by Kaylin Lee
BETRAYED
Ruby’s Story
Destined Series, Book 4
KAYLIN LEE
BETRAYED: RUBY’S STORY
Copyright © 2018 by Kaylin Lee
First Edition
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact:
Kaylin Lee
http://www.kaylinleewrites.com
Editing by Kathrese McKee of Word Marker Edits
Cover design by Victoria Cooper Designs
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
There’s more to the story…
Sign up for Kaylin Lee’s new release email list at http://smarturl.it/burned-signup and get a free companion short story to Fated: Cinderella’s Story from Weslan’s point of view.
For the ones on the outside looking in. You are loved.
Know how to listen and you will profit even from those who talk badly.
Plutarch
Prologue
“I found something you can write with.”
The whisper jolted me from a light, shivery sleep.
I struggled to my feet and peered through the window. A little girl crouched there, her face smudged with dirt and grease.
“Thank you,” I rasped. “Can you—”
She pressed a finger to her lips, then shoved a scrap of newspaper through the slats in the barred window that stood between me and the outside world.
My fingers ached as I grasped the paper. The cell walls seemed to spin. After two days without food, I could barely stand upright.
“You! Get over here!” A man called out in the distance, his words clipped.
My hand jerked. The newspaper fluttered to the floor, a blunt shard of charcoal tumbling out of its fold.
The girl glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to me. Our eyes met in a horrified exchange. We didn’t dare speak. If they caught her, they’d kill her. But if she left me, my own end would be wasted.
She wanted to be brave. I could see it in the familiar, stubborn set of her jaw. I should send her away, but I needed her too much. After how greatly I’d failed, I needed this one, final act to succeed.
My eyes burned. For one long, tense moment as we waited, there was nothing but wintry cold and suffocating fear.
The girl darted another look over her shoulder. I strained my ears, but no new shouts came from outside. She must not have been discovered—not yet, anyway. Instead of easing, the tension grew.
I scrambled for the newspaper and charcoal, then scrawled in sloppy letters the revelation I’d risked my life to discover. I pressed the paper though the slats and into her freezing, dirt-stained fingers, hoping desperately the message was enough, yet knowing, deep in my bones, that it couldn’t possibly be.
Chapter 1
Two Months Earlier
When I was five years old, Grandmother tells me, I grew so infuriated by my freckles that I covered them all with a thick coating of black ink stolen from her writing desk.
It took three weeks to wash the ink stains off my skin, and though she says I apologized profusely, the day the stains came clean, I covered my freckles in ink a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth.
Now that I’m all grown up, Grandmother chuckles when she tells that story, the story of the year I lost both my parents in the plague, the year she had to hide all the ink in the apartment.
Belonging—a thick blanket on a cold, rainy morning like this one. Comforting, nurturing, safe. I stopped writing and chewed on the end of my pencil as the trolley bumped its way through the chaotic Merchant Quarter and into the clean, wealthy Procus Quarter. My old notebook was full to the point of bursting, but I couldn’t bear to part with it yet. It was practically an extension of my soul by now.
Not belonging—a blanket that was ripped away before I even knew I had one. I scribbled the words in wobbly letters as the trolley dodged to one side, then swung haphazardly around the corner onto Galanos Avenue. Cold legs, shivering on an uncomfortable dormitory bed, getting up and beginning the day before anyone else is awake. Because lingering in bed just makes me colder.
I stuffed my journal into my satchel and checked my blurry reflection in the glare of the trolley window, smoothing my hair back into my bun and biting my lips to give them color. When suspicious gazes on the streets of Asylia tracked my every movement, the least I could do was take care of my appearance. A pretty Westerner was better than a plain Westerner, or so I liked to tell myself.
Turning away from the window, I pulled the warm hood of my favorite red sweater over my head. There it was—a brief lull in traffic. I leapt off the side of the trolley, darted between two speeding fomecoaches, and stumbled to safety on the footpath.
A light pattering of rain, blown sideways by the wind, reached under my hood and dampened my forehead. I shivered and jogged around a wide puddle in the middle of the footpath. It was early autumn but already promising to be a cool season.
After a brief walk past a trio of banks on Galanos Avenue, I slipped through the polished, marble entrance of the place I loved most in the city—and the place I belonged least of all.
“Ruby, you’re here early!” Mage Fortis greeted me warmly as I entered the Falconus family’s public art studio and pulled down my hood. She ignored my rain-wet sweater and pulled me into a hug, her stylish, blonde bob tickling my cheek as I returned her embrace.
