Finally, they reached the entrance into the dungeon, and Reen slid the heavy stone door open without a sound. The group made their way through the prison, and the wizards went to work on picking the locks of the cells containing Caspian’s men, as magic didn’t work in the palace dungeons, according to the scrolls Caspian had studied as a child. Reen had taught them the skill of lock picking, leaving Caspian to wonder where and why he had learned it himself.
The soldiers gaped and almost yelled out when they caught sight of their prince, but Caspian held up a hand, warning them to be silent. Like the trained soldiers they were, they lined up behind him, ready for battle. The wizards made their way through the group, furnishing the seasoned warriors with the weapons they carried in their packs, which they discarded onto the floor once empty. They would have provided the soldiers with armor, but they already had their hands full with weapons. The army would just have to gather what they could from their fallen enemies when the battle began.
Caspian opened his mouth and turned to Charwin, ready to tell him to give the signal, but he was interrupted by the crash and bang of a door slamming open and the footsteps of many people coming into the dungeons. Drawing his sword, he yelled at Charwin, “They found us out too soon! Give the signal quickly!”
The next moment, a swarm of enemy soldiers filled the dungeon, their swords drawn. Caspian gritted his teeth and yelled, sprinting forward into the wave of enemy soldiers, his army following right behind. As he slashed and cut and dodged and parried, a sick feeling developed in his gut.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
Devin cursed softly to himself, pacing back and forth. The servant who had just brought him the news of Caspian’s invasion stood nervously near the open door, looking around for a quick escape.
“I should have killed him long before this,” he muttered to himself. Reaching into one of his robe pockets, his fingers gripped the vial in his pocket, a piece of parchment brushing softly against his skin.
“I have to call for Ryland,” he muttered. “The people still love him. Having him here will cause enough confusion for us to win.” This was the reason Devin had allowed Ryland and his fiancé to live this long, just in case something like this happened, but he didn’t like the idea of involving Ryland in Algar’s affairs again. The man would be appalled if he knew what Devin had done in his absence, and taking over the kingdom from Ryland once he was back would be a hard task.
But Devin had no choice. He couldn’t win this battle alone, not with all the commoners banded together against him. It was likely he’d have to kill Ryland once the battle was over, along with Prince Caspian and anyone else who dared oppose him. The plan wasn’t perfect, but perhaps the loss of both royal heirs would crush the citizens to the point where they wouldn’t even think about rebelling again. If he could stop them from organizing themselves for a little while longer, the Tja-maq he had drained would have enough time to recover and would become his magical enforcers.
The dark wizard took a deep breath and spun to face the servant, whose face paled. “Fetch Ryland for me,” he barked.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The servant saluted. “Hail King Devin!” he cried before running out of the room, leaving the door gaping open.
Devin clenched his jaw and slammed the door with his magic before peering out the window at the courtyard. The commoners had begun their attack on the castle despite Devin intercepting Caspian’s men in the dungeons, and while they hadn’t broken through the gates yet, it was only a matter of time. He hadn’t been prepared for an organized assault from the peasants, and, though he was at loath to admit it, they had caught him by surprise.
His hand once again grabbed the bottle, and he pulled it and the parchment out of his pocket. He looked down at them, deliberating.
“Are you sure?” someone whispered, and Devin winced. It was a Tja-maq, not quite stabilized after the long battle months prior, but recovered enough to speak. “You don’t know what that does.”
Devin growled. “It promises pain and eventual death upon those it is cast upon.”
“At what cost to you?” The voice sent a chill down Devin’s spine.
“It was written by the first Tja-maq. I can handle it; it’s in my blood.” Devin had found the old, wrinkled parchment while searching for information about his ancestors. It had been in an old box wrapped with chains, secreted away in the corner of a small house. Devin suspected the first Tja-maq had lived there at some point or had known someone who did. He was certain it had once been a terrific mansion, but now it was old and crumbling, an isolated structure located in the woods surrounding Algar.
