Illusions: Faction 4: The Isa Fae Collection

by Jade Kerrion

  Tristan?

  No, it couldn’t be. Not Tristan.

  They were friends.

  Weren’t they?

  Questions without answers pounded through his mind, the endless litany exhausting him. Time passed; he did not know how long. The cold was so intense; it froze him from within and without, that when the door finally opened, he scarcely had the strength to raise his head.

  “Tristan…” He breathed his friend’s name.

  “You’re awake.” Tristan strode into the room. Two armed fae entered with him. “I didn’t expect that. The highly concentrated doses of datura should have kept you unconscious longer.”

  Varian’s eyes narrowed. The flickers and fragments of images and sounds—they were not the churning of a drugged mind. They were memories. “You planned the attack on the palace. Why?”

  “Why?” Tristan mocked, loosening the whip from his waist. “Such innocence in that question.” He walked around Varian. His soft footsteps pinpointed his location. The whip cracked as it snapped against the air—the sound jarring.

  No, he wouldn’t dare—

  The whip sang through the air. The strips of thin leather coiled around Varian’s chest. The sudden sting of impact was far less painful than the trail of fire when the whip flicked back.

  “Tristan, I—” The second burst of agony yanked his breath away.

  “Why?” Tristan laughed. “What was I to you?”

  “Friends…” Varian gasped the words out through the shock and pain. “We’re best friends.”

  “Wrong.” Tristan wrapped his hand in Varian’s hair and yanked his head back. “We are half-brothers.”

  What?

  “You didn’t know? Our father didn’t tell you?” Tristan snarled, but it was a broken sound. “He loved my mother, but married yours instead. He obeyed duty instead of love. The privilege of your birth should have been mine, but what did I get? Nothing—but a wretched cough that will eventually kill me, and a stepfather who despised and hated me, who destroyed me.”

  Tristan released his grip on Varian’s hair. The whip lashed out several times, each contact stripping skin from Varian’s chest and back. Varian writhed in mid-air, his body flung forward and backward from the force of the whipping. His only focus was on drawing each breath. There was no room for any thought, no space for any questions.

  He did not know how long it lasted.

  The pain did not pass. He could scarcely feel the sharp stings of the whip’s contact with his body, not when his entire body felt wrapped in flame. His muscles quivered from the strain of supporting his dead weight. His lungs, already ruined, hacked up blood.

  “You never heard it, did you?” Tristan asked. “You never heard me coughing. Even if you did, it never occurred to you that someone else shared your inherited condition. You were so perfectly insulated in your world, perfectly protected.”

  “My father welcomed you into our family. We were raised together.”

  “Only after the damage was done!” Tristan’s voice shook with rage. “And there’s no undoing that kind of damage. Our father—your father—never accepted his responsibility. Even when I finally found out, he would not acknowledge me. I wasn’t good enough for him—what good is a fae without magic—but it was his fault I wasn’t good enough. He cast me out. He damned me.” Tristan laughed, the sound edged with mania. “He paid, though. He paid dearly. I made sure he died painfully, excruciatingly from the disease that will eventually kill me.”

  “You killed him?”

  “I tampered with his medicine; yours too. It was the simplest thing—a dash of comfrey and pennyroyal oil. I was closer than family.” His laugh was bitter. “I had access to your offices, your suites.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have—”

  “You would have what?”

  The whip coiled around Varian’s chest, the thin strands snapping on his skin. His body jerked against the pain. He tasted blood in his mouth; he had bitten through his cheek to keep from screaming.

  Tristan’s voice was cold. “Tell me, what would you have done? You can’t undo the past. You’re so focused on the future—so determined to do what’s right for your people—that you’ve turned an utterly blind eye to those closest to you. You can’t fix the past; like your father, you don’t even give a damn.”

  “I don’t understand. Tell me what happened.”

  Tristan stepped back. “You’re filthy.” He glanced at his two men. “Hose him down.”

