The captain stuck his foot out, tripping the other man, who landed in an undignified heap. Pain spiked through my own skull, making me wince. That fall had definitely hurt, although the injured man didn’t make the smallest sound of discomfort.
The captain sneered down at his prisoner, while the six guards stepped forward and kicked the other man, driving their boots into his ribs, hips, and legs. The prisoner huddled on the ground, his head tucked down, his back toward me, and his arms wrapped around his sides, trying to protect himself.
More pain spiked through my skull, and sympathy pricked my heart like a red-hot needle. Thanks to the Seven Spire massacre, I knew exactly how awful it was to be down on the ground, alone and helpless, and surrounded by enemies. How fearful it was to never know when or where the next blow was coming from, or how much it would hurt, or if the next attack would be the one that finally killed you—
“Enough!” the captain bellowed. “You’ve had your fun.”
The guards stopped their assault and stepped back. Silence dropped over the clearing. The prisoner rolled over onto his stomach, then pushed himself up to his hands and knees and leaned back on his heels.
The injured man raised his head. Black hair, dark amethyst eyes, tan skin. Shock knifed through me, even sharper and harder than his pain had.
The prisoner was Prince Leonidas Morricone.
Chapter Four
I sucked in a loud, surprised breath, and Leonidas glanced over at me.
Our gazes locked. Even though I had seen him earlier, this was the first time I had looked him in the eyes since we were children. For once, phantom screams didn’t ring in my ears. No, all I could hear was the sudden, painful hammering of my heart, picking up force and speed with every passing second.
I held my breath, waiting for recognition to erupt in his eyes, and anger to stain his cheeks as he realized exactly who I was, but his features remained blank and impassive, except for the tiny frown that quirked his lips, as though he wasn’t sure what to make of me.
“Get up,” the captain growled.
He yanked on the chain again, almost jerking the prince back down to the ground, but Leonidas stiffly climbed to his feet. He glared at the captain, his amethyst eyes as dark as storm clouds. The cold fury in his features made me shiver. Even shackled, he was still extremely dangerous.
Leonidas’s gaze darted over to me again. Magic flared in his eyes, although it was a dull, dim flash, like a match trying to sputter to life in a monsoon, given the coldiron collar and shackles that were dampening his abilities. Still, his power brushed up against me, as light as a feather tickling my skin, but with a hot, electric undercurrent that made my stomach clench with anger, worry, and something else that was far more troublesome.
The faint, weak sensation was as soft and polite as a servant’s knock on a door, but I immediately swatted his magic away with my own power, as hard and fast as Grimley knocking a vase off a table with his tail.
The feathery, electric feel of his magic vanished, but Leonidas’s eyes narrowed, and he studied me even more closely. I cursed my own foolishness. I shouldn’t have reacted to his power, much less batted it away with my own. Now he knew I was more than what I appeared to be.
“See something you like, princeling?” the captain mocked. “I had no idea you were so fascinated by miners. Why, I thought you were too good to tumble with the palace servants.”
“Just marking the faces of my enemies,” Leonidas replied in an icy tone. “I will kill you for this, Wexel, along with everyone else here.”
He looked at first one guard, then the next with cold calculation, as though he was figuring out how best to murder them all, despite his shackles. Some of his captors shifted on their feet, while a couple sidled back a few steps.
Wexel was the only one who didn’t shrink away from the prince’s glare. “I don’t take orders from you. Never have, never will. You should have stayed in Morta. Not stuck your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Forget him,” Conley snapped. “Let’s get down to business.”
Wexel’s gaze swung over to the foreman. To his credit, Conley didn’t wilt under the captain’s hot, steady glower, which made him both brave and foolish.
The captain strode forward, still clutching the coldiron chain, which clank-clank-clanked. The harsh, ominous sound made me wince. Beside me, Penelope stood rooted in place, her breath escaping in shallow gasps. The other miners hefted their pickaxes a little higher, and even Conley swallowed, betraying his nerves.
Wexel stopped in front of the foreman and smiled, his white teeth flashing like sharp, pointed pearls. “What were you saying?”
“I—I—I brought what you wanted,” Conley stammered.
“Then quit wasting time and show it to me,” Wexel growled.
The foreman flapped his hand at the two men with the wheelbarrows, who rolled the containers forward and set them down. Conley ripped the black tarps off first one wheelbarrow, then the other.
Jagged chunks of tearstone glinted in the sun, their colors shifting from light gray to dark blue and back again.
Wexel grabbed a chunk of tearstone and hefted the ore in his hand, as if testing its weight. He nodded, apparently satisfied, then tossed the piece over to one of his men, who caught it. “Load it up.”
Four guards strode forward and transferred the tearstone from the wheelbarrows into several large black leather satchels. Those men must all have had strength magic, because carrying the bulging bags didn’t seem to bother them.
Leonidas eyed the satchels. “What are you going to do with the tearstone?”
A low, ugly laugh rumbled out of Wexel’s mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He sneered at the prince, then looked at Conley. I tensed again, thinking that Wexel might order his guards to murder the foreman, along with the rest of us. Conley must have been considering the same thing, because he wet his lips and took a step back, as though he was ready to run for his life.
Several seconds ticked by in utter silence. Worry blasted off Conley, Penelope, and the other miners and squeezed around me like a python strangling its prey.
Wexel jerked his head, and a guard stepped forward and threw another, different satchel down onto the ground in front of Conley. Several clink-clink-clinks rang out, and a few gold crowns spilled out of the bag. Instead of a Ripley gargoyle, the gold was stamped with a woman’s face, with two tiny coins forming her eyes and a third coin forming her mouth.
The coined woman was the crest of the DiLucris, the powerful, wealthy family behind the Fortuna Mint, a bank that dealt with all sorts of unsavory characters and engaged in its own dark deeds. Smart of Wexel to pay Conley with DiLucri gold so that the stolen tearstone couldn’t be traced directly back to the Mortans.
Greed surged off Conley, the hungry, gnawing emotion even stronger than his worry, and he dropped to his knees, scooped the errant coins back into the satchel, and hoisted it onto his shoulder. Conley climbed back to his feet, staggering a little under the satchel’s heavy weight, but more greed surged off him, and he steadied himself.
Conley started creeping backward, but Wexel held up a hand, and the foreman froze.
“I need you to take care of something else,” Wexel said.
Conley frowned. “I’ve told you before. I need at least a week to stockpile this much tearstone, as per our usual schedule.”