Grace Goodwin - Destiny

Waited.

“I am sure you would like to hear an update regarding your family,” he said, his raspy voice lacking all feeling. Just like his soul. Black. Empty.

I did. I wanted to see Trinity on the throne, ruling. A natural leader, she would be an amazing queen. It had been a dream for years, but was something now I feared I’d never see. Normally, she could only rule Alera if I were already dead or had officially stepped down. But my capture and disappearance was a loophole to that ruling I’d never imagined.

And Faith. The poisoning inside the Jax house. There was a story there and I wanted to hear it. Desperately. Surely it wasn’t true. I’d spun possibilities in my head since Wyse had shared that bit of information. But it was all speculation on my part. I knew nothing.

And Destiny. Wyse knew of her existence, knew her name. But did he know nothing else? Had she been discovered?

I waited in silence and Scarface grinned.

“I am sorry to report that there has been a death in your family.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. Saw little white spots dance across the room. My palms began to sweat and I was hot all over. Scarface was speaking but I couldn’t hear him, blood rushing in my ears.

One of them had died. Oh god! Who? When? How?

Why was I safely tucked in this stupid prison cell while my babies were in danger? Why?

“He was no longer any use, and so he was eliminated. A risk. Gone.”

Scarface spoke in sentences but I only heard words. I could barely process, barely think.

One of my girls was dead.

But then I realized Scarface had said he.

With numb lips, I said, “He?”

“Your dearest cousin, Lord Wyse, is dead.”

Relief coursed through me so quickly I became nauseated. A laugh bubbled out of me. Escaped.

Scarface’s dark brow winged up, but he said nothing.

I was smiling. Broadly. None of the girls were dead. Thank goddess. “He deserved whatever happened to him,” I replied. “I assume whoever is keeping me here wanted him dead.”

Scarface nodded.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked. Coburt was nothing to me but the memory of a skulking, somber boy from my youth, and more recently, my captor. A traitor. He was less than nothing to me.

“Lord Wyse was the Inspector Optimi, father of Radella, the reigning royal, prior to your daughters’ return. He was powerful. Connected. Cunning.

“He’s dead. All that means is he was a puppet, nothing more.”

His smile turned coy, as if I’d figured out something important. “Yes. A pawn. As are you,” he replied. He may have acted in a deferential manner to Lord Wyse when he was alive, but it was now obvious he’d held no true allegiance to my cousin. That was very clear.

So much melodrama. Why bother telling me that Lord Wyse was not the mastermind behind my abduction? He’d been a boy not much older than me when the attack had occurred at the palace. We’d both been little more than children. So, what was this really about? “What do you want? You know I don’t care about Lord Wyse. I’m not afraid of you. But you, on the other hand, should be very afraid of me.”

His laugh was cold, so cold it made me shiver. “We have plans for you, my queen.”

“You mean your real master has plans for me.” I stated it as fact. I’d been sitting in this cell long enough to figure that out, and he knew it. “So take me to him. Or her. Let’s get this done. Why keep me here?”

“Your usefulness will have a time and place,” he replied. “When the k—”

The sound of ion fire filled the room. Scarface’s sneering lips opened in shock as he fell to his knees, then onto the floor.

He never finished his sentence. The cleric, who I’d completely forgotten since he’d stood so motionless until now, lifted his arm. The long sleeve fell back to reveal the ion pistol. Before I could even blink, he had shot Scarface in the back.

My mouth fell open as my torturer, my warden since I’d been kidnapped, rolled on the floor. His eyes remained open and fixed on the ceiling, unseeing. Dead. Blood slowly pooled about him. No ReGen wand or pod was going to save him.

Belatedly, I gasped, the shock catching up to me. I stood then, slowly, watching the cleric as I did so. I had to be next.

But instead of firing, he lowered his weapon, the sleeve hiding it once again as if it had never happened.

“ His usefulness had a time and place. And it is over.”

The cleric’s voice was slow and deep. Calm. He was no cleric, at least no peacefully minded student of the order that I’d ever met.

Coburt Wyse was dead. Scarface was dead. Lord and Lady Jax were dead. Someone was getting rid of loose ends. Killing off everyone who knew about me, or the ultimate plan here.

Who was the puppet master?

As I watched the cleric drag the dead body out of my cell, I had a feeling I would find out soon enough.

Destiny, Cleric Fortress, Mountains Near the Capital City of Mytikas

Back home, on Earth, they call midnight the witching hour. But here, inside the walls of the clerical order, it’s more like the chanting hour. In almost every room up and down the long hallways there is a gathering of clerics—either in training or not—chanting. They just didn’t shut up. And when they did, the meditating started. Clerics stayed up late, their bodies somehow becoming in tune to the shimmering glow of moonlight on the Aleran flowers that grew outside the citadel. It was all very communal and hippie-like. Irritating as all hell for those of us who didn’t do very much communing in life. They had more patience in a pinky finger than I did in my entire body.

But since Faith had announced herself to the world, there had been less chanting and more gossiping, and that was just what I’d hoped for. A bunch of introverts finally letting it all out. Discussing the miraculous return of the royal princesses Trinity and Faith, and speculating about the third newly lit spire and the location of their queen.

What was actually bonkers was that the third princess they were all gabbing about was me. If I were caught right now, I’d be in their dungeon before I was given a chance to explain. Or dead. It was possible they’d just kill me on sight.

Breaking into the elder cleric’s office was strictly forbidden.

I’d heard—again from all that pent-up gossip—that a few hundreds years ago, the offense was punishable by death. Since no one had been caught since, I had no way of knowing whether they’d updated their policy or if no one had ever tried.

“Guess I’ll just have to be very, very careful.” I whispered the words to no one in particular as I clung to the vines that grew along the tallest tower within the fortress walls. I was like Romeo seeking his Juliet in the high school play.

Glancing left and right to make sure no one saw me… or for maybe one last moment before I did something execution-worthy, I opened a window and pulled myself up, slung my leg, then knee, then the rest of me, through the opening. The office was at least three stories off the ground, but the vines were thick, and I was small. They almost made it too easy.

I landed with barely a sound on the thin carpeting and noticed the room was still nice and warm. The old woman who ran the show had old bones, and she did not like the cold up here in the mountains that surrounded the royal city. But then, with the fortress built eons ago, she didn’t have much of a choice but to deal with the weather. The clerical order had formed when the royal bloodline did. The first queen recognized by the citadel had accepted the oath of the first cleric, and so it had begun. Generation after generation, the clerics had served Alera in the matters of law and protection for the realm. They were the scribes and record keepers, and trusted with knowledge known only to a few. Both the clerical order and the royal bloodline were linked to the citadel somehow, but each chose to keep their secrets. The clerics had served the royal family—my family—for millennia.