Frozen Tides (3 page)

It had been six years since he'd last seen Kurtis Cirillo, yet he remembered it as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

The sun had shone bright and warm that day, and the snow had melted so much that ice lilies pushed up through the frosty ground. A rare summer butterfly, its golden wings speckled with blue and purple dots, came to rest on one of these flowers in the garden near the cliff's edge. In Limeros, it's said to be good luck to see a summer butterfly, for they only live a single day.

Magnus reached toward it and, to his amazement, it climbed onto his right knuckle, tickling his skin. It was so beautiful up close that it almost seemed magical.

“Is that a butterfly?”

A shiver zipped down his spine at the sound of Kurtis's cold voice. Kurtis was fourteen years of age to his twelve, and the king insisted that Magnus be friendly with him during Lord Gareth's visits. It was difficult to be friendly with the horrible boy since being within ten paces of him made Magnus's skin crawl.

“Yes,” Magnus replied reluctantly.

Kurtis came closer. He was a full head taller than Magnus. “You should kill it.”

Magnus frowned. “What?”

“Anything stupid enough to just sit there on your pale little hand deserves to die. Kill it.”

“No.”

“You're heir to the throne. You're going to have to grow up some day, you know. You're going to have to kill people and not cry about it afterward. Your father would crush that thing in a second. So would I. Don't be so weak.”

Magnus already knew that Kurtis liked to hurt animals. During his last visit, Kurtis had butchered a stray cat and left its twitching remains in a corridor where he knew Lucia would happen upon them. She'd cried for days.

“I'm not weak!” Magnus said through gritted teeth.

Kurtis grinned. “Let's put it to the test, then. Either you kill that thing right now, before it flies away, or I promise, the next time I'm here . . .” He leaned in close enough to whisper. “I'll chop off your sister's little finger.”

Magnus stared at him, horrified. “I'll tell my father you said that. You'll never be allowed here again.”

“Go ahead and tell him. I'll just deny it. Who'll believe you?” He laughed. “Now choose. That butterfly, or your sister's finger. I'll cut really slowly, and tell her you told me to do it.”

He wanted to call Kurtis's bluff, but the memory of that cat forced his throat closed.

Magnus knew he had no choice. He clasped his left hand down on the right, feeling the tender collapse of the soft wings as he crushed the beautiful, peaceful creature.

Kurtis smirked. “Oh, Magnus. Don't you know it's bad luck to kill a summer butterfly?”

“Prince Magnus, you look as if you've just returned from a war.” Once again, Kurtis's voice wrenched Magnus out of the horrible memory.

Quickly, Magnus composed himself, setting a pleasant enough look on his face as he turned around. Kurtis was still incredibly tall—even taller than Magnus by an inch or two. His reddish-brown hair, muddy-green eyes, and pointed features had always reminded Magnus of a weasel.

“Not a war, precisely. But the past several days have been challenging.”

“I can tell. Your arm—”

“I'll have it tended to very soon, once I get a bit of business out of the way. I'm so pleased to see you're well, Kurtis. I'd heard a horrible rumor that you weren't.”

Kurtis smiled that familiar, greasy smile of his and waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, yes, the rumors of my death. I sent along that preposterous story as a hoax to a gullible friend, and he spread the word very quickly. But as you can see, I'm very much alive and well.” Kurtis's curious gaze shifted to Cleo standing next to Magnus, and then Nic, who had remained near the door next to three guards.

Clearly, he awaited introductions.

Magnus chose to play along for now. “Princess Cleiona Bellos, this is Lord Kurtis Cirillo, Grand Kingsliege of Limeros.”

Cleo nodded as Kurtis took her hand and kissed it. “It's an honor to meet you,” she said.

“The honor is mine,” answered Kurtis. “I've been told of your beauty, but you've far exceeded my greatest expectations.”

“You're much too kind, given the way I must look this morning.”

“Not at all. You are luminous. But you must assure me you're not in any pain.”

Her smile remained. “I'm not.”

“I'm very glad to hear that.”