Casting a spell without knowing the consequences was dangerous, but Devin was sure he could do it. Wasn’t he the most powerful wizard in the world? The parchment didn’t explain what exactly would happen once the spell was cast, but it did explain that pain and death would come upon the victim with time.
The parchment had most likely, at some point, contained more details, but time had not been kind to the thin paper. Bits and pieces of it were missing, the ink ran together in places, and bugs had chewed through some of the words. The first thing Devin had done when he found it was to place a preserving spell upon it so it couldn’t fade away even more, and he could only hope all the necessary steps for the spell were present.
Devin squinted at the old, spidery scrawl, written in the Tja’s ancient language. “Drink the liquor, gather the magic, set the target in your sights, let go of all your spite,” he muttered to himself, slowly uncorking the bottle. He eyed the black and white liquid with unease, his hand shaking slightly.
“Is it worth it?” the voice hissed.
“I want Caspian to suffer.” Devin steadied his hand. And I want to know what it does, he thought to himself, his resolve strengthening. If he was able to cast the spell, he would be more connected to his ancestors than ever. To the first Tja-maq, even, the most powerful Tja that had ever been.
Lifting the vial to his lips, Devin drank the contents down in one gulp. The liquid was so cold it burned all the way down his throat, and Devin froze, the vial falling from his fingers to shatter on the stone floor. Pain and severe cold radiated from his middle, and Devin grimaced, putting his hands over his stomach.
“I told you. This might kill you.” The voice sounded closer this time.
“No,” Devin panted. He squinted, seeing a blue-tinged black begin to cover his vision. “I can do this—agh!” He cried out in agony as the icy tendrils clenched tighter around his stomach. Devin thought he should be able to see his breath in front of his face, but everything appeared normal.
Except . . . Devin brought his hands up, and his eyes widened when he saw the frost covering the tips of his fingers. He gritted his teeth and focused on the words of the spell, closing his eyes for concentration.
“Tiri, matie, iotl, hoiu, msfou,” he whispered to himself. He had no idea what the old language meant, but the cold receded slightly. “Tiri, matie, iotl, hoiu, msfou,” he said, louder this time.
Suddenly, his thoughts turned to all his hate for humanity. He thought of how the humans had ruthlessly murdered his family members, how the Tja’s power had been stripped down to nothing because the pathetic beings couldn’t learn their place. How he should have been king of the entire world by now, but instead, because of the curse, he was here, in this tower, suffering.
The cold disappeared, replaced by a sense of seething anger that was barely controlled. Devin straightened, his jaw set in determination. Glancing around, he noticed he had, at some point, though he couldn’t remember doing so, shifted into his Tja form. The world was tinged an icy black as if he wore colored lenses over his eyes. The very edges of his vision were a bright red, and Devin blinked, trying to get used to it. The icy feeling of the spell now resided in his fingertips, and the frost was so thick he couldn’t even see his hands, but it didn’t hurt. It was simply magic—magic he could use against a certain pesky prince. He clenched his fists, pleas
ed to see the ice move with it with an angry clashing sound.
“Neri-shna,” the shadow whispered, evidently awed. “You mastered it.”
“Of course I did. Don’t doubt me again.” The tower shook, and Devin’s eyes narrowed as he approached the window. “Now, where is Caspian?”
Ryland smiled at Fayre, who was fast asleep. She had been steadily improving over the past few weeks, finally able to walk around and talk to him. Unfortunately, the personal servant Devin had assigned to her had become dreadfully ill and wasn’t able to receive the good news. Ryland was sure the kind lady would be overjoyed at the remarkable change.
Leaning over to give his love a kiss on the cheek, he murmured, “I love you more than life itself.” Fayre smiled gently in her sleep and settled deeper into the bed. Ryland was amazed she had managed to get better without the cure, which hadn’t arrived yet. He wasn’t going to question it as long as Fayre ended up healed.
His thoughts were interrupted when the front door of the small cottage banged open, and someone barged into the room. “Your Majesty, Devin requires your presence immediately. There has been an attack on the castle!” the man rushed out in a huff, breathing heavily.
