The Golden Key Chronicles

by AJ Nuest

  “I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”

  “The fault lies not with you, Sorceress. As I had feared, I was not the one best chosen for this task.” He tucked the mirror under his arm, hopped down from the window ledge and secured the latch. Turning away, he slowly crossed his chamber, intent on replacing the mirror inside his armoire.

  “Whoa. Wait a second. Back up, back up.”

  He hefted the mirror and held it at arm’s length, searching her face. “What is it?”

  She twirled a finger in the air. “Turn me around.”

  He did as she asked so the mirror faced the room.

  “Now sweep left, but move slowly.”

  Once again, he followed her command, allowing her a wide survey of his sleeping quarters. The bed, the door to the corridor, the far wall, his wardrobe—

  “Stop!”

  He halted and waited.

  “What is that?”

  “My closet, Your Radiance.”

  “I know it’s your closet, Caedmon. I’m talking about the small compartment in the upper left-hand corner. Above the hinge.”

  He frowned. He had forgotten to close the rosette after retrieving his mother’s ring. Yet, what did it matter? For all his efforts, the sorceress doubted his every word.

  He strode nearer the wardrobe and used the tip of his index finger to swing the door to and fro.

  “Fandorn gifted me this whence I came to live at the castle. He said all young princes deserved a sly hiding spot to secret their treasures. The release is very clever. If I press this—”

  “Caedmon.”

  The grave import in her tone bade him pause. He turned the mirror to scrutinize her face and snapped his jaw shut. His wardrobe stood centered within the glass. The sorceress appeared, lifted her heels from the ground and depressed the oval, releasing the rosette. She pushed the door back and turned to face him. “Inside this compartment is where I found the key.”

  He stumbled back and collapsed into a chair, the heavy frame bumping his thighs. What trickery was this? The way all color had drained from her face bespoke his same astonishment. Whatever sorcery was afoot, this peculiar coincidence was not of her devising. Yet his armoire remained stationed against the wall in his bedchamber, the same since the day Fandorn had commissioned its delivery. “This…this is an impossibility, my lady.”

  She propped a willowy hand on her hip. “What are you saying? You don’t believe me?”

  Two heartbeats passed while he glanced between the goddess and his wardrobe. Yet, the proof was there, as certainly as the key lay hidden beneath the soft folds of her dressing gown. Somehow, the two of them were connected…by far more than mere duty, alone, could dictate.

  He locked onto her eyes in the glass. She must accept him as honorable now. Furthermore, they must move past their fears and agree accept each other. For the Gleaning to serve its purpose, they would first need to demonstrate a measure of trust.

  She was shrewd. She was sharp-witted. Mayhap in uncovering this oddity, a small negotiation would serve them both well.

  When she arched a clever eyebrow, he grinned. “’Twould seem we’ve reached an impasse, Your Radiance.”

  “’Twould seem.” She pressed her lips together, though a small smile rosied the apples of her cheeks. She came forward and the view of her world reeled when she picked up the mirror, huffed and sat down on the edge of her sleeping pallet. The angle altered slightly as she shoved and steadied the frame amongst her pillows. “Good grief, this thing is heavy.”

  She tossed the thick tail of her golden hair over her shoulder and shrugged. “So then, I guess moving forward we agree there’s a chance this…whatever this is…might actually be real?”

  His grip instinctively tightened on the frame. “Nothing would make me happier, Sorceress.”

  She absently fondled the key and her dressing gown parted, exposing the flawless arc of her ivory breast. “And we promise to always tell each other the truth?”

  His groin tightened as he envisioned tracing the swell of her with his lips, suckling the nipple to a taut peak. He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat over a low groan. “As a warrior prince of the realm, you have my solemn oath.”

  She frowned. “Caedmon, what happens after the third day of Gleaning?”

  He hesitated but a moment. Had he not just pledged her the truth? “Fandorn advised me the veil will splinter, my lady. Never to reopen.”

  Her frown deepened. The tip of her tongue appeared as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled the tender morsel. If ever offered the fortune to dare kiss her, would she allow him a nibble, as well? Intense heat expanded his member to a thick, hard shaft when he envisioned plundering her mouth, grazing her lips with the edge of his teeth.

