The Darkest Night (The Orien Trilogy Book 2)

by Catherine Wilson

  He’s embarrassed. Great skies above! Maybe he’s not as far gone to me as I thought. But I never have a chance to revel in my glee, because Aras, it seems, is dead set on meeting his match.

  “Enough of this, Ian! Are you ready or not?”

  My head whips to Theron’s prince, but he’s too far gone to even consider looking my way. “Oh, I’m ready, my friend. I can promise you that.”

  Then the men begin to circle each other—two cats getting ready to pounce. And Vivi and I are left with the only logical option to choose. We scatter under the ropes to avoid getting scratched.

  Thirty-Four

  Papa has always said that the right weapon will find its owner. Daggers for the quick. Bows for the steady hand. Swords for the ruthless.

  I’m ashamed to say I didn’t much believe him until now.

  Aras and Ian still circle each other, Orien and Theron clashing with a battle of the greats. The sea of men around us comes to a hush, eager to see who will strike first. Aras’ boots shift as he leans to his right, and the afternoon sun gleams off his sword with a promise of the strike to come.

  Except none does.

  A low whistle sounds by my side, and my jerk alone causes both men to cast a wary glance in my direction. “One with hair as dark as night, and the other golden like the sun. It’s like the whole world has come to a halt, just to watch the two ends of the earth come to blows in one life-altering match.”

  My eyes peer at the very same boy who led us through the crowd, now watching Ian as if he’s a hero in the making. I have no idea how the boy got here, one minute clearing our path and the next floating into the waves of cheering men. He’s a sneaky one, that’s for sure, but his words are too deep for any common mischief. I lean down, giving him a good sniff to make sure he hasn’t gotten into some guard’s lucky stash of tonic.

  “Who do you think you are? Some kind of court jester?” Vivi asks, leaning against the ropes to get a better look at his face. “Now isn’t the time for jokes, mister. Have you ever seen Aras with a sword? This could be a life-or-death situation we have on our hands.”

  The boy’s nose wrinkles, and he props his elbows on the ropes, causing them to bow with his weight. “It’s only for show. Three touches to win and no deep cuts,” he states, words blunt and to the point, as if we were the ones spouting off random lines of poetry all along.

  “How very reassuring,” Vivi says, narrowing her gaze. “And what might your name be, in case we have to chase you down and demand answers when all of your fanciful words turn out wrong?”

  If the boy takes notice of her irritated tone, he sure doesn’t show it. “My name’s Sam, but you won’t have to be chasing me down for anything. Unless, perhaps, it’s for some good advice on that dagger of yours. If you ask me, you’re holding back a second too long on your release. The key is to trust the blade, feel the target before it even flies loose. If a single trace of doubt runs through your mind before you throw, you might as well consider it a miss.”

  Vivi’s head cocks to the side, clearly unsure of what to do with a boy who pays no heed to her sassy words. Muttering a strangled thanks, she leans back until my body blocks his view once more. Our eyes meet, and she twirls her finger in a circle by the side of her head.

  The common sign for crazy, I think.

  I start to reply, reminding her that compared to our family, this boy seems like a shining angel, but a loud clang bounces through the air, jarring my ears. Jerking my attention back to the ring, I watch as Ian and Aras match one another’s moves in a skillful dance—each step measured by the swing of a deadly blade. With every strike of metal, I flinch, unease rising at the wonder of their true intentions.

  If this is friendly duel, then why do they seem as though they want to slice each other’s faces?

  As the fight draws on, the crowd around us becomes unsteady, shouts and hoots flying out and mixing with the dust that has risen from their stomping feet. Some cheer for Ian, some pass on sage bits of advice, and others simply hunger for the scent of blood. My gaze wanders to Sam. His eyes are set on the prince, and his hands are clasped so tight around the rope I’ll be amazed if he doesn’t come away with burns. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but judging by the way he squints with each blow, he’s at least half as nervous as I am.

