Veiled Innocence (Book One, The Soul Cycle)

by Jones, Krystle

  And then there was the countess. Some part of her that she didn’t understand craved one more glimpse of the woman who both enchanted and terrified her with her exotic beauty and burning dark eyes.

  The way she looks at me makes me uneasy, like she can see straight into my soul.

  The countess pulled her like a moth to a flame, drawing her in to face something old and forgotten. Lian had seen snatches of her raven hair in her walks around the fortress, but as soon as she was close to Merí, she forgot how to use her tongue and retreated back to her chambers before her face could turn redder.

  Merí’s eyes were the worst of all. From the moment they had pierced her soul with their icy, empty gaze, she had found herself looking into them every night as she drifted in and out of restless sleep. The eyes would shift, from blue to green to amber, to all the colors and shapes of the eyes that had ridiculed her over the years. Merí was like a great shadow that blocked out the warmth of happiness whenever she was near. Though she had never spoken a word to her, Lian imagined her voice to be as cold as her countenance, and she shivered involuntarily. I think I’ve actually managed to find someone colder than Ana. That’s quite an achievement.

  New gossip had flooded the halls, and Lian would have been relieved to not be the topic of discussion for once had it not involved something much worse. The Arch Duke had taken a fancy to Merí, at least according to popular belief, and many more believed she would soon become the new mistress of the estate. This bothered Lian for two reasons; the first being that Merí looked about Ana’s age, and secondly, the sheer thought of that woman being her mother made her stomach lurch. Merí was, she admitted, beautiful, far prettier than perhaps even Ana-Elise, and her father had a taste for beautiful things. Lian thought of what it would feel like to have a mother, and her heart swelled with longing. Yet, she could not bring herself to welcome that woman as family.

  She shook her head to clear her thoughts, and the empty silence of the room closed in on her once more. It was almost oppressive, and one thing became perfectly clear in that instant: she needed out of that room, to be anywhere but here.

  Her stomach rumbled; she hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. It was nearly dusk. She peeled her eyes off the landscape below and settled her gaze beside her bed. The corner of her lips twitched into a smile. Maybe she didn’t have to leave the room to become lost in a world that wasn’t her own.

  She eased off the worn cushion and slowly dragged her feet to the small bookshelf beside her bed. Its inhabitants were caked in layers of dust, which in her opinion, made them all the more charming. She ran her fingers over the worn titles, her fingertips leaving trails in the gray fluff. At last, her fingers rested on a small, thin volume of Eresean folklore and poetry bound in aging red leather.

  Red.

  It was so forceful that she staggered back. The word reverberated in her mind. She couldn’t take her eyes or her fingers off the small book, which had begun leaking red ink. It dripped down the length of the shelf to stain the dingy rug with red teardrops.

  She blinked, though it felt as if she was fighting some unseen force to make her eyes close. But once she managed to close them, she saw a column of black feathers raining down from a red sky.

  Something flashed, white and hot as fire, and she yelped, jerking her hand back. Her heart beat in her temples as she examined her pink fingers in growing confusion. Surely, they should have been dipped in blood, for the book had bled only seconds earlier right before her very eyes.

  But there was no blood to be found anywhere, not on the rug, on the shelves, the book, or on her fingers. The room looked completely normal, wearing its shadows like a familiar cloak.

  She gasped, terrified and not knowing what to make of it. She stumbled to the corner where her satchel lay and swiped it up on her way out the door.

  CHAPTER 9Unrequited

  THE SUN WAS BEGINNING to set by the time Lian made it to the guard’s wing.

  To her immense relief, there was not a soul in sight, and she found herself half-anticipating the distraction shooting an arrow would provide her. Life was too complicated at the moment, and she was mentally ill-equipped to even fathom how to go about sorting it all out.

