The Confectioner's Truth

by Claire Luana

  “I’m afraid I have something different in mind for your special talents. I have spent years searching for particular Gifted with particular Gifts. Strength. Healing. Physical Beauty. Intellect. Magnetism and Virility. Most of them I found in Aprica. A few in Tamros. But I knew there was a trove of you in Alesia. I’ve been searching for you for years, Wren. The power of good luck. To turn each day into a series of delightful surprises. For everything to go your way.”

  “It hasn’t worked out so well for me,” Wren said.

  “That is the strange irony of you Gifted, isn’t it? The more you use it, the less you have it for yourself. You must have been cooking quite a bit, for me to find you.”

  Actually, she hadn’t made any confections in a few days. She should have had some luck saved up. But it never seemed to be there when she needed it. She said nothing.

  “Well, I want you to know,” Daemastra went on. “You will be part of something special. Something completely new, something yet untried. By combining the best of the Gifting with the power of your friend, Guildmaster Pike, I will become the best of all of you. Me and a select few men, my Golden Guard. Together, we will usher the Aprican Empire into a new era of prosperity.”

  Wren’s stomach flipped. The way he’d said Guildmaster Pike. The way his eyes had flipped to that jar. What was in that jar? She looked at Hale, willing him to meet her eyes, but his gaze was fixed on the floor, the muscles of his jaw working furiously.

  She had to think of a way out of this. Think, Wren. She’d gotten out of worse spots before. “I’ll cook for you,” Wren said, struggling against her bonds. “Whatever you want. You can have all my Gift, all my magic. Infused confections for as long as you want them. Please.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not enough. I need the essence of your Gift.”

  “Then take it. I’ll give it to you freely. How?”

  “It’s in your bones, Wren,” Daemastra said. “I’m afraid you can’t give it to me. At least not while you live.”

  Wren’s eyes flew to the jar. The jar of white powder. Bones. Ground bones.

  She was going to be sick. She strained at the bonds, twisting enough to throw up over the side of chair, rather than onto herself. Her vomit splattered on the ground, onto Daemastra’s black shoes.

  His mouth twisted in distaste. “It’s all right, dear. You don’t end up in my line of work without being willing to get a little dirty.”

  Wren panted, her stomach heaving. She thought more might come up.

  Pike was dead. Ground into dust. And that was her fate.

  Daemastra walked over to the cabinet, pulling out a syringe and a jar of clear fluid. He turned. “I’m not a monster, Wren. I’d like to assure you that this won’t hurt a bit. It’s just a body. You won’t even miss it once you’re gone.”

  Wren let out a keening sound, shying away from Daemastra. Why had she come back here to Maradis? She should have run, should have fled, like Ansel had offered. Now he was dead. Lucas was dead. Olivia was dead. Hale was worse than dead. Hale. Her eyes focused on him. “Hale!” she cried. “Stop him! Don’t let him do this!”

  Daemastra looked back at the frozen figure of Hale and gave a little chuckle. “I’m afraid he won’t be able to help you. If he did, he’d be dead in less than a day.”

  Wren looked between the two men.

  “See, even now, the black poison creeps through his veins.” Daemastra pointed at black lines that crisscrossed Hale’s hands, which were wrapped tightly around each elbow, his arms before him. ”Only the antidote I give him each morning saves him. So I assure you, Hale is well and truly bought. He will follow me in all things.”

  Was it true? Was Hale only helping Daemastra because the man was holding his life hostage? Did it excuse what he was doing? Standing here, complicit to these horrors? If it was her, wouldn’t she rather die than be a part of this? She didn’t know. Self-preservation was a powerful force. Whatever the truth, in some way, it comforted her. To know that her Hale was in there somewhere. That he wasn’t totally lost to her. That he hadn’t become this monster entirely by choice.

  Daemastra was filling the syringe from the vial now, and Wren felt herself come unmoored. She didn’t care anymore about being strong or unflappable. She couldn’t rescue Thom and Callidus, or Hale. She had tried to be clever, tried to be brave. Tried to play the game with kings and emperors. She had been desperately outmatched. There was no plan, no surprise ending. No allies to pull her out of this fire. She was going to die.