  The torrent of icy water came out of nowhere. It tore a scream from Varian. The powerful spray washed the blood from his body. It also tore his flayed skin apart. He was burning, drowning as he hung in mid-air. His lungs screamed for air, and then clenched, suffocating him.

  Varian was barely conscious when the brutal torture ceased. His body, left to drip dry in a freezing room, shivered uncontrollably, until he no longer had enough strength to shiver. His dead weight hung from his raw, bleeding wrists.

  Tristan…

  Varian’s thoughts muddled through the scant facts. Where did Tristan’s hate come from? The fae from noble houses were notoriously indiscrete. It was not a mark of shame to be the result of a dalliance.

  He murdered his father—his prince. He betrayed his country.

  For what?

  “Cut him down.” Tristan’s voice emerged from the darkness.

  One of the guards cut through the large knot in the rope, and Varian dropped to the hard granite floor. The impact flashed lights through his brain, but his body—already pushed beyond endurance—barely flinched.

  One of the guards, a cruel glint in his eyes, squatted and gripped Varian’s right knee. His lips moved as he whispered an incantation. His grip tightened, squeezed.

  Varian’s breath caught, anguish filling his lungs.

  Bones shattered. Pain exploded like fireworks—blinding him, deafening him. Perhaps he screamed, but he could not hear it over the pounding of his heart and the rushing of blood through his head.

  The initial sweeping tide of agony settled into the consistent pulse of pain. Fresh waves of anguish jostled as Tristan’s guards dragged him to his feet and shoved him, face-first, his hands still bound, onto a table. Tristan unfastened the iron clasp from around Varian’s atern bracelet. Its glow filled the room with the radiance of a star.

  Tristan ran his hand over Varian’s bracelet. His grip on Varian’s wrist tightened as he brought his own dull-gray bracelet next to Varian’s.

  “Did you know that I was born with as much magic as you?” Tristan asked, his tone almost conversational. “How could I not? The Delacroix is the most powerful magical family, and I was a Delacroix spawn, but my stepfather resented the prince’s cast-off.” He released Varian’s wrist; the two guards held Varian down on the table.

  “Do you know how magic transfers from one person to another?” Tristan continued, his tone deceptively conversational. “It is yielded willingly through mutual consent, or when the will is broken, crushed against the stronger will, the stronger body of another.” Tristan’s fingers clenched in Varian’s hair. His voice, raw with anguish, hissed into Varian’s ear. “He took it. My stepfather stole all my magic. He raped it out of me.”

  “No…” Varian breathed a denial. Tristan had been living in the palace since the age of three, and by then…Varian’s memories flicked back to his childhood playmate—Tristan’s innately cheerful personality pockmarked by inexplicable episodes of terror-driven rage. By the age of three, Tristan’s atern bracelet was dull gray.

  Varian closed his eyes. His chest heaved, his stomach churning at the horror of Tristan’s childhood. Tristan, the prince’s eldest son, Varian’s half-brother, had been raped as a child by the man he thought was his father. He had been raped of his magic, raped almost to death.

  “Of course your father wouldn’t acknowledge me,” Tristan continued, his voice raw. His gray atern bracelet vibrated on his wrist. “How could he acknowledge a powerless whelp? But I showed him. It’s
not about magic, not about power. Without magic, I brought him down, and I brought you down.”

  “Tristan, don’t do this. I can help you.”

  “And you will.” Tristan laughed. “I’ll take it back. I’ll have magic. I’ll have power again.”

  Varian’s mind recoiled, but there was nowhere for his body to go. His magic was suppressed by the runic collar, and his body too broken to fight off three fae warriors.

  But he could not break. He would not crack.

  He could not let his brother crush his will.

  Varian did the only thing left to him when Tristan cut the rest of his clothes from his body. He surrounded himself with love, bracing himself against the precious, priceless memories of Nithya.

  He ground his teeth against the pain. Tristan could rape his body—his body be damned—but Tristan would not shatter his will or rupture his soul.

  Chapter 17

  Ariel’s sudden yelp ripped the illusory protection offered by the cozy kitchen in the safe house. “Someone broke my seal on the tunnel entrance. They’re coming through.”

