Gleam (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 3)

by Raven Kennedy

  The girl doesn’t have to be told twice. She turns and flees, steps drowned out by the ongoing attack outside, wrathful voices echoing through the mountains.

  “This can’t be happening...”

  No one hears my whisper, but to me, it’s as loud as a shriek.

  The seconds feel like hours while we wait, the entire castle shuddering with hammers and scraping with blades as the people pillage whatever gold they can pry away.

  All his fault. This is all Tyndall’s fault.

  Running footsteps pound down the floor, and my heart leaps into my throat before bursting with relief when the guard returns. He’s carrying three sconces he must’ve ripped right off the walls, and one crudely made torch with torn curtains wrapped around the top of what looks to be a broken broomstick handle.

  He immediately passes the sconces to the others, but the end of his makeshift one refuses to light. The gilded curtain is resistant to the puckering flames, no matter how long they hold the lit sconces to it. “It won’t fucking light!” he spits, shaking the useless torch in his hand.

  “Just leave it. Three is enough,” another argues.

  “Do you know how far down those take us? It’s pitch-black down there! We need all the light we can get or this will be meaningless because we’ll all fall and break our damn necks.”

  “Fancy another light-holder?”

  Everyone whirls around at the voice, but instead of a servant, it’s Pruinn who walks in, carrying a candelabra, three candles already lit.

  “What are you doing here?” Jeo snaps, his arm tightening around me.

  Pruinn comes up to us and shrugs. “By the time I made it to the gate, the guards had already abandoned their post. I didn’t fancy being slain in the angry horde, so I came back.”

  “Yeah? Well, shove off. You can’t come with us,” Jeo snipes.

  Pruinn grins handsomely, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. No, those silver pools are hard and austere, a serrated blade ready to cut.

  Jeo doesn’t like him, hasn’t since my first encounter and every impromptu visit thereafter, but now isn’t the time for male dominance plays.

  “We don’t have time for this. You want to come? Then you can go first, Sir Pruinn,” I declare.

  Jeo tenses and lets me go, but my words are a challenge all their own, and Pruinn knows it. He gazes down into the shadowed depths with an unenthused expression. He covers it up a second later when he gives me a reverent nod. “It would be my honor to lead you, Your Majesty.”

  Jeo makes a rude noise beside me that the merchant ignores completely.

  My guards move out of the way, but just as Pruinn takes the first step down, a deafening crash comes from the direction of the kitchens.

  “They’ve broken in!” one of the guards shouts, setting off all four of the armored men to lift their swords from their scabbards in a swish of metallic scrape.

  “Go, Your Majesty! Go!”

  There’s no time for me to hesitate or to dread the trek, because the horrible frenzied shouting has multiplied, rending through the air. The screams and chants out there are like a pack of rabid wolves with the scent of blood in their snouts.

  Cries like yips echo while glass smashes and footsteps pound in time with my galloping heart. All hesitation on Pruinn’s part is erased in a moment as he rushes down the steps. I barely have time to register the great boom of noise that shakes the ground before I’m shoved forward after Pruinn, my body plunging into the passage.

  “You two go with the queen!” one guard shouts. “We’ll close you in!”

  My boots skid against the steps, slipping until Jeo’s fingers curl around my arm. “I have you,” he says behind me. “Keep going.”

  We shuffle downward, every stair narrow, making my toes hang off the edge. My palm skims against the filthy stone wall at my right, and I stay glued onto Pruinn’s heels, while Jeo stays on mine.

  The shouting is closer now, more breaking, more horrible hacking.

  Just when I don’t think it can possibly get any worse than this, the two guards who stayed behind suddenly slam the secret doorway shut.

  Darkness devours me.

  Chapter 22

  KING MIDAS

  There’s a gloom over the morning light as I watch the sculptors chisel into the ice.

  Two of them are working on a block taller than me, their bodies poised on stepladders as they chip into the frozen slab in the courtyard. I’m told they’re working on a sculpture of Niven. A gift for the prince’s upcoming birthday. Apparently, they’ll be making a total of thirteen sculptures in his likeness.

