Amara’s eyes narrowed slightly, then she cast a dark look at Gaius but didn’t say another word. She nodded at her guard, and they left the room.
Lucia had been given something that belonged to her brother. His black cloak had been found, discarded, in a hallway. The king recognized it, said it belonged to Magnus.
It was torn and bloody.
The sight of it brought fresh panic to Lucia’s chest. Her brother had suffered at Kurtis’s hand.
I’m so sorry, she thought, clenching the rough material in her hand. I blamed you, I hated you, I doubted you. I left you when you were the one of the best parts of my entire life. Forgive me, please.
She would find him.
With her father standing close to her with her baby, Lucia took a seat on a section of the floor clear of any furniture, closed her eyes, and concentrated.
Earth magic seemed to be the right element to call upon. She felt the weight of the cloak in her hand. She pictured Magnus—his tall stature, his dark hair that constantly fell into his eyes since he hated having it trimmed. His square jaw, his dark brown eyes that had gazed at her either seriously or mischievously, depending on the situation and the day. The scar on his right cheek from an injury he said he could not clearly remember.
The image of him shifted to something else then.
Blood on his face, dripping from a fresh cut under his eye. Fury in his gaze.
He strained against the chains that held his arms over his head.
“I can see him,” Lucia whispered.
“Where? Where is he?” Gaius asked.
“I think I’m seeing what’s already happened . . .” She tightened her grip on the cloak.
Kurtis’s weasel-like face came into view, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
Lucia drew in a sharp breath. “I feel Magnus’s hatred for Kurtis. He wasn’t afraid, even though the coward had to chain him up.”
“I will kill him,” the king growled.
Lucia tried to ignore him, tried to concentrate only on this vision in her mind. She’d once had another vision of the past—one of the original sorceress Eva’s death at the hands of Melenia. The moment the Kindred had made Cleiona and Valoria into goddesses a millennium ago.
She sank deeper into her earth magic and pressed it outward. Even now she could sense its growing limitations, and it frustrated her so much she wanted to scream.
Timotheus told her that Eva’s magic had also faded when she’d become pregnant. And this loss of strength and power had allowed her immortal sister the chance to end her life.
Lucia squeezed her eyes shut and focused on Magnus. Only Magnus. She hugged his cloak to her chest and followed the trail of earth elementia . . . the trace of his life, his blood, his pain . . .
Earth.
Deep earth.
Shovelfuls of dirt, one after another, hitting a closed wooden box.
“No . . .” she whispered.
“What do you see?” her father asked.
“It’s not what I see, it’s what I feel. It’s what Kurtis did to Magnus after torturing him.” Her voice broke. “He—he buried Magnus alive.”
“What?” Gaius roared. “Where? Where is my son now?”
Lucia tried to hold on to the horrific feelings and thoughts and scattered images moving through her mind, but they were as difficult to gather as dry leaves caught in a windstorm.
“It’s fading too quickly for me to sense that . . .” She cried out. “No—oh, goddess, no. I sensed Magnus’s heart beating in the darkness . . . but now . . .”
“Lucia! What do you sense now?” Gaius demanded.
Lucia let out a shuddering sob and finally opened her eyes. It was gone—the magic was gone, and the location spell she’d attempted was over.
“I sense only death.” A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t have the strength to push it away. “He’s dead . . . Magnus is dead.”
CHAPTER 4
MAGNUS
PAELSIA
For those who had chosen the path of evil in their mortal lives, the darklands had to feel exactly like this.
Endless darkness.
A slow, torturous suffocation.
And pain. So much pain.
Magnus’s broken bones made him useless, unable to fight, to pound at the wooden barrier only a breath above his face.
The expanse of time had felt eternal, but there was no way of knowing how long he’d been there. Trapped underground in a small, stifling wooden coffin. Struggling only made it worse. His throat was raw from screaming for someone, anyone, to find this freshly dug grave.
Every time he slipped away into the escape of sleep, he was certain he wouldn’t ever wake up again.
Yet he did.
Again and again.
Limerians weren’t buried in wooden boxes like this. As worshippers of the goddess of earth and water, their bodies were laid to rest directly in contact with dirt in their frozen graves, or cast into the waters of the Silver Sea, depending on the family’s decision.
Paelsians burned their dead.
Auranians worshipped the goddess of fire and air, so one would think they would favor the Paelsian burial ritual. But rich Auranians favored coffins chiseled from marble, while those of lower status chose wooden boxes.
“Kurtis had me buried like an Auranian peasant,” Magnus muttered.
Surely, this had to be the former kingsliege’s final insult.
To take his mind off of the horror of being buried alive and utterly helpless, he imagined how he would kill Lord Kurtis Cirillo. After much consideration, he thought a Kraeshian torture technique he’d heard of involving slowly peeling off all the prisoner’s skin sounded quite satisfying.
He’d also heard of burying a victim in the ground up to their neck, then covering them with tree syrup and allowing a nest of hungry beetles to consume them slowly.
That would be nice.
Or perhaps Magnus would remove Kurtis’s remaining hand. Saw it off slowly with a dull knife. Or a spoon.
Yes, a spoon.
The imagined sound of Kurtis’s screams helped Magnus shift his thoughts from his own situation. But these distractions rarely lasted long.
Magnus thought he heard the distant echo of thunder. The only other sound was his own heartbeat—fast at first, but now much slower. And his breath—labored gasping when he’d struggled in the beginning, but now quiet. Shallow.
I’m going to die.
Kurtis would finally get his vengeance. And such a death he’d chosen for his worst enemy. One in which Magnus had plenty of time to think about his life, his choices, his mistakes, his regrets.
Memories of ice mazes and sculptures carved out of chunks of snow in the shadow of the Limerian palace.
Of a younger sister he’d foolishly pined for, who’d then looked at him with horror and disgust and ran away with immortal pretty boys and fire monsters.
Of a beautiful golden princess who rightfully despised him. Whose blue-green eyes held only hate for so long that he didn’t remember precisely when her gaze had softened.
This princess who didn’t push him away when he kissed her. Instead, she kissed him back with a passion that very nearly matched his own.
Perhaps I’m only fantasizing all of it, he thought. I helped my father destroy her life. She should celebrate my death.
Still, he allowed himself to fantasize about Cleo.