Light Wielder (Fire & Metal, #2) — Chapter 14

Chapter 14

ACKER

It’s well after midnight when my father waltzes into my bedchamber. I knew when my father ordered his favorite wine from the cellar and called for his royal taster that it was going to be a long night listening to him and Wren swapping old war stories if I didn’t recuse myself. But I also knew he was unhappy with my less than welcoming attitude to Wren and that I’d likely hear about it later. Likely at a time of inconvenience. Another one of his tactics to gain the upper hand.

I close the book I’m reading and rise from my place at the desk, sliding my hands into my pockets as I wait for his temper to make itself known.

He takes in the empty bed with an unimpressed raise of his brow, then turns his gaze to the barren walls and pockmarked surfaces as he leans against the mantle. “You’ve been following me.”

I’m taken off guard by the accusation, but don’t retreat from it. “I hired a shifter to track your scent.”

At first I thought the rumors to be true, that he was just being cautious about his extra-marital exploits. After being lectured for years and years about maintaining appearances within the palace walls, his being elusive about such things wouldn’t have been a surprise. Nothing is more important than keeping the status quo with the courtiers. But on his recent excursions it was his habit to visit the mines first, checking on the efforts to excavate more hearthstone, before moving south. And that’s where the shifter would

lose track of him every time.

“Who told you?” I ask.

“I have my sources,” he says, noncommittally. “I suppose I should have expected as much. You are my son, after all.”

With a flick of his wrist, the hearth erupts in a blaze of fire before dimming to a more normal smolder. It’s a gratuitous display of the magic he’s been hiding, and I stagger back a step.

“How?” I ask, trying to mask my fear, but I’m sure it’s evident in my astonishment.

He looks at me with an amused glint in his eyes, enjoying my shocked reaction. “You shouldn’t let the cold seep in like this,” he admonishes, ignoring my question. “Then maybe your wife might prefer your bed over her consort’s.”

I don’t tell him that I actually sent her away, having anticipated this confrontation. “Don’t patronize me,” I say instead. “Tell me how you’ve regained your gift.”

“I believe it’s best we sit for this conversation,” he says.

The reading chair slides across the floor toward us and I take another step back, alarmed by its independent movement. That is, until my father sits down, and I realize with abject horror that he’s also somehow developed the gift of a kinesis. A gift that allows for the moving of things with the mind. There’s only one person I know of with that gift, and they were confined to the palace dungeons at the end of the last war, when the Alaha were first exiled.

He’s unbearably smug as he leans back and crosses one leg over the other. “I’ve discovered a method that enables the transference of one Heir’s

gifts to another host.”

“And what method is that?” I ask.

His eyes dip to the stones around my neck. “If the information was to leak…” he says as he moves closer, “… it could be catastrophic.”

“You’re killing people and stealing their magic,” I deduce, warily.

He doesn’t deny it, and there’s no chance I’m able to disguise my true feelings, my upper lip curling in disgust.

He isn’t the least bit offended by my reaction. “Only the ones who have used their gifts to harm others.”

“And what of us?” I motion between us with a wave of my hand.

“Should we be stripped of the Mother’s blessing for those we’ve harmed?”

“We are kings.” He speaks slowly, as if the concept is new to me. “We are granted … privileges.”

I shake my head. “Not to take that which rightfully belongs to another.”

“You and I don’t use our gifts against our people.” He levels me with an admonishing look. “We use them to fight for our people.”

A number of responses run through my mind, but the truth is I haven’t done much fighting. Not as of late. Not unless I count the other night when I fought to keep Jovie safe, but that wasn’t even in defense of my own men.

Instead, I’ve been navigating court politics and plotting war strategies while being kept in the dark about the things that really matter. I might as well have gone to the front lines without any weapons, blindfolded. That’s how useless I’ve been—just a very convenient placeholder in my father’s absence while he was doing the unimaginable.

I’ve been waiting for this.

The moment I would know there’s nothing redeemable about my father.

A dagger sits on the edge of my desk. The temptation to use it screams inside my mind. To remove the stones and send the weapon straight through my father’s throat, ending his tyrannical rein right here, right now. His eyes flick down to where my hand hangs by my side, clenched into a fist, and I hurry to check that my mental shields are fortified. There’s no telling how many gifts he’s hiding.

He returns my stare. “Whatever you’re thinking, just know any move

you make against me will fail.”

I need to calm down.

Pointing to the other tufted chair, I ask, “Will you?”