  The silence that had been overbearing in her chambers was comforting here. She was partially grateful for the countess’ appearance. Like a shiny new toy, the courtiers had taken a liking to her, and thus, had let Lian be. Today, she could practice archery and rest assured she would be alone; no mocking laughter, pointing jeers, or crude remarks could haunt her. And though it kept her thoughts at peace, she could not help but to feel a small sparkle of hope at seeing Gabriel in the yard. Every fiber of her being ached to see him, to hear his voice soothe her worries away with its mellow timbre. It was infuriating. The thought was enough to make her swipe her bow and quiver and rush through the remainder of the armory to the small door that led to the training yard.

  Her hand trembled as she laid her palm across the aged wood, and suddenly the thought of running into Gabriel seemed as scary as falling off a cliff. His actions the past few days had led her to suspect he cared for her the way she did for him. And yet, she was so afraid that she was wrong, that she had somehow mistaken his friendly concern as something more.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, she began pushing the door open when a warbly high-pitched voice sounded from the yard. She stopped, her breath catching in her chest, for she knew the owner of the voice though she had not heard it in several days. What’s Ursa doing down here at this hour? Surely it’s drawing upon dinnertime, and she’ll be needed in the kitchen.

  Her stomach felt inexplicably heavy, like she had swallowed rocks. She braced herself – for what exactly, she didn’t know – and carefully peered around the slightly ajar door into the growing twilight.

  Her breath caught.

  Gabriel was in the far corner of the yard polishing a sword. Judging from the neatly stowed rack next to him, he had been there for a while. She smiled.

  When she had first caught him doing “squire’s work,” inquiring why a White Knight would tend to such trivial tasks, he had replied, “I find it soothing.” His voice grew softer, more somber. “And I suppose I feel it’s a small retribution of sorts for the lives I’ve taken.”

  She had never thought of Gabriel as a killer, though she certainly knew he was more than capable of defending himself in battle. He had seen a few fights, but it had been centuries since Accalia had gone to all-out war. The Age of Stars – the time marked by bloodshed and brutal battles between emerging countries – was past them.

  She watched him work, unable to breathe or move as fear and desire rushed through her, making her dizzy.

  Thicker shadows were starting to fall across the yard as the nonexistent sun sank behind the outer wall, coloring the sky even deeper shades of gray. She took a small step and then froze when she glimpsed a second shadowy figure. She hastily slipped through the crack once more. I forgot Ursa was here. Why hasn’t she left yet?

  As if on cue, the dinner bell chimed, but Ursa made no move to leave.

  As her eyes adjusted to the growing darkness, physical details became more apparent. Ursa looked like she had slept in the fireplace. She wore what looked to be a brown floor-length dress with a badly stained apron that barely hung from her tiny waist. Her mop of mousy hair looked like bramble around her shoulders. Her face was in profile view, but the corners of Ursa’s petite lips were pulled into a frown. Lian thought she saw the light reflected in thin watery lines on her flushed cheeks.

  Lian was so caught up in trying to figure out what was going on that Ursa’s voice startled her. “Won’t you at least look at me? Please?” Her voice broke on the last word.

  Gabriel did not look up and made no reply as he flipped the sword over to work on the other side.

  Ursa faltered, fiddling with her apron. “Why won’t you say something?” Her features twisted with her deepening despair, and her head bowed as she continued. “You used to
be able to tell me anything. Now you barely speak to me, and you look at me as if I am no more than a stranger.” She lifted a shaking hand to touch his arm. “Please, Gabriel.”

  His hand froze mid-swipe, and his whole body tensed as her fingers rested along the curve of his forearm. The sword slid from his hand, and the polishing cloth fluttered to the ground, landing on top of the blade a few seconds later.

  Disbelief coursed through Lian as she watched Ursa close the distance between them with a few hesitant steps, settling at last into the fold of his arms as he turned to embrace her. Lian gripped the door frame so hard that her knuckles turned white.

  Gabriel closed his eyes and tucked her head against his shoulder, letting her cry onto his shirt. “You know we can’t do this,” he said softly, his breath ruffling her hair. “It’s been over between us for some time now. We were only kids then. I… my feelings are still the same.”

  “So you’ve outgrown me then?” Ursa said bitterly.

