Throne of Deceit Read online

  Perhaps they would always be a mystery to her, but as she paused at the top of the stairs, she was certain she caught him staring at her from the glass of the mirror above the table of drawers.

  Chapter Five

  The palace workers arose well before the first light of dawn. Climbing dark stairways hidden from the royal family and their courtiers, they carried heavy buckets of fresh water and supplies that would serve their masters.

  Destan knew his role in Orision Palace, as did the hundreds of workers who had left their small villages to live a life of service.

  At twenty-one, Destan had already become a seasoned valet for the king’s eldest son. Having worked in Heath Manor back in Evyn’s Gate as a child, and moving to the palace at the age of fourteen, he’d worked his way up the ladder.

  Survival was simple. As an orphan, Destan had learned the formula early on; keep his head down, a polite tongue, and sharp eye for detail.

  Still, nothing he did was ever good enough in the crown prince’s eyes.

  “Destan,” Prince Forrest said, sighing as he looked out to the training grounds. “Bring my sword.”

  He did as commanded, and handed the sword to him with both hands.

  The prince snatched it from his hand, glaring up at him. Then, he peered down at it, examining the blade.

  “It’s dull,” he said. “Why haven’t you sharpened it?”

  “I sharpened it just this morning, your highness.”

  “Lies,” Prince Forrest said. “Lies and laziness.”

  Destan’s eye twitched, but he kept his lips pursed despite the heat that rose up his neck and into his cheeks.

  One wrong gesture or word could send him straight to the gallows. Instead of voicing a retort or speaking up for himself, he nodded and lowered his eyes.

  If he only knew why the prince hated him so much.

  “My apologies, your highness,” he said, then clenched his jaw. “I will sharpen it again.”

  It took everything to hold his breath and silence the rage that bubbled up his throat. Though he was much bigger than his master, he tried to shrink back—to keep his distance.

  The scent of the sword’s steel, and the heat borne into it from the day the blacksmith forged it in the fire radiated in the air. It was something more normal humans would never notice—something Destan was painfully aware of.

  Prince Forrest wasn’t king yet. That title belonged to his father and would pass down to him at his death. In times such as this—where healthy young folk died in their dreams never to awaken, their soul stripped from their body from an unseen force, no one was safe—no future certain. Destan wasn’t sure which future was better; one where the mad king continued to rule, or one where his cowardly son wore the crown.

  Either way, Giran was doomed.

  “I don’t need your useless apologies,” he said. “I need you to polish my armor and sharpen my long-sword before I have you flogged.”

  Destan nodded again.

  To Forrest’s dismay, Destan disarmed him by taking the sharp end of the sword into his fist and standing it on end before sliding it down into his hand without so much as a scratch.

  Forrest stared at him, eyes widened, cheeks blanched, and swallowed.

  “How did you do that?”

  Destan shrugged, his face burning.

  Shouldn’t have done that.

  Lifting a brow, Forrest regarded him with curiosity and suspicion.

  He didn’t say another word, but gave a snort and turned away, heading back to his private quarters.

  They both knew why the prince complained about the sword; he didn’t know how to use it, and today he was meant to spar with one of the lords of court.

  Destan looked after him, his docile expression morphing into one of closely guarded rage. This was what he’d chosen after being orphaned—a life of constant ridicule.

  He headed down to the servant’s quarters and began the task of sharpening Forrest’s sword. The lower level of the palace was alive and bustling with activity. While the royal family and the court sat upstairs, playing the piano or silently reading poetry and reciting it to each other as if they’d had the skill to write such beautiful words, the servants raced to prepare for supper.

  Work never ended, and no one dared to complain.

  As he glanced out the window from the wooden bench he sat upon, the steadily encroaching darkness from the south reminded them all that life was much worse outside of the protection of their barrier’s magic.

  “Didn’t you just sharpen that thing this morning?” Daisy asked, raising a brow over her right eye, wiping her thin hands on her gray apron over a simple blue frock worn by all female staff.

  She was as much of a motherly figure to him as he’d ever had. Her graying hair and round face reminded him of the butcher’s wife back in Evyn’s Gate.

  He shrugged, lowering his eyes back to the task. The heat from his cheeks had yet to subside and he found it best to keep quiet until his heart stopped racing.

  She sighed and gave his shoulder a gentle pat. “Cheer up, lad. Don’t let the young prince get you down. He’s just a spoiled brat with beans for brains,” she said. “He only wishes he was as handsome as you.”

  Handsome?

  Hardly.

  Destan was taller than the most of the men around him, but built more imposing than his shy demeanor. His hair was dark as night, and he had eyes that weren’t the bright green of his master’s, but a murky gray that mimicked the smoke of a smothered flame. Forrest had no reason to envy someone like him, not when his hair was like spun gold and he resembled the old gods who had once looked favorably upon them.

  Still, Destan grinned. Daisy’s words were effective as always. They brought him peace, and comfort when he most needed it. At times like this, he missed his parents.

  “Try not to get yourself worked up too much, Destan. You’re special, and everyone can see it, even the prince,” she said, before rushing off to the wash the queen’s stockings.

