Chapter 37

Ceven

TIME PASSED, AND Ceven’s “friend” still remained silent despite his shouts. Either the Caster was ignoring him, or whatever Avana had done did a number on him. The guards had returned in a shuffle. The entire horde of them.

He moved, his back aching. He refused to lie down on the ground, not wanting to expose any more of his body than was already necessary to the dirty cell floor. Still wasn’t as bad as standing in tazmite shackles for hours. His punishment for not mastering his parry with a dagger, his least favorite weapon. It was Kirk’s idea, the sadist. Ceven hadn’t seen any other Royal Guard subjected to the shackles. Then again, when he trained with them, he was the only rookie at the time. And they had constantly reminded him of that fact.

Ceven pressed his ear against the sound device he had used earlier, the metal cylinder cold against his skin as he flattened it to the wall, listening. Something rustled. The first sound of movement since the return of the guards some time ago.

“Awake yet?” he asked in Castanian, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. It wasn’t his preferred language, or even his preferred second, but it was unlikely the guards understood it outside a handful of words, speaking mostly Peredian and different dialects of Atiacan.

There was a groan, clanking of chains, then a low, “Barely, friend,” in Castanian. At least he didn’t bother with the accent this time.

Ceven’s nose scrunched. “Have a friendly chat with your sister, Caster?”

He didn’t laugh. “Certainly have had better conversations. At least she left all my limbs intact.” There was another moan, and chains slid against the stone floor. Ceven hated the pang of pity he felt.

“I’m surprised. From the sounds of it, I would’ve thought she cut off at least something.” Ceven finished flexing his right hand, the joints cracking with a satisfying pop when he growled, “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth from the beginning?”

The Caster snorted. “Because then you wouldn’t have been as nice.”

“I could’ve put aside some differences.” It was a lie. He knew himself too well for that. “But now that’s all in the past. You’ve just proven to me how untrustworthy and conniving you really are.”

“You’re too kind.” He sighed. “So yes, as I’m sure you’ve heard, I’m a Caster. While we’re at it, I’ll introduce myself. Raiythlen Quincara, at your service.” When Ceven didn’t respond, he continued, “Well, no need to introduce yourself. I already know all about you, Your Highness. Though not much of one anymore.”

Ceven’s lips curled.

 “What else do you know about me?” Raiythlen asked, as if Ceven were the spy snooping around in other people’s business.

“I know you left Evangeline, a human, alone to fend for herself in the Wretched-infested west wing. That you tricked her into—” He’d almost forgotten about the guards outside the door, but regardless of whether it was in Castanian or not, he wasn’t that foolish. “You know what you did. I’d sooner have your sister come back and finish the job than consider you a ‘friend.’”

The Caster didn’t reply right away, and Ceven pressed his ear tighter into the listening device to make sure he was still alive.

“That’s fair,” he said eventually. “I won’t lie and say I didn’t use her to my advantage. But I never intended to kill her, or have her get killed. The risk was there, but I always had a plan to ensure sure she’d make it out alive.”

“But not necessarily uninjured. Not that it matters to you. Nothing and nobody matters to you.” Ceven licked his lips, his gut boiling. “I hate people like you. No morals, using others for their gain, not caring who they step on. You’d fit right in here.”

“Since you’ve already decided on my character, I’m assuming there’s no chance you’d want to scratch my back?”

Ceven’s brows knitted together. “What?”

“I’ve had this itch on my lower side for some time now. Who cares about food and water when a good ole nail or even punch would do?”

There was a message here that he was struggling to understand. Scratch his back. Did he mean to work with him? Maybe, but he said lower side . . . a nail or a punch would do . . .

Ceven rolled to his knees, sliding the metal cylinder into his pocket while his cuffed hands rubbed the wall. He couldn’t see, but he could feel. “Ask the guards. Maybe some would be sympathetic to your plight. Or not.”

Raiythlen switched back to Peredian and said in a singsong voice, “Oh, guards! Would you please, oh please, scratch my back?”

Ceven rolled his eyes but concentrated on the sound of his voice, on where he was on the other side of the wall. He said lower back. Lower . . . lower . . . There. A crack.

