Asterious stepped toward her, prodding further as his game grew more interesting. “Why not? Maybe you killed him with magic. What more reason to want the man dead who placed a bounty on your kind?"
“I’m not magic. I’ve never even used a simple rune spell.” Caramyn began to fidget, but then put her hands at her sides, herrobe slipping open an inch. "My mother was half-Lightborn, like you. And you know as well as I do that magic does not transfer to children of half-breeds…”
“And your father?”
She flinched at the question. “I don’t know. My father…he left before I was born. But if he was of magic blood, my mother would’ve told me...” Something in the girl’s face shifted. The mask she wore slipped for all but a second as she threw her gaze to the floor and then back up. He noticed the way she kept her hands at her sides, but twisted the edges of her silky garment nervously.
“I see.” He breathed in, truly intrigued. “And may I ask what was your mother’s gift? Could it have had any bearing on your unusual eye color?”
“She…she was a wind weaver. One white eye, one sky-blue. She always told me she believed the reason I was born with eyes like these was because I was sick in the womb. And she found someone who used magic to save me…to keep me from dying. And it did this. I don’t have magic of my own. Believe me, I've tried.”
“You know there’s only one kind of magic said to be capable of bringing back the dead…and it does not come without consequence.” He raised an eyebrow.
“It wasn’t Shadow magic, if that’s what you’re getting at. I wasn’t dead. Just dying. Either way, it wasn’t my choice to make. Healing magic has its own price. Mine was this—a deformity. The mark of a mistake. Of someone who wasn’t meant to survive.”
“And yet you did.” His words came out softer than he meant them to. He was merely stating a fact, but she perked up at his voice and stared at him as if expecting more. That hard exterior she wore like armor cracking just a bit further.
But just as suddenly it returned, and she withdrew herself, crossing her arms. “You’re damn right. I did.”
“It’s quite entertaining the way those eyes of yours catch fire when you’re irked.” She scowled at his words, blushing as she looked away out the window again. He paced for a bit, letting her simmer a second longer before bringing the conversation back around. “You have no reason to worry. At least not about being tried for high treason. I have a strong suspicion of who the assassin might be, and it’s certainly not you.”
“Then shouldn’t you be there at Blackwynd doing something about it?” Caramyn raised her chin. “Or are you running from your duties like you ran from the bandits?”
Asterious pressed his lips together. He wouldn’t let her get under his skin with such a childish comment. “If that’s what you want to call it, sure. But it wouldn’t matter anyway. I’m the forgotten bastard heir, remember? The throne is out of my reach…for now.” He raised his hand casually, studying the ridges of his knuckles. “So, for the time being Evylere is without a king, and the Blackwynd Court’s facade is falling because the news is spreading. But you see, my father’s death wasn’t merely...convenient. It was calculated. Precise. Not the work of some vagrant spell-dodger in the woods.” His eyes flicked to her. “No offense.”
“I’m not offended,” she said flatly. “Just waiting for you to get to the point.”
“My point,” he continued, “is that my father’s murderer was someone who knew the palace, the guard rotations, the hidden passages. Someone with the authority to get close, and the skill to vanish afterward. Someone who stands to inherit everything and who was starting to hate him almost as much as I did.” He walked to the window, touching a finger to a blood red section of the stained glass. “And someone who hated me, too.”
Caramyn’s eyes begged him to go on, but she didn’t say anything as he let the words hang in the air.
“So, yes. I ran. I ran from Blackwynd. Because there festers a dark power that grows stronger each day, and it was only a matter of time before it turned its gaze on me. And I refused to become the next pawn in the game, to be hunted or used—least of all by the one person I believed would stand beside me—my dear own sister.”
12
Little Mystery
Caramyn
"You believe your own sister murdered the king so she could take the throne?” Caramyn asked, entranced by his story, but no less suspicious of why he was telling her.
“Whether that was her reason or not, Sinevia is the recognized heir, and her ascension as Queen has already begun. But she has unleashed something…somehow…and it’s far more dangerous to Evylere than my father.”
Caramyn scoffed. “Whatever it is, it could hardly be worse than Daemar. Sounds to me like she did the kingdom a favor.”
“I did not come here to debate kingdom politics. In fact, I did not come here to tell you any of this. I shared this with you in hopes you would see that I have no intention of being like my father, and that I don’t have time to play guessing games.”
“Then what is it that she’s unleashed that has you running so scared?”
The prince glared at her, the sunlight framing the hard outlines of his jaw and the bridge of his nose, highlighting every bit of his tension. “She has summoned Shadow magic…and it’s turned her into something unrecognizable.”
“But I thought Shadow magic—”
“Could only be wielded by Shadowbloods? So did I. But I suppose now that they’re extinct their Shadows need vessels to wield them—and will settle for anyone willing to sell their soul for power. It’s a wretched magic, and somehow, it has a claim on my sister. And I fear it’s seeking new vessels.”
Wretched.
His words cut like glass, reminding her that she must stay guarded. That she couldn’t dare get too comfortable and let something slip that could get her killed. She swallowed, thinking of how to redirect the focus off the cursed magic that tainted her blood. “Does Sinevia know you’re here?”