  Sabine shot to her feet. “We have to get out of here.”

  Ariel shook her head. “They’re looking for us. All the noble houses will be watched; Nithya’s store too.”

  Nithya threw an illusion over all of them before rushing to the front door. “This way, come with me.”

  The snow, falling hard, dusted over their footsteps and concealed the roundabout route they took to Grenth’s Cove. The city shook like a tuning fork vibrating between confusion and terror. Whispered conversations took place in darkened thresholds. Nithya caught hushed snippets as she hurried past.

  “The palace gates are sealed. It’s as inaccessible as the moon.”

  “I heard the entire council rebelled against the Convello.”

  “No, that’s not true. The council is under house arrest.”

  “But who would attack the prince?”

  “Conrad. He’s always wanted the throne.”

  “It can’t be Conrad. I saw him riding hard out of the city gates, moments before it closed.”

  “Running back to his castle, no doubt. The coward. People are saying that Lord Merodes—”

  “Tristan Merodes? But he’s the prince’s closest adviser. Why would he betray the prince?”

  Why indeed? Bitterness coiled in Nithya’s heart. Because hate is stronger than love.

  “Where are we going?” Ariel asked quietly.

  “We’re here.” Nithya pushed open the door to Darken Tavern. She and the three fae ladies walked into the pub. Dark smoke roiled from the peat torches, rising to form a cloud bank around the wooden rafters of the tavern. Every head turned toward them. Silence fell over the room. No doubt the news of the rebellion had reached the pub too.

  Thane stomped toward them. “I don’t recognize ‘yer. Get out. We don’t serve ‘yer kind here.”

  Nithya stripped off the illusions with a wave of her wrist.

  Thane’s jaw dropped, and he quickly set himself between them and the door, protecting them with his towering bulk.

  Maxine, the bartender, hurried forward. “Come this way quickly.” She led the four women toward the back of the tavern. A light press against a hidden latch opened the door to a secret room. The women slipped in; Thane entered too, and the door closed. The shuffling sounds outside suggested that tables were being pulled across the entrance. Unless Nithya missed her guess, several hulking male witches were now sipping ales at that table, their flinty gazes deterring the curious.

  Maxine turned to Princess Sabine. “We heard that you and the prince were killed when the castle was taken.”

  “No.” Sabine’s voice shook. “But the prince is Tristan’s prisoner.”

  “So it was Lord Merodes? But why? He’s the prince’s right-hand man. What’s happening?”

  Nithya spoke up. “Tristan is going to make Varian cast the Convello alone. The spell will kill him. We have to take back the palace or get Varian out.”

  “And who’s going to do that? You?” Ariel challenged. “The only magic you’re capable of are illusions. How far will that get you? You don’t even know your way around the castle.”

  “Do you?” Nithya challenged.

  “I do,” Sabine said.

  “Not you,” both Nithya and Ariel said immediately. “Your highness,” Ariel tacked on politely. “Tristan’s looking for leverage over Varian. He’ll find it in those Varian cares for.”

  Nithya stiffened. “The servants and guards. They’re all still in the palace. Every single one of them can be used against Varian.”

  “Then we have to get them out,” Sabine said.

  “Or free Varian,” Nithya insisted.

  The princess shook her head. “There is no purpose in freeing Varian without keeping Tristan from taking the throne.” A ghost of a smile flickered over Sabine’s lips. “Varian would never accept it. He would never leave the palace if it meant leaving La Condamine to Tristan.”

  Nithya stifled a sigh. Princess Sabine was right. Varian’s sense of responsibility would never allow him to do that. “But we can’t leave him to die.”

  “No, we give him a fighting chance, and the only way we can do that is by removing anything that Tristan can use against him. We take his people out of the equation. We get his people out of the palace.”

  Ariel bit down on her lip. “All right. How do we do that? How can we even get in?”

