Breaking Stars (Book 2) (3 page)

He pointed a finger at her. “You’re going to give me problems.”

“You will like them.”

Mikelle never had much of a mind for trusting people, and as a result she found it difficult to be loyal when so many people mistreated one another. She had spent many years in the Shshonan Palace of King Victor in Arconia, and she had seen countless tyrants, traitors, and mutineers with the faces of powerful men. She trusted King Victor who never had a reason to misuse her, but she disliked the Queen and even the Princes Quinn and Virgil. But as morning rose, and she looked down on the sleeping face of the most powerful man living, she could not resist the loyalty forming to him.

Gabriel was a quiet sleeper, but he had awoken in the middle of the night suddenly and took time getting back to sleep. Thankfully, he did not steal the covers nor mind when she did. He remained asleep, half covered and tucked into his pillow even after the sun rose and breakfast was brought up.

Mikelle rose and brushed her long hair with orange oil until it shone. Unlike Lace and Bianji, who had jewels set into every facet of metal, Mikelle had more of a modest upbringing and was without the precious stones save the gifts King Victor had given her. She did not mind, for a woman with power did not adorn herself with finery to make herself beautiful; rather, she acted with dignity and grace to adorn herself with light. She chose a deep green dress with copper slashes in the skirts and sleeves. In the cold autumn on Anatoly, she wished she had brought something warmer. Arconia sat further south and would be warmer this time of year. Satin was proper down there, but here she would have preferred a stout cotton or even a fine wool.

Gabriel slept soundlessly on the edge of the bed, and she almost hated to wake him. He was as handsome as a painting and looked so peaceful. The Castrofax stood out on the white background of the sheets, and she resisted the urge to touch them. Though Arconia had remained neutral in the Mage Wars, they still whispered of the fabled Six, and most people dared not even speak the names. She wondered if Ryker was still making more.

“You’re watching me sleep again,” he whispered, jumping her out of her thoughts.

“Get up then.”

He shifted a little and opened his eyes, stark blue against the white of the pillow. Cracking his neck, he rolled to his back and adjusted the neckpiece Castrofax. “I slept in.” The harsh red burns across his wrists were more visible in the morning light, but she dared not ask how they got there.

“As far as anyone knows, we wore you out.” She held up a hot mug of tea. “How do you drink tea?”

“With cream.”

“Strange. We saved breakfast for you.”

He sat up and the sheets fell to his waist. She could not help but look him up and down again. She had seen many fine men stripped to the waist, but she presently forgot them and forced her eyes back up to his. He was glaring at her.

“Have my clothes arrived?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I had them burned.”

He pointed sharply towards the door, and the wristlet slid forward to the heel of his hand. She gave him a mocking curtsey before exiting into the main room. Shayleen sat in her usual window seat, tuning her violin with Lace filing her nails. Bianji sat hunched over a book with a mug of tea in one hand.

Mikelle found his clothes nicely pressed and folded. She quickly threw the shirt at Bianji who looked up accusingly, then carefully refolded it and placed it under the nearest pillow.

“Has anyone seen Gabriel’s shirt?” Mikelle asked loudly.

“Cannot say that
I
have,” Bianji replied.

“I do not think it arrived,” Lace chimed in.

“You are all so mean,” said Shayleen quietly.

Satisfied, she returned to Gabriel. He had slid out from under the covers and sat perched on the bed in his undershorts with a well-tuned glare. Despite the thick mass of black waves on his head, the rest of him was not hairy, leaving his chest and stomach smooth. She liked that. He snatched the trousers from her and quickly pulled them on. She held up the vest with new buttons and tried to imagine what he would look like wearing only that, but while she was in her dreamy world, he slipped off to the washroom and locked the door behind him.

She returned to the main room and poured cream in his tea. It was a very Anatolian thing to do. She set out a plate of sliced ham, rolled sweet breads, dates, and hardboiled eggs. Gabriel emerged a little while later having washed his face, his curls still damp. He scrubbed at the faint stubble on his cheeks, but he lacked a blade to make a difference and so resigned to leave it.

“Won’t you be bathing before you go?” Mikelle grinned.

