Frozen Tides (10 page)

When Magnus had tripled the number of guards assigned to scour the land for Lucia, he hadn't given them or their commanders any additional details about her disappearance. He didn't reveal that her tutor was an exiled Watcher. That Lucia was a sorceress. That the last place he knew for certain that she'd been was left with a floor splattered with blood, dead bodies outside, and an ice storm summoned by pure, unleashed elemental magic.

“Another week,” Magnus said. “If the guards don't find her by then, I'll call half of them back.” Lord Loggis opened his mouth to protest further, but Magnus raised his hand. “That's my final decision.”

The lord nodded, his dark eyes empty of anything friendly. “Yes. Of course, your highness.”

Magnus gestured to the door and the council members filed out of the room.

“Princess, wait,” he said, stopping Cleo short on the threshold.

She turned to him, her face once again full of surprise, as he pushed the doors closed behind the others, leaving them alone in the cavernous throne room.

“Yes?” she said.

“Strangely, I find it necessary to thank you for your input today.”

She raised her brow. “Thank me? Am I dreaming?”

“Don't worry. I'm sure it won't happen again anytime soon.” Magnus drew even closer to her, and her smile faded at the edges.

“Was there something else you wanted from me?” she asked.

If only you knew
, he thought.
You'd probably run away from here and never look back.

“No,” he replied.

She cleared her throat. “Nerissa arrived this morning.”

“So she's the one responsible for your hair today, is she?” He wound a silky, golden lock around his finger and studied it carefully, taking in its scent, like an intoxicating, exotic flower.

“She is,” Cleo said after a lengthy pause.

“In Limeros, proper women don't wear their hair loose like this. Tell her to braid it or tie it back from now on. That is, unless it's your goal to look like a courtesan.”

She pulled her hair from his grip. “I should thank you too, Magnus.”

“For?”

“For constantly reminding me who you really are. Sometimes, I forget.”

With that, she slipped past him and left the room.

• • •

The reason, it was said, that the goddess Valoria had forbidden alcohol in her land was to ensure that her people always maintained purity, health, and clarity of mind.

But in any land where something was forbidden, there were always ways to acquire it. Magnus had heard rumors of one—and how to gain entry to it—only a couple miles away from the palace, a shabby-looking inn called the Ouroboros.

Magnus entered the inn, leaving the single guard he'd brought with him to wait outside with the horses. It was nearly empty; only a handful of patrons occupied the small eating area, none of them bothering to look up at who had entered.

Magnus scanned the room from beneath the heavy hood of his black cloak, his gaze falling on a wooden door with a bronze knocker in the shape of a snake devouring its own tail. He grasped this and knocked three times quickly, three times slowly.

The door creaked opened a moment later and he strode through into another room—much larger and busier than the one before. He scanned the ruddy faces, hands clasping tankards of ale at twenty or more tables, until he came across a face that was painfully familiar.

“Wonderful,” he grumbled as he drew closer to the table in the far corner.

“Well, well!” Nic slurred and raised his tankard, causing ale to slosh over the rim. “Look who's here. Shall I make a formal announcement of your arrival?”

“I'd prefer that you didn't.” Magnus swept another glance through the large room, but no one seemed to have recognized him yet.

“Come.” Nic shoved the heavy wooden chair across from him with his foot. “Join me. I hate to drink alone.”

Magnus gave this a moment's thought, before he did as Nic suggested. He kept his back to the rest of the room to further conceal his identity.

“Thirsty?” Nic asked, but without waiting for a reply, he gestured for the barkeep to come to their table.

The heavyset bald man with a thick, dark beard, approached confidently, but the moment Magnus glanced at him from the cowl of his cloak, his steps faltered.

“Your highness,” the barkeep gasped.

“Quiet,” Magnus replied. “No need to inform anyone of my presence here.”

The man trembled as he bowed deeply and lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “I beg of you, don't judge me too harshly. I don't usually serve such evil, sinful beverages here. The night is so cold and . . . well, these loyal citizens were just looking for something that might warm their bellies.”

Magnus regarded the man patiently. “Is that so? In a dedicated room that requires a secret knock?”

The barkeep grimaced, his shoulders slumping. “Spare my family. Take me. Execute me. But leave them. They had nothing to do with my dark decisions.”

