Capture the Crown Read online

  Adding to the sunken-castle illusion were the intricate carvings and other artistry that embellished the buildings. Vines, leaves, and flowers flowed up many of the wooden shutters on the shops, while thick stone columns chiseled to look like blooming trees supported some of the finer homes. Bronze weather vanes shaped like gargoyles adorned practically every rooftop, creaking back and forth in the breeze.

  Blauberg wasn’t nearly as rich and prosperous as Glanzen, the capital, but spying a silver moon glinting on a column or a sapphire pansy glimmering on a door was an amusing game I could play with myself as I walked along.

  Even better, it helped me block out some of the thoughts of the people around me.

  Butchers, bakers, and other merchants were already hawking their wares from their shop doorways and freestanding carts, while customers were haggling over the prices of everything from cuts of meat to bags of cornucopia to bolts of cloth. The loud, cheery commotion was bad enough, but the steady stream of internal thoughts was almost deafening to me.

  People thought all the time. Every bloody second of every bloody day. And being around so many people meant multitudes of thoughts flying through the air like hundreds of invisible bees incessantly buzzing in my ears.

  My gargoyle pendant grew warm against my skin, like a hot stone pressing against my chest. The pieces of black jet were blocking and absorbing as many thoughts as they could, but there were simply too many people for the jewels to silence all the mental chatter.

  Gotta sell this meat before it spoils . . .

  This cornucopia is stale . . .

  I can find a better price for this blue silk . . .

  Those silent thoughts and dozens more assaulted me as I hurried through one of the plazas. Hearing all those murmurs in my own mind was exhausting, like being forced to listen to music that never slowed down, took a break, or stopped. Even worse, I could also sense people’s emotions, which added to the perpetual cacophony in my head and my heart.

  At times like these, I didn’t feel like a puppeteer with strings attached to my fingertips, skillfully manipulating everything around me. No, right now I was a tiny, fragile ship caught in a raging storm, with waves of thoughts slapping me to and fro in a sea of emotion, and everything from icy disdain to lukewarm interest to sizzling anger cascading over my battered deck.

  Topacia and I stepped onto a less crowded street. The incessant buzzing in my ears faded away, my pendant cooled against my skin, and my internal ship slowly righted itself as the storm of chattering people receded. I sighed with relief.

  We circled around to the back side of Blauberg Mountain. This area was mostly shops, all designed to serve the workers heading toward the mine. The street opened up into an enormous plaza, which was lined with merchant carts. A gray stone fountain shaped like a gargoyle with its wings spread out wide stood in the center of the plaza, and several miners stopped to throw a penny into the bubbling water. Andvarian mines were among the safest on the Buchovian continent, but it never hurt to ask the gods for a little bit of luck before going down into the dark.

  Beyond the fountain, a low stone wall cordoned off the rest of the plaza from the mine, and a black hole dominated this side of the mountain, as though it were a kraken’s mouth frozen open in an enormous yawn. Carts filled with jagged chunks of raw ore rolled out of the main opening, along with the surrounding side shafts, and skated along metal tracks toward a large building in the distance.

  Inside the refinery, miners would carefully chisel the tearstone, gemstones, and anything else of value out of the surrounding mundane rock. Then the tearstone, gemstones, and the like would be further processed, cut, shaped, and polished, until the final products were ready to be shipped out to their buyers.

  I jerked my head at Topacia, and we slipped into an alley that ran between two bakeries.

  Topacia eyed the people moving along the street. “I’ve heard rumors that some Mortans are in Blauberg. Not just common merchants, but wealthy, high-ranking nobles, along with their guards, although I haven’t seen them for myself—yet.”

  While I was staying at the cottage and working in the mine, Topacia had been renting a room in one of the city’s inns, as well as visiting shops and taverns. In addition to being a fearsome warrior, my friend also loved to talk to people. Topacia had never met a stranger, and she excelled at picking up gossip and casually asking all the questions that I wanted answered. Her news about Mortans being in Blauberg increased my own suspicions.