He managed a laugh as if it was the most absurd suggestion he had ever heard. “Which of you has it?” he asked instead, staring Mikelle down. None of them looked up, suddenly very invested in whatever activity they were doing.

“Come, have breakfast.” Mikelle said instead.

He folded his arms over his bare chest. “I don’t trust you.”

“I haven’t touched it,” she stated.

“She hasn’t.” Bianji eagerly chimed in.

“I’m not hungry enough to find out.” The trouser hem around his waist seemed to be a little loose. It sat snugly around his hipbones when it should have sat a little higher. She wondered if the Castrofax had something to do with that, but she did not mind too much as the muscles on his stomach were so obvious it was hard not to stare.

She lifted a few of the silver covers hiding the food. “Is there nothing here that appeases you?”

He sniffed at his tea suspiciously before taking a sip. It was likely getting cold, and she was surprised to see him put thumb and middle finger under it as if to snap, then stopped himself. He closed his eyes in what looked like frustration, and put the hand in his pocket. “Do I smell bacon?”

She lifted a cover to reveal thin strips of charred meat that looked most unappealing. He snatched up two before she could recover.

“May I have my shirt?” Gabriel asked politely, though she thought she heard the faintest sound of defeat in it.

“It is under Bianji’s pillow,” Shayleen called in Arconian before Mikelle could reply. To drown Mikelle’s reprimand, Shayleen played a loud tune with rapid finger movements along the frets. Bianji tossed the shirt to him, and he caught it with his forearm.

“If anyone asks—” he began, slipping it on.

“We had a
satisfying
evening,” Mikelle cut in. “Would you like one of us to walk you to your room?”

He gave her a pinched look. “I don’t need an escort.” He straightened his collar and tightened the laces around his chest, concealing the copper bands that had become so recognizable in the palace. She supposed he thought if he could hide it, people would not know him, but he had such a memorable face, and he could not hide that so easily.
‘Or perhaps he hides the band because he is ashamed?’
A wave of sympathy washed over her, and she searched his face for any trace of expression, but it was void. He did the new buttons up on his vest and tightened the synch in the back to fit snugly around his waist while fixing his blue eyes on her. They were so bright in color, but there seemed to be lack of life in them
. ‘Could he be losing his fight?’

“I will walk you to the end of the hall,” she said and stood. “This palace is vast; far larger than Shshonan Palace.”

He bid the ladies a good day, giving each a kiss on their cheek. He thanked them for an enjoyable evening, saying he wished all his nights could be filled with Tiles and pretty faces. Mikelle inwardly smiled, knowing flattery when she heard it. He may deny it, but he was quite good with telling people what they wanted to hear, and she warranted that skill could get people to do his bidding easily.
‘He would make a powerful leader if ever given the chance.’
The inward smile slipped away.
‘He will never be given that chance. He will die in his binds having spent what should have been a grand life as a slave to a tyrant.’

She wondered how much longer she would have to spend with him before the Arconians were spirited away. It would either be when the new Queen took reign, or when all the Arconians were impregnated. If the latter, she would fall into that count, and she would have to take from him what he was not willing to give. She swallowed at the thought. She had come to Anatoly planning on lying with the Mage if needs be, but she never expected he would capture her loyalty so easily. Had he asked, she would have fought for him to her last breath.

Gabriel looked at her with slightly raised brows. She brushed a hand through the air to dismiss whatever he saw. Taking his arm, she led him to the door as he said a final farewell. The hall was quiet but for a gaggle of four Arconians sitting in the window seat. They all fell silent when Gabriel stepped out. Mikelle took up his arm and clutched him tightly, but not just to make him appear to be hers. The weakness had returned.

Since she was a teen she had experienced bouts of weakness that grew steadily and more frequent, often mixed with pain. She had to rely on the strength of others to keep her on her feet. No one knew the truth, for she hid it too well, but she was far weaker on the inside than the out. She hid the pain with a sly smile and spent more time sitting than standing, rolling with the fatigue and pain. Spirit Mages had looked at her many times, but all they could discover were the unusual small size of her kidneys.