  “Let’s hope,” he said under his breath.

  Exhaling, he went back to sharpening the sword. As he stared at the shining, pure elvish steel, memories of fire and blood blurred his vision.

  The screams of the dead haunted him then, and his grin faded. There was no escape from the memories. Not even during the waking hours.

  It was his burden to bear…until his dying day.

  Chapter Six

  The prince strolled into the room, and King Caden cringed at the sound of his raspy breaths that seemed to fill the room.

  “What is it you want, Forrest?” King Caden asked, his voice tight as he fought to suppress his annoyance for being interrupted.

  “The bloody servant is more in-tuned with the spirit word than I am. Teach me,” Prince Forrest said, his voice shrill, and grating on the king’s nerves. “I’ll be twenty in a few days. I’m ready to learn the dark arts of the spirit realm, if only you’d show me.”

  King Caden glanced up from the ancient scroll, his eyes glowing as he did so. The glow was muted once he looked upon his son, and became a bright green. He looked Forrest over, disappointed in the young man’s stature and demeanor. While he was all muscle and assertiveness, the crown prince was bones and cowardice.

  Nonetheless, he forgave his misgivings as interest in what he’d said arose.

  “Which servant?”

  “My valet,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

  “What nonsense are you spreading?”

  “I’m not completely useless, Father,” Forrest said. “I can tell when someone is using the dark arts. Now, you have to teach me. I can’t have the lad who dresses me know more about magic than me.”

  King Caden stared at him for a moment, and saw the truth in his son’s eyes. This was something he would have to investigate.

  “Well?” Forrest said, his impatience bubbling from his mouth.

  “Once you master the sword and hand-to-hand combat, I will teach you the ways of our ancestor
s.”

  Forrest frowned. “Its not fair. I’ve mastered both,” he whined, his voice shrill like a girl’s.

  He also lied. King Caden had seen him fumble around with a sword, and get nearly knocked out when sparring with his combat trainer.

  “When will it ever be good enough for you? The spirit realm isn’t just yours to navigate, Father. If I were the son of an elvish wizard, I’d have learned this as a child. I am a man now. Will you wait until I’m an old man, too feeble to stand my ground?”

  “It’s the way it is done. Learn to walk before you attempt to run,” he said, giving his son a quick look up and down. He shook his head, disappointed with what he observed. “You’re far from ready.”

  “But, I have learned, Father. I am champion of Perth.”

  “Come back to me when you’re champion of the realm. I’ll accept no less.”

  “You’re stalling,” Forrest said, folding his arms over his chest. His hair was long, like his father’s, but golden like that of Queen Isadora.

  “And, you’re annoying me,” he said, shooting a glare at him. “Do you wish to see what happens when I’m annoyed?”

  Forrest’s face paled, and shook his head.

  Instead of taking his advice in stride, his eldest son stormed off, leaving the throne room. He pushed through the doors, in a huff.

  Like a child.

  King Caden rubbed his temples, weary with his heir. If he had a choice, he’d swap him with any of his other children for the next in line—anyone accept her.

  The sky darkened above, and the scent of rain filled his nostrils. He frowned, gazing upward. He stroked his beard and sat in his chair.

  In just days, a new decree would be announced, and life in Giran would change.

  He didn’t care what The Vale, or any of the other realms thought of his decision, but it was time for change.

  He could tell from the way that his subjects, courtiers, and courtesans looked at him that they thought he was mad. The truth was, he knew things their imperfect minds would never understand.

  Power brought great responsibility, and as king, he would ensure the longevity of his kingdom.

  If that meant weeding out the poison infecting his realm, he would do that.

  Magic in humans was dying, even as it flowed through his veins. None of his children had inherited his gift, and that was a frightening concept. There was only one way to keep a wizard on the throne.

  He’d have to gain immortality.

  Chapter Seven

  “I hear the king is rounding mages up like cattle,” Ash said to Cord, the stablehand.

  “Bloody bad time to be a mage,” Cord said, shaking his head.

  Though Destan tried not to eavesdrop, it was difficult not to when Ash insisted on talking loudly enough for the night guards to hear just outside the gates.

  He and the other servants sipped wine, and communed in the stable courtyard after supper.

  Usually, they would dine and retreat to their cots. While the female workers were kept separate on an entirely different side of the palace, the males had their own wing, and slipped into shared rooms with two—sometimes three—men to a small space.

  After a long day of work, they would climb into their cots and hurry to sleep, for they would repeat the cycle once again, sometimes with only five hours of peace. Such was the case for the scullery maids, hall boys, and stable hands who needed to be awake well before anyone else in the palace.

  On this night, they were given a few moments of time to themselves.

  Destan stood, drinking the last of his ale, his shoulder pressed against the wall of the palace kitchen. He watched the maids play a game they’d etched into the dirt, their giggles filling the air.

  “Come,” Jasma said, smiling up at him. “Join us, Destan.”

  She and Penny scooted closer to one another, making space for him.

  “We will show you how to play,” Penny said.