I inhaled—subtly, I hoped. She smelled of expensive goldblossom perfume, and the aroma was divine. Or perhaps that was simply how everyone from the wealthy Falconus family compound smelled—like they’d just come from bathing in gold jewelry and fancy, perfumed oil.
I should hate it. Grandmother would hate it.
Instead, I inhaled a second time and tried to ignore the guilt souring my stomach.
“It’s so good to see you,” she added, squeezing me tight. “We’ve missed you, dear.”
I smiled as she released me. “It’s good to be here. I’m glad you feel up to resum
ing our work.”
The tall, willowy mage shrugged, a haunted shadow drifting across her face before disappearing. “Of course I’m ready, darling. I live for these sessions. You know that. There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.” She nudged me as we walked from the entry way into the main studio. “I’m sure you feel the same way.”
“I do.” I would give anything to spend all my time at the Falconus studio, devoting myself to creating magical fabulator crystals as Mage Fortis did. But, as Grandmother was fond of saying, wishing and receiving were never the best of friends.
My worn, canvas satchel slid from my shoulder, and I dropped it into its usual spot behind a potted plant. None of the artists or actors seemed to mind my shabby presence in the studio, but I felt horrible when the ugly, frayed fabric of my bag marred the polished elegance of the Falconus property.
Natural light filled the enormous art studio, and the scents of goldblossom perfume and lemonburst wood polish mingled in the air. Tall, floor-to-ceiling windows lined the front wall, offering an expansive view of fomecoaches whishing along Galanos Avenue and clerks rushing down the footpath past the studio. Mage-craft oil paintings sparkled on the studio’s other walls, their finely-detailed scenes shifting magically in rhythmic, lifelike loops.
The worktables that lined the walls were normally crowded with the artistic creator mages who were lucky enough to call Lord Falconus their patron. Later in the day, during visiting hours, the couches would be full of Procus lords and ladies as they sipped coffee and simpered over the latest mage-craft art in progress. But at this hour, the studio was empty.
Polished floors peeked out between the soft, plush carpets that lined most of the room. I took care not to let the soles of my hand-me-down ankle boots touch the rugs as I followed Mage Fortis through the studio. I’d spent most of yesterday evening hunting down sources in the River Quarter for my next article in the Herald. It didn’t seem right for the same boots to walk the perfect floors of the Falconus studio the very next day.
“Coffee first.” Mage Fortis pulled me by the elbow toward the sideboard. “Then you can help me with the test recordings before everyone else arrives. These new crystals are quite different than the ones we’ve been using. Cheaper, you know.” She frowned disapprovingly and poured two cups of steaming hot coffee before handing one to me. “But we can produce far more at once, so that will be nice.”
I let the fragrance fill my nose, then took my first, heavenly sip. “This is the other reason I love coming here.”
“Best coffee in the city.” She winked and laughed, the delicate sound tinkling like music in the quiet room.
The occasional sips of the hot liquid energized me as I helped her pull the crates of small, fist-sized crystals out from under her work table. I shot her a glance as we worked. Mage Fortis hadn’t seemed so cheerful in months. “You really are feeling better? After everything that happened?”
“Of course. Silver linings are everywhere, dear. You just have to find them.” She glanced up from organizing the crystals, her cheeks rosy. “Weslan is safely home after three months of banishment. The Crimson Blight has been stopped. And now my favorite writer is here to share an early morning cup of coffee with me.” Her eyes crinkled. “I’ve never been better.”
I lifted another crate from under the table and set it carefully beside the others. “And your injuries?”
She lifted one shoulder, her shimmering, pale-green gown shifting with the movement. “The compound healer says I am well.” Her expression darkened for a moment. “Don’t mistake me—I will never forget Argentarius’s attack on our compound. My body may have healed from the injuries I took in the blast, but I still recall the fear like it was yesterday, rather than last week.” She ran a hand along the tops of the shining, pink crystals that lined her work table in organized rows. “But we’re safe now. That’s what matters. And if that rat Argentarius attacks again,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “Lord Falconus will be ready for him.”
“Good.” I’d never seen sweet, gentle Mage Fortis look quite so threatening. The attack must have shaken her a great deal. Lord Argentarius was unlikely to orchestrate such a blatant attack again, especially since he had been so publicly wrong about who was behind the Crimson Blight’s attacks, but her loyalty to Lord Falconus was touching.
Her expression cleared as she pulled another crate from beneath her work table. “I love the latest script you sent. Did I mention that yet?”
I helped her lift it into place. “I’m so glad! It’s a bit different, but …”
“But it’s exactly what we’ve needed. The way Alastair declares his love for Selena just after he rescues her from that horrible storm … it’s perfect. And swooningly romantic.”
