The Confectioner Chronicles Box Set

by Claire Luana

  “You always were too noble for your own good,” Ella said, downing the rest of her wine. “How do we even know we can trust this Falconer? It could be an Aprican plot to lure us out of hiding so they can kill us.”

  Trick shook his head. “If they knew where to send us a letter, they’d waste no time coming for us. I trust Oban and his associates. They wouldn’t betray us to the emperor.”

  “We still don’t know who the Falconer is, though. He could be a madman,” Ella protested. “Or completely full of shit. He could have no support and no resources.”

  “It’s a risk, certainly,” Lucas agreed. “We’d be gambling our lives based on a promise in a letter from a man we don’t even know.”

  Trick frowned, twisting his napkin. “When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound like a good bet, does it?”

  “If we said no, what would we do?” Lucas asked. “I’ve been thinking about it. We can’t stay here. This island can’t sustain us indefinitely. Most of the Western Reaches are under Aprican control. Nova Navis feels too close for comfort. I’m sure the Apricans will be coming for the peninsula next. Centu or east into the Ferwald badlands would be our best bets.”

  Ella wrinkled her nose. “I don’t fancy myself a fisherman’s wife, or living in a tent like a nomad.”

  “Neither have good climates for grapes,” Trick said. “It’d be hard for me to make a living.”

  “It’d probably be too risky for you to hang your shingle as a winemaker anyway,” Lucas said. “Too recognizable. Same for me as an inspector.”

  “We left the treasury behind in Maradis,” Ella said. “So how would we live?”

  Silence fell over them.

  Lucas ran a hand through his hair, cursing his father, cursing the Apricans, cursing the whole damn situation.

  “I don’t know. Ella, what do you want to do?” Lucas blew out a sigh. Ella seemed the most fragile among them right now. He didn’t want to make a decision that could break her.

  Tears were shimmering in his sister’s eyes, her chin quivering. “I want things back how they were. I want Mother, I want Virgy, I want my books and my cat and my friends and this all to be a bad dream.” She shoved back from the table. “But I can’t have any of that. So I guess I don’t care.” She turned and stormed up the stairs.

  “I think that went well,” Trick murmured.

  Lucas loosed a shaky laugh, cradling his head in his hands. Poor Ella. In a way she’d lost the most. Because she’d lost her innocence, too. She’d had the bright incorrigible optimism of youth. And now she saw the world for what it really was.

  “The truth is,” Trick said, “I want to go back to Maradis. It’s probably suicide, but it’s our home. There are people we care about there. There are people...I care about.”

  Trick’s tone was wary and thin, and Lucas looked up at his brother, his inspector’s senses tingling.

  “Who is she?” Lucas asked. He’d been a bad brother, if Trick had fallen for someone and Lucas hadn’t even known. The weeks before Maradis had fallen had been madness, but still. He should have made time.

  Trick hesitated, spinning the base of his wine glass on the table. “You mean...who is he.”

  Lucas’s eyes widened as the import of his brother’s words sank in.

  Trick licked his lips and looked at Lucas, sitting as tense as a coiled wire.

  Lucas softened, realizing the courage it must have taken his brother to share this piece of himself. Wishing Trick had felt safe to share it with Lucas a lot sooner. “Of course. Who is he?”

  “Thom.” Trick rubbed the back of his head, looking away.

  “From the Confectioner’s Guild?”

  Trick nodded.

  Lucas pondered, bringing Thom to mind. Trick and Thom had been held captive together at the orphanage; it made sense that they’d grown close. Become friends. And perhaps more. “Okay, I can see it. Tall. Cute freckles. Strong hands.” Lucas waggled his eyebrows.

  Trick smacked his forehead in mortification. “Tell me you are not going to check out guys for me now.”

  “Isn’t that my job as older brother? I need to screen these fellows and make sure they’re worthy of you.”

  “Do not go all Inspector Imbris on him.” Trick pointed at Lucas threateningly, but he was fighting a smile.

  “No promises,” Lucas said. “Does he...feel the same?”

  The smile slipped from Trick’s face. “I’m not sure. Maybe? I didn’t have a chance to talk to him before everything happened.”