  “Don’t waste your breath, girls,” Ash said, grinning. He lifted his cup in Destan’s direction. “That big bastard doesn’t talk to anyone but Daisy.”

  Destan breathed in, annoyed by Ash’s comment. He was taller and more muscular than them all—not the usual frame of a servant—but it never got in the way of his duties.

  The girls didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, they glanced at him, and then returned to whispering and giggling to one another.

  The door to the kitchen opened, and out stepped King Caden.

  Silence filled the courtyard, and fear rushed through the veins of every servant assembled.

  There—in their midst—stood the tall, and battle-worn master of Giran.

  He was of medium height with dark eyes that had looked upon the suffering, and cast more onto them. The screams that sometimes filled the night kept most of the workers awake, and in fear. The king had a taste for pain, and a desire for sorrow.

  Sometimes Destan wondered why he’d been brought to this place when there were so many other realms that could use his skills for good.

  King Caden scanned everyone before resting on Destan. He stared at him for a moment—two inky black orbs that mimicked the night sky—and clasped his hands behind his back. As he lifted his gaze to the bright stars above, everyone exchanged worried glances.

  He breathed in, and tilted his head.

  “Join me for a walk, would you, Destan?”

  Destan tensed, his blood running cold. It wasn’t a question. It was an order.

  He left his spot beside the kitchen, and followed the king away from the courtyard.

  Collecting his thoughts, Destan rubbed his palms across his pants and worked at controlling his breathing.

  This might be it—the reason he was here.

  They walked along the rugged stone and out of the gates. Into the darkness they went, Destan a few steps behind, and the king strolling down the path that cut through the miles of lush, green grass and manicured trees that lined either side.

  It took a long while before the king spoke and made his reason known for requesting Destan’s company.

  “Something has been brought to my attention,” he said, pausing at one of the glowing fountains that sprouted water from the mouths of opulent, white swan sculptures. “You have certain abilities that are unlike a typical servant.”

  This is it, Destan thought, his throat tightening with dread. They know.

  He cast a worried gaze at the king, and folded his arms across his chest.

  “I saw you in a recent dream,” he said, and Destan shot him a look. “And, you stood by my side as the world bowed at my feet.”

  A rush of cold filled his veins. What a terrifying concept. That couldn’t be it.

  “You’re a Paladin,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

  For a moment, Destan kept silent. Then, the tension in his body evaporated and he exhaled. If that was all the king believed him to be, he wasn’t in nearly as much danger as he’d imagined.

  A Paladin—he could live with revealing, and so, he exhaled with a nod. Paladins were rare, but accepted. Who didn’t like having a human who could essentially absorb damage to their body, and return it to their assailant?

  “I am.”

  The king turned to him then, and clasped his hands onto Destan’s shoulders. His eyes lingered on the scar above his right eye.

  “Did you serve?”

  Destan nodded, though the scar didn’t come from war. “I did. In the Battle of Dyon,” he said, nonetheless. “I was fourteen, and recruited.”

  The king searched his eyes. “Good,” he said, regarding him with respect. “Every true man should serve.”

  Silence passed between them as the king contemplated and looked Destan up and down. Then, he stroked his beard and nodded.

  “I want you to do something for me,” he said.

  His brows furrowed. “What would that be, your majesty?”

  “I’m sending a few men to my castle in Hampshire to retrieve my mistress,” he said, folding his arms acro
ss his broad chest. “I want you to join them, and pass along this letter to the butler. This will explain that you are to become personal guard to Lady Elise Devyn.”

  The king’s illegitimate daughter.

  Something stirred in Destan—a warm sensation that he had never felt. He looked downward, wondering if the king could feel it as well. When he glanced at the king’s face, he could tell the king knew nothing to be amiss.

  Protect the king’s bastard? Was the king a better man than the kingdom believed him to be? What a twist in fate that would be.

  “You wish for me to be her guard, your majesty?”

  The king chuckled then, and shook his head. He seemed to be amused, and grinned as he met Destan’s eyes.

  “Hardly,” he said. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “You are to be my spy. Observe. Learn everything you can about her and report to me weekly.”

  Destan’s shoulders slumped, but he nodded.

  “And,” the king added, his voice lowering. “If anything happens to me or the royal family, I want you to kill her. I don’t care how you do it, but do not let her grow to power. If my reign ends, it ends with all of my children as well.”

  With each word, Destan’s blood grew colder, and his jaw tightened.

  The king was exactly who the kingdom knew him to be. A madman. A bloodthirsty wizard who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  Nonetheless, he nodded.

  Despite the task at hand, he now knew his purpose.

  He knew why he was brought to Giran, and having direction filled his soul with peace.

  Finally.

  Chapter Eight

  Drowsy, and cold from the fire flickering out during the night, Elise woke to darkness.

  Thuds on the doorway to the main entrance of Devonshire Castle rang through the quiet. She shot a frightened glance toward her door.

  “Elise,” Mother said, slipping into her bedroom with a cloak over her nightgown. “I have to leave now. The king’s guard has come to take me back to the palace.”

  Relief that they weren’t being attacked in the night washed over her. Elise stared at her, confused. “Right now?”