Traitor's Crown (Stones of Terrene Book 3) Read online

Niles shook his head. “Unknown, sir. I was given this one by one of our men. And I haven’t heard of too much unrest along these lines,” Niles nodded to the paper as if it was a bomb, primed to explode. “But if there’s more of these out there, it’s going to get ugly, fast.”

  “No kidding,” Weston murmured as he scanned further down in the article. His eyes widened. “Royal Guard, Slate Stohner, older brother of the late Lady Sapphire Doldras, admitted to allowing the traitor, Cole Harris, into the palace at the time of the slaughter. Whether Stohner knew at the time what he was doing or not, he is responsible for the deaths of almost the entire Doldras family. Additionally, he then took and raised Adeline Grace Doldras as his daughter until the time of his death earlier this year.”

  Weston’s hands shook as his vision tunneled. He started to put the paper down, trying to calm the rage that smothered the shock building in his system, then pulled it close as he kept reading. He had to know everything it said. What would Jade’s reaction to such news be? She never mentioned anything, but it was clear by the shadows in her eyes and the occasional brittle smile that she still mourned her adoptive father’s passing. To see that some believed her adoptive father was responsible for this … how much salt would that add to Jade’s wounds?

  And if it was true. If Weston’s own father had had a hand in the fall of the royal family? If he had given money for it, shared technology with the rebels, any of what the paper insinuated? Weston’s blood boiled, and he snatched the paper up as he flung himself off the divan. He stormed out of his room.

  Niles followed, the chiding concern in his voice matching the chagrin in his face. “I didn’t mean for you to do something rash about it, Your Highness.”

  “I’m not being rash,” Weston muttered. He marched up to a nearby attendant. “Do you know where my father is?”

  The woman blanched at the anger in his tone. She pointed down the hall. “I believe he’s in his office, Your Highness.”

  Andre’s training of civility forced a “thank you” out of Weston’s stiff lips as he turned away. What he’d even say to Everett when he saw him, he didn’t know. But the possibility of his father having been involved in the murder of so many royals was more than he could stomach. He’d heard the stories from Andre. About the chaos. The suffering. The deaths of Andre’s beloved and his friends.

  Weston’s father had made shady dealings and treated individuals as things instead of people. This, Weston knew. But somehow this newspaper had broken what tolerance he had for his father’s methods.

  The two guards on either side of Everett’s office door saluted as one, and Weston ignored them, not waiting for either to open the door and announce him. He marched in, and Niles hung back, outside the office. Weston slammed the door. Everett looked up from where he leaned over several books open on his desk. Confusion pulled his eyebrows together before Weston threw the paper at him. It smacked into his father’s chest with a satisfying whack.

  Confusion morphed into fury in a heartbeat. Everett scooped the paper up and held it out, his face instantly red. “What the bleeding whales do you think you’re doing?” He hissed, moving around the desk to glower at Weston. “What is this?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Weston pointed at the paper. “Do you know what that says?”

  “No, actually. I don’t read things that are thrown at me.” Everett’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You know better than to strike me.”

  A chill of fear from his father’s words and their implied threat touched Weston, but the fire in his veins armored him against the ice settling on his nerves. He jabbed his finger into the paper. “Do you deny that you were involved with the murder of the Doldras royal family twenty years ago?” His father’s eyebrows flickered, and Weston pressed on. “Do you deny that you funded the rebels? That you gave them our bomb tech before you shared it with the rest of the nations?”

  Everett’s jaw clenched. “What’s in the past stays there. Never bring it up again.” He turned away.

  “Answer me!” Weston shouted. He grabbed at Everett’s jacket sleeve.

  “Do not grab me like some mewling child!” Everett flared, swinging around. He struck Weston’s face with the paper. “You have a problem, boy. You keep coming into here, demanding answers to things that don’t concern you.”

  Red overtook Weston’s vision and he snarled. “You have a problem. You never do what is right or honorable.”