Ryland rose to his feet and grabbed for his sword but paused, looking at Fayre. Was she well enough for him to leave?
“My lord, you must hurry,” the soldier urged.
Ryland licked his lips. “Fine. I will be back soon. Keep an eye on her.” He leaned over and gave Fayre another quick peck on the cheek before leaving the room to don his armor and weapons. He didn’t want to disturb her slumber just to give her an opportunity to worry about him. He was certain he could handle whatever had arisen at the castle in a timely manner.
He pushed his horse harder than was prudent, knowing time was of the essence. An hour later, he rode through the castle gates, which were hanging off their hinges and smoking. He dodged the fighting and dropped down next to a man he recognized as one of his commanders. “Where is Devin?”
“My lord, you’re back.” The man briefly dropped onto his knee, then rose again. “He is preparing a defense in the castle.”
Ryland nodded. It was probably a huge magical spell he was making to end this fight quickly. “Who has attacked us?”
“The ex-prince Caspian is leading the charge. He and his group are inside the castle. He managed to get the people on his side, and they are attacking as well.”
Ryland scowled. “Treason, the lot of them. We shall deal with Caspian and his men once and for all!” He ground his teeth together and swiped a hand through his hair. Caspian was back. Ryland had mercy on him once, and the boy had once again turned around and stabbed him in the back. Well, no longer.
Ryland wasn’t entirely sure how Caspian even managed to survive the branding, let alone get the commonwealth on his side with the scar marring his features, but it didn’t matter now. Caspian was the villain here, and he needed to be stopped. From Devin’s reports, Ryland knew the kingdom was happier and richer than it had ever been under an Algris’ rule, and it was selfish of Caspian to ruin that for the people. Ryland had let this act go on long enough.
He let his anger simmer for a moment before storing it for when he would face Caspian. He would need it to do what he knew he had to do. Taking charge, Ryland smiled grimly to himself. With him in charge, this battle would be over in minutes, the citizens would be thoroughly chastised with all hints of rebellion quelled, and the traitor Caspian would be dead.
The battle had already been going on for too long. After fighting their way through the dungeon, the group had somehow been split up as they spread throughout the castle. Caspian had no idea where anyone was, except Reen, who had managed to stay by his side the whole time.
“I have to take charge, or we will never win,” Caspian told Reen as the two made their way through a small corridor. “We need to get to the courtyard.”
Reen nodded. The two men were dirty and worn out from their long battle, but the man still had fire in his eyes. “Do not worry, Your Majesty. I will get you there unscathed.”
The two continued to make their way through the castle, into bigger halls and through rooms. Caspian led the way, trying to pick places that the enemy soldiers would not be, but it still seemed that everywhere he turned there were more men to fight.
Lunging forward, he stabbed an attacking man in the chest, and he fell away, only to be replaced by another enemy soldier. Reen and Caspian fought in tandem, with Reen somehow still making witty jokes in between. Finally, there was a temporary reprieve from the onslaught, and Caspian paused, leaning on his sword and wiping sweat from his brow.
“Some fight, eh, Reen?” He waited for the man’s reply but heard nothing. “Reen?” Concerned, Caspian turned to face his friend and gasped. Reen was leaning against the wall, a hand pressed to his stomach, trying to stem the steady flow of blood leaking out from under it. From the amount that had already pooled on the floor, Caspian could tell his friend didn’t have much time left.
“Reen!” Caspian dropped his sword, and it fell to the ground with a clatter, piercing Caspian’s mind. It seemed to emphasize how quickly things had gone awry.
“It-it’s just a flesh wound,” Reen protested heavily, waving his hand. “I’ll be fine.”
Caspian knelt next to his friend and bit his lip. “Can’t you heal it or something?” Reen was a healer in training. He could do it. He had to do it.