  Andvari and Morta were old, bitter enemies, and the Morricone royal family had long coveted the Ripley mines, which were full of precious metals, gems, and more. But one of the most defining moments in the centuries of hostilities between the two kingdoms was the Seven Spire massacre.

  Roughly sixteen years ago, King Maximus Morricone of Morta had sent his bastard sister, Maeven, to assassinate the Blair royal family of Bellona. Even worse, Maeven had blamed the attack on my uncle, Prince Frederich Ripley, and a group of Andvarians who had been visiting Seven Spire palace in Bellona at the time.

  I was one of a handful of people who had survived the horrific tragedy.

  I had been twelve back then, but sometimes, it seemed like only yesterday that Crown Princess Vasilia Blair had plunged a dagger into Uncle Frederich’s heart during a luncheon on the royal lawn, then killed Lord Hans, an Andvarian ambassador, with her lightning magic. After that, I’d hidden under a table like a coward and watched the turncoat guards slaughter everyone around me.

  Screams and shrieks rattled around inside my mind, punctuated by softer but even more agonizing whimpers of pain and fear, along with choked, tearful pleas for mercy.

  But there had been no mercy—only death.

  I would have died too, if Everleigh Blair hadn’t yanked me out of my hiding spot, dragged me across the grass, and handed me off to Lady Xenia Rubin, a powerful ogre morph.

  I still remembered the exact moment when Xenia’s arm had closed around my waist, tighter than a coldiron vise, and she had hoisted me into the air as though I weighed no more than a baby gargoyle. Maeven had blasted Xenia with her purple lightning, trying to stop our escape, but Xenia had kept going, and eventually, we had made it inside the palace.

  From there, Alvis, who had been the Seven Spire royal jeweler at the time, had helped us escape through some old mining tunnels that ran underneath the palace, although it had taken us weeks to make it home to Andvari.

  After the massacre, Andvari and Bellona had been on the brink of war—until Everleigh had exposed the Mortans’ plot, killed her treacherous cousin Vasilia, and taken the Bellonan throne for herself.

  King Maximus was long dead, but Queen Maeven ruled now, so tensions between Andvari and Morta remain high to this day, and the two kingdoms were always little more than a whisper away from war.

  But lately, those whispers had grown into much louder, far more ominous rumblings.

  “Gemma?” Topacia asked, breaking into my dark thoughts. “What do you want me to do about the Mortans? If they knew you were here, especially one of the Morricone royals, then they would stop at nothing to kidnap you—or worse.”

  Screams wailed in my mind again. I was well acquainted with how much worse things could get when dealing with the Morricones. Still, I forced myself to be logical. Acting on assumptions could easily get Topacia and me killed.

  “There are always a few Mortans in Blauberg, given how close it is to the border,” I said. “After all, this is one of the few cities where trade between the two kingdoms is actually necessary and encouraged, due to the surrounding mountains and wilderness.”

  “But what about your theory that the Morricones are plotting something?” Topacia asked. “At least, something more dastardly than usual?”

  Over the past two months, through my network of sources, I’d learned of several disturbing incidents in Andvari, all of them close to the Mortan border. A caravan of merchants murdered by bandits. A cave-in at a small mine that had claimed the lives of several workers
. A group of royal guards who’d been swept away by a violent thunderstorm and the resulting flash flood.

  On their own, each tragedy had seemed like an unrelated incident, but when considered all together, they had roused my suspicions. So as part of my ambassador duties, I had spent the past few weeks visiting the site of every attack and mishap. Along with offering my condolences to the victims’ families, I’d discreetly conducted my own investigations, and I’d discovered one common thread between all the incidents—tearstone.

  The merchant caravan, the mine, and the guards had all had hundreds of pounds of tearstone in their possession—ore that had never been recovered.