  “Honorable?” Everett laughed, a vicious sound that scraped against the very air. “There is no room for honor. Not when we are the strongest.” He tossed the paper on his desk and crossed his arms, glaring down at Weston with haughty indifference. “Honor is what got Andre killed. Honor is what will entrap your little redhead. And honor is what will make your life miserable.” Everett leaned forward at the hips, almost gloating over his own corruption. “Honor, my son, is something no one in our family will ever have.”

  Rage pulled Weston’s fist back. Hatred made it fly. The memory of Andre halted it before it reached Everett.

  Everett’s expression showed surprise and a hint of smug satisfaction at Weston’s fist so close to his cheek. Weston lowered his hand, shaking like a leaf in a gale.

  He shook his head, teeth chattering. “Honor is something our family will eventually regain. Without you.” Weston took a step back, not trusting his temper. “You’re no father of mine.”

  Everett crossed his arms, watching Weston retreat to the door. “My blood runs through your veins. There is no escaping that.”

  Weston turned on his heel, and fled.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Raine

  Morning came with the dull clang of the bolt on Raine’s cell unlocking. Her head pounded as if she’d had one too many drinks at the Tipsy Paladin with Papa. But that was impossible. She hadn’t been there for months, and Papa only let her over-drink once, just so she’d learn her limit and be able to protect herself when out alone.

  She hadn’t even seen a drop of alcohol since she’d arrived at the Hollows.

  So why did everything ache like she’d seen the bottom of too many mugs?

  She pulled herself upright to sitting and hunched over with a gasp. Numb pain radiated through her very core, twisting her stomach more than her worst moon-flow cramps. Was she sick? Her body ached like she’d been put through a rigorous sparring regimen, but now that she was fighting in the pits half the time, that was a normal enough feeling. But this was something different. Somehow.

  She pressed her hand against the ache, mind reeling, trying to make sense of the extreme discomfort that blazed like fire every time she moved. What was this? Nothing in her room looked different—her cistern rested on the floor by her rock-carved bed, she sat on the thickest blanket she’d earned yet, and her Antian prisoner clothes made up her pillow. So why did she feel like something was inherently off?

  She leaned back against the stone wall, trying to wrack her memory for a clue. She’d seen Artemis—she had the bandage and healing itch on her back to prove that. And her full cistern meant she made it to the well and back just fine—even though all she remembered was arriving at the well, talking to Simon, and then … nothing.

  Her shirt felt twisted around, having bunched oddly around her back bandage in a way that it hadn’t done before for her previous tattoo session. She adjusted it, then set her feet to the floor to fix how her pants sat on her hips. She hesitated as an uncomfortable sensation akin to fear but closer to dread sank into her bones. Why was seeing Simon the last thing she remembered?

  Her core panged as she stood, and she grasped at the wall, realization deadening her emotions. Simon.

  He’d done this to her.

  He’d used her. And tried to cover his tracks by returning her to her room. That had to be why everything hurt. He must’ve put something in the water, used her, then dragged her up here. How? How had she been locked in her cell though? Wouldn’t she have been late for getting locked in? Had the guards been in on it? Had
he bribed them somehow?

  Nausea twisted her gut, and she braced her forearm against the wall as she dry heaved.

  She was slated to work in the mines for half a shift, then fight against Lynx tonight. How could she fight when barely moving hurt? How could she fight when reeling from the realization that she’d been raped?

  The babble of Yorick and his men coming up the ramp to pass by her cell for breakfast set her nerves over the edge. If they weren’t directly in on Simon’s plan, it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t go out of their way to help her.

  If anything, they’d be upset that they didn’t get to do the same, and they’d be searching for an opportunity that her guard was down, or she showed vulnerability.

  She turned away from the gate, facing the salt-striped wall.

  What she wouldn’t give to have her sword in her hand to mete out justice. It didn’t matter if in a prison or in a king’s palace. Theft was theft. He took what didn’t belong to him, and he deserved to pay for it.