“No.” Reen shook his head. “Too weak. Vision . . . blurry.” He gasped and looked Caspian in the eye. Caspian could see the life draining away from him. “I’m dying.” He sucked in a sharp, painful breath and closed his eyes briefly. When they opened again, they were full of tears. Caspian couldn’t help the agony welling up in his heart, and his own tears spilled down his cheeks.
“Take back Algar. You can do it. I know you can.” Reen smiled slightly. “You’ve been a gleep-sha friend, Caspian, future King of Algar.”
Caspian bowed his head. “You are an amazing friend as well, Reen. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.” When he lifted his head again, Reen’s eyes were staring into space, drained of life. Biting back sobs, Caspian wrapped his arms around his friend and buried his face into his lifeless chest. The pain encompassed him, seeming to drown him in misery. It was like his father’s death all over again. Who knew how many people he would lose tonight? Maybe even Charwin would be gone as well come morning.
Caspian curled up into a ball, sinking deeper into his pain. He had lost so much. His kingdom, his family, his friend, this battle. Was life even worth living anymore?
Blinking slowly, Caspian brought himself back to consciousness. Yes. Life was worth living because he was going to repay those who took those things from him—with their lives. His people depended on him. He would not let them down as long as he breathed.
Full of anger and determination, Caspian stood and grabbed his sword, wiping his eyes. He didn’t have the stomach to look at the dead wizard behind him. Instead, he took a deep breath before setting off for the courtyard.
Ryland, you’re next.
Ryland watched, pleased, as the battle tide turned to the favor of the rightful king of Algar—him. He’d been there for a little over thirty minutes, and the peasants had been confused when they saw that Ryland was leading the other side, and he could tell they were uncertain as to which force they should be fighting for. That, however, brought up some uneasy questions to his mind. If they weren’t angry at Ryland, who were they angry at? Devin? What had his cousin done in his absence? From his letters, his cousin had seemed to have everything in hand.
Ryland was jolted from his reverie when he spotted a familiar face nearby, fighting a few of his soldiers. Within moments they were felled, and the man turned around, catching Ryland’s eye. He froze and stared.
Caspian, Ryland thought. He looked different from the last time he had seen him: thinner, more determined, and hard. And—Ryland felt a stab of guilt shoot through him—his face was utterly ruin
ed by the ugliest scar he had ever seen.
“I never should have let you live,” Ryland called to him. He looked the prince up and down, seeing his armor was stained with blood. Was it his blood or someone else’s?
Caspian’s jaw clenched, and Ryland noticed that his eyes were rimmed with red and filled with a fire he had never seen in anyone before. It looked like hate, sadness, and determination. “You’re right,” he agreed, gazing into the battlefield. “You still have their loyalty,” he remarked suddenly.
Ryland followed his stare to find the people milling about, some fighting each other or the guards, while others simply wandered about as if confused. Ryland’s men were taking advantage of the uncertainty, managing to round up the peasant and subduing those who still fought against them.
“As long as you are around,” Caspian mused, almost to himself, “they will still be unsure. You’re too dangerous to let live.” He stepped closer to Ryland.
Ryland blinked, confused. What was Caspian going on about? His tone sounded deadly and cold, not like him at all. Somewhere deep inside, Ryland still thought of Caspian as the gentle prince he had always been. He turned toward the prince and opened his mouth, just in time to see Caspian’s sword leave his grip and spiral toward him.
Ryland’s mouth fell open, and time seemed to slow. He means to kill me! his mind exclaimed. He thought about trying to jump out of the way but knew it would do no good. He had hesitated too long, and the sword was already too close. This was the end.
As he was about to close his eyes and embrace death, he saw a flash of fiery hair in front of him and heard a thump as the sword found its mark.
Wincing, he looked down at himself, and, to his surprise, found himself very much alive. But when he lifted his gaze, what he saw made him wish he wasn’t.
“Fayre!” he yelled in agony. She slumped to the ground in front of him, Caspian’s sword protruding from her chest. Blood had already soaked her clothing and pooled onto the grass.
Mark of the Banished Page 21