  He sighed. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  Ursa reached up to stroke his cheek with her thumb, brushing back wisps of sandy blond hair that had escaped his hair tie. He tilted his head away, but her fingers followed, tracing the outline of his jaw and finally his lips.

  “I miss you so much,” she whispered.

  Then she kissed him, and Lian’s world shattered. She staggered backwards and clutched the door for balance as her emotions spun out of control. It wasn’t so much seeing Gabriel kiss another girl as it was the fact he was kissing Ursa.

  She had to run, had to be anywhere else but there. She turned to bolt for her chambers when Ursa gasped in surprise.

  It was like her life depended on that gasp. Lian whirled around so fast she almost fell. Leaning forward as far as the shadows would allow, she strained to hear the tense conversation taking place.

  “What are you doing?” The hurt on Ursa's face almost made Lian feel sorry for her, but those feelings evaporated as the sting of betrayal made her numb to pity. Everything had changed in a single drop of time. Ursa had been her best friend, as close to her as any person had ever been in her life. They were almost sisters, and now she had broken Lian’s trust with a single kiss. Memories of Ursa's strange behavior over the past few months flooded her mind, a hundred signs she had ignored, assuming there was nothing more to them.

  Oh, but there was. There had been so much more.

  Ursa looked at Gabriel's blank face, her eyes bright with a silent plea. At last, her shoulders sagged. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

  Gabriel removed her hands from his neck and clasped them together in his own. “You will always be very dear to me,” he said carefully as he backed away from her, releasing her hands as he did. “But I cannot be what you want me to be. Not anymore.”

  Lian’s heart skipped a beat as the color drained from Ursa’s shocked face. Her arms swung to her sides, limp as a doll’s.

  Gabriel placed the last sword, the one he had dropped, in its designated groove. Then he grabbed the cloth and strode toward the door where Lian was eavesdropping. Panic fluttered in her chest, and she slinked farther into the shadows as he drew nearer.

  “I see the way you look at her,” Ursa called.

  Gabriel paused. The expression on his face was pained, but his voice was steady when he spoke. “You don’t know what you see.” He kept walking.

  Grief stricken, Ursa stumbled toward him, her arms outstretched as if to reach for his sleeve. “It is a fool’s wish!” she cried. “The law forbids she marry below her station. Have some sense, Gabriel!”

  “I know the law!” he snarled with such ferocity that both Ursa and Lian shrank back. He took a few heavy breaths, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “But nowhere does it say I am not allowed to love whom I chose. Maybe I can’t have her –” he shrugged “– but that’s a risk I’m more than prepared to take.” He paused, changed directions, and left through the garden door at the opposite side of the yard.

  Ursa’s bottom lip trembled as she collapsed to her knees. “Then it’s your heart that will be broken next,” she whispered. She stared after him and then buried her face into her apron and wept.

  Lian listened as Ursa’s sobs filled the uneasy silence that followed. She didn’t know how long she stood there, listening to her best friend weep. At last, she gently drew the door closed and slid down the wall onto the cold stone floor.

  She might as well have been run over by a carriage; it would feel no different. Every part of her felt raw and hot, like a piece of overcooked meat. What other secrets had Ursa been keeping from her? Who was Gabriel truly in love with? With dread, she considered the possibility he might be in love with her half-sister or with the countess.

  Ursa, why didn’t you tell me you were in love with him?

  Suddenly, she felt extremely tired. Not knowing what else to do, she slowly rose to her feet and walked in a trance back to her chambers, not seeing or hearing anything around her.

  She was going to need some time to think.

  CHAPTER 10Broken

  ROWAN COULDN’T WRAP HIS mind around it. Never had he seen a crime of that capacity. Even more astounding had been the choice of victims.

  Yesterday, a city patrol had reported a foul stench coming from an alley in one of the poorer districts within the southern sectors. A few hours later, Rowan assembled a team – Orris included – and they had descended underground to find a room full of rotting corpses. There had been no sense in the killing. Men and women both had been slaughtered like animals. He remembered the look of terror frozen on Gerard’s face.

