Illusion: Book Four of the Grimoire Saga (29 page)

He gritted his teeth. This had to be a trap, a trick to set Braeden off guard. If the Lossians were ambushed like he was on his last trip to the Stele, Carden knew this battle was on its way. He wouldn’t leave. He’d watch and play the puppet master. He’d gloat. His pride would root him to the throne room, where he’d tap his foot as he waited for Braeden to finally come to him. But how Carden could pull something like hiding his presence—that took skill, and Braeden wouldn’t put it past his father to try. Braeden’s shoulders tensed, frustration pummeling him with every footfall.

Carden was here. He had to be.

The kingdom pulled at his feet, its energy guiding him through the ancient halls of his home. The Stele offered all its subjects protection, but the grounds spoke to Braeden. He knew every inch of the black forest and every dead end of the tunnels through which he walked. It was instinct. He and the kingdom had always shared a connection, one he guessed it had shared with every royal before him as well—even Carden.

The throne room pulsed far away in the heart of the castle, its energy stronger than the rest of the kingdom like a beacon in the night. Every hallway between him and the thrones throbbed to its own tempo, a rush of energy like the echo of blood on its way to the heart.

A hallway whizzed by on his right. Not the one he needed. It led to the first-year barracks and a shared bathroom. Beyond that, dead end. They would need to turn at the third hallway and take it for most of the trip to the throne room.

The second hallway passed on his right. It led toward the second-year barracks. Another shared bathroom. Another dead end.

One more.

Voices bounced along the walls, trickling from the hallway he needed. He cursed under his breath and slowed, keeping to the edge of the wall. He waved one hand behind him, gesturing for his team to do the same. They mimicked him, backs pressed against the stone. A few hands reached for swords. Kara inched closer, her breath tickling his bare arm as she kept close. Too close. Her fingers brushed his. He shook his head to keep his mind on the task at hand.

A man yelled, his words slurring into an order Braeden didn’t catch. He tensed, wishing with all his soul that they would turn right for whatever illogical reason worked for them. Only barracks covered the next few tunnels, so that made no sense. If they came this far, they were headed out the back exit. Still, he wished for them to race ahead without looking back.

It didn’t matter what he wished. They wouldn’t turn. He grabbed his sword hilt and slid the metal from its casing. Its weight fell into his palm. His mouth twitched into a smile he barely contained. The anticipation of murder shouldn’t bring him pleasure.

Braeden held his breath, still as a stone. His mind raced, weighing the cost of waiting against slipping into the hallway toward the barracks. Neither option had a good outcome.

Twenty soldiers filed out into the hallway and pivoted to the right, racing off down the hall in two militant lines without looking over their shoulders. The squad leader barked another command from the rear, following without a look toward Braeden. One agonizing minute passed as they trotted ahead, their sheaths swinging with each step. They disappeared around a curve in the wall, the commander still barking orders even as they disappeared from sight.

Braeden let out his breath and sheathed his sword. He beckoned for his team to continue. They filed into the third hallway and broke into a full run up the long hall.

He didn’t like it. That was too close—a little too lucky for his taste. No trained Stelian soldier would ignore one side of a hall. A memory flashed in his mind, one that hadn’t plagued him in ages. He recalled the girl he’d met during his time as Carden’s general—the child who could barely wear her armor. Either Carden had recruited novices for this war, or Braeden was walking into a trap.

He swallowed hard and plowed ahead. Too late to turn back now.

Short of facing Carden, this hallway would be the most dangerous leg of the trip. The tunnel wound along without a break in the stone. No hallways. No exits. No places to hide. It was one of dozens of feeding tunnels, meant only to connect the kingdom to its barracks and external patrol tunnels.

The patter of their boots on the stone filled his ears, the rhythm occasionally broken with the echo of a boom from the war outside. The cadence grated on Braeden’s nerves, shattering his composure as he ran.

Patter, patter. BOOM!

He shook his head, trying to listen to the pull of the Stele as it spoke to him, showing him the way to the throne room.

Patter, patter, patter. BOOM!

His cheeks flushed with nausea. He cursed under his breath.

Get a grip.

The tunnel curved left, bending in an arc that hid its far end. Only about twenty feet appeared before him. An echo broke through the rhythm. Braeden’s heart sunk even as he fought to process what it was.

The sound grew louder with each passing second—the
pat, pat
of soldiers marching ahead of him. Likely, toward him.

Braeden drew his sword, feet still hitting the ground as he ran. The metal whooshed, displacing air. The sound repeated as those behind him drew their swords as well.

“Remy, up here. Kara, fall back.”

Remy’s black wings appeared in Braeden’s periphery. Kara mumbled something, but her voice faded. He glanced back to confirm she was listening, only to catch her blond head bob into the middle of the pack.

The tunnel straightened, and two dozen soldiers filled the tunnel, three across. Every pair of black eyes widened in surprise. The squad leader stood in the back. The man hollered, eyes locked on Braeden. His voice wavered, but the command went out nonetheless.

Attack.

Braeden leapt into the front row, his sword gutting two guards within the first three seconds. His heart danced with the joy of his kill, but he quelled the glee. He wouldn’t feed the dark part of his soul. Not today. This war, these kills—this was survival. He killed only to get to his father, and once he was Blood, Braeden would never kill his subjects like this again. He would not allow himself to enjoy this.