He had no patience for sniveling martyrs tonight. “Bring me a bottle of your best Paelsian wine. No need for a goblet.”

“But . . .” The barkeep blinked rapidly. “Well, your highness, Paelsian wine is only sold in Auranos. It's part of their treaty—as I'm sure you know. Even if I were allowed to serve it by law, it could not be imported here.”

Magnus gave him a hard look.

“Yes, of course, very well,” the barkeep sputtered. “My best bottle of Paelsian wine. Coming right up.”

He disappeared into a back room, returning almost immediately with a dark green glass bottle roughly etched with the Paelsian symbol of a grapevine. As the barkeep uncorked it, Magnus spared a glance at Nic.

“That's forbidden.” Nic gestured toward the bottle. “Bad Prince of Blood. Very bad!”

Magnus waved the barkeep away, then took a deep drink from the bottle and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the familiar sweetness as it slid over his tongue.

Nic snorted. “But of course,
you
can do whatever you like. As long as your daddy says it's all right.”

Even though Magnus believed this boy was well overdue for a painful death, he had to admit that Nic did occasionally amuse him. “You might do well to consider the possibility that I don't care what my father says,” he said, taking another swig. “Just how long have you been drinking here tonight, Cassian?”

Nic waved his hand flippantly. “Long enough not to care what happens next. I should kill you now, really. Just stab you with this dinner knife. Until you're good and dead.”

“Yes, well, the feeling is mutual. Now, shall we pick something worthy to drink to tonight?”

Nic returned his attention to his ale, staring down into it as if it might tell his fortune. “To Prince Ashur.”

“What?”

“Prince Ashur. Remember him?” His expression darkened. “I want to know that he was buried, and where. It's not right that he's in an unmarked grave. He was a royal, you know. His body should have been treated with more respect.”

Magnus went to take another sip, but found that he'd already drained the bottle of its contents. But, mere seconds later, the nervous barkeep hurried over to replace it with another. “Just what was it between you two?” Magnus asked, his new bottle uncorked. He'd been curious about Nic and Ashur ever since the night it was revealed they were working together against Amara.

Nic didn't answer, instead continuing to stare deeply into his drink.

Now the sublime effects of the swiftly consumed wine began to take hold of Magnus, and the room began to swim and sparkle
around him. The heaviness of the day finally lifted. “Oh, so now you've decided to keep your mouth shut, have you? Given the rumors I've heard about the prince, I'm not overly surprised.”

Nic frowned. “What rumors?”

Magnus eyed him. “I'm sure you know my meaning.”

Nic took a slurp of his ale, his knuckles white around the mug. “It's not like that. He was my friend.”

“Such a short friendship, yet his death has caused such deep grief.”

“I don't want to talk about this.”

The boy's face had flushed. It appeared that Magnus had treaded too closely to the truth. He wanted to feel smug about this small victory, but he couldn't seem to summon such emotion. Instead, he felt—what was that?

Sympathy?

He took a deep drink of his wine. “It must be very unpleasant to feel something so . . .
undeniable
toward someone for whom you're supposed to feel nothing at all.” He paused, suddenly lost in thought. “And to know such feelings are wrong.”

“There was nothing
wrong
about it,” Nic mumbled.

Magnus went on, ignoring Nic's argument. “Such . . .
weakness
for another can destroy you if you let it. No, it
will
destroy you. There's no other way it can end. So you need to be strong, even when all seems hopeless. When there's no way to deny that . . . that pebble stuck in your boot—annoying and painful and impossible to ignore.”

Nic stared at him. “What in the goddess's nightmares are you talking about?”

Magnus drained the rest of the new bottle before speaking again. “Forget it.”

“I see it, you know,” Nic said, his eyes narrowing. “You can't fool me. I know why you did what you did. Why else would you save her life? You want her, don't you?”

His worst fear—that he was so transparent, even to someone as insignificant as Nicolo Cassian—dangled before him, threatening to weaken him to the point of no recovery.

He should just get up and leave without another word, but his limbs had grown heavy and his thoughts were so muddled that they anchored him in place. “This isn't about who I want,” he countered. “This is about you, wanting Prince Ashur.”

“Shut your mouth,” Nic snapped.

Magnus pushed up from the table so he could look down his nose at the boy. “No, you shut
yours
. If there's anyone I want, it's Lucia.
Only
Lucia. I'm sure you've heard rumors that my lust for my sister controls everything I do, every decision I make.”