  “Would it seem strange if I told you how hearing this news makes me sad?”

  The beating of his heart quickened. “My place is not to judge the mysteries of your heart, Your Radiance, but recognize the thought saddens me, as well.”

  He studied the pensive shifting of her eyes. She was, in some ways, less…and, in others, far beyond what he’d expected. A sorceress, yes, and yet she was more an innocent than the conniving witch Fandorn had cautioned him against. An unwitting victim of these torturous circumstances, much like him.

  He lifted a finger to the mirror and traced the edge of her jaw, so refined, like a piece of the finest china.

  Her lips curved in a gentle smile before she touched the glass, meeting his finger with the tip of hers. The veil shimmered and hummed at the contact and, when he lifted his brows in surprise, an alluring blush of amazement crossed her face as well. She opened her hand and placed her palm flush against the mirror. He followed suit and a shallow vibration pulsed up the length of his arm. Warmth flooded his skin.

  “Do you feel that?” she whispered.

  “Like Helios’ golden rays, full on my face.”

  “The buzzing is almost metallic, and yet I can sense the pressure of your hand.”

  Caedmon glanced away. He was one step nearer his goal. One breath closer to losing his heart. “The barrier between our worlds weakens.”

  She quickly withdrew her hand and understanding flitted across her face, but her eyes remained shrouded in sadness and her shoulders lowered as if weighted by a heavy burden. “Seems you were the right choice, after all.”

  She shook her head, yawned and lay down along the span of a lace coverlet. When she tucked her hands under her pillows, the gentle waves of her hair spilled a pool of gold beneath the delicate frame of her face. “Caedmon, can I ask you a favor?”

  He would obey her every command, and when she slept, he would stand guard over her to ensure she remained safe. “You have but to ask, Sorceress.”

  She smiled. “Please, call me Rowena. And now I want you to tell me everything you remember about your mother.”

  Chapter Five

  The sharp blade of resentment he bore in his heart gradually dulled and, with it, he exhaled, quite unsure how to proceed at its disappearance. None amongst the court—neither his father, Braedric, nor even the men he considered his brothers in the guard—had once asked after his mother. Indeed, the disproving glares he received as a child at the mere mention of her name had often sent him scurrying for the comforting isolation of his bedchamber. The bitterness over her dismissal had plagued him so long, he floundered to fill the gap of its absence.

  The sorceress pushed up from her sleeping pallet, her eyes wide with worry. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “On the contrary.” With one simple request, she’d confirmed every belief he’d held as a boy. Regardless of whether he, alone, guarded the testimony of her life, his mother deserved to be remembered. “In fact, I daresay, since the moment of my mother’s death, you are the first to say something right.”

  Her slender brows drew together in a frown and she tipped her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “Many at court disagreed with my father’s decision to allow m
e permanent residence at the castle. In doing so, he declared me his heir, and thusly authenticated my nearness to the throne. To utter my mother’s name in public reminded those closest the king of their affair and, consequently, my existence.”

  “Hold on a second.” The sorceress held a finger in the air. “Are you telling me you weren’t allowed to grieve the loss of your mother because a bunch of uppity nobles got all bent out of shape your father did the right thing and claimed you as his son?”

  Despite the vexation in her words, he chuckled. While she could most certainly punish him for such an offense, he took comfort in the fact her annoyance was not aimed at him. Moreover, the delightful way she burrowed straight to the crux of the matter brought him a great measure of ease. What a refreshing change from the ambiguity of the nobility’s double-sided mongering. If only those same courtiers could be with him now, he would take the utmost satisfaction in watching her dissect their vagaries with her razor-sharp tongue. “Yes, but you must understand. My father had dealt them a great offense. Not only was their proximity to his reign once removed by my presence, they were made to swear allegiance to a half-blood gypsy.”

  She set her jaw, fisted hands bracketing her hips. Two scarlet spots dappled her cheeks and her eyes sparked with ire. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what their problem was. For God’s sake, you were ten years old!”

