by Claire Luana
Wren turned back to Hale, her voice thick with tears. “Hale Bartholomew Firena. You promised me you’d never hurt me again. Was that a lie?”
He shook his head, his turquoise gaze cast on the ground. Once those eyes had sparkled with such life and vibrancy. Now, they seemed dull. “That’s not fair. You know it wasn’t.”
Wren heard screams in the distance, the thudding of boots.
“We’ve got to go, lass,” Bruxius said under his breath.
“Then let us go. And know that there is still one person in this world who knows the real you.”
His face crumpled and he jerked his head towards the stairs. “Go before I change my mind.” His words were choked.
And they ran. Bruxius thudded down the stairs before her, leaping over the crumpled bodies of Cedar Guards, blond Apricans. As they ducked into a narrow alleyway at the far end of the square, the Aprican forces in sky-blue uniforms were already flooding the space, swarming up the platform.
Wren turned back, compelled by some force she didn’t understand.
In the distance Sim Daemastra summited the stairs, his black robes and white face stark against the gray sky. He laid a skeletal hand on Hale’s shoulder as he stood, surveying the wreckage before him.
She couldn’t be sure from this distance, but Wren thought that she saw the glisten of tears wetting Hale’s cheek.
Chapter 39
The acrid smoke hung thick over the Maradis skyline. The Alesian army had held on for a day against the Aprican onslaught, barricading themselves inside the palace, attacking the invaders with stones the size of kegs and barrels of hot tar. It was a noteworthy accomplishment after the king and the entire royal line had been ruthlessly slaughtered in the square before the courthouse. Or so they said. The bodies of the three youngest Imbris children hadn’t yet been found.
It was the Alesian navy that had surrendered first, a move that led to the rapid erosion of army morale and the eventual surrender. Somehow, the Centese princess had escaped the chaos of the square, making her way to the harbor, where she and the fleet of her kinsmen promptly abandoned the city. When the Alesian navy saw their allies abandoning them, they knew it was only matter of time until the Aprican fleet wore them down. In the end, the Alesian navy had dropped the chain blocking the harbor and the might of Aprica had sailed into Maradis Harbor.
Wren now stood in the shadow of the palace, the hood of her cloak pulled up against the drizzle. Callidus stood next to her, uniformed in a black suit, his hair coiffed, his face impassive. Once again, his ice-blue eyes were sharp. The only change to his appearance was the checked indigo scarf wrapped around his neck like a shield, hiding the hideous purple bruises from the world. That and Thom, who stood on the other side of Callidus, his arm wrapped around Callidus’s bicep, almost unconsciously bearing his weight, supporting him in his weakness. Callidus still had trouble drawing breath, but he had insisted that they come today.
A sea of faces surrounded them—Maradians drawn from the warmth of their hearths to see their future. To hear the end of their tale. To learn whether it would be a tragedy. Though there had been relatively few civilian casualties when the Apricans had taken Maradis. On that point, it seemed, General Marius had been speaking the truth.
Wren pulled her cloak tighter as a gust tried to grab it, her mind swirling with far more tumult than the wind. She thought of Lucas, wondered where he was now. After they had fled the square, Trick’s friends from the Vintner’s Guild had secreted them out of sight, to the safehouse above the coffee shop Thom had heard Trick speak about. There, Wren had paced a furrow in the wooden floor as a trusted doctor had been summoned for Callidus and Lucas. Both would live, though they would both forever bear the scars of the day’s near-misses.
Trick’s friends had already arranged the Imbris children’s passage out of the city. They were to be hidden deep in the cargo hold of a Tamrosi merchant ship laden with Alesian goods destined for Aprica. But as soon as it slipped through the breakwater of the harbor, it would deviate from its destination, meeting with another vessel that Trick, Lucas, and Ella would be transferred onto. From there, the remaining heirs to the throne would sail for…she didn’t know. No one did, except for Lucas, Ella, and Trick, and the skeleton crew of the second vessel, who would be paid handsomely for their silence. All she knew was that two days had passed with no word, and that meant they had made it to safety.
