“It doesn’t matter. At the very least, she’s been exposed to the dark arts. They’ll be calling out to her. Even if she hasn’t used dark magic yet, she will. Mages cannot stand against temptation,” Philip spoke as if he were a master on the subject, an expert on all things magical. Ridiculous, given the fact that he’d never once stepped foot in the College or done any further reading on mages.
Cailan, however, had. “That is what every mage does, though,” he said, earning a disproving expression from both men, “when they graduate from journeyman to enchanter. They resist temptation, or they’re cut down.”
He referred to the exam journeymen took when they wanted to graduate to a higher level and earn the privileges of coming and going from the College whenever they desired. The freedom to marry another mage, should they so choose. The law ensured only strong mages procreated, those less likely to fall prey to a demon’s snare or answer the call of dark magic.
“Even if she can resist the calling of a Demon,” Henrik spoke, “there is still the matter of someone in the College who is willing to break the law to help her. The girl has red hair and eyes now. Our earlier reports stated both were violet from an ingested potion. She has someone on the inside, or she is good at hiding what she is skilled in. Celena Locke has never taken a potions class.”
“Then find her friend,” Philip stated. “Perhaps her friend will have some information for us, or at the very least loosen our prisoner’s lips.”
Henrik bowed, about to walk out, but Cailan called after him, taking on a more princely tone, “And speak with the other enchanters. Find out what we need to do the spell. Is it a potion, or does another enchanter have to be present?” When he grew irritated from the looks Henrik and Philip gave him, he added, “If she resists the temptation from a demon, surely her testimony would be more trustworthy and credible?”
It wasn’t that he was overly fond of mages; Cailan simply thought annulling the entire College would be a waste of potential. Plus, with Sumer constantly at their backdoor, wiping out their closest supply of mages seemed a stupid thing to do.
Cailan watched his father turn red in the face. Philip gave Henrik a short nod, saying, “Fine. Go.”
Before Cailan was left alone with him, he stood, following Henrik out, musing, “I’m parched. I think I’m going to swing by the kitchen.” He’d grab something and see what’s for dinner. Walking away from his father before he had the chance to say anything was just a bonus. And then, after he’d gotten what he needed, he’d make his way to the wing of the castle he usually ignored.
The guard barracks. The dungeon.
It was high time Cailan met the mage everyone was making such a big deal about.
Lena had a hand on her stomach, or as close to it as the chains would allow, cradling her empty stomach. Gods, what she’d do for a piece of bread or…well, anything. And some water. Dehydration was calling her name. She knew she wouldn’t last days like this; she hoped her story would earn her some food and water.
Footsteps drew her attention to her cell door, and she waited. They sounded a bit different than Henrik’s quiet but steady rhythm. These footsteps were loud, obnoxious, as if their owner didn’t care who heard them. When a man moved before her cell, she froze.
Definitely not Henrik.
A handsome man, only a few years older than her. His light hair was swept to the side, barely long enough to cover his ears. His skin was white and clean, his expression telling her who he was, if the regal clothes and miniature crown on his head didn’t make it obvious enough.
“You’re not Henrik,” she whispered, slowly getting to her feet.
“Not at all,” he said with a bright, dazzling smile. Perfect teeth. Perfect hair, perfect posture. Perfect everything. He snapped his fingers, and as the jail guard unlocked the cell for him, he stepped in, allowing her to see he carried a cup in his other hand. He wasn’t much taller than her, she realized, but it did not take away from his attractiveness.
“Who are you?” Her voice came out hesitant, even though she knew who he was.
“You mean to say my good looks and twinkling smile don’t give it away?” He paused, glancing behind him, at the guard who stood at attention just outside the cell. “Leave us.” When the guard didn’t move, only stared at him beneath his shiny silver helmet, he was firmer, “Now.” He wasn’t satisfied until he heard the guard clinking away, slowly returning his dark gaze to her. “I’m the prince, of course.”
“Cailan,” Lena spoke. Everyone in Rivaini knew the Prince’s name, though few ever had the chance to meet him in person, especially a mage. An incarcerated mage.