  His head fell back to the chair and a hearty laugh erupted from his chest, shaking his shoulders and cinching the muscles of his stomach. Helios wept, but she was glorious when enraged. To have her lash out so passionately in his defense stirred in him a sweet yearning he’d not, to this day, yet encountered.

  “Stop laughing,” she complained, plumping her breasts with the firm crossing of her arms. “My heart is broken for you.”

  Oh, to be the recipient of such uninhibited enthusiasm beneath the sanctuary of his blankets. She would test the limits of any man’s endurance, and yet the challenge to fully sate her desires was a temptation to which he would gladly submit.

  “You misunderstand.” He laughed again and shook his head, hoisted the mirror from his thighs and stood. Following her example, he wedged the frame against the pillows on his bed before crossing to a small side table and decanting a measure of red wine into a cup. “I am nothing if not humbled by your irritation on my behalf. Rather, your shameless terminology is the cause of my hilarity.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “Well, if you prefer, I could always issue an order those assholes be stripped of their titles and lands.”

  He spun toward the mirror. She certainly could, if she so chose. He searched her devious smirk and, a moment later, their quiet laughter mingled above the snap and sizzle of the low fire. Admittedly, if he were more prone to retaliation, or mayhap younger than his nine and twenty years, he would take great pleasure in personally delivering her decree.

  She tugged the small band from her nape and shook out her hair, the waves sheeting past her shoulders like bolts of the richest silk. His fingers curled in on themselves against the driving urge to thrust headlong into the strands, so he could discover if their texture was as soft as they appeared. Every muscle in his body tensed. Her alluring curves would mold perfectly against him. He would not leave one portion of her skin unattended.

  Her hand disappeared past the frame, only to reappear with the same silver brush she’d wielded the previous evening. “But seriously, you really had no one? Not even your father shared his condolences?”

  He licked the tips of his thumb and forefinger and pinched out the candlewick at his desk. Goblet in hand, he returned to his sleeping pallet and reclined along the fur-trimmed quilt, shoving several pillows under his head. A few days after his mother’s passing, he’d sought out his father and expressed his desolation. Upon being reprimanded for his behavior, labeled as weak, he’d vowed never again to return. “My father concluded such a display would be regarded as favoritism. As King, his foremost duty is to remain strong in the face of adversity. In my ignorance, I turned to Braedric for counsel. His mother had joined the goddesses as well, in childbirth, and I assumed the similarities of our loss would be the bond that defined us as brothers.”

  And thus had come his earliest battle amid the sting of rejection. He’d gone seeking companionship in the form of an older, wiser royal prince, and had been handed ridicule, scorn and the vilest of disrespect. Braedric had branded his mother a whore, laughed at Caedmon’s misery and ordered the “smelly gypsy” removed from his sight. Through a haze of tears and rage, Caedmon had tackled his half-brother to the ground, raining ill-aimed punches, and drawn first blood between them in the form of a blackened eye. Yet, for the beatings he’d received as recompense, unable to sit comfortably for several days, not for one passing of Helios’ bright face did he regret his actions.

  Because, from that moment henceforth, Braedric had maintained his distance.

  The stroke of the brush through her hair broke through his musings and he faced his radiant goddess, rolling onto his side, the pillows bracing his head. The smooth glide of the bristles sang a melody of his mother, triggering memories of her seated at his beside, untangling wildflowers from her ebony waves. “What I did not recognize at the time was the favoritism my father most defended, was that of his pure blood heir.”

  The sorceress huffed her discontent, tossed her brush aside and joined him in repose, one hand tucked beneath her pillow, the other curled like a white rose under her chin. “So, what you’re saying is your father brought you to the castle, only to then cast you aside.”

  She searched his face in the flickering firelight. Not since his mother’s leave taking had he looked into the eyes of such beauty, both inside and out. If not for the barrier of the veil, he would have reached out and run the side of his finger down her cheek, swept a fingertip along her lips to make certain she was not a figment of his dreams. “If there is one lesson I have learned during my stay at Castle Austiere, we must all know our place, my lady.”