Wren fingered the thick silver ring she now wore on her thumb. It was carved with the profiles of two falcons who held a milky-white stone between them in their beaks. Somehow it was supposed to help her find Lucas if she needed him. She grimaced at it, at the mystery it now presented. It was best not to think about Lucas right now. Best not to think that he was heir to the Alesian throne, rightful king of their domain. Best not to think about Hale, or Sable, or Virgil, or how it had all gone wrong. The part she had played in this city falling, in Lucas’s mother and brothers dying. Best not to think about anything.
The steady hum of the crowd quieted as someone emerged onto the balcony that fronted the royal palace. Even from a distance, Wren could see the dull glint of the crown atop the man’s head. This was their new king. King Evander of Aprica. He looked old—downy, white hair incongruous against his tanned Aprican skin. Perhaps he had once been virile, but his hands now gripped the railing of the balcony for balance. He wore a suit of creamy white with gold trimmings on the jacket. It was ridiculous attire, something dreamed up by fabulously wealthy men who lived amongst white sand beaches and painfully bright aquamarine skies. It could not have been less suited to Maradis’s perpetual drizzle and accompanying mud. On the king’s left and right, Wren recognized the two men—Sim Daemastra, looking unnatural even from her current vantage, and General Marius, champion of the Maradis invasion. Behind them were a handful of blond soldiers in sky-blue uniforms, their hands resting on sword hilts. Wren’s breath hitched in her throat as she recognized one of the faces—a face that had once belonged to her friend, and now, was worn by a stranger.
“Hale,” she breathed.
Callidus and Thom looked at her, and she nodded with her chin.
The king lowered his hands and began to speak. From his mouth poured silken words filled with vacant platitudes and empty promises. It was too much. Wren felt the world tilt around her. She didn’t think she could bear it.
Callidus took her hand in his, twining his cold fingers through hers. Wren squeezed it tight as their new king’s words washed over her, mingling with her misery. She didn’t hear what he said that day, not really. She couldn’t look away from Hale, from the distance between them. She couldn’t think beyond four words that resounded in her mind.
What had they done?
The Confectioner’s Truth
Copyright © 2018 by Claire Luana
Published by Live Edge Publishing
ISBN: 978–1-948947–94–7 (ebook)
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Bookfly Design
Interior Formatting: Integrity Formatting
Editing: Amy McNulty
Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t...
A deadly new enemy rules Alesia with an iron fist—and an unnatural interest in the magic of the Confectioner’s Guild. Betrayed by one of their own, Wren and her few remaining allies flee Maradis to secure whatever aid they can find.
But new dangers and old ghosts lurk around every corner, forcing Wren to confront truths she thought she’d buried deep long ago. Will Wren be able to piece together an alliance, and enough of her own shattered heart, to take back her home from those who hold it hostage? Or will her magi
c prove too tempting a morsel for her enemies to refuse...
Don’t miss this thrilling conclusion to the Confectioner Chronicles!
Chapter 1
It had been two weeks since the Imbris dynasty fell. Two weeks of gray, spitting skies, of blustery winds that swirled slick ochre leaves and thick woolen cloaks, finding the seams and burrowing in with icy fingers. The Maradis Morning newspaper had sworn that the skies cried for King Hadrian Imbris—that the heavens themselves mourned the passing of a monarch stolen from them at the height of his reign. A ruler who had been betrayed by one of Maradis’s very own. At least that was what the newspaper had said on the first day. The second day, it had said nothing. And on the third day of the Aprican occupation of Maradis, the paper had welcomed Alesia’s new rulers with praise and thanksgiving, encouraging the country’s citizenry to do the same.