  I have to suppress a sneer.

  The boy is nothing but an overindulged brat who seems to think he can play at being a ruler. Fulke did his son a disservice by giving him the entitlement of the crown, without any of the actual aptitude to be effective. His youth doesn’t excuse anything. When I was his age, I was already running my household, making and stealing wages to ensure I had food on the table. Nothing was handed to me, I had to take it.

  The only thing Niven takes is liberties with my patience. He’s been a splinter in my thumb since I arrived, a prickling annoyance that I can’t pluck out.

  Not yet.

  Timing is everything. I need to have this kingdom eating out of my hand. It’s begun to happen already, especially now that Ranhold is growing richer room by room, touch by touch. Gold always sways favor.

  I look around, the gentle tap of the chisels thrumming in my ears as I make a mental note to have this gazebo gold-touched next. I’ll be able to see it from my rooms, and with any luck, it will far overshadow any of the prince’s sculptures. All damn thirteen of them.

  A presence jars me from my thoughts, and I lift my head as Queen Kaila steps into the gazebo, her form-fitting blue skirts flaring out at the knees.

  “Queen Kaila.” I rise to my feet at the smiling woman as she tips her head.

  “Good morning, King Midas,” she says, cinnamon eyes filled with amusement. “This is the second time I’ve caught you out here. This must be a favorite haunt of yours.”

  “It is. Would you like to sit?” I ask, gesturing beside me.

  She shakes her head, the fur-lined hood of her cloak glittering with leftover frost. “That’s alright, I was just taking a walk.”

  My smile tightens. I imagine that during these so-called walks, she’s using her magic to try and suss out secrets. It’s what I would do if I were her. I’ll need to have another discussion with the guards to make sure they’re all keeping talk to a minimum. Men in uniform seem to gossip more than schoolgirls.

  “It is a pleasant morning for it.”

  “Very quiet and calm,” she replies, though I have a feeling she isn’t talking about the weather, and I have to suppress a smirk.

  The queen’s power intrigues me, even as it sets me on edge. It’s an impressive magic to be able to gather the words of others. It would certainly have its uses. It’s why I invited her here.

  Queen Kaila wants to solidify an alliance because her kingdom needs income. I want to further my reach. What better way to do that than by aligning myself with someone who’s easily bought with gold and who can steal the whispers of others? It’s better to keep her close so that she shares those secrets rather than steal them from me.

  “I hope you haven’t had too much of a shock adjusting to Fifth Kingdom.”

  Kaila glances around, her smooth black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. “I have to admit, the snow has its charms,” she replies, the husky timbre of her voice dipping into seduction.

  I tilt my head, a grin sloping up. “It does. Though the private islands of Third Kingdom are said to be the most beautiful in Orea.”

  “I’d have to agree with that assessment,” she says coyly, playing at the wrap of shells hanging around her dainty wrist. “Though I’m decidedly biased about the subject.”

  I let out a pleasant chuckle. “Every monarch should think
their land is the best, should they not?”

  “They should.” She nods. “But in this case, perhaps I could invite you to one of those islands someday soon so that you may get a look at it for yourself and decide if it warrants the claim.”

  My grin widens.

  I let my eyes run over her pleasing figure. Perhaps Malina’s defiance will work out in my favor after all. Why settle for a cold shrew and a saddle’s bastard when there may be other...options to explore?

  “Would you like to dine with me tonight in my personal chambers?” I ask. “I’m sure I could request for the kitchens to make a popular dish from your kingdom.”

  A pleased look comes over her expression. She really is a beauty. I wonder if the rumors are true about her much older, and now deceased, first husband. It’s been said that she heard a secret she didn’t like, and he died soon after.

  “That would be lovely. Will your gold-touched favored be joining us?”

  If I weren’t versed in these sorts of conversational leads, her question might have caught me off guard.