“Ah, so you do know me.” Cailan stepped closer, moving across the line drawn in the stone. He wasn’t as incompetent as that. He was probably daring her to try something, to reach for him and try to strangle him, but she remained motionless against the wall. “I brought you a present, so don’t say I never got you anything.” His arm extended, the one that held the cup.
He was giving her water.
Why?
Lena’s gaze flicked between him and the cup. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand? You must be thirsty. I highly doubt Henrik’s been accommodating to an alleged rogue mage.”
“Alleged?”
“Yes.” His fingers tapped the cup. “I assume you are innocent until guilty…unless you were never innocent to begin with.”
“I had nothing to do with the dead outside of Rivaini. It was all Gregain.” Lena couldn’t say why she pleaded with the Prince, for he didn’t truly care about her. But she’d plead her case to anyone who’d listen.
“I’m sure.” Again, he offered the cup.
She reached out slowly, her chains sliding off the wall as she grabbed it gently from him. She was careful not to let her fingers brush his; Lena didn’t want to be put to death for trying to assault the Prince or something as preposterous. She brought the cup to her dry lips, practically downing it all in one go. Most unladylike, she knew, but she wasn’t a lady. She was a mage.
Lena did, though, remember to say “Thank you.”
Cailan smiled at her, and for a moment, she froze. Yes, it was a handsome smile, but there was something about it she couldn’t put a finger on. Something hidden beneath it, as if he had ulterior motives for this visit. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. She was a mage prisoner, the very lowest on the pole. Surely he had to have come here for a reason. She handed the cup back.
His dark gaze held hers, refusing to let it go. “Henrik wasn’t kidding about the red-eyed part, was he? You look rather possessed already, but if I tell you the whole truth, I’d say I find it rather enticing.”
Was he…was he calling her pretty? With her flaming red hair and eyes? With the layer of dirt and grime that had soaked into her skin and hair the moment she was thrown into the dungeon? Lena didn’t quite know what to say.
“My Prince,” she said, “why are you here? Surely you don’t make a habit of visiting prisoners in their cell and stepping over the line.”
Cailan glanced down, noting that his feet were almost entirely over the line he was supposed to stay behind. “Ah, would you look at that. Guess you’re right.” An easy grin spread on his face. “I suppose I’m simply not one for following rules.”
“Rules are there for a reason,” she said.
“Are you saying you’re going to attack me, Celena Locke?”
“No,” she was quick to say. “No, of course not. If I were someone else, maybe. A stronger man. And it’s just Lena.”
Cailan took another step forward, practically a foot from her, less than an arm’s reach. If she were stronger, she’d easily be able to grab him and choke him. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t want to be executed, so she only inhaled sharply at his closeness. He smelled of soap and lavender.
“Lena,” he breathed out her name. She felt his breath on her face, warm and hot. “You certainly are a pretty one, aren’t you?”
Suddenly she did not like his closeness, did not like how he looked at her, how he moved closer to her while she was chained up and couldn’t cast spells. Something inside her switched, and she stated, “I’m sure that’s what Gregain thought too, before he died.”
Cailan took a step back, returning to the line. “And how did your precious High Enchanter meet his ultimate demise?”
A muscle in her jaw twitched. “I killed him.”
He did something that she wasn’t expecting—he laughed. It was a melodic, genuine sound, as if he found her actions cute. As if murder was adorable. “A murderer, eh? I’m liking you more by the second, Lena. Such a pretty little murderer you are.” His dark stare fell to her feet, slowly traveling up, devouring her appearance like a hungry animal. “I’ll do my best to keep my father’s executioner away from you. I have a feeling you and I are going to have a lot of fun.” He flashed his teeth in a smile again, and this time, Lena knew exactly what was wrong with it.
Prince Cailan was mad. Entirely, unapologetically, unequivocally crazy.
Valerius sat in the kitchen with Bastian. Bastian busied himself with cleaning out the firepit, but Valerius simply sat with his hands on the table, mouth clamped shut. He hadn’t wanted her to go, not yet, not without them, but he knew he wasn’t the one with the choice. Lena was. And she’d made it; she’d left them.