  There’s a rustle in the crowd, too many men with too little to see, and I’m knocked forward when an elbow catches me across the back. Vivi cries out as my chin bangs against the rope, yelling at the fools around us to back up. Ian’s focus shifts in an instant, his green eyes darting to the side to make sure I’m all right. I shake my head, willing him to pay attention to his fight, just as Aras pops the side of his blade against Ian’s shoulder.

  “Hit,” he says, sending me wink.

  The men around us rumble with agitation, probably rethinking their bets, when Ian lets out a loud whistle. The swirl of chatter comes to a halt, allowing silence to consume us in its place. “Have you forgotten who you represent?” Ian yells, his voice echoing across the yard. “Do you not call yourselves loyal members of the Theron Guard? Let us not forget that we have ladies in our presence, one of whom who will be your next queen.”

  Vivi grabs my hand, squeezing until it hurts, but I don’t have the strength to look her way. I’m too consumed by the outright rage that boils in Aras’ gaze. Flustered with both Ian’s words and Aras’ reaction, I raise my chin, daring him to explain how I’ve somehow done wrong. When my father sent me here to marry Ian, I told him I would, and as far as Aras is going to know, I’m very set in my ways. Aras’ eyes only narrow in return, staring into my own for another beat too long, but I’ve already decided that even my handsome prince can’t always have his way.

  “I’m fine, Ian,” I say, reaching out to catch his boot. He looks down, the irritation that looked so wrong across his features now slowly fading away as he takes me in. Bending at the knee, he pulls my hand into his own. “It was only a bump.”

  “One bump too many,” he says, surprising me with a soft kiss against my knuckles.

  Behind him, Aras laughs, sending waves of tension through the already-explosive crowd. “Finally, we agree on something, Prince.” He raises his sword, pointing it toward Ian’s side. “And not a moment too soon, I might add.”

  “I wouldn’t count your blessings yet, Aras. You’ll get your fight, but you won’t have an audience.”

  Ian sends me one last glance, before he rises to his feet, turning to address his men. “To ensure the safety of your princess and her sister, you will all report back to your stations. I know many of you were hoping to see this through to the end, but you can trust me when I say Aras will get his due.”

  The men respond with a muffed cheer, and Ian’s chest puffs with pride. Oliver emerges from the crowd, dipping under the ropes to mount the stage. “You heard the prince! Everyone out!”

  As if his words had a power all to themselves, reaching out and striking the crowd, the hordes of men begin to part, following orders without a hint of displeasure in their steps. Sam tips his head in our direction, eyes flitting up to Ian in a silent question. When Ian catches his gaze, he responds with a small shake of his head. Looking out to the thinning crowd, Sam takes this as all the answer he will ever need.

  “Well, ladies, I suppose you’ll have to let me know whether the dark can conquer the light,” he says, turning to take his leave.

  Vivi’s arm lashes out, astounding us both when it catches his tunic’s sleeve. “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not going to let you run off now. I’m in no mood to chase you down when your feathery words come back to pop your hide.”

  To his credit, Sam doesn’t look the least bit taken aback. He actually looks relieved. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you find my words to be so feathery. It will only feel like a soft caress when they touch my skin.”

  Vivi bites her lip, slowly becoming aware that she may have met her very irritating match. Her chin tilts with defiance, and she huffs so loud I swear I a
lmost see the poor boy’s soul jump from his frame. Sam’s eyes turn to narrow slits, and his jaw clenches, sending them both into a silent standoff.

  “I’d be careful with that one,” Ian calls from above, bending down until his face is level with my own. He lays his sword down on the wooden floor, and my eyes dart to Aras, making sure he doesn’t try to run Ian through while his back is turned. Aras, the cheeky rat, only smirks.

  “I could say the same for you.” I grab Ian’s shoulders, moving out of Aras’ line of vision. “Perhaps now would be a good time to explain what it is you’re doing.”

  Ian’s eyes seem to glitter as he takes me in, blinking away sweat as it slides down his forehead and across his cheeks. His light tunic sports a wet ring around its collar, and my hands pool with dampness from where I grip his wide shoulders. He smirks, our noses mere inches apart, and I find it all strangely attractive, in a very barbaric and smelly sort of way.

