed portraits and other paintings lining the walls. Despite what the servant had said about it being a popular spot, the hall was currently empty. More frustration filled me, but I didn’t know where else to look for Reiko, so I wandered through the corridor.

  Most of the portraits were of Mortan kings and queens. I recognized many of the names from my history lessons, and almost all the royals had the distinctive Morricone golden hair and dark amethyst eyes. I stopped in front of a portrait of King Maximus. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the king had a sour look on his face, as though his image was perpetually disgusted by the fact that he had been murdered in real life. Served the bastard right.

  Up ahead, I spotted a portrait of Maeven, although it was much farther down the hallway, as though whoever had hung it didn’t want to place her smiling face right next to the sour one of the brother she had killed. A much larger landscape separated the two siblings, so I stopped in front of it.

  At first glance, the painting seemed like an ordinary piece, one that showed a large gathering of people on a grassy lawn filled with tables, as though they were at a luncheon. But the longer I stared at the landscape, the more I realized that it wasn’t a happy, benign scene chronicling some distant piece of Mortan history. Instead of smiling and sitting upright, people’s eyes and mouths were frozen open in pain and terror, and they were slumped over the tables, with crimson blood oozing out of their chests.

  The painting depicted the Seven Spire massacre.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, that had been just as important a day in Morta’s history as it had been in Andvari’s and Bellona’s, and many paintings featured battles and the like, no matter how bloody and gruesome the scenes were. More than one picture and tapestry at Glitnir depicted gargoyles savagely tearing into Andvarian enemies.

  Despite my sick shock, I drifted closer to the painting, studying every little thing about it. Truth be told, it was an eerily good likeness. The position of the tables, the bodies littering the lawn, the bright blue sky above it all. The artist had captured the massacre in vivid, if horrific, detail.

  Only one thing was missing—Everleigh Blair.

  The Bellonan gladiator queen wasn’t depicted anywhere in the painting, even though she had survived the massacre. Aunt Evie had foiled Maximus’s plot to start a war between Bellona and Andvari, so of course she wouldn’t be included in an image designed to celebrate the Morricones’ seeming victory.

  A figure in the bottom corner of the painting caught my eye. Blond hair, purple eyes, purple gown. It was Maeven, smiling wide, with purple lightning crackling around her lifted hand, as though she was waving to anyone who peered at the image. She was the only person who wasn’t dead and covered in blood.

  I shuddered and started to turn away when my gaze landed on another figure, this one in the center of the painting. That looked like . . . No, that was my uncle Frederich lying dead on the ground with the other Andvarians. I could tell by the dagger sticking out of his chest and the tiny gargoyle crest done in black thread on his gray tunic.

  Once again, I started to turn away, but my gaze snagged on yet another figure—myself.

  In the painting, a girl was peeking out from underneath a table. Unlike the other figures, Gems wasn’t dead and bloody, but her mouth was open in a silent scream, and her hands were clapped over her ears. The image was eerily similar to what had happened in real life, and a stark, visual reminder of my cowardice.

  Cold, familiar, stomach-churning waves of guilt and shame crashed through me, and the screams of everyone who had died echoed in my ears. Tears stung my eyes, and my breath caught in my throat. I stepped back, trying to get away from the awful image, and bumped into someone behind me.

  I moved to the side and turned around. “Excuse me—”

  My apology died on my lips. I hadn’t bumped into a servant or a guard or even a noble.

  I had run into Queen Maeven.

  * * *

  I stood there, dumbstruck. It was as though Maeven had stepped out of the painting, out of my nightmarish memories, and right into the hall. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what to think, and I especially didn’t know what to feel, other than white-hot rage at the bitch for murdering my uncle and countrymen and for causing me and so many others so much pain.

  For a mad, mad moment, I thought about unleashing my magic, about using my power to toss her across the corridor and snap her back against the far wall, just like I’d done to the guards in Maximus’s workshop. My gargoyle pendant grew ice-cold, pressing into my heart like a frozen arrow, but the chill didn’t drown out the power or especially the rage rising inside me—

  A flash of movement caught my eye. Three guards had entered the hall. They were staying at the far end, giving us some privacy, but they all had their hands on their swords,
ready to rush forward and cut me down if I made any threatening moves.

  Once again, I couldn’t kill the queen—not without dying myself.

  Frustration pounded through me, but I forced myself to draw in slow, deep, steady breaths. Every time I exhaled, I pushed a little more of my rage and magic down, and my pendant slowly warmed back up to a more normal temperature.

  Part of me admired Maeven’s caution, even though it was thwarting me now. If nothing else, the queen seemed cognizant of the fact that she had enemies within her own palace. I wondered if she realized that Milo was one of those enemies. Probably. I imagined that very little of what went on at Myrkvior escaped her notice.

  Maeven stepped up beside me, studying the painting with a critical gaze. She hadn’t dismissed me, so I turned back to the piece, focusing on the liladorn vines curling through the gold frame, rather than the gruesome images on the canvas.

  “Maximus had this painting commissioned shortly after the Seven Spire massacre,” Maeven said.

  I didn’t respond. I doubted I could speak right now without screaming curses at her.

  “He claimed the painting was to commemorate my greatest triumph,” she continued. “But he hung it up next to his own portrait, as though all my hard work assassinating the Blairs was his own personal doing. Maximus was always taking credit for my successes while denying his own failures. But I suppose that’s the way of kings and queens. My brother was just a bit more boorish and graceless about it than most.”

  She shrugged, as if her brother’s actions were of little consequence, but anger scorched off her, like heat waves rising off a roof in the summer sun.

  Maeven faced me. “What do you think of the painting?”

  I wanted to scream that it was one of the most grotesque things I had ever seen and that I didn’t want to look at it another bloody second, but I wasn’t Princess Gemma, massacre survivor, right now. No, right now, I was Lady Armina, a noble who was supposedly loyal to the Mortan throne. I put on that persona like a cloak, wrapping it tightly around myself, thinking about what Lady Armina would say, and not the guilt, shame, and disgust pummeling Princess Gemma’s heart.