  A shiver worked its way down her spine. It had to have been something in the water. She needed to stay hydrated, but did she dare drink it again? She eyed her cistern with trepidation. Had he done something to her water here? She couldn’t trust what was in her cell. The mess hall would have water was theoretically trustworthy, assuming Simon wasn’t working in the kitchen today. But what about later? There was no way of knowing if she was one sip away from having it happen again.

  Her jaw popped as she gritted her teeth. Being sent to the Hollows was bad enough. Losing her grandfather, losing Ben, knowing that the barrier was down, all that added to the mental drain of being trapped. But this? This was the final herb to the potion of poison. She couldn’t live in constant fear of what was going to happen to her. She couldn’t be suspicious of what she ate and drank all the time. It was bad enough that she had been cautious, but for naught.

  She needed to be untouchable. She needed Simon to leave her alone. She needed everyone to leave her alone.

  What she’d do when she next saw Simon, she didn’t know. Inmate fights were prohibited, unless it was in the pits. And he never fought there, always proclaiming that he was too weak, that he wasn’t a fighter. But she couldn’t let this go unchecked. There had to be something she could do, aside from use his back for a rest for her pickaxe. But this wasn’t the moment for thinking of revenge.

  She’d get to that once she got past today. Right now, she needed to armor herself emotionally. She blew out a breath and straightened, ignoring the twinges of protest throughout her body. She needed to act as if nothing was wrong and prepare for the battle tonight. Turn her pain, her fear, her anger, into a weapon unto itself.

  She would teach them. All of them.

  If this was to be her life here in the Hollows, everyone would learn to fear her name.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Raine

  Raine followed the same guard that had led her to the pit for her first fight, fretful energy alighting on her nerves, mixing with the dull ache and heaviness that remained in her body. Whatever Simon had used on her had finally faded fully from her system, but now a different burden settled on her. The weight of sorrow. The heady thickness of anger. The crippling pain of being weak enough to have been taken advantage of.

  The fury that begged for vengeance.

  But that vengeance needed to be unleashed against Simon. She wanted to beat Lynx so she could climb the rank of the board, but odds were good she’d place on it after this fight anyway, if she lasted long enough. And if she lost and joined Holden’s gang, there was a whole new slew of problems there that she hadn’t considered before. Would it be better to be there, away from Simon? Or would it be worse, because she wouldn’t have a cell of her own to be safe?

  Raine rubbed the goosebumps that erupted on her arms. No matter where she was, what she did, there was no ally. No safety. She was one woman against a prison of men.

  One of whom that had stolen something infinitely precious from her.

  The rowdy babble of the gathered prisoners reached Raine before she could shake the melancholy. Her escort guard stopped in front of the gate to the pit and unlocked it without fanfare.

  He held it open and gave a bow that seemed almost sincere. “Don’t die out there, I have money on you lasting at least two minutes,” he remarked with a casual indifference.

  She hefted her sword and marched past him, adjusting her stride to accommodate for the loose gravel covering the sunken pit. Lynx stood in the center, the sleeves of his shirt torn away to show off his corded muscle and the required base prison tattoo. Below the simple black band stretched the crimson inked checkerboard pattern of a level two prisoner. He held his sword loosely, his gaze never straying from her as she slowly drew closer.

  Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd. She’d seen Lynx fight. She studied his style. He was smooth in battle, hard to hit. Constantly moving, graceful, despite his sturdy build. And he was trained. Not just a prisoner who’d picked a random weapon here, swinging wantonly. He was the most dangerous she’d ever witnessed with a sword.

  She had to beat him.

  Holden shouted something to the crowd behind her, but she paid him no mind. She stayed still, gripping her sword with both hands. Waiting.

  A flash of Lynx’s eyes was the only warning she got before he was moving. He opened his mouth in a yell that scraped against her eardrums with its jarring, inhuman sound. He only made noise when in battle. And nothing about it sounded normal. Even knowing this, she nearly flinched away.

  There was no rage in his blue eyes as his sword slammed into hers. Just determination.