“Nobody? You know, the last dungeon cell I was in, they were a lot more welcoming than here,” he continued, and Ceven scratched the wall. It chipped away with ease, but it was going to take him forever to claw at it. He was going to have to knock it in.

Ceven started coughing, hoping the Caster would take the hint.

He did, but not in the way Ceven expected. “You know, before I became a spy, I used to be one hell of an opera singer. Everyone would come to see me.” Ceven raised a brow, but when the Caster belted out a tune, it ratcheted painfully in his ears. One guard couldn’t take it either, eliciting a not-so-gentle pounding on the door. Ceven didn’t waste any time and rammed his fist into the weakened spot.

The wall crumbled but was still intact. The guard had stopped pounding.

“Oh, come on, you just have no taste. I heard there weren’t even any theaters in Peredia. How do you guys keep yourself entertained? Maybe you’ll like this one better.” Another off-pitch tune rang out, and Ceven curled his fingers even tighter and prepped his fist.

The door to Raiythlen’s cell clunked open.

“Did you like—”

There was a loud slap, and Ceven winced for him. The guard said nothing, not that he had to. Raiythlen still mumbled a “guess not” as the footsteps retreated to the door. Ceven waited for it to come, and when the door slammed, so did Ceven’s fist into the wall.

It crumbled, and a small gap tore open.

He leaned down but couldn’t see how big a hole it made. The edges of the opening were sharp and jutted to the touch. He guessed it was about a hand’s-length wide and two hand’s-lengths tall. He sensed a shift in the air and guessed Raiythlen had leaned down as well and, for all he knew, could be staring at him through the hole.

And he probably was when his words came straight through the opening, in a low whisper but clear and unmuffled, as if he had pressed his face against it. “Glad you’re not as much of an idiot as the rest of your family,” he said, switching back to Castanian.

Ceven didn’t like that he couldn’t see this man, but maybe it was the same for him. Judging by the rattling, they’d cuffed his arms and legs separate from one another so he couldn’t draw blood. They were also most likely carved from frostlite. While Peredians used the sensitive rock to detect magic, Ceven knew from his training with the guard that in large enough quantities and with close enough distance, it could affect a Caster’s ability to wield magic. Making it too unpredictable for even the Caster to risk it.  

“Is this your plan? Maybe you have some pen and paper on you and we can pass notes back and forth like we’re in a tutoring session,” Ceven retorted in a low voice. “How’d you know the wall was weak there?”

He imagined the Caster smirking by the tone of his voice. “My sister was never great at wielding a whip. I know someone that would put her flimsy attempts to shame.” He paused. “As for my actual plan, it first starts with you breaking these cuffs. You can with your Aerian strength.”

He could, but did he want to? Freeing him wouldn’t guarantee anything, except letting the Caster that had put Evangeline and himself into their current situation go.

“And then what?” he drawled. “You go gallivanting around with your magic, free, while I sit here waiting to be executed?”

“How flattering of you to think I could take on ten of your Royal Guards. Maybe if I had proper traps placed and the advantage of surprise . . . but no. I’m not escaping here any more than you are. But I can trick my sister and buy you some time to leave or . . . do whatever it is you need to do before the axe hits.”

Ceven scratched his chin, and his nails scraped against rough hairs. He needed another good shave, not that anyone cared about their looks before being executed. “What kind of tricks?”

“I have a few spells up my sleeve, but there’s a good chance she’ll dump me in salt water before the execution, or inject me with a drug to make me lose my own inhibitions.”

Ceven snorted. “From what I heard earlier, that seems unlikely. It sounds like she wants you to suffer.”

Raiythlen hummed in agreement. “Either way, she’ll have a plan to counteract any magic I’ll have at my disposal.”

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“For me? No, but it’s better than sitting here, cuffed and useless. At least this way there’s a chance she’ll miss a spell or get cocky. And if that fails, I have one last thing up my sleeve to knock her off her game, gain some leverage. For you, I can create a distraction, buy you enough time to escape.”

Ceven didn’t need to escape, even if the idea ate at him. He didn’t want to willingly walk into his own execution, even if it was for him to get close enough to murder the king, but leaving now, as things were . . . he would be hunted, and he wouldn’t make it very far past the castle walls, let alone the city’s. Not when he was at such a disadvantage. “I don’t need a distraction; I need information.”