  Chapter 44

  Hale had seen his share of death. He had watched his brother die, his life slipping away before Hale’s eyes as his blood had leaked into the dry Aprican soil. He had watched his beautiful mother go from a vibrant vintner to a sickly husk of herself as the Red Plague had eaten her from the inside out. And he had watched Sable, the light of his life, breathe her last breath. Felt his soul die with hers.

  He had even chopped Guildmaster Pike’s arm off at the elbow—cut through the muscle and flesh and sinew to reach the bone that Daemastra needed. He had taken that gruesome task on himself in the mad hope that he could save the rest of the man, who was recuperating in a deserted storeroom until Hale figured out a way to smuggle him out of the palace. Hale still had red under his fingernails, even after washing his hands a dozen times. Maybe he would always have that man’s blood on his hands.

  Hale had thought there was nothing left in him that could mourn—that could feel horror or sadness or anything at all. But watching Wren set her jaw and stand up to Daemastra, even hopeless, strapped to a chair...gods. Watching her crumple in on herself...watching the realization pass through her eyes, the realization that she was going to die... It broke him. He thought he was as broken as a man could be, yet in that moment, he fractured further.

  He didn’t care if the black poison took him. Let it pulse through his veins and still his heart. He wouldn’t stand here and do nothing while that monster killed her.

  He knew Daemastra took all sorts of infusions daily—healing, strength, reflexes. But the man wasn’t a god yet, and he didn’t think even an infusion could heal a knife to the heart. So as Daemastra sucked the poison into the needle he would inject Wren with, Hale slowly pulled a knife out of the knife block. And raised his hand to strike.

  A deafening boom rang out, reverberating through Hale’s chest and rocking him against the counter. He set the knife down hastily as Daemastra turned to him. “What was that?”

  Another concussive boom sounded and dust rained down from the stone ceiling.

  “I think we’re being attacked,” Hale offered.

  “Curses.” Daemastra set down the syringe on the counter, next to the knife Hale had just deposited. Please don’t wonder why that’s sitting there, Hale prayed.

  “Hale, with me. We need to find Mister Willings and the Golden Guard. If we are truly being attacked, we’re moving up the administration of the formula. We can do it without Wren’s luck. Guards!” Daemastra called, and the two legionnaires stationed outside ran in.

  “Take this girl back to her cell. Guard it with your life.”

  Hale silently cursed as he followed Daemastra out of the room, throwing a final glance at Wren. There had to be a way to get them out of this mess.

  Lucas’s belly was full as he snuck through the alleys of Maradis, the head of a silent horde approaching the palace. There was no way this number of people could stay secret for more than a few minutes. Already, citizens had spotted them moving through the dark, and if any were allies of Aprica, they’d be reporting them to the emperor.

  But it didn’t matter anymore. The first explosion had sounded, shaking the ground beneath his feet and sending him into the stone wall beside him. The Falconer’s Gambit had worked. It had begun.

  Lucas’s blood sang within him as he surged forward with the rest. He felt like a knight in a tale. He felt like he could fly—energy and magic zinging through him. He felt invincible. He could see as if it were daytime; he could hear a rat
scuttle three streets away. He swore he could hear whispers of the thoughts of men next to him, surges of excitement and adrenaline. It was a heady feeling. They had eaten and drank, giving little heed to what powers they infused themselves with. Men laughed out loud as they had jumped as high as the ceiling, as another had become as handsome as a god from a tale.

  Ansel moved quickly through the dark streets of the city at his side, his muscles even larger and more defined than they normally were, as if that were possible. Lucas felt some comfort at the man’s presence, at the bloodthirsty grin on his face.

  “This is good stuff,” Ansel whispered to Lucas, his blue eyes gleaming like beacons in the dark.

  “Agreed.”

  They paused to press against the smooth stone wall of a mercantile. Ansel peeked out. The palace gates were a hundred yards in front of them. Aprican troops milled in confusion as others rushed into the city to contain the explosion. Black smoke was just visible against the dark sky, billowing from the Lyceum Quarter to the east.