Wren thought that if the sky cried for anyone at all, it should cry for Virgil. And Queen Eloise. For Lucas, and the queen’s other remaining children, fleeing for their lives. And for Sable, who they had buried in the Guild plot at the Holyhive Cemetery, with a swirl of ocean waves chipped into the mirrored rock of her headstone. And for Hale, who was well and truly lost to her. Who was worse than dead. But Wren knew that the gray Maradis clouds didn’t weep for those she had lost. They wept because Maradis sat nestled against the windward side of the Cascadian Mountains, which locked in the damp marine air and storms from the west. The heavens cared little for the sorrows of mere mortals. It was just a matter of geography.
Wren stood in her room in the Confectioner’s Guildhall, her forehead resting against the cool glass of her window, tracing a finger through the condensation that had formed there. In a way, she knew she should be grateful to be here and not the Block, Maradis’s notorious prison, which was now under new ownership. After the Apricans had taken Maradis, Callidus had successfully petitioned the Aprican king for leniency for Wren and Thom—whose only crime, at least as far as the Apricans appeared to know, was escaping a holding cell in the Aprican camp. The bloody fight on the execution platform had left Hale as the only witness to her and Thom’s efforts to free Lucas, Trick, and Ella. And apparently, Hale hadn’t yet turned them in. Yet.
“Wren,” came a voice from the door. It was Thom—she recognized the hint of apology in his tone. She had ignored his two prior knocks.
“Yes?” she asked, not moving her forehead from the glass.
“Why don’t you come down to breakfast? You need to eat something. I haven’t seen you eat anything in days.”
“I’ve asked Olivia to send something up for me,” Wren replied. “Thank you, though.” It wasn’t as bad as he’d suggested. She’d eaten some oatmeal with sweet cream yesterday. Or had that been the day before?
“No, you didn’t,” Olivia’s voice said.
Wren turned to find them both standing there, Olivia with her arms crossed under her ample bosom.
Wren stifled a sigh. She tucked her robe around her, cinching it tighter.
“Come on. It’ll do you good to interact with some real, live human beings,” Olivia quipped. She wore a soft gray dress with a black belt, and her blonde curls were pulled into a ponytail. For Olivia, she looked remarkably subdued.
“I think I’ve had enough real, live human beings for a lifetime, thank you.”
“Even us?” A pained look crossed Thom’s handsome face. His narrow shoulders seemed to hunch over even farther.
Wren closed her eyes, chastised. “No, of course not you two. Fine. Just let me get dressed.”
“How about a bath first?” Olivia crossed the room and picked up one of Wren’s limp auburn curls.
“Okay, a bath too,” Wren said. “I’ll just meet you downstairs when I’m done. No need for you to sit here and wait.”
Olivia plopped herself down in one of the chairs by Wren’s window and Thom sat on the bed with a bounce. “We’ll wait,” they said in unison.
Wren did feel much improved when she emerged from her washroom thirty minutes later, clothed in a clean skirt and sweater, her damp hair braided over one shoulder. As she descended the Guild stairs like a grudging captive, the smells of coffee and bacon tickled her nostrils, rousing her appetite from its deep slumber.
“I guess some coffee would be nice,” Wren said.
Olivia looked back with a roll of her blue eyes. “Coffee would be nice,” she said, mocking Wren gently. “You’re going to eat as much as Thom or you’re not leaving that table.”
Wren’s eyes widened. “Thom eats like a starved ox.”
“Better than pecking like a little wren,” Thom shot back with a grin over his shoulder.
Wren’s heart stuttered painfully. It was so much like the ridiculous little pet names Hale used to throw at her.
“Wren?” Thom turned, laying a hand on her shoulder. She had stopped walking. “Are you okay?”
She nodded quickly, closing her eyes for a moment to center herself. She could do this. It was just breakfast. “No bird jokes, okay?”
Thom nodded, his blue eyes softening. “Deal.”