  “The old palace.” Nithya spoke her thoughts aloud. “Didn’t Tristan say there were tunnels there that led into the mountains? That’s probably how the mercenaries got into the palace in the first place.” She looked at Sabine. “Who knows their way through the old palace?”

  “Varian’s personal bodyguards would. It’s been a job requirement ever since Varian got lost in that part of the palace as a child.”

  Nithya frowned. “Tristan said he got lost.”

  Sabine shook her head. “The boys played hide-and-seek together. Tristan knows his way through that part of the palace; he could find his way blindfolded in the dark. Not Varian. They went in together, and only Tristan came out. It took the entire palace staff half a day to comb through that place to find Varian.” Her voice trailed off. Horror crept into her eyes.

  “It was not the first time, was it?” Nithya asked. “Nor the last.”

  “No, but they were just children. I told myself it was absurd that Tristan would ever try to hurt Varian. They were such good friends.”

  The envy, Nithya suspected, had always been there—the spite and malice briefly contained by a child’s inability to escalate it into a truly deadly game. But Tristan had finally rolled the dice—

  And it was their turn to counter. “Louis,” Nithya murmured. “The former palace guard who escorted my family to La Condamine.”

  “Louis Roux?” Sabine asked. “He was once Varian’s personal bodyguard. He knows his way around the palace. He’s good in a fight, and his magic is strong.”

  “Can he be trusted?” Isobel asked.

  “Can anyone be trusted?” Sabine released a shuddering breath. “I don’t know.”

  Nithya spoke up. “Louis was away from La Condamine the past two weeks. Distance is no guarantee of innocence, but it’s a risk we have to take. Do you know where he lives?”

  “He set up home in the garden district after he left Varian’s service,” Sabine said.

  Maxine cut in. “Many of my customers live in the garden district. One of them probably knows where to find Louis. None of you should go. I’ll send someone I trust to fetch him.” She pressed against another hidden panel, and a door to the outside swung open, letting in a rush of cold air. She ducked out of the secret room to circle back into the inn through the front door.

  “Do we just wait?” Nithya demanded.

  “We rest,” Sabine said. “We do Varian no favors by charging in without a plan.”

  Nithya leaned her elbows on the table. “What’s Tristan like?”

  Arie
l looked puzzled. “You should know; he’s been trying to date you for months.”

  “I know one aspect of Tristan—the one who’s always smiling and laughing like he hasn’t a care in the world. That’s not the man who would turn on Varian or on the family that favored him.” She looked at Isobel.

  Isobel’s throat worked as she swallowed. “He has dark moods, but he wasn’t always like that. He was a cheerful, happy baby, but growing up in the Merodes household soured him; it almost ruined him. His upbringing in the royal palace and Varian’s friendship saved him.”

  “Did it?” Nithya asked.

  “It seemed to. Tristan seemed content, even pleased with life, and then he found out about his true relationship with the Delacroix family. He was angry.” She shuddered. “In his anger, he said horrible things, vicious things.”

  “Like what?”

  “He swore he would reclaim his power and his birthright as Prince Rainier’s firstborn son, even if it meant usurping the throne.”

  Sabine frowned. “Why didn’t you report it earlier?”

  “He was angry, Sabine, with just cause. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry.”

  “But when we’re angry, we also speak from the heart,” Nithya murmured. “And now he means to force Varian into suicide, in front of his people, in a spell doomed to fail. It won’t just kill Varian; it’ll destroy his legacy and the Delacroix name. It’ll throw La Condamine into chaos, kill a prince who actually gives a damn about his people, and replace him with a no-win choice between Conrad and Tristan. And for what? Cold revenge?”

  Isobel shrank. “I can’t explain it; can’t justify it.” Her voice trembled. “I can’t even say I’m sorry enough. I didn’t realize there was so much hate in him.”

  Hate…

  Hate is stronger than love.

  Hate dripped like acid, burning holes in the souls of those who yielded to it. It hollowed out the spirit, shallowed the mind.

  It created weaknesses—

  Weaknesses she could exploit, shadows she could bring to life, darkness she could make real.