  Another explosion rang out, reverberating through his body. This one was close—the back of the palace. The soldiers shouted and pointed as red flames bubbled into the sky above the rooftops.

  “When we get in there,” Ansel said, “I want you and Bran to go for the emperor. You should be the one to subdue him.”

  “I need to find Wren,” Lucas protested.

  “Ya need to secure your rule. The security and future of this city depends on ya defeatin’ the emperor. Many will recognize your claim, but if ya end ‘im, it’ll quiet the rest—make ’em fall in line.”

  Lucas frowned. Though his heart tugged him towards Wren, he saw Ansel’s point. Many more would die if he didn’t deal with the emperor once and for all. Unless he was certain Maradis and the rest of Alesia would accept his rule, however short-lived he hoped it would be. He wanted to be selfish. He had never wanted this crown, never wanted this responsibility. He had never wanted more than a normal life, a job to go to every day, a woman to come home to. Yet he needed to do this. He owed it to his country.

  Lucas nodded reluctantly. “Swear to me on your life you will do everything in your power to get her out. To save her.”

  “I swear it,” Ansel said solemnly. “She was my life, once,” he added softly. “I won’t let anythin’ happen to her.”

  Lucas didn’t get a chance to answer. A third explosion knocked him to the ground. The copper tang of blood filled his mouth.

  He pushed himself to shaky feet, peering out, coughing in the dust. An explosion had taken a section of the palace wall right next to the gates. Dangerously close.

  Men were down—crying, bleeding. Others stumbled, holding hands to ears, probably trying to stop the ringing that sounded in Lucas’s own head. He was grateful for the extra power and healing the infused meal had given him.

  “That’s our cue,” Ansel said, down on one knee. He pushed to his feet, pulling out his sword. “Badgers! Men of the Guilds! With me!” Ansel dashed forward into the open, like a berserker from a storybook, crashing into the first man who had the misfortune to be in his way.

  Lucas darted out behind him, his own sword out, excitement coursing through him. He had never before understood his father’s or older brothers’ bloodthirst, their desire for battle and conquest. But today, he thought he did. A primal rage came over him, filling him with a desire for vengeance against these men, these invaders who had murdered his family and stolen his home.

  An Aprican in a torn blue coat stumbled before him and Lucas didn’t hesitate before running him through with his sword. The sword stuck, stopping Lucas’s forward momentum, and so he put a booted foot to the man’s chest and shoved him back, freeing his blade.

  The soldier fell to the cobblestones, blood leaking from him. It was the first man Lucas had ever killed, some dim voice in the recesses of his mind noted. It wouldn’t be the last. Not tonight.

  Ansel’s Red Badgers fought like demons from hell. They took the front of the assault, and though the Apricans were good fighters, the onslaught left them confused and disorganized. Ansel smashed through the front doors of the palace, sending a mass of men stumbling back. The mercenaries streamed past Lucas, and the battle for the palace began in earnest.

  The palace felt like unfamiliar ground, though he’d grown up here, had run through these walls laughing and playing tag in his youth. The faces of the Aprican soldiers blurred together, the tanned skin and blond hair, the sky-blue uniforms and silver swinging swords.

  Ansel had instructed two of his men to act as bodyguards to Lucas, and they did their work with grim determination, cutting down anyone who dared get close. Farther behind, away from the front line, were his siblings under similar guard, and their other Guild allies.

  The group inched forward slowly, in fits and starts, rounding corners and pushing against new forces of fresh men. In one tall hallway lined with balconies they met a force of Apricans with crossbows, who rained down death upon them as they fought their way through. One of Lucas’s bodyguards fell to a crossbow bolt through his throat, and Lucas stumbled behind a pillar, only to find a legionnaire waiting with bared teeth.

  Lucas barely got his blade up in time to counter the other man’s strike, which surged down upon him with tremendous force. Lucas frantically parried two more blows as the man facing him grinned in triumph, knowing as well as Lucas did that the prince was outmatched. Panic surged in him as Lucas found himself out of space to move, backed against a pillar.

