Wicked Crown (Shattered Kingdom Book 2) Read online

  She watched him lower the body into the hole. Into the grave, for that was what it was. Nothing more, nothing less. The final resting place of Shulia Brayton.

  He didn’t even twitch, his face a mask of—not cold, but—she couldn’t tell what it was she was looking at as he let go of the wrapped corpse and crouched on the other side of the grave, lifting a hand to make the earth move to cover her mother. It didn’t betray whatever emotions lay behind those glamoured features. And now that the night was swallowing the details of his expression, the details of the world… All meaning… Gandrett felt like the empty shell her mother had left behind as her soul had left that broken body.

  How long had she been lying there under the rubble? How long had she suffered in the fire? Had she been alone? Or had the others escaped the flames, leaving her behind?

  Gandrett couldn’t think of answers. There were no answers. Only heavy silence where there had once been laughter and joy in this home. The same silence that was now filling her empty mind, her body, head to toe, as Nehelon’s magic shifted the soil and settled it over her mother’s remains.

  She watched, unsure whether the tears were still flowing or the sobs were still heaving out of her.

  All she could think of was that lie she had been telling herself, that one day she would see them again. And that then, everything would be fine. When she finally got home.

  But Gandrett Brayton no longer had a home.

  So things would never be fine.

  Chapter Two

  With a heart heavier than the Northern Mountains, Gandrett settled on a chair at the only inn in Alencourt, hardly noticing the tender breeze streaming through the open window and carrying in the scent of growing crops and morning dew. Too strong was the memory of the stench of fire and death that would never leave her nose after what she had found where her home had once harbored her family under a sheltering roof.

  Nehelon was sitting beside her in silence, his eyes a dark shade of blue as if he had overdone it with the glamour, which so conveniently disguised all Fae traits from his surroundings. He let his gaze drop to his chipped mug, features set in that emotionless expression she had seen too often and despised. Today, Gandrett was grateful for his inability to show emotions—potentially his inability to experience emotions at all from the way he sometimes acted… most of the time. Her tears had ebbed, and the slightest sign of pity would have invited them back into her eyes.

  So Gandrett remained equally silent as outside, dawn painted the main square in shades of brown and pink—and those stripes of soot that wouldn’t take on any different tint than black.

  Nehelon kept checking over his shoulders, glancing at the narrow staircase which led upstairs to where a bedroom was waiting for them, Fae senses apparently picking up noises that kept hidden from her weak, human ears.

  He had insisted they sat and ate and drank before they went to bed—not that Gandrett had touched the stew and bothenia crust before her. Even the bothenia crust…

  The grumpy innkeeper was the only other person who deigned to grace the small eating area with her presence at that ungodly hour of the morning. And she hadn’t welcomed them with open arms when Nehelon—impressive and intimidating even when fully glamoured—had approached her with the request of food and shelter. Her face had brightened though at the gold coin he had chucked at her.

  “Are you going to finish this?” Nehelon asked with a voice that sounded about as cheerful as a felled tree. He pointed a long finger at Gandrett’s untouched food.

  They hadn’t spoken since he had closed the earth above her dead mother. He hadn’t mentioned his suspicions—suspicions he surely had, for he had returned into the house after they had buried her mother and had inspected every surface with those vigilant eyes.

  And Gandrett—she hadn’t asked. Hadn’t had the energy to plunge into the dregs of what could have caused a fire strong enough to make the farmhouse cave in. A fire that had left marks throughout the village… A path of destruction.

  The door opened, making way for a woman in clothes good enough to suggest she wasn’t from Alencourt. Here, most people wore their work-attire from early morning until late evening.

  The woman’s gaze fell on Nehelon first—of course she’d notice the handsome, powerfully built male even if what she saw wasn’t even a fraction of what he looked like when his glamour broke.

  Gandrett looked away from the woman to study Nehelon’s features once more—the straight nose, the angled cheekbones, and the deep shadows that had clouded over his tan face. His dark waves hung almost to his shoulders, hiding those elegantly pointed ears even if his glamour would slip.

  Something in Gandrett’s stomach stirred. She wondered if it had something to do with what lay hidden beneath that glamour … Nehelon’s true face. His Fae face. The one he was so effectively hiding from the world. The one so strikingly beautiful that it was hard to breathe, to think. And she wondered if seeing it would help to push back the hollowness inside her chest.

  If Nehelon noticed her stare, she couldn’t tell. He simply inclined his head at the woman then picked up the still untouched bothenia crust, tore out a chunk with his fingers, and flipped it into his mouth.

  The woman continued up to the innkeeper where the two of them fell into a hushed conversation.

  Finally, Nehelon turned his gaze to Gandrett, something like boredom taking over the shadows she had examined a moment earlier.

  “If you’re not going to eat,” he said with a tone that matched his expression, “you might as well go to bed.”

  Gandrett didn’t verbally confirm that she agreed but got out of her chair and held out her still-bloodied hand for the keys Nehelon had retrieved from the innkeeper earlier.

  She wasn’t tired. Or hungry. Or anything that had a name in her arsenal of needs and emotions. But getting to a quiet place where no one would see her shatter sounded like a good plan.

