Home > Jaded Spring (Shadow Crown, #3)(6)

Jaded Spring (Shadow Crown, #3)(6)
Author: Kristen Martin

 I’m determined to find out.

 

 

DARIUS TYMOND

 

 

 RAIN POURS FROM the sky. The deafening sound is a welcome reprieve from the usual chatter of the Trendalath merchants and townspeople. The clouds above are so dense that, to the naked eye, they’ve formed a singular gray silhouette. A bolt of lightning illuminates the dreary canvas, and thunder roars soon after. From the confines of his window, Darius can see the dirt roads flooding, transforming into gushing streams. They carry dismantled carts, soaked linens, and baskets of wares down, down, down, until they finally dump over into the Great Ocean.

 And so, it’s an ideal day to venture into the depths of the castle, although he’s not particularly fond of whom he’ll have to face. The man who impregnated his late wife. The man who continues to betray him over and over again. The man he cannot kill because he’s destined to serve a higher purpose.

 Clive Ridley.

 Darius pushes himself away from the window and begins his descent to the dungeons. He gives a hasty hello to the guards on each floor, which is more than he usually does in a given month. A swell of anger surges through him as he passes Gladys’s old chambers. At least her face is one he won’t have to see.

 As if to add insult to injury, he’d assigned Gladys’s execution on the very same day he’d set Aldreda’s body adrift on the Great Ocean. Although she’d pledged her loyalty to the Tymonds, Gladys had always preferred Aldreda over him. Seeing as he and the late queen had been in conflict for most of his reign, it came as no surprise that Gladys would eventually betray him and side with his late wife. Unfortunately for her, whatever veil of protection Gladys had hoped for had never existed in the first place.

 As satisfying as her execution had been, Darius had hoped she’d show some remorse for the actions leading up to that moment. But she’d been so stoic, so unwavering in her conviction, that she’d maintained eye contact with him until the very moment the blade had severed her head. Even more unnerving had been the level of indifference in her expression. No guilt. No shame. No fear.

 Just a woman facing her fate.

 He releases the thought as he reaches the door to the dungeons. Even from the outside, he can feel the dank, musty air seeping through the cracks of the door. He grabs hold of a torch from a nearby wall sconce before twisting the appropriate key into the lock, using his shoulder to push through the weighty entrance. A phantom draft sweeps across the back of his neck—impossible, given that there are no windows and little airflow in the dungeons. He shakes off the uneasy feeling, drops the key back into his pocket, and continues onward.

 The smell is even worse than he remembers. Hands of all different sizes reach for him through the metal bars, some begging for his forgiveness, others cursing his name. The majority partake in the latter, which fuels him even more. He holds the torch high, looking each one of them in the eye as he passes by the cells. Young, old, weak, strong, illusié or non—it doesn’t matter. This is his kingdom to rule as he sees fit. Any level of misconduct is punishable, as long as he deems it so.

 Finally, he arrives at the end of the long hallway. Clive’s cell is just steps away. As quietly as he can manage, he secures the flickering torch in the nearest wall sconce. Locking up illusié, especially one with Clive’s level of abilities, isn’t simple by any means. Most of the time, the guards end up severely injured or dead, which is why his Savant had taken the reins. But the Savant locking up one of their own? Not exactly something he’d been inclined to ask.

 Darius remains on the edge of the cell, intentionally not revealing himself. After news of Clive’s indiscretion with Aldreda, his Savant had obeyed his directive to bound, gag, and blindfold him. Removing his ability to see, speak, or move was the only way Darius knew how to suppress his casting capabilities. He’s about to find out just how effective that had been.

 With his back against the wall, Darius cautiously peers around the edge of the cell. At first glance, it’s so dark that all he sees is a vast sea of black. He keeps his eyes trained on the center of the cell, waiting for them to focus. Although barely discernible, a figure comes into view. He appears to be sitting at the very back of the cell, but Darius can’t tell if he’s awake or asleep, bound or free.

 “My old friend.”

 His voice is distinct, not muffled in the slightest—which means he’s no longer gagged. Out of habit, Darius traces the shape of the stone in his ring, remembering the power he holds in his very hands. It instantly makes him feel at ease.

 No longer hindered by his own hesitation, he brings himself in front of the cell door. Hazel eyes meet his own. He follows Clive’s gaze as it falls down his arm, to his hand. “Don’t worry,” he says, the contempt in his voice clear as day. “I’m not foolish enough to try anything.” His mouth presses into a firm line. “I know what you’re capable of.”

 This is not at all what Darius had expected. The man in front of him should have been in a frenzied rage after everything that had transpired. He’d lost his love. He’d lost his unborn child. And he’d lost them both at Darius’s hands. Clive should be writhing with fury and vengeance, cursing Darius’s name and weaving the most horrific illusions his twisted mind could conjure.

 Who was this pathetic, defeated shell of a man?

 “Time and time again, you continue to betray me.” A ghost of a smile touches the king’s lips. “Aldreda is dead. Perhaps now, you’ll finally understand how it feels. What the two of you did”—his voice catches in his throat—“I want to hear you say it. Tell me she’s dead.”

 Clive just hangs his head.

 “Look at me,” Darius hisses. “And say it out loud.”

 He keeps his eyes on the ground.

 “Say it!” Darius shouts, his voice echoing.

 With tear-stained cheeks, Clive lifts his head. His lower lip quivers as he whispers, “Aldreda is dead.”

 Broken. Fragile. If only she could see him now.

 Darius flings his robes to his sides, leaving Clive’s view as he retrieves the torch. As he walks toward the exit, he yells loud enough for everyone to hear. “After all this time, you’re well on your way to getting what you deserve. But believe me when I say that the worst is yet to come.”

 

 

RYDAN HELSTROM

 

 

 TO PROVE TO Vira that he wasn’t leaving, Rydan hadn’t left the house in days. He’d hoped that this truce would remove the tension between them, but it’d only grown worse. That is, until today.

 Today is the first day Vira seems even remotely cheerful. He’s in the middle of reading a fictitious tale based in the Crostan Islands when suddenly, she swings around the corner, her golden plaited hair catching in the light. Dangling from her arm is an ornate woven basket, and, almost immediately, Rydan senses what she has in mind.

 “I need to go into town to pick up a few things.” Her eyes twinkle like stars in a cobalt sky. “Care to join?”

 Rydan knows she’s just extended an olive branch. He also knows he’d be stupid not to take it. “Sounds great,” he says, closing the book and setting it on the table.

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