Tamlen had disappeared yet again, probably attempting to find a way from this farmhouse. After all his failed attempts, the man should take a step back and realize he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. He was stuck here, just like they all were.
Bastian had known Lena would leave, try to help her friends and her College. It was a heroic endeavor, but one that would bear no fruit. Valerius knew if the King wanted to truly wipe out all the mages in the College, there was no one who could stop him.
The urge to be with Lena had never been stronger. He missed her, and she hadn’t even been gone that long. She was a part of him, just as he was a part of her. Being apart wasn’t good for them. For their health, their relationship…because as much as Valerius disliked it, he was her thrall, and she was his master, his necromancer, along with his love.
It was not that long before Tamlen stormed back into the farmhouse, his cheeks red from sprinting. “I run, and I run, and I run,” he huffed. “And I make sure I go straight. The straight and fucking narrow. I don’t even look in another direction. And somehow I bloody wind up here. How the fuck does that work?”
“Magic,” Valerius muttered. Tamlen should know that by now, too. Especially considering he was a mage himself.
“Clearly,” Tamlen huffed. “Clearly, I—”
A knock echoed throughout the farmhouse, a knock on the front door. The three men in the kitchen exchanged looks.
“I don’t suppose we’re expecting anybody, are we?” Tamlen asked, his brown eyes concerned. He moved into the living area, followed shortly by Valerius and Bastian. Another knock, similar to the first, bounced off the wooden front door.
Valerius knew it wasn’t locked, so it was a wonder why the person didn’t just walk in.
After a third knock, Bastian asked, “Should we answer it? It doesn’t sound as if they’re leaving. I think…I think we should answer it.” Another knock.
“Who the hell could it be?” Tamlen said, moving to answer the door. “If it’s someone here to kill us, I’m blaming you two and I’m going to flay him alive.”
Valerius only blinked at the threat, for he hadn’t done or said anything. He watched Tamlen’s fingers tighten on the knob before throwing it open, little wisps of flames dancing across his skin, wisps so small one wouldn’t notice unless they paid attention.
A stranger stood outside, hands hanging loosely at his sides. He was a tall fellow, thin. His skin was perhaps the palest Valerius had ever seen, his hair a milky white, cut short and styled in a windswept fashion, its waves hanging over his eyebrows. And the man’s eyes—a startling silver, rimmed in a deep black. There was a regal air about him, though his clothes were nothing too special. Crisp and clean, but simple in their elegance.
Tamlen frowned at him. “Who the fuck are you?”
Valerius glanced at Bastian, finding the Sumerian’s dark skin paling somewhat, his eyes wide as he stared at the newcomer. Almost as if he’d seen him before. Almost like he knew him.
The man said nothing as he stepped inside the house, surveying each of them as a specimen of some kind. Beside him, Tamlen’s fists clenched, and Valerius knew he was seeking to call forth his fire magic, but no magic came. “Bastian, if you’re using your eradicator shit on me right now, it’d be a good time to stop.”
Bastian shook his head. “I’m not.”
The white-haired man looked to Tamlen. He was even taller than the warrior mage, though his body was not as wide. “I am,” he said, his voice a soothing, calming tone. Serene. “You will not attack me, because I will not allow you to.”
“You…” Tamlen sputtered, his confidence wavering. “You can’t control me.”
The man raised a single, impeccably-shaped brow as the door behind him swung closed without anyone touching it. Magic filled the room, an invisible force Valerius could feel crawling on his skin, similar to the tiny electric shocks that zapped along him when he used his runic magic. Whoever this man was…he was powerful.
The man’s silver stare moved to Bastian. “Care to tell them who I am, Bastian LeFuer?” He spoke his name with a flourish, a perfect Sumerian accent, the R sound barely perceptible as it rolled on his tongue.
Bastian could barely hold his voice steady. “Zyssept.”