Every muscle in Magnus's body had grown tense at the sound of the “kingsliege's” voice. “And this is Nicolo Cassian, who is the princess's . . .” How best to explain the boy's identity and presence here? “. . .
attendant
.”

Kurtis's brows shot up. “A
male
attendant? How unusual.”

“Not in the south.” To Nic's credit, he took the introduction in stride. “It's fine, upstanding, manly work down there.”

“I'm sure it is.”

Magnus had had enough forced pleasantries. It was time to move this along.

“I suppose you wonder why my wife and I are here, in Limeros, and not with my father in Auranos,” Magnus said. “Or have you been alerted about our current situation?”

“I have not. This is an unexpected, but very welcome, surprise.”

Some of the tension in Magnus's shoulders eased. “Then I'll let you in on a closely guarded secret: We're in Limeros to search for my sister, who has eloped with her tutor. We need to stop her from making this mistake . . . and any further ones.”

“Oh, my.” Kurtis clasped his hands behind his back. “Lucia has always been full of surprises, hasn't she?”

You have no idea
, Magnus thought. “She has indeed.”

Nodding, Kurtis ascended the stairs leading to the king's throne and took a seat upon it. Magnus watched him with sheer disbelief, but decided to hold his tongue.

“I will make a dozen guards available to you for this important search,” Kurtis said. He then addressed one of the guards at the entrance. “Organize this immediately and return here.”

The guard bowed. “Yes, your grace.”

Magnus watched the guard leave. “They obey your orders with much ease.”

“They do. It's all in their training. Limerian guards will take any official order and fulfill it to the letter at once.”

Magnus nodded. “My father wouldn't have it any other way. Those who show any sign of defiance are . . . disciplined.” It was a rather light word for the punishments Magnus had seen inflicted on palace guards who didn't give themselves over—body, mind, and soul—to their duties to the kingdom.

“As they should be,” said Kurtis. “Now, I will arrange accommodations for you, your beautiful wife, and her attendant.”

“Yes. I will take my regular chambers. The princess will need separate chambers befitting her position. And Nic can be given . . .” He eyed the boy. “. . . servants' quarters. Perhaps one of the slightly larger rooms.”

“You're too kind,” Nic said darkly.

“
Separate
chambers for husband and wife?” Kurtis said, frowning.

“That is what I said,” Magnus said, a moment before it occurred to him that this might seem a strange request for husband and wife.

“Magnus is kind enough to ask this on my behalf,” Cleo spoke up to ease Kurtis's confusion. “It's a long-standing tradition in my family to retain separate chambers for the first year of marriage, both for luck, and also to make our time spent together all the more . . . exciting and unpredictable.” She blushed and cast her gaze downward, as if embarrassed by the admission. “It's a silly tradition, I know.”

“Not at all,” Magnus said, impressed by the princess's ready lie.

Kurtis nodded, seemingly satisfied by this explanation. “Very well. I'll ensure that you're given exactly what you require.”

“Good.” Magnus returned his attention to the “kingsliege.” “I also need to send some men to the Temple of Valoria immediately. There was a violent, isolated ice storm there last night that killed many. The victims should be buried by midday and the temple restored to its former glory as quickly as possible.”

According to Limerian religious customs, the bodies of the dead must be buried in earth sprinkled with water blessed by a priest within twelve hours of death.

He couldn't help but glance then at Nic, whose expression had grown pained at the mention of the bodies at the temple. One of those bodies had been that of Prince Ashur—Amara's brother. Nic and the prince had become close friends before his murder at his devious sister's hands.

“An ice storm?” Kurtis's brow was now raised to its highest. “No wonder you all look so disheveled. I'm very grateful to the goddess that you and your wife were spared. You must need rest after enduring such an experience.”

“Rest can wait.”

“Very well.” Kurtis gripped the arms of the throne. “How long do you anticipate we'll have the honor of your presence before you return to Auranos?”