Without moving a muscle, my father makes the chair skid across the floor. I sit, then glance at the glass of wine I left at my desk. My father catches on quickly, and the glass floats into the air and over to my awaiting hand. I take a long sip of the contents.

“Cheeky,” he states, a smile slowly coming back to his face. “But do you see? The possibilities are endless.”

“I can agree that it has its benefits.” I twirl the stem of the glass between my fingers, pasting on what I hope to be a believable enough expression.

“My concern is making sure that we take from Heirs who have abused their magic in ways that go against Mother Nature’s intentions.”

“Of course. I’ve already sent word to the lords of the court that they’re to turn over any prisoners they’ve detained and charged with magic-related infractions.”

“It wasn’t Roison’s territory you agreed to give Wren, but magic for his people in exchange for this alliance,” I say, putting the pieces together.

He nods.

I absorb his answer. “Do you have an idea of the numbers of prisoners?”

I ask.

His mood shifts, smile dipping in response to my question. “If we’re to appease Wren, then not nearly enough. This is where having an oracle would have been of great benefit, to help us find the truly bad eggs. I haven’t been able to source one, however. At least, not one trustworthy enough. Or, say, if we had someone like Beau…”

I tense in my seat, my magic responding to the insinuation, burning through my veins like a wildfire. But I don’t move. “She’d never agree to it,” I say.

He gives me a look straight out of my childhood, like he gave me back when I used to advocate for my sister to train in the courtyard right

alongside me.

Like he’s humoring me.

“Her gift is one of a kind,” he says. “It’s truly unfortunate how everything went down with her. She was my best hand. Yours, too, I know.”

I finish my wine and give a shrug. “Mm hmm,” I murmur, noncommittal as I inspect my empty glass.

We discuss his plans to send soldiers to neighboring townships to begin rounding up imprisoned Heirs. I interject when appropriate, the wine in my stomach turning sourer with every minute that passes by. But I must do a decent enough job at appearing untroubled and invested, because it isn’t much longer before he decides to turn in for the night.

I wait for a long time after he leaves to ensure the coast is clear before grabbing the oil lamp from my desk and slipping out. The alcove outside the door to my bedchambers hosts the bust of a princess long forgotten. I always found her sad expression comforting, as if she’s always been sympathetic to my place as prince, having been in the same position once in time.

Behind her, the wall gives way to the hallway hidden beyond. The secret passages here run the length of both wings of the palace, but I’ve never explored them in their entirety. Just one of the reasons neither my father nor I knew of Beau’s duplicity, only later realizing she’d utilized the passageways to sneak in the Maile soldiers.

The acrid smell of rat piss burns in my nose. Their scurrying feet echo down the corridor as I encroach on their space. Once I reach the end of the narrow passage, I feel along the wall until a portion of it gives, swinging open and allowing me to emerge into the hall before the closed doors to the library. It’s impossible not to feel small before their enormous height. I can only imagine how Greta feels from the inside, having not been permitted to leave the library’s confines ever since her daughter played a key role in Jovie’s betrayal.

As my father’s concubine during my childhood, Greta maintained the library as the record keeper for the king. He gave her the responsibility in a bid to disguise who she was to him, but it didn’t take long for rumors to spread of their Bond. It was an unspoken understanding to never discuss the dynamic in court. Anyone caught gossiping was charged with treason. By my mother’s doing, or so I’ve been told.

The library no longer serves that function. No one dares to step inside the library’s walls. Ever since Beau’s treason, people have shunned her mother, believing she must have known beforehand and therefore must be just as traitorous. Even though my father refuses to believe so.

I don’t knock, opening one of the large doors just far enough to slip inside before pulling it shut behind me. Lamplight bathes the ground floor, providing enough light to see by, so I deposit my own lamp on the circular desk in the center of the room.

“Greta,” I call, my voice traveling up the curved book lined walls, bouncing off the darkness-cloaked ceiling high above. “Greta!”

The sound of a bolt sliding out of place comes from below. On the floor beneath the open center of the desk, the intricate circular pattern carved into the stone on the floor slides away, revealing a haggard-looking Greta.

Despite her frizzy hair and unbalanced spectacles, she still spares me a smile.

“Acker,” she says, stepping out from the alcove in the floor. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Of course she has.

I glimpse the smaller, secret library hidden under the floor for a split second before she shuts the hatch of the door again. Every time I believe I’ve reached the bottom of the well holding reminders of Jovie’s time here, I’m mistaken, and I’m forced to breathe slowly past the pinch in my chest.