The dining hall was mostly empty, between the late hour and the loss of some of their Guild members. Wren looked for a stretch too long at the table where she and Hale and Sable used to sit—she could almost see their laughing faces, their quick fingers swiping berries off each other’s plates. The table was empty today, the stretch of worn wood lonely and forlorn. She looked away, turning to the cornucopia of breakfast foods before her. The Aprican occupation hadn’t seemed to trouble the Guild’s cuisiniers or its storehouse. The food should have made her mouth water and her stomach rumble with insistence, but the thought of it turned her saliva to chalk in her mouth.
But knowing Olivia and Thom were watching her like two mother hawks, she filled her plate with a toasted bagel smeared with cream cheese and topped with smoked salmon and fresh dill, a shimmering poached egg, and a scoop of herb-roasted balsamic-glazed breakfast potatoes.
Thom and Olivia both nodded proudly as she set her plate down and went back for coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“Nice work,” Thom said approvingly as she settled onto the bench. He himself had two plates—one piled high with waffles, berry compote, and whipped cream light as a cloud, the other with three king crab Benedicts smothered in mustard-yellow hollandaise sauce.
“Wait until she actually eats it,” Olivia said, stealing a dollop of Thom’s whipped cream to add to her coffee.
“It’s not like I’m starving myself,” Wren grumbled. “I just haven’t had much of an appetite.”
“Or much of a mind to do anything.” Callidus, Guildmaster of the Confectioner’s Guild, materialized at the head of their table like a dark shadow. “Nice to see you’ve rejoined the land of the living, Wren.”
“It hasn’t been that bad,” Wren said into her coffee. By the Beekeeper, the stuff tasted delicious.
“Just weeks ago, I could hardly use the washroom without you and Imbris popping out of some keyhole you were lurking in. Now, I send you three summons to attend Guild meetings with me, and you won’t even come out of your room.”
Wren blanched at the mention of her boyfriend, Lucas Imbris. Lucas was heir to the Alesian throne, now that his parents and older siblings had been murdered in the Aprican coup. She hadn’t heard a word from Lucas since he’d fled with his siblings Patrick and Ellarose, and she intended to keep it that way. She still didn’t know if Lucas had recovered from the grievous wound he had received on the execution platform. He could be… Her heart stuttered over the thought. No. He wasn’t dead. He was out there somewhere, free. Alive. And the less she knew about where, the better. She rubbed her fingertips across the face of the large ring she wore on a chain around her neck. It was Lucas’s. Somehow, it was supposed to be a clue to where he hid. She hadn’t the foggiest idea what it meant.
“Wren.” Callidus snapped his fingers in front of her and she jumped. She’d been lost in her thoughts. She looked between Olivia and Thom—worry e
tched on their faces—to Callidus, who just looked angry, his thick brows joining above the scowl on his face. But behind the anger was something she thought she recognized, something written in the shadowed bags under his blue eyes. Something she herself had felt. Worry. Doubt. The pressure of leadership...of decisions...of being alone when it all went to hell.
“I’m sorry, Callidus,” Wren said, a feeling of wretchedness surging through her. Callidus had almost died. She of all people should understand how that felt—should be there for him. She should be the person he could confide in now. Her mind stumbled over the thought. Now that Sable and Hale were gone. Now that the number of Gifted at the Confectioner’s Guild was down to three. “The next time you summon me, I’ll come. I swear.”
“See that you do.” His voice was soft. “I need my Guild members at one hundred percent. These are complicated times.”
Wren nodded and Callidus whirled, his black coattails flapping in his wake.
“You blew off three summons from Callidus?” Thom’s blue eyes were as big as saucers in his freckled face.
Wren held up a weary hand. “I’ll do better.” As much as she wanted to hide under her covers and never come out again, she couldn’t do it if it meant letting down the few remaining people who cared about her. “Now...let me eat my lox. You two, tell me what I’ve missed.”
Thom and Olivia looked at each other. “You mean beside the resistance fighters who managed to break into the Aprican munitions stores and are now bombing the hell out of the city?” Olivia said.
“Is that what those booms have been?” Wren asked weakly. She had heard something the last few nights.
Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes, those are the booms.”