A dozen guards entered the throne room, momentarily stealing Magnus's attention. No matter how duty-bound and driven to please Limerian guards were, twelve weren't nearly enough to make up a search team for his sister.

“I don't intend to return to Auranos,” Magnus said, turning back to Kurtis.

Kurtis cocked his head. “I don't quite follow you.”

“This is my home, my palace, my kingdom. And in the absence of my father, that throne upon which you've seated yourself is rightfully mine.”

Kurtis stared at him for a moment before a smile split his lips. “I completely understand. However, the king himself appointed me to this throne for the time being. I have undertaken these duties gladly—and successfully—in his and my father's absence. The council's grown quite accustomed to following my lead.”

“Then they'll have to get accustomed to following
my
lead now that I'm here.”

Kurtis's smile slipped. He pressed back into the throne, but didn't make a move to stand. “Magnus—”

“It's
Prince
Magnus. Or
your highness
,” he corrected. Even from the bottom of the stairs, Magnus could see the flicker of anger behind Kurtis's green eyes.

“My apologies,
Prince
Magnus, but without any prior notice from King Gaius, I will have to protest such a sudden change. Perhaps you should—”

“Guards,” Magnus said, without turning around. “I understand you've been taking Lord Kurtis's orders in recent weeks, as very well you should have been. But I am your prince, the heir to my father's throne, and now that I'm here you're at my command alone.” His gaze was hard as he stared into the eyes he'd loathed since boyhood. “The grand kingsliege has insulted me with his protests. Remove him from my throne and cut his throat on my order.”

The hot outrage in Kurtis's countenance quickly turned to cold fear as the guards approached, four of them moving swiftly up the stairs before he could make a single move. They wrenched him from the throne and dragged him down the stairs, where they forced him to his knees. Magnus took his place on top of the dais.

This cold, hard, unforgiving throne held many memories for Magnus, but he had never sat on it before today.

It was far more comfortable than he'd ever expected.

The troop of red-uniformed guards stood before him, all looking up at him without question or concern. Cleo clutched Nic's arm, her face pale and her expression uncertain.

Kneeling before Magnus was Kurtis, his eyes wild, face sweaty, and the edge of a guard's sword now at his throat.

“Your highness,” he sputtered. “Any trespass you feel I've made against you was not my intention.”

“That may be so.” Magnus leaned forward and considered him for a long moment. “Beg me to spare your life and perhaps I'll only cut off your little finger.”

First confusion, then understanding, flickered in Kurtis's eyes.

That's right
, Magnus thought.
It's different between us now, isn't it?

“Please,” Kurtis hissed. “Please, your highness, spare my life. I beg you. Please, I'll do anything to prove my worth and earn your forgiveness for having insulted you.”

A rush of sheer power flowed over and within Magnus. He smiled, a genuine one, at the sniveling weasel.

“Say ‘please' one more time.” When there was no immediate reply, Magnus nodded at the guard, who pressed his sword even closer against Kurtis's pale throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

“Pleasssse,” Kurtis managed.

Magnus flicked his hand and the guard removed and sheathed his blade. “See? Don't you feel better now?”

Kurtis heaved and trembled. Perhaps, unlike Magnus, he'd never before been physically reprimanded for his missteps.

He bowed his head. “Thank you, your highness. I am at your service.”

“Happy to hear,” said Magnus. “Now, I need a message sent to my father immediately. I want him to know what I'm up to here in the north. Wouldn't want him worrying about me.”

“Of course not, your highness.”

“Be a good grand kingsliege and fetch me some ink and parchment, would you?”

Kurtis's expression darkened a shade, but he quickly composed himself. “Yes, your highness.”

Magnus noticed Cleo watching as Kurtis left the room, but she said nothing and neither did Nic. When her gaze returned to Magnus, he saw nothing but accusation in her eyes. Perhaps she didn't agree with the way Magnus reduced that young man into a cowering peon for what may have seemed, to her, like a minor transgression.

Yes
,
princess,
Magnus thought.
I am the son of Gaius Damora, the King of Blood. And it's time I started acting like it.