  “I had to get your attention somehow. I thought maybe if you saw my unimaginable skills with a sword, you might go ahead and set a true wedding date.”

  Without a thought, my hands slide up to his face. “Oh, Ian. What am I going to do with you?”

  “Why, fall in love with me, of course.”

  And suddenly, barbaric doesn’t seem half that bad.

  “Uh, guys,” a small voice interrupts, stealing the fog that covers my thoughts. “Is it me, or is Aras turning ten shades of dark magic right now?”

  I jump back as if I’ve been stung, the words of my little sister sending waves of heat against my skin. Ian frowns at the sudden loss of my touch, reaching for his sword as if he’s only now realizing that dealing with me is like trying to tame a wide-open flame.

  Someone is bound to get burned.

  “So tell me, are we done here?” Aras asks, fury shaking the normally smooth tenor of his voice. “Has Penelope Brave helped you come to your senses, and now you’re ready to give up? I’m sure she’d rather have a healthy prince than a maimed one. Isn’t that right, Princess?”

  Pressure pounds at my clenched fists, the magic of my anger and fear begging to be released. I look up, determined to send him a stinging response of my own, but one look at his face pins the very words to my lips. For it’s not arrogance that I see there, or even malice.

  It’s hurt.

  “Aras—”

  “Let’s fight, Ian,” he cuts me off, setting his narrowed gaze on the innocent prince in the ring. “Unless you’re too afraid.”

  Ian doesn’t risk a glance in my direction. His raised sword is answer enough.

  Clashing together once more, Aras and Ian begin a whole new kind of dance, one I’m quite positive will end with a little more than a shallow cut. Beside me, Vivi and Sam cling to the rope, eyes peering over the top as if they’re afraid to fully look. Every time Aras steps to the side, slamming the full weight of his sword on Ian, Ian simply blocks his move and reacts in kind. My shoulders jerk with each motion, and I have to clasp my hands together in front of my chest to keep them from reaching out and yanking one of their legs. I’ve come to the sad realization that someone has to end this, but it can’t be me.

  Minute by minute, breath by breath, the battle continues. Each man gains enough lead on the other, only to stumble and have it all taken back again. So when Aras finally swings high, arching his sword in an effort to catch Ian off guard, a dark cloud of worry settles in my gut, knowing someone is about to call an end to this dangerous game.

  My only shock is that it isn’t Aras.

  Shifting his balance at just the right time, Ian blocks Aras’ move. I watch in horror as his blade slides down Aras’ sword, stopping with a sick thud as it bangs into his forearm. Aras hisses in pain, his sword clattering to the ground, while Ian stops short, staring at the blood now pooling underneath Aras’ sleeve.

  “Aras!” I shout, diving onto my belly and crawling into the ring. Pushing to my feet, I reach for his arm, only to be disappointed when he flinches away from my touch. I look up, not bothering to disguise the shake in my voice. “How bad is it?”

  “Just a scratch,” he says, flashing a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well done, Prince.” He extends his good arm, accepting Ian’s in an awkward shake. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Listen, Aras,” Ian starts, regret coating his tongue. “I truly am sorry. I didn’t mean for—”

  “Oh, no. No need for apologies. A hit is a hit, and although I’d love to continue this exciting spar of ours, I have a feeling I should get this patched up. Wouldn’t be a very good guard to the princess if I allowed myself to bleed to death, would I?” His eyes flick to mine, clear as the cloudless sky above, and I already know what he wants to say to me, though he doesn’t have to utter a word.

  You won.

  “Are you sure you don’t—”

  But he’s already gone, a brewing storm of anger and blood as he climbs through the ropes and stomps his way back to the palace. I bite the inside of my cheek, willing my own emotions to stay in check. I can’t lose it here, not in front of Ian. He risked his well-being for a chance to catch my eye, and now I can’t even look at him.

  I’m too busy staring after the one I can’t get back.

  “Penelope,” he says, squeezing my arm with his careful touch.

  “It’s fine, Ian. It was a silly duel, that’s all. I’m thankful no one was seriously hurt.” I turn to him, eyes weary from their effort to stay dry. “I suppose I should be grateful neither one of you tried to go for the face. Now that would have been a real tragedy, for me and all of Theron.”