A shadow of doubt slid behind Nic's gaze. “Perhaps I have. But rumors are rumors, and I've been watching you. The way you look at Cleo sometimes—”

In a heartbeat, Magnus pulled his sword out and pressed it to Nic's throat. “You see things that don't exist,” he hissed.

Fury sparked in Nic's eyes. “Go ahead and do it. Cut my throat. You may not have known who Theon was when you killed him, but imagine how much more Cleo will hate you if you killed me too. That's why I know you won't do it. She's defended you to me again and again, but I see the truth. I don't care how many times you save her life or spare mine. What you've done, what your family is responsible for, it's unforgiveable. No matter what I have to do to protect her from you, I'll do it.”

“So strong, aren't you? So brave.”

“I'm stronger and braver than you might think. Mark my
words,
your highness
: I will hate you and your father for the rest of eternity. Now kill me or let me leave.”

“It's only the ale that's making you brave tonight. You wouldn't say any of these things to me if you weren't already drunk.”

Nic pushed the tip of Magnus's sword away from his throat. “I assure you, I would.”

Nic stood, drank the rest of his tankard, and left the tavern.

JONAS

PAELSIA

L
et me see it just once . . .”

“No, Lys,” Jonas said. “Keep your hands to yourself, would you?”

“Come on, don't be shy.”

“I'm not being shy.” When Lys reached for Jonas's shirt again, he scooted out of her way. “Stop it.”

She glared at him. “Let me see your wound, you stubborn arse.”

“No.” He focused on the campfire, poking at it with a stick to keep it burning.

“Damn it, Jonas. It's bad, isn't it? Worse than you're letting on.”

He refused to meet her eyes, lest she see right through him to the truth. “I feel fantastic. Never better. Now, let's rest for a few hours and then we need to keep going. We have a lot of ground to cover before we get to Limeros.”

“Don't you trust me?”

There was a catch in her voice that he'd never heard before, and it made his heart ache. “Of course I do.” He swallowed hard, past
the lump in his throat. “I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”

Her bottom lip trembled. “The mud isn't working at all, is it? You're getting worse and you don't want me to know how horribly sick you are.”

He tried to laugh. “Do I really look that bad?”

“Yes, actually, you do.” She put her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to meet her serious gaze. “Are you dying?”

“We're all dying. We're mortal, remember?” He tried to maintain his grin, but found it took too much strength. “All I have is Bruno's assessment, which is that I don't have much longer, not that he knows anything for sure.”

Her jaw tightened, and Jonas could tell she was fighting to appear resolute. “So we need to focus on finding someone to help you.”

“If we happen upon someone, yes. But my first priority is to get to Limeros and kill Prince Magnus.”

“And my first priority is fixing you—and it should be yours as well.”

He snorted. “You really think I'm worth saving again after all the trouble I'm responsible for? Things would be a whole lot easier for you without me around.”

Anger flashed through her dark eyes. “You're really this big of an idiot? Have I been traveling with a complete and utter moron all of these months?”

Her outrage was strangely endearing to him. “Gee, Lys, your honeyed words are so soothing to my—”

Before he could finish, she pulled him to her and kissed him, hard and deep. Suddenly the pain in his arm and the numbness in his hand fell away. He weaved his right hand into her mass of dark curls and pulled her closer.

“I'm in love with you, you stupid arse, and I'm not losing you. Got it?” she whispered against his lips before kissing him again.

Her confession had stolen his breath, so all he could do was nod.

“Now, once again, how do we fix you?” she asked, when they finally parted.

To be honest, he had nearly given up hope that he might find a way out of this problem. But Lysandra's stubbornness, her devotion, and her friendship had given him new determination to fight to see another day.

He took a deep breath. “We need to find a witch.”

She nodded firmly. “Then we'll find a witch.”

• • •

They left the campfire right away and pressed on through northern Paelsia, finally stopping at a village a few miles over the border in Limeros that had several inns and taverns at its center, surrounded by other shops and its residential area. It was the first sign of life and community the pair had seen in over a day. It had grown much colder during their journey, and the ground here was covered in a thin layer of frost and ice, a few snowflakes drifting down from the cloudy night sky.

Lysandra disappeared for a short time to scout a few cottages, returning with some warmer clothes. He noticed she'd replaced her dirty and torn rose-colored dress with a new pale yellow one.