JONAS

AURANOS

A
fter a long day working in the Paelsian vineyard, Jonas's best friend had always preferred ale over wine when relaxing at the local tavern. Judging by the three empty tankards next to Brion, tonight appeared to be no different. Jonas approached cautiously, sitting in the seat opposite him, next to the fire.

“Good evening,” Brion said with a sloppy smile.

Jonas didn't smile back. Instead, he stared at his friend, feeling uncertain and wary. “What does this mean?”

“Sorry?”

“Am I . . . dead? Or am I dreaming?”

Brion laughed and drained his fourth ale. “What's your guess?”

“Dreaming, likely. This scene is far too pleasant to be unfolding in the darklands.”

“So serious tonight.” Brion jutted out his bottom lip and gave Jonas a pointed look. “Hard day on the job?”

A dream. Only a dream.
Still, Jonas tried to enjoy being in the presence of Brion Radenos again. He'd been a friend as close as a
brother to him, whose death he'd barely had time to mourn. “You could say that.”

“Need some advice?” Brion asked as he signaled the barmaid for more ale.

“Actually, I wouldn't mind a little.”

“All right, here it is. You should give up.”

Jonas frowned. “What?”

Brion's gaze returned to Jonas's, and that familiar edge of humor vanished. “Give up. Anything more you think you can do now? Forget it. You've failed as a rebel and a leader, time and time again. I'm dead because of your stupid, stubborn decisions. And so are others—dozens have died because of you.”

Jonas winced as if he'd been struck. He looked down and studied the wooden floorboards. “I tried my best.”

“Don't you get it? Your best isn't good enough. All those who've put their trust in you have died in agony. You're pathetic. You'd be doing everyone a favor if you surrendered to the king and joined me on the other side of death.”

This was no dream. It was a nightmare.

But something had changed—during his tirade, Brion's voice had shifted. Jonas glanced up to look at him and found that he was staring into his own eyes.

“That's right,” the other Jonas snapped. “You're worthless. You failed Tomas, you failed Brion, you failed your rebel comrades. And Princess Cleo? She was counting on you to bring her that magic rock and save her from the Damoras. Now, for all you know, she's dead too. Felix shouldn't have stopped at wounding you. He should have killed you and put you out of your misery.”

The words were blows, each one a fist striking his gut. Of course he already knew all of this, and now his every failure and mistake
rose up before him in a mountain of pain, so high he couldn't see past it.

But with each failure, he had learned. He had grown. He wasn't the same person he'd been when he'd foolishly followed Chief Basilius and the King of Blood into a war of lies and deceit, in which he and his fellow Paelsians had been used as nothing more than pawns. He had stormed into battle when neither he nor his rebels had been fully prepared. Now he bore the battle scars in both mind and body, each deeper and bloodier than the last.

“No,” Jonas whispered.

The other Jonas cocked his head. “What did you say?”

“No,” he said, louder. “It can be different.
I
can be different.”

“Impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible.” He raised his gaze and glared directly into his own brown eyes. “Now leave me the hell alone so I can do what I have to do.”

His mirror image smirked and gave him a shallow nod of approval before disappearing into thin air.

Jonas woke up on a cot, drenched in sweat, and stared up at a black ceiling. The moment he tried to move, his left shoulder screamed with pain.

Beneath the tight bandages covering his wound lay a layer of grayish-green mud. Galyn, the owner of the Silver Toad Tavern and Inn, had put it there, telling Jonas that a witch had once stayed there and his grandfather Bruno had accepted the healing substance as payment.

His feverish body ached as he forced himself out of bed and slowly made his way down the hall, past doorways emanating with both silence and snores. He carefully descended the rickety wooden steps leading down to the tavern. He didn't know the time, but it was still dark, still night, and the only things keeping
him from stumbling were a couple of lit wall sconces. His legs were weak and nausea had fully settled into his stomach, but all he knew for sure was that he couldn't stay in bed. There was far too much to do.

He would start by getting something to drink; his mouth was as dry as the wastelands of Eastern Paelsia.