He and Remy pushed through the ranks, but the fighters pushed them apart. With the close quarters, Braeden could barely lift his sword, much less attack. An elbow landed against Braeden’s nose. The bone cracked. A jolt of pain splintered across his forehead. He cursed and summoned fire. Heat radiated from his hands like a blast of air. His vision blurred. He allowed the flames to erupt. The hiss of melting fabric swam above the chaos. A man screamed. The hallway light flickered—no doubt nearby sconces enduring the brunt of the attack. Shadows stretched along the troops, blurring their faces as Braeden scanned for his next, gray target.

Frustration bubbled in his gut, boiling over as a sword slashed open his right bicep.

Braeden cursed and rammed his fist into the nearest face.

Stop moving and let me kill you!

The sea of bodies stilled. The soldiers slipped out of his grip, inching backward. He pushed past the nearest guard, hands still ablaze, and ignited the man’s clothes in a wash of flame. The gray fire in his palms illuminated the quiet faces. Their eyes focused on him, wide as they stared.

A pang of glee consumed him. He lost himself. He swung his sword at the nearest soldier. The blade met the man’s neck. The body fell with barely a gurgle. Braeden grinned, but a wave of shame rocked him.

He would not allow himself to enjoy this.

Remy’s four Kirelms broke through the still ranks, reducing Stelian soldiers to their knees with rhythmic synchronicity. Only six guards remained. Braeden plowed ahead to keep any stragglers from running back and sounding an alarm. In seconds, he reached the squad leader and shoved his sword into the guard’s heart. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head, and Braeden lowered the corpse to the floor.

He turned to monitor the damage. Remy’s team had a few scratches but nothing terrible. Braeden checked his bicep, but the wound must have already healed itself. Only a spray of his black blood on his skin showed evidence of a wound.

But the corpses—he tensed his hand, forming a fist and releasing it several times as he tried to process what happened. This wasn’t right. They’d stopped, stood still as he killed them. And their eyes—wide with, well, what exactly? Fear?

They shouldn’t have stopped. No soldier would stand there, still as a stone while a sword cut open his stomach.

Braeden still couldn’t feel his father. Though the Stele guided him toward the throne room, he couldn’t sense his father anywhere in the kingdom. And it didn’t make sense for two dozen trained soldiers to simply stop fighting. Unless—

Well, unless Braeden’s sarcastic command had been a mandate. Unless Braeden was the Blood.

He ran a hand through his hair, smearing black ooze along his forehead. When Blood Lorraine injured Carden with her Sartori, Braeden felt it miles away. So he should have also felt his father’s death. It couldn’t be possible for him to be the Blood. This had to be a trick—a very elaborate trick. He’d test his theory on the next round of Stelians, but he couldn’t let himself believe he was already ruler of the Stele.

Fingers brushed his elbow. He flinched, only to find Kara at his side. Her eyebrows twisted upward, eyes wide with concern. “Are you all right?”

He nodded, but his gaze wandered back to the corpses.

Remy sheathed his sword. “Why did they stop?”

Braeden’s mouth went dry. “I don’t know.”

“Is this a trick? A trap?”

Braeden ran his hand through his hair. “I have no idea.”

“We need to go,” Kara said.

Remy’s back straightened. “I don’t like this.”

“Nor do I, but she’s right,” Braeden said.

He sheathed his sword. A trick. This had to be a trick. He repeated the thought, as if that would make it true. Once again, he and his team took off down the hall, leading the way to the throne room and trying his best to shake the nagging worry in the pit of his stomach.

This wasn’t right.

Out of superstition, Braeden wished for a quiet trip to the throne room—one with no soldiers, no encounters, and no more death.

He got what he asked for. And though he should have been pleased to avoid murdering any more of his people, the quiet set his nerves on fire with anxiety.

No guards protected the closed throne room doors. Fishy. The giant slabs of black marble towered, the ceiling curving to a glass dome two stories above. The dome’s windows betrayed the darkness outside, lit only with a dull orange halo hinting at the slaughter near the front gate. Pillars lined this stretch of hallway, a pale gray contrast to the pitch-black door. Fires raged in the dozens of torches, casting an amber glow on the waiting faces of Braeden’s team. They hunched, some on the balls of their feet, swords drawn for the fight that wouldn’t come. Silver handles gleamed on the doors, tempting him forward. Only marble lay between him and an answer to the question burning in his stomach: why?

A distant boom shattered the silence, its impact muffled by the stone walls.

Braeden tightened his grip on his sword. Sweat slid through his fingers. He rested his free hand on a door handle. If Carden was inside, there would be no element of surprise. If he wasn’t—

Braeden shoved the thought aside. While it would mean he didn’t have to kill Carden himself, it would raise the all-too-frustrating questions of who controlled the Stelian armies in Carden’s absence and how in Ourea he’d managed to become Blood in the first place.

He turned to the assembled vagabonds. A dozen eyes blinked at him in the warm glow, awaiting orders.

“Stay out here and ward off anyone who tries to enter,” he said.

Kara set her hands on her hips. Flick chirped from his place on her shoulder. “We face him together.”

Braeden managed to smile. “Very well.”

With a quick breath to steady himself, he twisted the handle and pushed open the double doors. Dozens of black pillars swallowed the edges of the vast chamber, offering some cover if needed. Glimpses of the thrones slipped through the gaps between the columns—just dashes of gray stone and a blip of red cloth. An empty floor stretched from a door on the right to the platform of thrones on the left, which Braeden couldn’t yet see. Panes of glass covered the ceiling far overhead, letting in more of the dull glow from the raging fires at the front gate. Torches burned on every pillar, filling the throne room with a swarm of waltzing shadows.