“Where did you get all this?” he asked as she tossed him a warm leather cloak.

“The same place I got this.” She pulled out a small drawstring bag and shook it so he could hear the clinking of coins.

He couldn't help but grin. “I'm impressed.”

“Now let's go get you healed.”

She gently took his hand and helped him into the nearest inn.
Even at this late hour, it was busy with customers eating dinner huddled by the blazing fire.

Jonas adjusted his eye patch as Lys placed a few coins on the innkeeper's counter. “What will this get us?”

The innkeeper pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “This is plenty for a night's stay in a comfortable room for you and your . . .” He frowned at the pale, sweaty Jonas.

“Husband,” Lys provided.

“Husband. Yes. And you'll get a fine dinner out of this, too.” He spoke pleasantly, but the innkeeper's forehead remained creased. “Young lady, pardon me for saying so, but your husband looks rather ill.”

“That's because he
is
rather ill.” She placed two more silver coins on the counter. “Which is why we're also looking for someone to help him. We need someone with very particular, very special abilities, and we're willing to pay very well for information.”

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow. “Special abilities?”

Lys leaned closer to the man and lowered her voice. “We need a witch who is extremely skilled with earth magic.”

The man stepped back, sweeping a cautious gaze over Lys and Jonas. “A witch? My dear girl, you know you're in Limeros, don't you? This isn't Auranos; our laws regarding witchcraft and dark legendry aren't so relaxed. The king imprisons—often executes—anyone accused of witchcraft, and he doesn't look fondly on anyone who helps them in any way.”

Jonas turned to the dining room and noticed a few people shooting curious looks their way. He homed in on one in particular: a woman in a black satin cloak, her face concealed by shadows.

“Forget it, then. We don't want to get anyone in trouble,” he said. Then Lys squeezed his hand, hard. “Ouch!”

“Sir, I understand the risks but we're willing to take them,” Lys said. “You see, we're only newly married and . . . and I'm already with child.” Tears brimmed in her brown eyes. “I can't lose my darling husband so soon. I need him, don't you see? I'm lost without him to protect me and care for me. Please, I'll do anything to heal him.
Anything,
you understand? Please help us.”

Jonas couldn't help but be impressed by Lysandra's skill at manipulation. He decided to stay quiet and let her take the lead.

The innkeeper stared at her, his brow furrowed, until Jonas saw tears forming in his eyes. “My dear, dear girl. You are so brave . . . you're both so brave. This world needs more young people like you who are willing to take great chances. Love . . .” He shook his head slowly, “It's all that matters, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is,” Lysandra agreed. “So can you help us?”

“If I could, I would. Truly. But any witches rumored to be in this area are long gone.” His expression grew pensive. “However, I've heard several can be found in Ravencrest. I would strongly urge you to try to find assistance there.”

Ravencrest, the capital of Limeros, was several days' journey from the border.

Jonas wasn't sure he had that much time left.

They ate, they slept, and before dawn the next morning, they left the inn, with a plan to somehow find—or steal—two horses to help speed up their journey.

Jonas tried to keep his steps steady and swift and not let Lysandra know how much weaker he'd grown since yesterday.

Suddenly, Lysandra clutched his arm. “Someone's following us,” she whispered.

Jonas stopped short, his stomach plummeting. “I'm not sure if I can fight,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Don't worry. I've got it.”

Jonas again tried to keep his footing, but his smooth-soled boots weren't made for such icy-slick pathways. They turned a corner, then another, and then Lysandra motioned for Jonas to go ahead. He went, his staggering footsteps crunching loudly in the snow, while she waited behind the trunk of a large oak tree near a row of shops, its branches heavy with icicles.

A moment later, Jonas saw Lys lunge out from her hiding spot and grab hold of a cloaked figure. She slammed her victim against the wall, pressing the edge of Jonas's jeweled blade to the stranger's throat.

When it became clear that their stalker had been caught, Jonas drew closer and saw that the figure was about the same size and height as Lys. “Why are you following us?” she snarled.

“Your weapon isn't necessary,” answered a female voice.

Jonas knew her words meant nothing to Lys, who trusted people less easily than anyone Jonas had ever met. And despite her size, Lys was as dangerous as any man when she had to be.