He came to a stop when he heard hushed voices within the dark tavern.

“Not a chance. He doesn't need to know,” said a female voice.

“The message was for him, not you,” her male companion replied.

“True. But he's in no shape for any of this.”

“Perhaps not. But he'll be furious when he finds out.”

“So let him be furious. You want him to go rushing out in his condition and get himself killed? There's no chance he's strong enough for this right now.”

Jonas rounded the corner and leaned against the wall until he was in full view of Lysandra and Galyn.

“Oh, Lys,” he drawled. “I do appreciate your endless faith in my abilities.”

Lysandra Barbas, his friend and last remaining fellow rebel, grimaced as she turned toward him, twisting a finger through her dark, curly hair. “You're awake.”

“Yes. And shamelessly spying on the two friends I have left talking about me like I'm a sick child.” He rubbed his forehead. “How long have I been out?”

“Three days.”

He gaped at her.
Three whole days?

Three days since Felix had sliced that dagger through his shoulder, pinning him to the floor of the tavern.

And earlier, when Jonas had kissed Lysandra for the first time.

Two memories—one bad, one good—forever burned into his brain.

Galyn, tall and heavyset and in his mid-twenties, raised a bushy blond eyebrow. “How's that healing balm working?”

Jonas forced a smile. “Like magic,” he lied.

In his entire life, he'd never believed in magic. But that stance had been irrevocably changed when he'd been brought back from the brink of death by powerful earth magic. But this so-called healing balm . . . well, he wasn't convinced that it was anything more than common mud.

Jonas's smile fell when he registered Lysandra's garb. She was dressed in trousers and leathers, and had a canvas satchel slung over one shoulder, her bow and quiver of arrows over the other.

“Where are you going at this hour?” he demanded.

She pressed her lips together and didn't reply, instead shooting him a defiant glare.

“Fine, go ahead and be stubborn.” He turned to regard Galyn instead. “What message was meant for me and who sent it?”

“Don't answer,” Lys hissed.

Galyn looked between the two uncertainly, his arms crossed over his chest. Finally, he sighed and turned to Jonas apologetically. “Nerissa. She stopped by yesterday.”

Over the recent months, Nerissa Florens had proven herself a valuable rebel spy. She held a position at the Auranian palace, and possessed a rare skill for getting important information exactly when it was needed.

“What was her message?”

“Galyn . . .” Lys growled.

He grimaced. “Sorry, Lys. You know I have to tell him.” Galyn turned his patient face to Jonas once again. “Jonas, the king is
having a ship prepared. Nerissa doesn't know exactly when he's leaving, but it's certainly only a matter of days.”

A king preparing to travel wouldn't usually qualify as important news. But King Gaius had sequestered himself in the palace for months, not setting foot outside the walls since the disastrous wedding between Cleo and Magnus. It was said he feared another rebel attack, and Jonas wasn't sure if this made him cowardly or smart.

So if the King of Blood was not only leaving the palace, but leaving it for a long journey by ship, it was
huge
news.

Jonas's heart began to race. “Did she say where he's going? Back to Limeros?” The northern kingdom could be reached by land, but it was much more comfortable—and
royal
—to take a ship along the western coastline.

“No. All she knows is that he's preparing to sail somewhere, and that no one knows where or when.”

Jonas glanced again at Lys, whose eyes were still trained on Galyn, her face now red with anger.

“Don't look at him like that,” Jonas said. “You should have told me all this yourself.”

“When? You've been unconscious for days.”

“Yes, but now I'm awake and feeling much better.” It was a lie. He felt weak and unsteady, but he didn't want her to know. “So, what? Your plan is to go out on your own and assassinate the king as soon as he sticks his nose out into the fresh air?”

“That was the general idea, yes.”

“It's a stupid plan.” Frustrated fury rose within him, blocking out the pain in his shoulder. “You'd do that, wouldn't you? Run off and get yourself killed trying to vanquish the King of Blood.”