  She planted her feet firmly under her, cautious to not let herself slide on the gritty floor. One mistake, one slip, and she was dead.

  Something flashed in the light filtering from the ceiling airways and she jerked back, hissing as metal sliced her forearm. She retreated, panting. He let her go, his jaw set, sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. Since when did Lynx use a dagger? She risked a glance down at her arm. Blood dribbled down in crimson rivulets, splattering into the sand-like dirt. Mostly superficial. It’d still work. For now.

  The noise level increased, and she looked up just in time to deflect a sword blow aimed for her shoulder. He leaned in and her right boot slid across the floor. She struggled to regain her traction. She shoved with her weight, hilt against hilt, and he rocked back a half step. She spun away, purposefully kicking up the dirt, hoping that maybe some would reach his eyes and blind him temporarily.

  He gave a guttural snarl and pivoted to face her.

  Had he sheathed his dagger? She didn’t see it in his hand.

  Sweat dripped and stung the sensitive skin of her healing back. He surged forward and she parried, twirling the sword in an attempt to disarm him. He countered, and something sparked in his eyes: surprise, curiosity, resolve. She took the moment of his distraction to swing, and he backed away, just slow enough for her to feel the vibration of her sword grazing his ribs. Blood darkened a line on his shirt.

  A wave of sound rippled through the crowd, but Raine tuned them out as fierce triumph flickered in her heart. She’d bloodied him. She had a chance.

  Confidence surged through her, and she rocked to the balls of her feet, shooting forward, striking for his side. He lifted his sword in a graceful parry that swung her blade away, leaving her momentarily defenseless. Then he was there, in her space, his dagger’s tip poking in her ribs.

  She froze, holding his gaze, lungs ablaze with the need for air. She gave a short nod of acknowledgment as despair and exhaustion battled for dominance in her. He won.

  The cage rattled around them as their onlookers cheered and drummed their hands against the metal in their fervor. She didn’t break her eyes away from his, waiting for him to either lower the weapon or run her through with it.

  Did she even have a preference as to what he’d do?

  As if he understood the gloom that had crossed ove
r her, he blinked and stepped back, sheathing the dagger. He lifted his chin and drew his shoulders back, accepting the crowd’s accolades. Raine closed her eyes against the cacophony. It was done. She’d be moving levels.

  * * *

  Raine’s arm tingled with the fresh red-checkered tattoo of Holden’s level, and she fought the black despair and uncertainty that had taken hold the moment Lynx’s blade had touched her ribs. There had been no chance to talk to Artemis while her friend added the new ink to her prison markings; not with Holden watching over the work, his smug gloating palpable across the room. Lynx and several of Holden’s goons waited outside the med room.

  Artemis wrapped Raine’s arm with deft fingers and a measure of reluctance. Artemis looked up at Raine through thick eyelashes and strands of her unnaturally red hair, concern evident in her eyes. She hadn’t used the healing salve she typically did. She couldn’t with the witnesses here. Artemis straightened to spit Holden with her glare. “No mines for her tomorrow. She’ll need to rest after all the work I’ve done on her recently.”

  Holden guffawed. “That’s not up to you.”

  Artemis brushed past Raine, standing toe-to-toe with Holden. “If you want me to finish the work on your leg, then it is up to me.” Her voice held a quiet coldness that Raine had never heard before. Artemis’s tone dropped an octave. “Your choice.”

  Holden’s mouth puckered like he’d just ate a rotten lemon, but he nodded. “Fine. No mines for her tomorrow.” He looked past Artemis to Raine. “Come on, girl. Time to show you your new home.”

  “I want to get my things,” Raine replied. Anything to put this off, even if for just a few minutes.

  Holden smirked. “Already sent for it. No excuses.”

  Raine followed Holden out, skin crawling as three of Holden’s men fell in around them, chuckling as their gaze raked over her, leaving her feeling exposed despite her layered clothing. Lynx followed behind, silent.