  So she waited, one hand open, expecting Nehelon to extract the keys from his pocket.

  “I’ll join you soon,” he whispered as he rose to his feet and placed the keys in her hands, his fingertips resting on her sore palm for a long second before he set both his hands on the table, leaving his head level with hers, closer than was comfortable.

  Gandrett’s fingers mechanically closed around the keys, ignoring the stinging sensation as the metal dug into her wounds, and stepped out of his presence and trudged toward the staircase. She had never been in this house, but she remembered how the travelers and merchants stayed there on their journey through Sives. She remembered how the men and women of Alencourt had entered with anticipation in their eyes and left swaying on unstable feet, sometimes not able to speak clear words. Today, she knew that they must have come to the inn to drown out their sorrows in deep mugs of bothenia ale. She shrugged off the thought that she should have drained that mug that Nehelon had placed before her. But her place in the Order of Vala forbade it, and even if the goddess had forsaken her, she doubted that watery bothenia ale could fill the void that her mother’s death left—that the fear of unjustly hoping that her father and brother might be alive somewhere had torn into her.

  A corridor, brightened by the first rays of sun, led her to a shabby, small room. Gandrett slipped in and locked the door behind her. Her pack had already been brought to the room where it was now leaning against the wooden wall alongside Nehelon’s.

  Gandrett sat in the only chair in the room, a sigh rattling through her, and stared at the two narrow beds nestled against opposite walls. A door leading into a bathing chamber separated them along with two adjacent nightstands. The blankets on each bed were a dark shade of gray like the ashes of her destroyed home. Her gaze flickered to her hands, which stared back with the same hopelessness. And blood. There were so many little cuts scattered over her palms and fingers. She was surprised the innkeeper hadn’t commented on her filthy clothes, the crimson stains on her hands, the obvious look of despair on her face. But then… Nehelon’s gold coin had probabl
y bought them more than just this room.

  It took all her mental strength to get back to her feet and into the small bathtub where she sat and watched the lukewarm water swallow her body. Tired… There were no words for how tired she was. All those years, every moment she had consoled herself with the idea that her family would be waiting for her with open arms if she ever made it back to Alencourt…

  And the worst thing—the fire had been recent, the soot still thick, not yet torn away by the summer winds, flakes of ash dancing above the gravel as if it wasn’t a place of death and destruction. Gandrett lowered her head and tried to erase that image of her mother’s body from her mind. It couldn’t have been more than two days, judging by the state of decay—even with the incineration. Sadly, Gandrett had learned one or the other thing about death at the priory, too.

  Her mother’s corpse. Her burned corpse. She could still smell the phantom stench of death.

  Gandrett slid deeper into the water until her face was covered and gingerly started scrubbing at her scalp, biting through the feel of hair catching on sliced skin. Had she convinced Nehelon and Joshua to stop by on their way back from Eedwood… She couldn’t finish the thought. Her lungs started burning as her body demanded air, but she remained there, in the soothing warm where her tears would dissolve and disappear unseen and unnoticed.

  Just a second longer until the pain in her lungs forced her back to the surface and tears collected in her eyes. It was all she could do to swallow them and brave the idea that when she returned to the priory at Everrun, there would be no home to dream of—and there certainly wouldn’t be the promised year with her family that she had negotiated with Lord Brenheran as a bonus if she brought back his lost son.

  She couldn’t tell how long she had been soaking in the narrow tub, but the water had gone almost cold when the muffled sound of footsteps had Gandrett diving from the tub and reaching for the sword she had left on the stool next to it, her pulse thudding in her wet ears and water distorting her sight.

  She wiped her face with her free hand.

  “When you’re done,” Nehelon’s voice sounded from the bedchamber, “I have news you might want to hear.”

  Gandrett was certain she had locked the door, yet there, through the inch-wide gap under the closed bathroom door, the shadow of Nehelon’s boots was visible.

  She exhaled the held-back breath in a gust, savoring the adrenaline running through her veins. It was better than the hollowness that had filled her a moment ago. At least, it was familiar, her body used to it, trained to handle it.

  Magic. He didn’t need a key. A shudder that didn’t solely originate from cool air on her wet skin shook her. The thought of Nehelon’s power was still something to make her cringe, but worse, her own magic, wherever it had recoiled to after those moments under Eedwood Castle—

  Nehelon had promised to help her with it even if he had not mentioned it once on their ride to Alencourt. And Gandrett had not brought it up either, too occupied with anticipation of a happy reunion with her family that nothing but that had mattered, until…

  “I’ll be out in a minute.” Her voice was raw as tears threatened to fall yet again. But she braced herself against the rim of the tub, rising to her feet, and reached for a towel.

  When she opened the door a few moments later, wrapped in that same towel and ready to retrieve fresh clothes from her pack, she watched as Nehelon’s hand appeared in the gap of the opening door, holding out her acolyte uniform.

  She took them without comment and shut the door again before she slipped into her clothes, the beige linen like lead armor, now that she knew that there would be no delaying her return to Everrun. Not with her mother gone and her father and brother missing.