  “He’d be a fool if he didn’t. You’re a catch.”

  Trick rolled his eyes. “You have to say that because you’re my brother.”

  “True. But I also happen to mean it.” Lucas softened. “I’m really happy for you, Trick.”

  “Thanks, Lucas,” Trick said, and Lucas understood what he meant. For everything.

  “Confectioner’s Guild, who knew?” Lucas joked. “They’ve got all the good ones.”

  Trick nodded. “Apparently. Does this mean you’ve decided? We’re going back to Maradis?”

  Had he decided? Lucas still didn’t want to be king. But perhaps he would, if it meant freeing the city he loved. Perhaps he could find a way to make it tolerable. At the least, he knew he had to go back. He couldn’t face a world—a future—where he never saw Wren again. Where he couldn’t see her mischievous smile, laugh at her wry sense of humor. He wanted strolls to the Farmer’s Market hand-in-hand and lazy Saturday mornings with coffee and pastries from Bitterbird Cafe. He wanted the heat of her mouth on his and the chill of her ridiculously icy fingertips curling against him for warmth. He wanted Wren. And he wanted Maradis.

  “You’d be a good king,” Trick said. “More so because you don’t want it. Alesia would be lucky to have you.”

  Lucas nodded, feeling the weight of the decision settle upon him. “So we’re going back to Maradis. To overthrow an Emperor.”

  “And to find our confectioners,” Trick said with a grin.

  Chapter 17

  “Firena, get up.” Someone kicked Hale’s foot, which was hanging over the side of his bunk.

  “Hmm?” Hale lifted his head, peering at the interloper through slitted eyes. “What?”

  “Sim Daemastra’s asking for you. Now.”

  A surge of adrenaline coursed through Hale’s system, jolting him awake. “All right,” he said, running a hand through the tangles in his long hair.

  “Now,” the legionnaire said before moving on.

  Though morning light streamed through the narrow windows, Hale was groggy with fatigue. He blew out a breath. His conversation last night with the emperor felt like a strange dream.

  He quickly dressed, running to the washroom to splash water on his face and relieve himself.

  He strode towards Daemastra’s wing, pulling his hair back into a bun. Gods, he hated this uniform. It made his skin crawl. Maybe the emperor was right. Maybe he should run. Get as far away from here as he could. He could suffer punishment for his betrayal in some other way, rather than helping the monsters who’d killed his father and invaded his city. Hale sighed. No. He was one of those monsters now. This was what he had sown when he’d sold out his city and his Guild. He didn’t deserve escape.

  Hale rounded the corner into Daemastra’s workshop and came to a startled stop. Talking to Daemastra were two men he hadn’t expected. One he knew—Steward Willings—and one he didn’t—a brute of an Aprican legionnaire even taller and more muscular than he. A scar across the man’s upper lip seemed to twist his expression into a permanent sneer.

  “Ah, young Firena. So kind of you to join us,” Daemastra said, clapping his bony hands together. “You look positively exhausted. Trouble sleeping?”

  Alarm bells rang in Hale’s mind. Did the man know something? But no, how could he? The emperor would have no reason to sell him out to Daemastra. But he had no reason to protect him either… “You try sleeping in a barracks with twenty snoring men,” Hale replied.

  “Ver
y good. I understand you know Mister Willings. And this is Lieutenant Oosten. They’re both assisting me with a special project.”

  “What kind of special project?” The hairs on the back of Hale’s neck prickled in alarm.

  Willings replied. “Sim Daemastra is creating an elite force within the Legion. The Golden Guard. Only the strongest and most capable warriors have been chosen.” That snake, it made sense that he had cozied up with a leech like Daemastra.

  “I get why he’s here”—Hale nodded towards the hulking soldier—“but why you?”

  “Hale.” Daemastra tsked. “Mister Willings will be leading this force for me. Overseeing their training and their...conditioning.”

  It was all Hale did to suppress a snort. Willings was a weasel, yes, but soldier, no. These men wouldn’t respect him. Why had Daemastra made such a poor choice? He was normally more...shrewd.

  Daemastra continued. “I’ve been working on a special formula. Something that will give my Golden Guard an edge over the rest.”