  Tearstone was often used for jewelry and art, but it could also be crafted into weapons, like the dagger in my boot. My theory was that someone was stockpiling tearstone—someone in Morta, given that all the incidents had occurred within just a few miles of the border. Of course, the most likely suspects were the Morricones, specifically Queen Maeven, although a few Mortan noble families were also wealthy and powerful enough to make all that tearstone vanish without a trace.

  As for what that person wanted with the ore, well, I doubted their plans included anything as benign as making necklaces or statues, given the dozens of people they’d already killed. My fear was that Maeven was going to somehow use the tearstone to try to assassinate my father and grandfather—again.

  Several months after the Seven Spire massacre, the Bastard Brigade, a group of Morricone bastard-born royals, had tried to murder my father and had dosed my grandfather with amethyst-eye poison. Thanks to Queen Everleigh’s intervention, Father and Grandfather Heinrich had both survived, but just barely.

  I had already lost Uncle Frederich to Maeven’s machinations, and she wasn’t going to take anyone else from me.

  But I’d grown even more worried two weeks ago, when a forewoman named Clarissa had sent a letter to Glitnir, to Grandfather Heinrich, saying that several shipments of tearstone had disappeared from the Blauberg mine—much larger shipments than what had vanished so far.

  Things went missing all the time in mines, since they were literally dark holes in the ground, so my grandfather and father hadn’t thought much of the letter. But to me, it was another suspicious incident in an increasingly long and alarming chain of tragedies—especially since Clarissa had died in a mining accident three days later.

  Clarissa’s death had struck me as entirely too convenient, so I had rushed to Blauberg to investigate. I had been too late to gather much intelligence at the other sites, but I was hoping this time would be different.

  “My theory is just a theory—until I find proof that it’s not,” I said, finally answering Topacia. “Go back into the city, and see if you can pick up any more gossip about the Mortan nobles. I’ll work my shift and try to figure out who is smuggling tearstone out of the mine.”

  Topacia nodded, slipped out of the alley, and left.

  I started to head toward the mine when something brushed up against my mind. The new, unexpected presence was as soft as a feather tickling my skin, but I still froze. No thoughts buzzed in my ears, but my gargoyle pendant grew warm against my chest again, and my fingertips tingled as though I were clutching a lightning bolt. The tingling sensation meant one worrisome thing—that someone or something around here had magic.

  Very powerful magic.

  My gaze swept over the street, the plaza, and the mine entrance, but everything was the same. Miners trudging to work, merchants hawking their wares, carts of ore rattling along the metal tracks.

  A shadow zoomed by overhead, momentarily blotting out the sun, and that faint presence brushed up against my mind again. Who—or what—was that?

  I grabbed the dagger out of my boot and walked to the opposite end of the alley. Then I reached out with my magic, searching for that faint presence. It was over . . . there.

  I slipped from one alley to the next like I was chasing a feather drifting along on the breeze. Eventually, the last alley opened up into a wooded area, and I darted into the trees and crept forward, peering around a maple to find . . .

  A strix standing in the clearing beyond.

  The hawklike bird was similar to Grimley in that it was roughly the size of a horse, only with a much thicker, stronger body. The strix’s feathers were a vibrant amethyst-purple, and onyx tips lined its broad, powerful wings, each point as hard, sharp, and deadly as the arrow it resembled. The bird’s big, bright eyes were the same amethyst as its feathers, while its pointed beak and curved talons were a shiny black. A beautiful if dangerous creature.

  Many strixes lived in the surrounding Spire Mountains, and the wild birds often zoomed over Blauberg, although they tended to fly high and fast to avoid the gargoyles, since the two species didn’t much care for each other. I didn’t see a saddle or any reins on this strix, but it didn’t seem like a wild bird. So where was its owner?

  “See, Lyra?” a deep, masculine voice sounded, as if answering my silent question. “I told you the ride over the mountains wouldn’t be too bad.”

  “Know-it-all,” the strix chirped in a high, singsong voice, although her tone was full of affection.