  She wondered if Nehelon would allow her the courtesy of taking a day or two to ask around, to figure out what had happened in her village. Why most of that northern part of the village seemed to be destroyed. Or if he would just drag her back to Everrun the same way he had dragged her to Ackwood two months ago.

  He hadn’t sounded pleased—or concerned—when he had told her he had news. He had just sounded like Nehelon. Cold and unbothered by the world and its drama—her drama. And no trace of the Nehelon who had embraced her in Eedwood. None. Or the Nehelon who may or may not have kissed her in the forest. A different sort of tightness filled her chest. But only for so long. Then, her reflection in the mirror reminded her that she was Vala’s Blade, that her destiny was to fight in honor of the goddess of life—even if her own life meant nothing when she was going to risk it for others on countless missions in the years to come.

  With another sigh, she slid her mother’s necklace under her tunic and steeled herself for Nehelon’s news.

  Chapter Three

  Addie Blackwood awoke, still in her plain cotton dress, on the silken sheets of Gandrett’s bed. Firelight was tinting the room in cozy shades of orange, giving the interior a warmer, less formal atmosphere. The Denderlain blue enclosing her from tapestry to carpet to sheets dimmed in the dancing shadows of the flames.

  With a blink, she rolled to her side. She couldn’t tell how long she’d slept, only that it was night—and that the bed she lay in was too soft to be the crimson couch where she had fallen asleep. The one where the young lord had cleaned Gandrett’s wounds. Addie couldn’t explain how she had made it into her bed other than it had to have been the young lord who had carried her there in her sleep—Armand. He had insisted she call him by his first name. But even though she obeyed his request when speaking out loud, in her mind, he was still the young lord.

  With tired limbs, she crawled out of bed and slouched to the bathing chamber to get a cup of water.

  A bathing chamber… Her bathing chamber. For now.

  It was still difficult to believe, to accept that the young lord had invited her to stay in Gandrett’s quarters. Now that Linniue was dead, she no longer had a job to do at Eedwood Castle, and had her family been alive, she might have taken the young lord up on his other offer: to leave if she so wished.

  But there was nowhere she could go. Nowhere she wanted to go—most certainly not to the prison in the north, in the mountains above Lands End, where those worshippers of the god of dragons, Shygon, were slowly sacrificing one inmate after the other. The luck she’d had to get away… to be brought here by Lady Linniue…

  Addie drained her cup and refilled it twice before she was able to take a steady breath. It had been like that since the day Linniue had carved that symbol into her shoulder and dragged her under the castle into the temple of Shygon. She had barely escaped with her life. Hadn’t it been for Gandrett and her magic—

  Magic.

  Addie felt the cold of the caverns under the castle fill her bones as if she was still standing before the blue dragon fire, awaiting her own death. No. She had survived. And she had been freed in the process. She had helped the future King of Sives and the young lord. No matter how embarrassing it was to sleep in the noble quarters of a lady, with a direct, secret passageway connecting her chambers to the chambers of the young lord, she didn’t complain. She didn’t leave Gandrett’s chambers either. Not even to wander to the young lord’s chambers. Not even if he left the hidden, linking corridor open during the days, an open invitation for her to come by and talk.

  Only, she wasn’t able to talk. Not yet. She had no words to share… At least, not about what had been done to her. The scars on her back were faint, but she could still feel the lashes there, an echo of the actual horror of that night. And the scar on her shoulder remained—the symbol of a long-forgotten language—which had healed but would remain a visual reminder of what had been done to her.

  Addie trudged back to bed on tired feet and curled up in her blanket, not bothering to change into night things. The comforts of the luxurious rooms were still strange, unsettling to her. So were the countless dresses Deelah had dropped off for her the other day. Too fancy, too elaborate were the fabrics, the textures, and too bright the colors. All too much for
a simple girl from the country, for a servant in this house.

  For a long time, Addie just lay there, looking at the ceiling. Even the damn ceiling was too fancy for her. She rolled to the side, giving the ceiling a vulgar gesture. What had the young lord been thinking, to offer her to stay? What did he promise himself from extending that kindness she had always known was lingering deep down within him toward her? Her core tightened at the thought of what she might be willing to give him. Even if she had seen how he looked at Gandrett, if she had seen him destroyed by her absence, that feeling she had been pushing back since the first time she had laid eyes on him wouldn’t leave her chest. And every time he appeared in Gandrett’s old chambers, Addie’s heart began its treacherous pace.

  Addie thrashed in her sheets until the first light of a new morning appeared. On a normal morning, she would have already been down in the hidden well, retrieving dragon water for Lady Linniue. But since the lady was dead—

  It wasn’t like there were any regrets about her mistress’s passing other than that it hurt the young lord. The funeral had happened in the smallest circle of family—not even Lady Isylte Aphapia of Ilaton had been invited. Over the past week, the young lord had done the best he could to keep things quiet. No one could know the truth about what had happened in the depths under the castle. No one could know how his aunt had controlled half the court for years. Especially not now that there was actual hope for Sives. Hope in the form of handsome, noble Joshua Brenheran, who had opened all their eyes to what had been going on in the castle. How Linniue had been manipulating her own son—a Denderlain-Brenheran prince.