“Then you know why I’m here,” I say.

She dusts her palms on her pants. “Your father quit asking for my view of the future almost a decade ago.” She drops into the desk’s chair, pushing her hair out of her face as she leans on the desk with her forearms. “He never liked my answers.”

My father has never hidden how little regard he holds for Greta’s sight.

We create our futures, not experience them, he’d say, dismissing his

Match’s gift.

“I’m not asking.”

My tone gives her pause. “Your father will know,” she says, warning

clear in her voice.

“I know.”

Admittedly, I’m ashamed it’s taken me so long to gather the courage to come to her, and I think it’s because I’ve spent the majority of my life desperately clinging to the idea that my father was right. That we are able to forge our own paths. But I’ve never felt more like an onlooker in my own life since Jovie’s betrayal.

“What makes you think you can handle the reality of what is yet to

come?”

“I don’t,” I tell her, honestly.

She must see the thin string I’m hanging by because she sits a little taller. Removing her spectacles from her nose, she places them atop the desk before standing. “Could you help me with my collar?”

Lifting the portion of the desk that allows for entrance to the center, I move to stand within the circle with her as she turns in place, giving me her back. The mangi stones Greta wears around her neck are the only reason my father didn’t lump her in with Beau and Jovie in their betrayal. Like her daughter, Greta can get overwhelmed with her gift and has always worn the collar for her own sanity. But though her collar was never meant to be a shackle, it has become exactly that in my father’s insistence she never tell anyone her visions.

Greta grabs the collar in both hands as I use my magic to turn the metal locking mechanism, releasing her, and as if a weight has been lifted, she

stretches out her spine.

It’s a feeling I know all too well.

Her back is still to me when she goes still, utterly motionless in place.

As children, Beau would recall tales of waking to the ghostly sight of her mother at the foot of her bed, eyes unseeing yet aware as she recited her visions aloud. While Hallis, Wells, and I had all assumed she was exaggerating, it scared us enough that we never dared cross Greta. We were all very diligent in returning our library books on time.

But as I slowly take a step around to look at her, I can honestly say Beau never embellished the truth. Not even slightly. If anything, she didn’t emphasize the horrifying reality enough. Eyes glazed with a sheen of white, Greta’s expression is haunting, face slack and devoid of any emotion.

And nothing could prepare me for the unwavering, monotone voice when she speaks. “Bodies lay in waste. More will switch their allegiance,” she says flatly, as if reciting lines. “One will prevail.”

Chills break out across my skin, and I take a step back as if the premonition will happen at any moment.

She blinks and the life returns to her face and body, her features becoming animated once again, but she still utters one final, terrible statement: “The king of Kenta will prevail.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Do you know when any of this happens?”

She gives a small nod. “Likely this winter, judging by the snow on the

ground.”

I’m at a loss for words.

There’s a shakiness in Greta’s hands as she reaches for her spectacles.

I move closer to her. “Are you okay?”

She waves away my concern. “A little out of practice is all.” Her eyes linger on the string of stones around my own throat. “If you’re not careful, you’ll be just as out of shape as I am one day.”

“Not if I can find a way to break the blood oath.”

She smirks, but there’s no real humor in the gesture. “I’ve searched every text, boy. No such thing exists. Nothing aside from killing yourself along with your Match.”

Her obvious certainty works to grate on my nerves. “You’ve had plenty of opportunities to kill my father, so why haven’t you?”

“Like yourself, I didn’t stop loving him until it was too late.”

I got what I came here for, so I don’t know why the next question leaves my mouth. “Is that why you didn’t leave with Beau?” When she and Jovie betrayed me … Her smile falls away altogether, leaving an unshakable look of despair in its wake. “If there was even a chance I could evade your father, that I could outrun him and go somewhere he’d never be able to find me, I’d take it in a heartbeat.” She sighs, as if the truth exhausts her. “But we all have a part to play, and mine is as inevitable as your Match’s.”

She speaks as though Jovie’s fate is set in stone and I don’t like it.

I always thought my father kept Greta locked away in the library out of sheer possessiveness. He found her after already marrying my mother, and he couldn’t bear to part with either of them. I’ve since learned that no one can deny the Bond, king or not.

Greta is correct, though. It wouldn’t matter where she went. As long as my father is alive, she’ll never be able to escape him, as they’ll forever be drawn together by their Bond.

Maybe I can relate to my father more than I’d care to admit.