She clutched his arm tighter and felt him lift her a little. If he suspected anything, he kept it to himself, keeping his eyes ahead and focused on the hall. Because she had no options, no chance of change, she battled through the symptoms and stayed on her feet. She would walk the hall with him, then return to her room without help and sit down.
‘A little fresh air in the window would help.’

They came to the end of the hall, and she gave his arm a squeeze. “Nolen will send a girl tonight. We will try and cut her off before she arrives, once we learn who it is.”

He nodded and slipped his arm from her grasp. His smile was thin and pinched, a look she understood as a resignation to his fate. She kept hold of his arm for more reasons than one.

“Fight them,” she whispered. “Please do not give in.”

“I’m trying,” he replied quietly, but his face said it was only a matter of time before his hope left him. She squeezed his arm again before letting go.

Chapter 2

The Mage’s dejected look pleased Nolen more than he let himself believe. He spied the Mage across Nuneel’s Grand Hall where the floors were open and railed revealing the levels below in imitation of Castle Jaden’s Lodge. The Mage was a floor below and had not seen him, so Nolen rushed to cut him off at the nearest staircase. A few people greeted Nolen, but more greeted the Mage, pausing to speak about the broken star and congratulate him. He spoke cordially and assured he had nothing to do with it, but when they turned away the same despairing look came upon his face. Even the slump of his shoulders and downturn of his head said he was nearly beaten.

Nearly.

Nolen strode on ahead quickly and took the stairs swiftly. The padded carpets hid the patter of his boots, so when he reached the floor, he nearly hit the Mage. They met eyes for a moment, but the Mage casted his to the ground. Nolen cuffed him anyway.

“I will see you in my rooms,” Nolen told him and pointed up the stairs. “We have much to discuss.”

The Mage did not bother raising a hand to the red slap on his face, instead keeping his hands in his pockets and his eyes down. He took to the stairs and followed Nolen one step behind. Nolen wore the control piece every waking hour, enjoying the coursing energy far more powerful than his own. He was told Spirit Mages were strong enough to feel the energies of people, and sometimes tell their mood, but he could not feel the Mage’s. Instead, he felt his
own
energy, and it had a certain excitement to it.

Nolen threw open the door to his rooms and led the Mage to a chair before the warm hearth. As Gabriel leaned back to sit, Nolen grabbed his shoulders from behind and jerked him into the chair, making him verbally wince.

“Be quiet,” Nolen snapped as the Mage readjusted his position. Nolen leaned forward and put his hands on the back of the chair, bringing his head down to the Mage’s right ear. “Did Axa treat you well?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “She tells me things I am inclined to believe.” The Mage remained motionless, staring into the flames, hardly breathing.

Nolen walked around to face him, wanting to see his expression when he revealed the news. The Mage stared into the flames, careful not to make eye contact again, and he folded his arms over his chest.

“Have you read up on the Castrofax you wear?” he asked, but the Mage made no reply. “If you had, you would learn it was the most used. Have you wondered why?” The Mage shifted his eyes a little but did not raise them.

Nolen paused a long while until the Mage closed his eyes and sighed, “Just tell me.”

Nolen smirked, knowing he was getting to him. “You are no longer a river of energy—now you are a well and all wells run dry. The more I use your power, the less remains until there is nothing left—then you will die.”

The Mage stared in to the flames, and through him Nolen could felt the excitement emanating from himself. Nolen rocked back on his heels and folded his arms, watching the blank expression on his captive’s face. Suddenly, the Mage raised his eyes and met Nolen’s, halting the rocking.

“You should not look so smug. Without my power you are no more than a peon, and without me as a shield, you will have to suffer the judgment of the Head Mage.” His voice gained strength as he spoke. “Ryker will not be able to protect you.”

“By the time you die, I will already be King, and no one can say no to me.”

“The Head Mage answers to no man.” He rose to his feet, and Nolen felt suddenly short. The Mage’s eyes were wild. “By the time you are ready to take the throne, it won’t be your mother you’re fighting off, it will be Robyn Bolt, and if you so much as raise a finger to her, I swear to you I will slit my own throat to prevent you hurting her.”