“I'll be the judge of that,” Lys said, taking a more forceful grip on the dagger. “Who are you?” Before giving her time to answer, Lys pulled back the hood of her black satin cloak.

Jonas nearly gasped when he saw the girl's lovely face, only a few shades lighter than her dark brown hair, set with a pair of emerald green eyes that gazed calmly at them both.

“I'm a friend,” the girl said. She didn't seem afraid.

“Why were you following us?” Jonas asked, stepping closer. He thought he recognized her. “You were in the inn last night, weren't you?”

“I was. Which is precisely why I know you're looking for a witch who might be able to help you.”

His heart jumped at this statement. “Do you know of one?”

“I
am
one.” She looked back at Lys. “Now remove your weapon, or I might change my mind.”

Lys glanced at Jonas with uncertainty. He nodded, and she reluctantly sheathed the dagger.

As Lysandra stepped away, the girl's expression remained serene rather than relieved or grateful to have been set free.

“So,” Jonas said, wary of this seemingly too-fortunate encounter. “What's the catch?”

“There's no catch,” the girl replied evenly. “Now, I advise you to stop wasting time. By the looks of you, Jonas Agallon, you have very little of it left.”

A shock of sweat trickled down Jonas's spine. “You know who I am?”

“Despite your rather weak attempt at a disguise, yes.” She glanced at Lys. “And you are Lysandra Barbas, Jonas's companion and fellow rebel. Lovely gown, by the way. A simple yet effective costume for one who's clearly worn nothing but trousers all her life.”

Lysandra crossed her arms in front of her chest, eyeing the girl with deep wariness and distrust. “So that's what you are, a spy? For the king, perhaps?”

“No.”

“And why should we believe you?”

“I don't really care if you believe me or not.”

“I think I understand,” Jonas said. “You want money. How much?”

The girl sighed with impatience. “I'm really not in the mood for a debate about my intentions. It's painfully early, it's unpleasantly cold out here, and I'm only doing what I must by offering to save your life. If you don't take my help willingly, I'll have to force it upon you.”

Jonas's brows shot up. For someone who claimed not to give a damn one way or another, she was very insistent.

Lysandra eyed her up and down. “What's your name?”

“Olivia.”

“Jonas,” Lysandra said slowly, “let's give Olivia a chance.”

“But Lys—”

“No,” she cut him off. “It's decided. Olivia, what do you need to begin?”

“First, I need to get out of this cold air.”

Lysandra nodded and led them to the nearest building, a shop that sold candles and lanterns, that was closed at this early hour.

“Stand back,” Lys said, approaching a window and preparing to break it.

“No need.” Olivia grasped the handle and pushed the main door open.

“Is that the custom in Limeros, to leave doors unlocked?” Jonas said.

“No. But it's unlocked now.”

Jonas and Lys shared a wary look as they followed the witch into the small, vacant shop furnished with tables heaped with wax candles in every size and shape imaginable. Lysandra immediately took a few in hand and lit them with her flint to provide additional light to the small area.

“Show me your wound,” Olivia said, waving her index finger at him. “Quickly.”

Jonas removed his satchel and dropped it to the floor.

Olivia sighed with impatience. “Today would be lovely. Really.”

He glared at her.

He had absolutely no idea why she wanted—seemingly needed—to help him, but if anything she'd said was true he couldn't risk losing this opportunity. They were looking for a skilled witch,
and—as if by magic—one had just marched right up to them and offered her services.

Now wasn't the time to question her intentions. He promised himself he'd do that later, when he didn't feel like death itself.

That was, if Olivia could do what she claimed.

Lysandra helped him untie the front of his shirt and pulled it off his left shoulder.

“Oh, Jonas!” she gasped.

Olivia scrunched her nose up at the sight of the festering and oozing wound. “That is the foulest thing I've seen in my entire life. I'm truly stunned that you're still upright and breathing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, well, imagine how I feel. Now, can you help me or not?”

She rolled her eyes and glanced at Lysandra. “Is he always this belligerent?”

“Never mind him. What do you think? Can you make some fresh healing mud?”

Or perhaps she has a bag of shiny, magic grape seeds in her bag
ready and waiting,
Jonas thought. Then he'd know for sure he'd fallen into a fever dream and none of this was real.

“Is
that
what you originally applied to this?” Olivia gagged. “Oh, my. I think I may actually vomit.”