  The man raised his sword in a triumphant strike when a blade emerged from his chest. The Aprican’s eyes went wide with shock as blood bubbled from his lips like a fountain. He slid to the ground, revealing Lucas’s other bodyguard.

  The man didn’t even blink, instead turning and plunging back into the battle.

  Ansel was gesturing from behind another pillar to one of his men. They were pinned down by the men above with the crossbows. Gaining any further ground would be costly—bloody.

  But then one of the crossbowmen tumbled over the balcony, landing with a crunch in the middle of the hallway. A cheer went up from Ansel’s men as other crossbowmen fell or were felled. More of Ansel’s men were on the balconies. Where had they come from?

  Ansel motioned and they surged forward, spilling through the hallway into a circular intersection of several hallways. Griff strode across, a sword in one hand, dagger wet with blood in the other. Her curly, red hair spilled around her shoulder, and her eyes shone with the heat of battle.

  “You’re over the wall, I see,” Ansel said with a grin.

  “Quite a rush.” Griff let out a breathless laugh. “Your fellows can move, for musclebound brutes.”

  “Is that a compliment?” Ansel said with mock surprise. “Captain, I never—”

  “Let’s move.” Lucas interrupted their banter impatiently. “Foreign army to subdue? Emperor to capture? Confectioners to rescue? Remember?”

  “Ah. To business,” Ansel said. “Which way, Imbris?”

  Lucas looked around quickly. The rest of their group was catching up now and he scanned the faces, looking for his siblings. Relief filled Lucas as he spotted Trick and Ella. Olivia.

  Bran trotted up, two bloody swords in hand.

  “King’s chambers were that way.” Lucas pointed to the right. “Likely to find the emperor there. Not sure about Wren.”

  “She’s probably in the west wing,” Ansel said, nodding towards the left. “It’s where we found the baker. Seems to be where Daemastra likes to keep his playthings.”

  Lucas suppressed a shudder.

  “We’ll find her, Imbris,” Ansel said.

  “We splitting up?” Trick asked, joining the group.

  Ansel nodded. “Griff, Bran, ya and half my men go with Lucas. Capture the emperor. Or kill ‘im. I’ll take the rest.”

  The floor started to vibrate and Lucas looked about, throwing his hands out for support.

  “I thought the explosions were through,” Griff said.

 
; “They’re supposed to be,” Lucas said.

  “Then what’s that?” Ansel asked.

  It was getting stronger. Louder. It sounded...like the pounding of boots. The thunder of footsteps.

  “Uh, guys?” Trick said, his gray eyes wild. He pointed down the hallway straight ahead.

  In the distance was a sight Lucas’s mind could hardly comprehend. Soldiers running towards them. But not soldiers—they could only be described as…gods. Their teeth and blades were bared.

  “New plan,” Ansel said, backing up. “Run!”

  Chapter 45

  Wren stumbled into the cell, falling to her knees as the door slammed shut behind her.

  “Wren!” Thom ran to her side, trying to help her to her feet. It was useless. Her legs didn’t want to work. Her body was numb—out of her control.

  “Wren?” He brushed her hair back and the tears began to flow. She sprang at him, burying her face against his shoulder. She knew this was a temporary reprieve, that any moment Daemastra’s men could throw open the cell door and drag her back to that place, to kill her and grind her bones into dust. But for this moment, she would take the comfort. Soak it in as if it might be the last bit she’d ever know. Because in truth, it probably was.

  “Wren.” Callidus’s voice was gentle. He crouched down next to her and Thom, his elbow on one knee. “I know it’s hard, but you must tell us. What did you see? What do they want with us?”

  She let out a wracking sob. She didn’t think she could tell them. It was too horrible even to admit to herself.

  Callidus didn’t ask her again, and for a time they sat there in silence but for the sound of Wren’s sobs.

  Another explosion punctured the stillness, seeming closer this time, shaking the room about them.

  Wren pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “What’s going on?” Thom asked.

  “They think someone is attacking. They don’t know who.”