“Swooningly, huh?” I smiled. “We’ve put poor Alastair and Selena through quite a lot with the past few scripts. I thought they were due for a bit of relief.”
“And it’s a sweet relief indeed.” Mage Fortis set out the last crate and began removing the crystals. “After everything our city has experienced lately, the happy ending with this script is a balm for the soul.”
“I felt the same way when I was writing it.” Alastair and Selena had more romance in their little fingers than I had in my entire life. No one wanted to court the only Western-looking girl in the whole city, not while there were plenty of pretty Fenra girls to choose from. If I couldn’t give my imaginary heroine Selena the occasional, happy moment with her beloved, I didn’t know what I’d do.
I took another sip of coffee, relishing the full, rich taste. I’d already downed a cup of cheap, sour sludge at the dorm I shared with the other single girls who worked at the Herald, but the fine brew at the Falconus studio was always a special treat. “Enjoy it while you can, because I have other plans for the next script.” I winked.
She threw back her head and laughed. “You torture me, Ruby! You do. But I love it.” She positioned a dozen crystals in front of me, carefully matching them in pairs. “Will you be my test voice? I’ll signal you when I’m ready to start recording.”
I frowned at the magical devices on the table. “How can you record so many at once? I’ve never seen you do more than two or three at a time.”
“That’s the question of the day, isn’t it?” She arched an eyebrow and pressed the last pair together. “I’m kidding, sort of. I’ve been practicing ever since Lord Falconus finally let me back in the studio after the attack.” She waved her hands in the air above the crystals. “When you speak, I’ll expel the magic I’ve stored, along with special instructions. Some of it will capture the sound of your voice and save it in the smaller crystals in each pair. The rest will go straight into the larger crystals paired with them, acting as a power source so the magic lasts longer for our listeners. Then we’ll press them together and make sure they work.”
“You don’t need to touch them to store the magic?” She usually placed her hands on the crystals while the actors read their lines in each recording session. I couldn’t imagine how she would send magic to so many objects at once.
“I prefer to touch them as I work. It gives me more control. But technically, I don’t really need to. These new ones are smaller and simpler than the ones we began with two years ago. They should absorb my magic easily enough without any special corrections.” She went back to fiddling with the pairs, her brows furrowed in concentration.
I prefer to touch. Mage Fortis’s words made me think of the powerful, absorbent mage Prince Estevan had asked me to interview the next day.
Zel was a former Draician assassin and the hidden savior of Asylia. For now, her existence was a secret to all but a few in the city. She’d defeated the Crimson Blight with her life-absorbing Touch, and soon, thanks to the article Prince Estevan had asked me to write, the whole city would know. “What about absorbent mages? Do they always need to touch their subject in order to work?”
Mage Fortis cocked her head and smiled, obviously pleased at my interest. If only she knew the reason be
hind it. “It’s different for them. Expellant mages—creator mages like me, or appearance mages like Weslan—can work without touching their object, but we usually prefer to be close to it. The finer the control needed, the more necessary touch is. For brute force, distance is not a problem. Mover mages simply release their magic into the air with general instructions about where it should go. But for the detailed work of a healer, touch is essential. My artwork usually falls somewhere in between.”
She adjusted two more crystals, and I leaned closer to watch her, my hip resting against the edge of the worktable. “And absorbent mages?”
“Absorbent mages like purifiers, on the other hand, must always touch their object. The movement of magic is initiated by touch at its source. An expellant mage expels magic from her own body—touch is intrinsic to the process. But absorbent mages pull it from outside themselves, requiring deliberate physical contact with the outside source to initiate the movement.”
Then Mistress Zel must be physically powerful in addition to her magical Touch, to have fought so many people in her lifetime. I ran over my planned interview questions in my mind. I was embarrassingly ignorant about magic. Until Lord Falconus had hired me to write stories for his fabulator crystals, I’d never even met a mage. These days, I knew a few from the Falconus studio, but I could count them on the fingers of one hand. “Perhaps this is a silly question, but why are there even absorbent and expellant mages to begin with? Aren’t you all simply Kireth?”
Mage Fortis sighed as she straightened the final pair of crystals. “They don’t teach commoners about our people. I wish they did. It’s easy to fear what you don’t understand.” Her lips twitched. “Not that I think you’re afraid, sweetheart. I just … not every commoner feels quite … at ease around us.” She picked up her coffee and took a long sip, her expression thoughtful. “Any mage—anyone who inherits the Kireth magical capacity—has an innate capacity to carry magic. Magic is all around us. You know that part, right?”