Valerius felt his spirits sink, and he appraised the white-haired man in a new light. He wasn’t really a man at all; he was a god, one who was after Lena. And, being a god of death, it wasn’t too far-fetched that he could control them. Zyssept was the ultimate necromancer.
Still, somehow the man standing before them did not seem frightening. His demeanor was calm and collected, his eyes full of wisdom and knowledge, his stance the very opposite of aggressive.
Even though they faced down an old god, Tamlen had enough courage to say, “I will not let you take her.”
“Take?” Zyssept echoed, moving to sit in the cushioned chair that sat in the corner of the room. From that position, he could look at all three of them without the need to turn his head. His hands stretched out on the armrests, his fingers delicately tracing the fraying seams. “I cannot take what already belongs to me.”
“She does not belong to you,” Valerius said, moving beside Tamlen. Bastian hung back, slow to sit on the opposite couch. “She is a person, not an object.”
Zyssept cracked a smile—it was small, barely perceptible, but there nonetheless. It was gone in a flash, replaced once more by a stolid exterior. “Yes, you humans do not like to be claimed. I have forgotten many things about your kind, but I am beginning to relearn.”
An old god of death…learning? That was new.
“It is not such a terrible thing to belong to a god,” Zyssept carried on, waving a hand through the air. “It means protection, adoration, happiness, even. It is a connection that goes both ways. Celena is a blackblood. She is mine. Blood of my blood, the breath of my life. I owe her everything. Without our connection, I never would’ve been strong enough to step foot in this plane.”
“How?” Bastian said. “I saw you. You came to me…”
“That was on the other side, one of many other planes this world contains. The Veil is the realm of demons and spirits. This realm is the realm of man and creature. There are others. Surely you are not closed-minded enough to believe there were only two?” Zyssept’s question rang with innocence, a false naivety. “The realms are countless, and I’m certain you would find some of their inhabitants truly terrifying.”
Tamlen frowned at the old god. “And you’re one of them. You’re from another realm.”
“Gods are born of man and monster, Tamlen Grey. I’m afraid it has been so long I’ve forgotten what I
used to be.”
“Well. Isn’t that perfect for you,” Tamlen muttered, crossing his arms.
Zyssept was quick to say, “On the contrary, it is not perfect, for while I may seek domination over some, there is one I would simply like to understand. Forgetting what it was like to be mortal has made me…oblivious to things that may come easily to you, cold in ways you might deem impassive and unemotional. Let me assure you: simply because I am a god does not mean I cannot feel.”
Valerius found himself moving to sit beside Bastian, breathing deeply as he took it all in. Tamlen was the only one who remained standing, and judging from his steely expression, he didn’t plan on sitting down anytime soon.
“So, what?” Tamlen asked, “You come here to inquire about Lena?”
“Among other things.” Zyssept crossed his legs, his silver stare pinning Tamlen down. “Please, sit while we discuss them.”
Tamlen must’ve had no choice, for he mumbled as he plopped down on Bastian’s other side, keeping his arms crossed. He was more than annoyed; he was furious.
“First, though, I wish to learn more about you.” Zyssept gave them a smile. Unlike the first twinge of a grin he’d flashed before, this one lingered on his face, long after it fell off his lips. It was clear he did not understand emotions, or at the very least how to show them without being creepy about it.
Until this day, Valerius had thought, had believed with his entire heart, they would fight Zyssept when he came to take her. From his words and his actions, it appeared the old god did not wish to take her. At least, not straight away. It also seemed he would not separate them from her, and Valerius wouldn’t complain about that.
Still, if Lena wanted to go against him, regardless of whether or not Zyssept could control him, he’d find a way to help her. Valerius would not allow the old god to do anything to her she did not consent to.
“Do you know where Lena is?” Valerius whispered before Zyssept could ask about them.
His expression was mostly blank, but there were traces of shock in it. “Of course I know where she is. She is growing into what she will become. Only when the time is nigh will I meet her across the Veil.” Zyssept paused, concern painting his pale, unique features. “You must understand. She will never come to harm as long as I am here. I have protected her for years.”
Blood and Sorcery: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 2) Page 14