  Sly smiles stretched across both men’s faces, chilling Hale to his core. Flaming hell. Daemastra planned to give these warriors some sort of infused concoction. What would it do to them?

  Oosten seemed entirely clueless as to what he was signing up for, standing like a statue, his meaty arms crossed before him.

  “Oosten, if you please, would you mind sitting down in this chair?” Daemastra said, going to the icebox to retrieve a syringe. The chair Daemastra spoke of reclined like the chairs of the Dentist’s Guild, but, Hale saw for the first time, it came equipped with leather restraints. Hale’s stomach flipped.

  Hale was overcome with the mad urge to warn the soldier, but he didn’t even know what he was warning him against. So he stood mute as Daemastra injected a strange milky liquid into the soldier’s arm.

  Willings leaned forward, his dark eyes shining with anticipation.

  Oosten began to shake, his huge body wracked with convulsions.

  Willings and Hale stepped back, but Daemastra stood still, pulling one of his little black notebooks off the counter and writing in it.

  Soon enough, the convulsions stopped. But something else was happening. The man’s face was transforming—his features pulling and twisting. The wrinkles by his eyes, the scar twisting his lip—they smoothed out, leaving him youthful and...handsome. The soldier’s body was growing too, his muscles bulging even more than they had been, his legs lengthening until the chair creaked from the weight.

  Oosten groaned, gritting his teeth against the changes, panting through perfectly-straight blindingly-white teeth.

  Finally, the metamorphosis was over.

  The room was still and silent but for Oosten’s ragged panting.

  Hale shut his mouth, realizing it had been hanging open. This—This was Gifted magic? He had never seen anything this profound. The magic of the Confectioner’s Guild was a subtle thing, sneaky and sly. There was nothing subtle about this.

  “Marvelous,” Willings said. His pockmarked face was rapt with possibility as Oosten swung his huge feet onto the ground. He towered over Hale, over all of them, his face devastatingly handsome, vibrating youth and health. He was like...a god. Like the Sower come down from his golden fields to the ground to sup with mere mortals. This...whatever this man was...people would worship it.

  “Try out your new body,” Daemastra said, motioning towards the man.

  Oosten jumped, nearly crashing into the ceiling. He darted into the corner of the room, impossibly fast. “Everything’s so clear,” he said. Even his voice was attractive—a deep and resonant baritone. “I...I understand so much.”

  “What’s 435 multiplied by 9087?” Daemastra asked.

  “3,952,845,” the man responded, as if Daemastra had asked him to add one plus one.

  Willings looked towards Daemastra, who did a quick calculation in his notebook. Daemastra nodded in appreciation. “Correct.”

  “Remarkable,” Willings said, reaching out and petting the man’s chiseled arm.

  “The best of the Guilds. Strength and prowess from the Butcher’s Guild. Beauty and virility from the Distiller’s. Intelligence from the Cheesemonger’s and health from the Cuisinier’s. Wit and magnetism from the Brewer’s Guild. It should last several hours, per my prior experiments. Go test it out. Take good notes, Willings. I’ll expect a full report.”

  “Absolutely,” Willings said eagerly.

  Oosten was holding a silver tray, examining his face in the dull reflection. “I’m prettier than him.” He pointed to Hale.

  “Indeed.” Daemastra chuckled. “Enjoy. Now, there will be some adverse effects when it wears off. Nausea, vomiting, achiness. Take it easy and rest the remainder of the day.”

  Oosten nodded eagerly and ducked out the door.

  Willings hurried after.

  Hale stood in stunned silence as the men left. He had to admit, he was impressed. Truly, none but a madman would risk such a strange concoction...but it was remarkable.

  “Impressive, is it not?” Daemastra said.

  Hale managed a nod.

  “Once the formula is complete, we’ll be able to create a whole legion of super soldiers. Young, virile, intelligent. The best humanity has to offer.”

  “Will they even be human at that point?”

  “Of course.” Daemastra’s voice was smooth as silk. “Just...improved.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve never thought of using this on yourself,” Hale countered.