  Ian tries to smile, but like Aras, he’s long past faking it now. “Go to him.”

  “What?” I stumble, shaking my head. “No, he’ll be fine. Trust me when I say I’m not who he needs.”

  “But it’s what you need.” Ian pulls my head forward until it rests on his chest. The sudden closeness overwhelms me, and I wrap my arms around his back, willing myself to stand. Willing myself to stay. “Go to him. I’ll check on you tonight.”

  I tilt my head, looking up into his kind green eyes and wonder what he sees in mine. How can it be that I’ve led him so astray? But then I think of Aras, and the love I hold for him—even when it doesn’t make sense—and I understand.

  Rising on my toes, I plant a soft kiss on his cheek. Then I pull back, willing him to look into my eyes and see me for who I truly am. The very opposite of kind.

  And I go.

  Thirty-Five

  I find him in his washroom. Bloodied shirt peeled off and lumped on the floor. Olive chest reflecting back as he dribbles hot water across the nasty cut in his arm. Red bandages line the counter in wet bunches by the sink. His handsome face scrunched with pain.

  He hasn’t seen me yet, or at least, he doesn’t care if he has.

  Lowering my eyes from the mirror, I inch forward, afraid he’ll cast me out. The muscles in his back tense as my reflection builds alongside his, calling my attention to the very mark that got us here. Cursed us to a world where my handsome prince no longer exists.

  Promised us.

  The mark looks different now than it did so very long ago. Hardened, blackened with age. The flames that were once so red have now seeped into his smooth skin, planting roots and taking claim. It’s a battle against his good, and it looks as though my father’s black magic is in the lead.

  “Coming to gloat about your prince’s win?” His tired voice sends tiny chills down my arms, the very words quaking against my chest. I look up, and our eyes meet. “Go away, Penelope Brave. You’re not needed here.”

  I lift my chin, schooling my features as I take a step. And then another after that. His jaw twitches, and my boots still along the stone floor. For the briefest of seconds, the intensity of his gaze wanes, the corners of his eyes lifting as he takes me in. It’s the slightest of hesitations, the last of the dark before the sun rises free.

  And it’s all the encouragement I need.

  Charging forward, I s
top at his back, so close that I know he can feel my even breaths against his skin. Aras’ eyes widen in the mirror, his fingers fumbling with the cloth against his wound. Slowly, I slide my hand across his back, feeling the way his muscles tense and bunch at my touch. Without a word, my fingers find his mark, tracing the twisting flames as if I could coax them from his very heart. Goose bumps line his skin, and a shudder rakes across his chest. He starts to pull away, but I’m not finished with him yet.

  Wrapping my arms around his waist, I tug him against me, determined to hold him tight until I’ve had my say. Rising to my toes, I rest my chin on his shoulder, lips hovering just over the mark. Together, we stare at our reflections, each soul lost in the other, and I can’t help but wonder how it was that we were ever ripped apart. A tentative wave of hope seeps into my soul, and Aras’ brow wrinkles with a want he can’t deny.

  Then I kiss the promise that stole my prince.

  “I know you feel as if you’ve gone away—turned into a man you’ve never desired to be. But no matter how hard you push, no matter how many callous, ugly words you say, you’ll never be lost to me, Aras. For how could I lose you when you live within my heart?”

  “Penelope Brave…” He grimaces, shoulders dropping as he fights to break free.

  “I’m sorry, Aras. You gave me everything you had, yet I’ve never deserved a drop. Now please, for once, let me give you something back.”

  And like the mirror of my heart—the desire of my spirit—the magic slips through my steady fingers, diving into his warm, olive skin, determined to make him whole. But it’s a magic not of fire, nor of ice. It’s a gentle kind, one of tingles and delicious warmth that slips through your veins, leaving you dizzy, happy, and free. It’s the magic of my core, the magic of my love.

  The magic that will give all of Aras’ promises back to me.

  “Brave,” he slurs, gripping the counter as his elbows give way and his weight falls forward with the loss of his strength.