“That I can give as well. Depending on what you want to know, I’ll answer half now and the rest when you break these chains.”

It seemed fair. After all, it was true what he’d said. There was no way either of them were escaping, so why not try to even the odds, even if it was more in Ceven’s favor?

“I want to know exactly why you’re here and what your mission is.” He’d heard a little between the scuffle with Avana. It concerned Evangeline and something about their family history. He wanted to know more, and what the hell that meant for Peredia, and all those marked humans in the west wing.

“Well, I’m not sure how much you overheard, but the Council sent me here. But like I tried to tell Avana, all of that changed when I found out . . . something.”

Ceven felt his skin fold between his brows. Frowning and scowling were becoming common ever since he’d returned to Peredia. Atiaca was much more carefree. “How very ominous,” he mocked. “But that doesn’t tell me anything.”

“I discovered Ryker was working with the king and Sehn, along with other Nytes in the west wing. The missing humans, these markings they have, it’s connected to the magic, to the work my grandmother used to do. To what is on Evangeline’s hand.”

Ceven mulled over his words. They’d already figured out that much, except for the part about it being connected to Avana and this Caster, Raiythlen. “Does Evangeline know?”

“Yes.”

He shouldn’t be angry, but he was. She’d admitted that her and Lani’s lives were in danger, and yet his hands still curled into clenched fists. His lips thinned. “How is she involved in all this? And what does your Council want with her?”

“Break these chains first, prince.”

Ceven nodded, even if he couldn’t see it. It was only fair. With his bound hands he reached as quietly as he could into the crack. “It’s going to be too loud.” And he didn’t want to alert the guards any more.

“Then it’s your turn to make some noise,” Raiythlen said.

“But I’m not as good of a singer,” he volleyed back.

The Caster chuckled and quickly smothered the laugh with a cough. Ceven turned around, his eyes focusing on what could have been the cot.

He got up and hooked his foot on the corner of the flimsy bed. As expected, the frame screeched against the ground. At the same time, his door opened.

The fiery beard greeted him before he met Kirk’s pale blue eyes.

“Just doing some spring cleaning,” Ceven said, the Peredian language flowing more easily from his mouth than the tangled words of Castanian. When Kirk didn’t respond, Ceven gave him a mocking salute. Well, as good as one with both of his hands cuffed together.

Kirk smiled but then remembered himself. “Your Highness, if you would please keep it down. Any sudden movements and noises give us reason to think you’re up to no good.”

“I’m just trying to rip a leg off this bed. No trouble here.”

He raised a furry red brow, but the look he gave Ceven was far from stupid. Ceven returned it, hoping he owed him enough to let him get away with this.

“It’s not as if I’m going to escape here, Kirk,” he whispered, and it was enough for the burly man to give him a sad nod and shut the door.

Ceven dragged the bed closer. “Put out your cuffs,” he whispered in Castanian again. Ceven felt for the metal around his cellmate’s hands and, using his foot, he dragged the bedframe across the ground, cringing at the noise, and squeezed against the metal that felt flimsy beneath his fingers. Definitely wasn’t tazmite.

It cracked.

Ceven stopped moving the bed at the same time the metal cuffs fell free. Something scraped the ground, and there was the softest hint of shuffling as Raiythlen went to work doing Gods-know-what.

“I’ve done my part. Now finish yours.”

“One second,” he whispered, but it was faint. What was he doing? “Son of a—”

Ceven leaned, trying to peek through the hole, as if he would be able to magically see now. With a Caster next to him, who knows?

“What?” he said.

There was a scoff, an empty laugh. “Well, I guess the Aerians aren’t complete fools. I don’t know what these cells are made of, but the salt concentration is too high for any of my offensive magic to be effective.”

“Thought you said you wouldn’t try to escape,” he drawled.

“It was still worth a shot. Here’s hoping Avana isn’t as thorough on her death promise.” The last part he muttered to himself. He leaned back down next to Ceven. “If you let me put a symbol on you, we can talk a lot more easily. Wouldn’t have to strain your voice whispering.”

“No.”

“I’m not going to kill you, prince. It’s just a—”

“I said no. Now tell me, what does the Council want with Evangeline? What does her mark mean?”