  She broke from their gaze, lowering her chin. “And what is your place, Prince Caedmon?”

  The blood hastened through his veins. Mayhap she was the answer. The void his white sorceress had created, the loss of resentment in his heart, was to meant to be filled by her. “I’m starting to believe it is here, at your side.”

  She smiled. Glanced at him from beneath the fringe of her lashes. “Then as my prince, I believe you still owe me a story.”

  Quite right. She’d asked him to speak of his mother. Yet one question lingered in the span of worlds between them. He placed his hand on the glass. She inched closer, joining her palm with his, and through the glimmer of the veil, he was given his answer.

  The magic between them flowed both ways.

  “Close your eyes, my lady. And I shall tell you a bedtime tale.”

  ***

  The clash of metal against metal invaded her dream, a chink and zing in irregular patterns followed by a rattling crash.

  Her eyelids fluttered and Rowena blinked, bringing her bedroom into focus. She frowned. She must’ve fallen asleep while Caedmon talked about his mother, murmuring soft and low, spinning a magical tale of a far-off land. She had dreamed of a beautiful gypsy, red ribbons plaited through her raven hair, a skirt of gaily colored scarves twirling around her ankles as she danced. A laughing young boy sat cross-legged at her feet, his head covered in a wild tousle of chocolate coils, small fingers tapping out a beat on a tambourine. In the distance, a white castle stood awash in dazzling sunlight, its blue and gold pennants snapping in the crisp mountain air.

  “Say it!” Caedmon’s voice broke the silence of her bedroom.

  Rowena sat up, holding the blankets to her chest. The mirror remained where she’d left it, balanced on her pillows, the heavy frame braced by the edge of her nightstand. She inhaled deeply and widened her eyes, mesmerized by the view.

  Caedmon stood stripped to the waist, the stitches of his leather breeches hanging untied on each side of his tapered hips. His honey-brow
n skin glowed, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, veins trailing like spider webs down the insides of his arms. His ribs expanded and contracted with his steady breathing, his rippling abs so tight they appeared carved from a piece of ironwood.

  He lazily twirled a sword in one hand and circled a man who looked twice his age, but the brute was stocky and thick, his hairy forearms corded and dense, a glinting sword held at the ready in his beefy hand. The gray strands of his goatee were trimmed to a sharp point and glistening sweat beaded along his shaved head. A circular leather patch covered his left eye, a grizzled white scar extending down his cheek to his jaw, yet beneath the studded, black leather of his chest plate, no doubt the heart of a warrior beat steady and strong.

  He sneered at Caedmon, narrowing his eye. “All this lazing about has made you soft, Your Highness. Like one of Braedric’s dandy handmaidens.” He curled his fingers and thumb near his groin and pumped in a universal hand gesture Rowena clearly understood. “Now come here, eh? Give us a kiss.”

  Caedmon growled and thrust forward. Sparks flew as their swords clashed. Their backs bowed and strained, legs braced tight, thighs rigid in a test of fierce strength. A quick spin, and Caedmon drove the hilt of his sword into the older man’s stomach. The leathered warrior huffed but quickly recovered, swiping his blade in a wide arc. Caedmon leapt onto a chair and pushed off the high leather back. He flipped over his opponent’s head, dark hair flying, knees tucked to his broad chest, landed on both feet and whirled, the tip of his sword a flash of death in the sunlight.

  The warrior ducked onto his left side and rolled onto his bent arm, jutting both legs forward. His booted heels nipped Caedmon’s ankles. The prince hopped and raced up the man’s body, stepping stomach to shoulder, to the top of his adversary’s bald head. He soared off one foot and dove for the tall rail at the end of his bed, swung around on one hand and landed in a crouch on the floor.

  A roar split the air when the brute scrambled to his feet and charged, slashing his sword in a series of dizzying spins. Caedmon countered each stroke, dodging and weaving. The locks of his hair stuck to his neck; his chest muscles pumped with exertion. He pivoted with his sword high and glanced toward the mirror. Rowena gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, because that split-second gave Caedmon’s rival the advantage.