“Perhaps I would. Or perhaps I'd succeed and get him right
between the eyes with an arrow, and put an end to him once and for all!”

Jonas glared at her, fists clenched, livid that she'd willingly put herself into danger like this with no one to back her up. “Why would you do this? Go off all by yourself?”

Eyes blazing, she dropped her satchel, bow, and quiver to the floor. She moved toward Jonas so quickly he was certain she meant to hit him. Instead, she stopped just short of touching him, and her gaze softened.

“I thought you were dead,” she said. “When I saw you there, pinned to the floor with that dagger . . .” Her words faded as her dark eyes filled with tears and she rubbed at them angrily. “Damn you, Jonas. First my parents, then Brion and my brother, and . . . and then I thought I'd lost you too. And then even when I knew Felix hadn't killed you, you were still so sick. Your fever was so high . . . I—I didn't know what to do. I felt helpless, and I
hate
feeling helpless. But now, with this news of the king's departure . . . I have a chance to do something, to make a difference. To . . .” Her voice caught. “To protect you.”

He tried to search for words but found he didn't have an immediate reply. He hadn't known Lysandra all that long—at least not compared to how long he'd known Brion. Brion had immediately fallen for her, hard, even with that abrasive attitude that she used as self-defense. It had taken Jonas a little longer to warm up to her, but he finally did, and now . . .

“I don't want to lose you either,” he managed.

“Really?”

“Don't sound so surprised.” He brought his gaze up from the floor and their eyes met. “And you should know that, one of these days, I do plan to kiss you again.”

Her cheeks flushed once more, and this time Jonas didn't think it was from anger.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Galyn said.

“No,” Lys said quickly, clearing her throat. “Um. Anyway, speaking of Felix—”

Jonas winced at the name. “What about him?”

“He's gone. There's been no news of him, not from Nerissa nor anyone else,” Lys said. “But if I see him again, I'll put an arrow in him, too, for what he did to you.”

“He could have killed me. He didn't.”

“Are you making excuses for him? Do I have to remind you that he also stole the air Kindred from us?”

“And we'll get it back.” Jonas still had the earth Kindred safely hidden away in his room. Not that he knew what to do with it. For a shiny rock that allegedly held enough godlike powers to shake the world, it hadn't proven all that useful yet. But it wasn't meant for him, it was promised to another. “Galyn, did Nerissa say anything else? Anything . . . about the princess? Has she been found?”

Galyn shook his head. “No. Princess Cleiona's still missing, along with Prince Magnus. There is a rumor going through the village, though, that Princess Lucia ran off and eloped with her tutor. Perhaps they're all together somewhere.”

“Forget the princess,” Lys said, the sharp edge returned to her voice. “What does it matter if she's alive or dead?”

Jonas clenched his jaw. “She was counting on me to bring her the crystal. She trusted me.”

Lys groaned. “I have absolutely no time to listen to this. I need to be on my way.” She picked up her gear. “Go back to bed, Jonas. Heal. We can deal with your golden princess's whereabouts later.”

“Wait.”

“What? We can't ignore this chance to put an end to the King of Blood. Are you really going to try to stop me?”

He regarded her for a moment in silence. “No. I'm coming with you.”

She frowned and brought her concerned gaze down to his wound.

“I can manage,” Jonas said. “You're not talking me out of this.”

He was ready for her to put up a fight—a fight he knew he probably wasn't strong enough for. All he could do was try to look as strong and determined as possible.

Finally, instead of resisting, she merely sighed with resignation. “Fine. But there's no way you can go anywhere looking like
that
.”

“Like what? Do I look that sick?”

“No, it's just . . .” She glanced at Galyn.

“Everyone knows who you are,” Galyn said, gesturing at Jonas with both hands. “Your face is famous around here, remember?”

Of course. The posters plastered all around Mytica, offering a handsome reward for the capture of Jonas Agallon, rebel leader and (falsely accused) murderer of Queen Althea Damora, had ensured that. He'd been recognized several times in recent weeks, especially in Auranos.