  A man stepped around the side of the strix. He looked to be a year or two older than me, thirty or so. His longish hair was as black and glossy as the onyx points on the strix’s wings, while his eyes were a deep, dark amethyst. He had sharp, angular cheekbones, along with a straight nose, and his skin had the tanned look of someone who spent a fair amount of time outdoors.

  He wore black leggings and boots, along with gloves and a long black riding coat. A black cloak topped his coat, and the layers of fabric outlined his tall, muscled body and gave him a commanding presence. A light gray tearstone sword and matching dagger dangled from his black leather belt, but I got the sense that the weapons weren’t nearly as dangerous as the man himself was.

  He turned toward me, and I spotted a crest done in silver thread on his coat, right over his heart—a fancy cursive M surrounded by a ring of strix feathers.

  Shock jolted through me. Topacia had been right. There was a Mortan in the city.

  Prince Leonidas Luther Andor Morricone, the son of Queen Maeven Morricone, second in line for the Mortan throne.

  My mortal enemy.

  Chapter Two

  Out of all the Mortans who could have been in Blauberg, the idea that Prince Leonidas could be one of them had never even crossed my mind.

  A Mortan prince on Andvarian soil. I couldn’t even imagine the last time that had happened. Probably not since my ancestor Queen Armina Andromeda Aster Ripley had founded our kingdom by raising an army of gargoyles and ripping our land away from the Morricones and their strixes. But the proof that it was happening now was right in front of my eyes.

  Prince Leonidas cocked his head to the side, then whirled around, his hand dropping to his sword. I tensed, thinking that he had spotted me, or had at least felt my presence.

  After all, he was a mind magier just like I was—and we had met before.

  Memories crackled through my mind, the images so vivid and intense I was certain he would sense them. But instead of focusing on the area where I was hiding, Leonidas turned in the opposite direction.

  Footsteps scuffed, along with some faint humming, and a girl skipped into the clearing, swinging a tin lunch box back and forth in one hand in time to her quick, cheery movements.

  The girl, who was around seven or eight, looked up. Her humming abruptly cut off, and she skidded to a stop. The girl froze, her eyes fixed on the strix, which peered at her with a curious expression. At least, I hoped that it was curiosity, and not hunger.

  I had been so shocked by the sight of the prince that I hadn’t sensed the girl approaching. I cursed my inattentiveness. The Mortan and the strix could both easily kill her.

  Leonidas studied the girl, whose eyes slowly grew wider and wider, as though she were a fawn that had just realized it was in the presence of a greywolf. No one in Blauberg rode strixes except for the Mort
ans who visited the city, so she knew exactly what he was, if not his royal rank.

  Several seconds ticked by, all marked by tense, silent contemplation on both sides.

  Then Leonidas leaned down and plucked an ice violet out of a patch of them on the ground. He twirled the green stem back and forth in his gloved fingers and approached the girl.

  I remained behind the tree, still clutching my dagger. If the flower was a trick, and he attacked the girl, then I would rush into the clearing and gut him.

  Part of me longed to do that anyway, given all the horrible things that had happened between us as children, but I squashed the murderous urge—for now.

  Leonidas stopped in front of the girl, who was clutching the lunch box in front of her like it was a gladiator shield that would protect her. Leonidas slowly lowered himself down onto one knee so that his face was level with hers. Then, just as slowly, he held the violet out toward the girl, as though she were a princess that he was offering a courtly token of his affection.

  “Hello, there,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “A pretty flower for a pretty girl?”

  The girl swayed forward, as transfixed as a bunny by a coral viper’s hypnotic gaze. With her free hand, she plucked the violet out of his fingers, then scuttled back. The motion made the lunch box bang-bang-bang against her knees like a minstrel’s drum. She giggled, but the high, nervous sound was more squeaky fear than genuine amusement.

  “Why don’t you run along?” Leonidas suggested in that same gentle voice.

  The girl giggled again, then hurried into the woods, going back the way she’d come.

  I kept a firm grip on my dagger. The girl might be gone, but I knew exactly how dangerous and duplicitous Leonidas Morricone truly was—concerned one moment, then cruel the next.