Nolen unfolded his arms and balled a fist, drawing it back to strike, but the Mage blocked the hit and pushed his arm aside. He grit his teeth and felt foolish in failing. “Do you know what an oubliette is?”

“No.”

Nolen refolded his arms to appear bigger. “It is a hole in the ground in which we throw prisoners to forget. We have several in the dungeons used in the darker times, but I will have one uncovered and throw your father in if you dare speak to me again this way.” For good measure he swung a fist to see if the Mage would resist, but after the hit to the jaw threw the Mage back into his chair, he knew his point had gotten through. His captive kept his blue eyes shut and a hand on his jaw, working it gently.

“You seem to know a lot about my cousin Princess Robyn, and you said her name without her salutation, so I wager you know her
very
well.” The Mage made no attempt to raise his eyes. “Did you think me so stupid I would not realize it was her?”

“
Yes
.”

“That wasn’t a question!”

The Mage feinted left when Nolen raised a hand. But the Mage was correct. He had
not
realized it was his cousin until she was already gone. Had he known, she would be dead. “Will she come for you?”

“She’s safe in Jaden waiting for her birth anniversary.”

“And when is that?”

“Very, very soon.” He brought a hand away from his chin to see if it was bleeding, then put a finger on the tip of a tooth and wiggled. He made a sucking sound and spat into the fire. “You should start packing for flight.”

“I will not run from a child with no power. Should you try to kill yourself to prevent my attack, I will see you restrained.”

“That won’t stop me.” Nolen watched as the Mage put both hands flat on the armrests and closed his eyes to Nolen’s amazement and horror. Without moving his fingers, the Mage drew strings of blue from his chest and carefully looped them together without fueling the pattern. “I was always told to never lay a pattern with my mind, that it was forbidden because it is so dangerous, but I suppose danger is what we want now.” He opened his eyes and looked at the loops. “You do not know this pattern.”

Nolen knew a few in each Element, enough to make him look impressive but not enough to hold off more than a dozen attackers.

“This is a Lannon-seep-pattern, and were I to fuel it, it would pull all the moisture from my body. I warrant with Overturn, just fueling the pattern would dry my skin to a crisp and kill me.” He met Nolen’s eyes. “You have most of the tiles, but I have a few to my name still.”

“Then you have too many,” Nolen hissed. “Get out.”

The Mage did not pause to ask how much time he had left, and Nolen suspected it was because he already knew something was wrong with his energy. Instead he left without a word, slamming the door as he exited.

Balien lied.

The Prince stood in Nuneel’s Grand Hall on the fifth level where he could watch everything without being seen. His informants often left him notes in the loose pieces of scrollwork and knots in the balcony, but nothing of importance was tucked there today, so Balien stayed to watch the palace work. He had briefly glimpsed Gabriel, then Nolen, but lost them both. Knowing Gabriel would likely pass through the hall if he returned to his rooms, Balien waited to see his mood.

Sure enough, Gabriel came striding from Nolen’s chambers with a furious, pinched look as he took the stairs to his landing.

‘I am sorry, brother, for so much I cannot express.’

Balien hoped lying about his chastity would help Gabriel cope with the Arconians, but it had been a farce. Balien was a Prince, a noble of whom much was expected. Chastity was one such thing. He heard enough from his soldiers to know their thoughts and emotions on the matter, enough to fake his own, but he remained chaste. A tutor once told him that his duty was to protect his sister and her throne, and were he to impregnate a woman and were she to conceive a girl, his daughter would be next in line. He dared not. If Nolen discovered her, he would kill her, and it was a risk he could not bear. He had his eye on a few of the well-bred Arconian, but until his sister was seated and Nolen locked in a dark pit, it was not something he would broach.

Gabriel passed through his vision as he crossed the hall and vanished behind the lip of the fourth floor. His stride was angry, but there was a stoop to his head Balien had grown used to. He reprimanded himself for accepting it as normal and clenched his teeth in defiance.
‘There is still fight left in you, brother, and I will do my best to see it brought out.’