  Something had frightened and slain the most notorious crime lord that side of Mariah’s River. Even Orris had seemed unusually edgy. For the first time in his life, his father, a monster in his own right, had seemed afraid, and it had hit Rowan what they were truly up against.

  Rowan had exhausted all possibilities for the mass murder, and he was still no closer to understanding what had happened than when he started. It had consumed him body and soul; he had not slept and had all but lost his appetite. He had thought coming to the garden would help him think better, but he had been sitting on his favorite wrought-iron bench for nearly two hours with nothing to show for his efforts.

  He yawned and trudged over to the elaborate new fountain nestled in the heart of the restored garden. He scowled at its polished white marble.

  Damn thing probably cost the city a fortune. What do the poor do now, Feron? What do we do, for that matter? Opulence bred debt, at least in Accalia where Feron’s greed and poor judgment was costing the city its welfare.

  He half-dreaded seeing his reflection as he reached the side of the fountain. He had to look like death; he certainly felt like it. Leaning over the edge, he cupped his hands beneath the pool’s surface and splashed his face with lukewarm water. He couldn’t afford to face his father again without answers. He needed progress, and he needed it now.

  When Orris found out he had nothing new for him at the end of the first day, he had attacked Rowan with a full-blown word lashing that would have made the most vulgar of men cringe. He had never seen anyone throw around a stream of expletives the way his father could. For as long as he could remember, Orris had always been a monster, both at home and on the battlefield. On his best days, he was tolerable. When he was in a foul mood, it was the verbal equivalent to stepping on broken glass: it was painful and sharp, each hateful remark cutting so deep they left scars. The fact he had completely forgotten about Lianora’s necklace was the near fatal blow. Never had he seen his father so obsessed over anything as much as he was with that crystal. When Rowan asked him about it, Orris only grunted and pretended to be called away for some imaginary task.

  Sometimes, Rowan wondered if his memories were perhaps only dreams of a better yesterday. Orris had once been a completely different man, up until the day he left for that damnable village.

  Being a kid was supposed to be fun, where mother kept the house and garden, fathe
r brought home the money, and everyone gathered at suppertime to share how their days went. Most of the time, Rowan and his mother were lucky if they could get in two bites before Orris came storming home, drunk from having spent the evening at the local pub with the other officers. He remembered being scared as Orris beat his mother, screaming about how the house was still dirty or the food was bland (seasoning had grown too expensive for them to afford once the duke began sinking into debt). And his eyes, oh, how his eyes had changed, from a thoughtful dark brown to harsh burning coals when his anger was aroused.

  If his mother was not around to abuse, then his father would turn on him, sometimes leaving his skin so covered in bruises he would not go out to play with his friends for fear they would make fun of him. Not that Orris had ever granted him much playtime; he had put a sword in his hands as soon as he was old enough to wield one. “Train harder,” he had said. “Be a soldier like me, my father, his father before him, and so forth.” Rowan loved being a knight with all his heart. Perhaps that part was in his blood. Yet despite that love, he felt empty, consumed by his resentment for his father’s iron will.

  He stared at the haggard young man in the pool, hardly recognizing him. As the residing Black Knight, he was expected to oversee investigations and any acts of crime concerning civilians. Every city had one. He scheduled patrols. His job was exhausting at times, but never so much as it was now. Bags gathered under his eyes, and the hollows of his narrow face were deep, giving him a haunted look.

  He had never been a particularly good looking man; in fact, he considered himself average at best. He was of average height, weight, and build, with unruly black hair that always hung in his brooding brown eyes and a mouth that never smiled. His hands were leathery, as were the soles of his feet; the “mark of the soldier,” his comrades called it.

  His armor was as much of a wreck as his body. The once gleaming obsidian plates were so covered in dust from running about the city questioning witnesses that it was starting to turn a dull brown. The black cape was fraying along the seams and was spotted with mud, making it look as old and tattered as the tapestries hanging in the fortress. There was so much dirt and crud caked in the metal ridges that the Accalian crest across his left chest and helmet was almost indistinguishable.