Last Stand (The Black Mage #4)(4)

After last year and my terrible case of jealousy leading up to the Candidacy, I’d been able to recognize that drive for what it really was: ambition. Sure, I’d wanted to save people, but I’d also dreamed of the status that came with it—something to distance myself from the others, something to make a name for myself… A glorious Ryiah on the battlefield, slaying villains and receiving recognition from the king and his people for a job well done.

Combat mages were ambitious and vain, after all, and if they weren’t, they never reached far. So silly girl that I was, I had chosen to chase after a lifetime of prestige. And over the years, my eyes had opened to the realities of that choice.

All of those soldiers in the forest of Caltoth…. That wasn’t Blayne’s doing. That was mine.

My hand gripped the side of the carriage rail, and all at once, my body was too hot and too cold. I felt faint and my vision was dancing in front of my eyes.

That was me.

It didn’t matter that I had been under Mage Mira’s orders during the mission. I had killed men fighting for the right cause, all because I had believed in a lie. Those deaths were on me. It was my magic that had ended the men’s lives.

And how many others would suffer under the same choice? All because they had wanted to be a soldier, a knight, or a mage of Jerar?

I couldn’t just walk away. I had blood on my hands. I owed this to them—to all of the others who didn’t know what their villainous king was capable of—to stop this before they were tainted as well.

During my ascension, I had made a pledge to Jerar to defend those in need.

I needed to be a real hero, not just the easy one.

Killing Blayne wasn’t enough; I needed to stop the war. There was no guarantee Pythus would pull out if Blayne was dead, no guarantee the truth would come to light without proof. I needed to stop others from making the wrong choice, because it was the only way to right my own wrongs.

The gods had to be laughing up above: You want to redeem yourself? To be a true hero, not just the one you dreamed up? Here’s your chance, but there’s a catch: to do so, you’ll have to betray the one you love and spare the brother that killed your own.

Destiny was cruel, and it was breaking me, piece by piece.

“Ryiah?”

Startled from the churning sickness in my gut, I saw Darren waiting by the door. His gaze was soft, free of arrogance or challenge, the countenance of someone happy and in love.

How I wished that could be me.

“Are you ready, love?”

I followed the prince outside the carriage and through the palace gates.

I had wanted to be the hero.

I just hadn’t known the price.



*

The ceremonial feast was spent toasting our marriage and the prosperity of our nation. I sat at the head table beside my new husband and his brother, who sat at the end in his father’s towering chair. A row of advisors were to our left. I spent those three hours forcing myself to swallow small bites of venison, my appetite long forgotten.

Darren’s gaze kept falling on me as the evening wore on. His hand slid underneath the table to grip my knee, and he leaned in close. “Please eat, Ryiah. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

I forced myself to spear a bit of cabbage and chew, painfully aware of his concern. I needed to appear well. “I’m fine.”

The prince’s face grew grim. “Ryiah, you aren’t—”

A loud voice echoed across the chatter, cutting off the rest of Darren’s reply.

“Six weeks!” It was one of the Crown’s advisors, a hefty man with expensive, but threadbare, Borean silks. He had grown more boisterous with each helping of ale. “Then forty Pythian warships set sail for Jerar. Would that I were a knight, so I could gut those Caltothian traitors myself.”

Six weeks, I swallowed, the previous moment’s brevity forgotten.

Darren seemed to be thinking the same thing. “How long do you think it will take them to reach our shore?”

The man preened under the crown prince’s stare, some of the words slurring as he spoke. “A month, Your Highness. Not a day before.”

Another advisor, a severe woman with a sharp jaw and jutting lips, set down her glass with an exaggerated scoff. “Two weeks, Cletus. You of all people should know. You are in charge of overseeing the Crown’s trade, are you not?” Her lips curved into a sneer. “Or have you been spending all of your time at dice?”

The man’s face turned mottled and red in embarrassment. He gasped, stuttering, “How d-dare—”

“Is that true, Cletus?” The question came from my end of the table, and it was deceptively calm. The man had captured the attention of his king, and not in a good way.

Cletus sank in his seat, the legs of his chair scraping against the marble tile. “Perhaps, sire. I don’t have my charts here to advise me—”

“And yet I pay you well enough to have them memorized.” The young king’s voice had gone flat. Gone was the celebration, and in its place was disgust. “Hestia is right. I have no use for wastrels in my court. Guards, see that this man is escorted off the premises immediately.”

“Blayne.” Darren’s murmur was only low enough for me to hear. “Is that really necessary? The man has had a lot to drink. You could question him when he is sober.”