  “Not tonight,” I reply smoothly. “Though I’m sure you will grow quite fond of her.”

  Kaila smiles. “I’m sure I will.”

  The dreary morning around us begins to let out a glaze of wet snow, fat flakes melting over the ground like sugared icing.

  The queen shivers. “Well, I’d better get inside. As charming as the snow can be, I am not overly fond of how cold it is.” She casts me a smile. “I look forward to our dinner, King Midas.”

  “Tyndall, please. And as do I.”

  With a pretty tip of her head, she turns and walks out of the gazebo, hips swaying as she catches up to her guards and brother, Manu, who are waiting for her by the castle wall.

  Manu casts me a gaze, one that’s careful not to show anything but polite pleasantness, though his shoulders are just a tad too stiff. For all of his outward affability, I have a feeling he’s a sharp judge of character. Since he’s so deeply in his sister’s ear, I’ll have to be careful to gain good footing with him.

  When Kaila disappears inside, I turn back to the sculptors now being dusted with the wintry spritz, their hoods pulled up and gloves shucked on. My eyes follow their movements, but my mind goes over the conversation with the queen, the possibilities splaying out like threads for me to wield.

  She has an interest in Auren, but I knew she would. Everyone is interested in my Auren.

  Including that thorn-backed bastard, Commander Rip.

  A tic pulses in my jaw, anger coming up to brew in my chest like a temperamental boil. I’m still fuming that he touched her. He even had the nerve to carry her right in front of the guards. What I don’t yet know is if he did it because she was weak or because he’s taunting me.

  Either way, the situation sets my teeth on edge. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s under the protection of Ravinger, I would’ve locked him up already and plucked the spikes from his spine. My hands coil into fists, and the sudden urge to do just that—to punish—makes my arms go stiff.

  He will need to be dealt with.

  Auren will need to be dealt with too.

  I don’t like the way she’s been looking at me, or the guardedness she now shutters over her expression. Her time away from me has changed her. After years of careful grooming, of teaching her to behave properly, I thought my influence over her was firm. Yet just a few weeks away from me, and her behavior slid like footsteps on ice. She’ll need to be reminded of who takes care of her, of who her master is.

  I’ve never struck her before, but she pushed me to it with her antics at the dinner table. I glance down at my hand, as if I can still feel the sharp hit to her cheek. The look on her face after I did it…

  Something ugly twists in my gut. I shouldn’t have let my anger get the better of me. So much is riding on every minute I spend here. I need her to fall into place, need to stop her backwards slide.

  So I’ll give her this time to sulk. To lick her wounds in peace, away from curious eyes. I’ll separate myself so she can process things at her own pace. She’ll come around, though—she always does.

  In the meantime, I don’t particularly care to see the reminder of my lapse in control on her bruised face. I’ll let her be for now. Let her settle. Enough gold has been bestowed on Ranhold to staunch talk, and I’ve plenty of other things to see to before the ball.

  First and foremost, Commander Rip will need to be dealt with. Rankling aggravation stews in my gut every time I even think about him touching her, about what might have occurred between them while they traveled together, out of my reach.

  My guards and staff know better than to touch her, so I’ll simply have to make sure the army commander and Ravinger know better as well.

  My finger taps against my thigh in vexation.

  I need to have a better grip on these strings that are trying to loosen. Auren, the commander, Malina, Niven. Two entire damn kingdoms that need constant attention.

  I knew moving forward to push my influence into Fifth would be a challenge. Yet it’s a challenge I relish in overcoming, and I will overcome it. I’ll accept nothing less.

  But this constant pressure is growing. Every time another thread is strewn in my lap, it takes incredible planning to keep it from tangling everything else. If only these threads wouldn’t be so difficult to weave.

  My fists loosen and tighten, flex and relax, again and again.

  A groaning creak of the sculptor’s ladder draws my eye, and my gaze lands on the man as he steps down to pick up the hammer he’d dropped. His face is angled toward me, giving me the perfect view of him.