  “What man doesn’t want to be young and handsome forever? I wouldn’t deprive myself of the benefit of the culmination of my life’s work.” Daemastra turned, putting his notebook back in the cabinet with the others.

  “And the emperor?” Hale asked. He was dangerously close to a forbidden topic, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Of course, the primary aim of this work is to find a cure for the emperor’s ailment. He will be the first recipient once I am sure it is safe.”

  “Of course,” Hale parroted. Daemastra’s plan was beginning to come into focus. Once he became god-like, he could dispatch the emperor, claiming the monarch had finally died of his wasting sickness. And who would the people of the Empire look to for new leadership but the man who had stood beside the emperor through thick and thin? Emperor Evander only had one daughter, and she’d been married off to a minor Aprican Patrician years ago. Her children were still young. They’d be no match for Daemastra.

  Daemastra interrupted his circling thoughts. “Hale, you’re a tall fellow. Would you grab that pitcher on that shelf?” Daemastra pointed to a glass pitcher on the top shelf.

  Hale suppressed his irritation but crossed the room, reaching up to retrieve it for the strange man.

  He felt a prick in his arm. He looked down to find Daemastra pulling a syringe out of his bicep.

  “What—?” Hale began, but the ground tilted beneath him. The pitcher fell from his hand, shattering on the ground. The sound was far away. “What did you do?” he managed.

  “Now, Hale, it’s best to sit down.” Daemastra steered him towards the ominous reclining chair.

  Hale collapsed into it. His heart was thundering in his chest, his blood boiling in his veins. He tried to shake off his daze. “What did you do?”

  Daemastra narrowed his gaze. “Do you think anything goes on in this Empire that I am not aware of? Did you think you could visit the emperor without my knowledge?” Daemastra paused, but it seemed more of a rhetorical question, because when Hale didn’t answer, the man continued. “I had hoped we would be able to work together as allies. But I see that your old allegiances still hold sway over you. It’s my fault, really, for overlooking it. It’s my job to see you’re properly motivated.”

  “What did you do?” Hale tried again. His voice sounded strange. Like he was underwater. He looked down at his body, to make sure it was still there. His hands... He held up a hand. Black veins were creeping down his hands, like oil-slicked spiderwebs. Black like he’d seen beneath the emperor’
s paper-thin skin. “What did you do?” He raged again, trying to push out of the chair, but the room was spinning.

  “Since you and the emperor are so friendly, I thought you’d appreciate the same treatment. I’ve infected you with the same poison. If you don’t get the antidote from me on the dot every morning, you’ll die a quite gruesome death.”

  “Why...?” Hale managed. “Why me?”

  “I need your luck to perfect my formula.”

  “Fine,” Hale said, fighting through nausea and panic. The man was well and truly mad. “I’ll cook for you. As much as you want. Like the baker. Just give me the antidote.” The part of his mind that was still lucid cursed at him for sharing that he knew about the baker. The rest of him didn’t care. It would reveal anything to stop feeling this way. Self-preservation was a powerful force.

  Daemastra chuckled. “Hale, there’s so much you’ve yet to learn. The formula doesn’t used infused food. It needs something much more potent.” Daemastra pulled up a little wooden tray on the side of the chair, using the leather restraint to strap Hale’s hand down. He quickly secured the others straps around Hale’s chest and feet.

  Hale tried to fight—to fend him off—but he was so weak. Delirious. “What...you mean?” His tongue was thick in his mouth.

  “Do you know where magic comes from?” Daemastra stood by Hale’s side like a patient tutor. Something glinted in his hand.

  Hale tried to focus on it. A knife. A butcher knife. He jerked away, but the straps held him. He was as weak as a mewling lamb.

  “I didn’t either,” Daemastra continued. “It took me years of experimentation to determine where it comes from. The pure, unadulterated essence of a Gifted. It’s in their bones, Hale. Their bone marrow, to be precise.”

  “What?” Hale managed. Fear coursed through him as the swirling room focused and narrowed to a pinpoint. On the knife in Daemastra’s hand.

  “Don’t worry, Hale. I always start small. I may need more in time. All of it, if you’re what I’m looking for. But for now, I’ll start small.”