“At least you have the demanding part of being a royal down. Her mark means ‘life’ in Castanian, and if you haven’t found out already, it opens a link between two people’s sources. Or souls, as you Peredians call it. I don’t know how, but someone here figured out a way to activate it, if you will.”

“I speak Castanian—”

“Obviously.”

“—And know both scripts, modern Castanian and old symbolia. I’ve never seen that symbol in my entire life.” If this Caster thought he could pull a fast one on him, he would be sorely mistaken.

“Congratulations”—it sounded anything but congratulatory—“except you wouldn’t have. It’s not in any official set of characters you’d find in a book. It’s a written dialect that took slang of its time period and engineered it to be a language used by my grandmother and her group of scholars. Which is why this doesn’t make any sense to me. Everyone from that period should be dead. The only remnants of that language are found in—well, that doesn’t matter. I burned them anyway. But the point is, no one should have been able to decipher it, let alone use that language to their advantage.”

Ceven frowned. He wasn’t a slow learner, but Caster magic always eluded him. It had seemed complicated and unpredictable whenever Ryker tried to explain it to the king in their meetings, or to Ceven in their tutoring sessions. Using his sword and strength were anything but that. “Can’t you just somehow . . . deactivate it?”

He sighed, the same one Ryker would give when Ceven or Evangeline failed to learn a simple lesson. Raiythlen even said as much. “I don’t know what they taught you in your tutoring sessions. Probably nothing accurate if it’s Peredians teaching about Sundise Mouche.” He paused, as if waiting for Ceven to argue. He didn’t. He was aware of the biases, or at least he was when he visited Atiaca for the first time and saw that their history didn’t line up.

Raiythlen continued, “Language and intent are the key to unlocking our magic. And our blood, obviously, but that’s more of the catalyst. Do you cook?”

It was an odd question. “Not really, but I know enough to make something palatable.”

“That’s fair, considering you were a pampered prince for most of your life—”

“You know nothing about me.”

“—but to the point, think of magic like cooking. You can change out some ingredients and roughly get the same outcome. But, unlike cooking, following someone else’s recipe won’t get you the same meal as theirs. Because your ingredients will always be different from other Casters, because of who you are as a person. Sure, you’ll have a base line, a simple recipe to start with, but the only way for you to figure out what works for you is through trial and error.

“And before you ask me why the magic lesson, it’s because the mark on Evangeline’s arm is an unfinished recipe, created by my grandmother. The only way to finish the product she started—or change it—is to know the intent behind it, the language, and have a Caster whose blood and intent are similar to the one who created it. Three very specific ingredients. But not impossible, as we’ve seen.”

Ceven absorbed this information. “But it sounds impossible. How would the king, or Ryker, know anything about this, let alone have the tools to do it?”

He imagined the Caster shrugging by the slide of fabric. “It’s what I’m trying to figure out, prince. And why the Council sent me to kidnap Evangeline. They think she knows more than she’s letting on, though I’ve told them she’s as naïve about magic as any other Peredian.”

“Not all are naïve, Caster,” he bit out.

“So you say, but I’ve yet to be proven otherwise. Anyways, even if she doesn’t know anything, her blood might. Or her bones or muscles. Who knows what tests the Council would do to discover the truth.”

Ceven was finding this man less charming and more irritating. “How could you just willingly kidnap an innocent, knowing what they would do to her?”

“I didn’t know she was innocent. In fact, I still don’t think she is, but she’s not dangerous like I once thought. And I don’t work for them anymore, clearly.”

Raiythlen had mentioned he’d traded sides because he discovered something, but he’d never told Ceven what. Ceven opened his mouth to ask when there was a scuffle—no, a stampede of footsteps. He wished there were a window, something to tell him the time. All he knew was that the execution would be held during the day, but he had no way of knowing if the sun was even out.

Raiythlen’s door swung open first, then his. Sehn, along with at least twenty other Royal Guards—more than a bit excessive—greeted him.

Sehn swept out his arm, his fingers almost brushing the floor, in a bow. The gems embroidered into his black slacks twinkled in the light from the fixed oil lamps on the wall. It was the first time his brother had ever bowed to him. But Ceven was going to make sure it wouldn’t be his last.

His brother smiled. That sharp, infuriating smile. “The stage is all set, brother. Now, off to your execution.”