Gabriel’s rage ebbed away with every step he took from Nolen’s room, and slowly it was replaced with sorrow. He knew something was wrong with his energy, and like all things in his captive state, he denied its existence. But now that it was vocally confirmed with a true explanation, the weight of acceptance sank in his chest.

The halls were void of souls on the route he took, and he was thankful. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he hung his head as he moved, slowing his pace. His hair fell over his forehead into his eyes, but he could not be bothered to shake it aside. He turned left down a corridor to his rooms but faltered mid-stride.

A tall man stood in the middle of the hall facing him. He had a powerful build with strong legs, a broad chest, and stood with a proud air. His hair was as black as Gabriel’s, longer and pulled back in a tail with a few strands hanging loose around his forehead. He had a full, neatly trimmed beard. The panes of his tanned face were flat with a strong chin, brow and a bold nose, while his deeply-set eyes seemed to bore into Gabriel. A dark red coat swathed around him, expertly tailored and fitted to perfection. His boots hid under long black trousers that banded with a belt of woven gold, and his large hands perched on the edge of them as if he had been waiting a while.

Gabriel was uncertain what action to take next. The man looked as proud as a ruler, and had Gabriel been forced to introduce him to a crowd, he certainly would have proclaimed him a king. In fact, it seemed strange that his brow was not graced with a circlet of gold, and his clothes were not adorned with embroidery and jewels. Was this man some new torment sent from Nolen?

It took Gabriel a second to size the man up before his stride came to an end and he was forced to make a decision, but mercifully, the man made it for him. His face softened, and he held Gabriel’s eyes for a moment as his thin lips drew a pleasant line. The man looked wizened, with brilliantly-blazing old eyes, but his face was void of wrinkles and age. He could be no older than Cordis and no younger than Gabriel, but Gabriel could not put a number to his years.

“Right on time,” he said lowly, his voice deep like grating rocks.

Gabriel stopped his forward motion and looked at the man with battle defense stance while keeping his hands sheathed. They were useless weapons now, and he never learned hand-to-hand combat, so they were even more impractical.

“Did Nolen send you?” Gabriel asked in a dark tone, his blood spiking at the new confrontation.

The man smiled. “Nay, that one lays no claims to command me.” His deep voice was soothing, though his accent was faint and untraceable. “I am here for you.” Oddly enough, Gabriel had a suspicion he knew the man, as if he saw him in a crowd or met him long. The only discernible marking on his clothing was a faint shape carved into his golden belt reminiscent of the flames from the Fire emblem.

Gabriel frowned. “You’ve caught me at a bad time,” he said and swallowed, feeling the neckpiece shift. It was displayed through his collar, and the man saw it bob with his throat. “I cannot help you.”

“I am not here for your help.” The man stated. “Nor are you here for mine.”

Gabriel raised a brow in question and shook his hair aside.

“You need no help from any man or Mage—it was not what you were created for.”

“Do you know me?” Gabriel asked incredulously and tapped his neckpiece.

“I do. And what you need is not help, but hope.”

Gabriel laughed at the idea. “Who are you?”

“Some call me Brande, some Etain or Azar, others have names you know, but I cannot reveal. I call myself Arding, and I know you.” His voice calmed Gabriel’s heated skin and shifted his stance to casual. “You are meant for very great things.”

Gabriel stared at him, seeing for the first time how deeply green his eyes were, and found he had no words to argue.

The man took a step forward and put his broad hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. It was hot. “Take heart, my son, there are powerful players in this catastrophe you do not see.”

“And you know my future?” Gabriel whispered.

“Nay, lad, but I would have abandoned you long ago if I was fearful of it.” He tapped the Castrofax without fear. “This is but a setback.” Arding squeezed Gabriel’s shoulder like a father and stepped away.

Gabriel turned, unsatisfied. “What part do you play in this?”

The man rotated his shoulders to look back. “One of five.”

“And what part do I play?”

Arding stopped. “A Class Ten; a Fire, Earth, Spirit, and Water wielder; a Creator; an Anomaly born from Class Fives. What part do you think you play? It is not at all by chance.” His voice faded as he resumed his walk. Without another word he vanished around the corner.