  Deep-seated hate brims at the sight of him. It happens every time, and yet, I still come out here.

  I cock my head, fists tingling. I’ve spent weeks watching him, this man with my dead father’s face. A father I abhor to this day, even though he’s nothing but ashes now, body left to burn in a scorched desert.

  At first, I watched the sculptor because I enjoyed feeling like my father was here, simpering around me, laboring beneath my eye. But perhaps I’ve been missing the real purpose. Perhaps the gods left him here for me to ease my lack of control when I feel it fraying. To remind me that I overcame him, and I can overcome anything and anyone else.

  Perhaps the gods gave him my father’s face so I can make use of it.

  My fists relax as he reaches up to dust off the iced slab. His hood falls back, revealing his bald head lined with prominent wrinkles, the deep ridges shaped like frowns. His white beard is yellowed against the snowy background, his eyes slightly more tilted. His are clear and brown, while my father’s eyes were always bloodshot with the veins of alcohol brewing beneath hooded lids.

  The sculptor seems to feel my attention on him, because he turns his head, meeting my gaze for a moment before he defers, head bowing. The only time my father ever bowed was when he was kneeling over me to beat me with his belt or a jug of ale he drained dry.

  Sometimes, I regret leaving him to burn in our hovel. It was too quick a death for him. But maybe I can amend that now. It seems I’ve been given a chance to wreak authority over another without it messing up any of my plans. I’ve been given the perfect person to indulge in for punishment.

  Dark delight fits into the recesses of my chest as I lift a hand, signaling to my head guard. Always attentive, he immediately sees the gesture and hurries over, stopping just outside the gazebo. “Sire?”

  “That man there,” I say, tipping my head. “Bring him to the dungeon.”

  I can see I’ve caught him off guard, but he’s well trained, so he recovers quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty. It will be done.”

  Turning, he signals to one of the other guards, and together, the two of them stalk straight toward the aged sculptor.

  At first, the old man frowns at their approach, confusion pleating his brow. Saying nothing, my guards each grab one of his arms, and his body lurches in surprise before he drops his chisel
and hammer to the ground. The other sculptors all freeze in shock, watching with wide eyes as my guards start to drag him away.

  His hoarse shouts clap in the air with peaked desperation, bald head whipping left and right. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me? I-I haven’t done anything!” he cries, his twig-like legs and scrabbling feet making drag marks through the snow.

  Uneasiness passes through the courtyard, but no one questions me. No one tries to stop it.

  Head craning, the man’s wild eyes lock onto me. “Please, Your Majesty! There’s been a mistake! Please, help me!”

  My chest puffs in gratification as I imagine that it’s my father being dragged away, that it’s his voice begging.

  A garroted cry rises up his throat. “I’m guilty of nothing!”

  You look like him, I say in silent reply. Your guilt lies right there in your face.

  His bent, arthritic hands grapple at the guards’ uniforms, but he’s far too frail to really put up much of a fight. With one last shout torn into the air, they drag him around the side of the castle where they’ll take him to a discreet entrance into the dungeons.

  After his voice is drowned out, the courtyard is left to lull in its silence.

  I stand there, arms crossed in front of my chest, staring out boldly at everyone who’s left. Scattered Ranhold guards, sculptors, a stable hand, they’re all frozen in place. I wait to see if any will dare to speak out, but none of them do.

  When they notice my attention has turned to them, they quickly get back to work, averting their gazes. So quickly people will turn a blind eye to the misfortunes of others. It’s the dark voice in their ear, whispering, just leave it be. Don’t get involved, lest it happen to you too.

  I let my arms drop and then stride out of the gazebo, wet spackles of snow landing on my forehead as I go through the main entry of Ranhold.

  Excitement buzzes in my palms as I head for the main entrance to the dungeons. For every difficult thread, for all of the anger I can’t dole out on those responsible, I’ll mete it out on him.

  Because the gods left me a gift, and I intend to take it.