Page 12 of Wicked Prince of Mirrors
“Those with magic are taken to the academy to train, once they have control over their magic, they are sent to the Boundary. Those with Mirror Magic are killed because it is believed they are part of a cult, they worship mirrors and pray to . . . to you. Hoping you’ll return.”
Ripping my gaze from the water I studied the shape of his shrouded figure, wishing I could see his expression.
“Why you?” he asked, a strange note in his tone.
“I’ve been asking myself the same question.” I shrugged, clasping my hands together. “I was looking for the old tunnels rumored to be underneath thepalace. I didn’t expect to find a treasury, or the hall of mirrors. I’m not sure why my father kept everything instead of destroying it, and I certainly did not intend to free you.”
“If escape was your intent, you succeeded.”
Dare I believe there was a softening in his tone?
“Not the way I intended,” I admitted, shivering despite the warmth of the cloak.
“Earlier, you asked where we are going.”
My pulse throbbed, finally, he’d be forthcoming.
“We are going to find the sorcerer, the one you claimed cursed me.”
“Why?” Dread coursed through me. “If he cursed you, what will he do when he discovers you’ve returned?”
Methrin brushed the hood off his head, and for the first time his luminous violet eyes were clear. “Earlier, you told me a story, a legend, but you never asked my side of the tale. You took what you heard and you believed it, verbatim. The sorcerer will help us, and, let me make myself clear. You are coming with me because of your Mirror Magic. Sleep. Princess. We have a long night ahead.”
My fingers tingled and a pale glow emanated from them. I was unsure whether it was because of his words or the weight of feeling useless. Quickly I buried them in the cloak, snuffing out the light. Sleep was the last thing on my mind.
5
ESMIRA
Gray mist hovered over the water, tendrils of it curling like twisted fingers. Pale light shone out of the sky, the wee hours of dawn holding the promise of daylight and warmth. Methrin steered the boat toward the obscure bank, and I straightened my shoulders, my back and bottom begging for relief from the stiff sitting position.
As the night passed, I’d tried to get comfortable, but when I closed my eyes, unfamiliar sounds made me wide awake again. The splash of the oar in the water, the rustle of a creature in the underbrush, the deep croaking of a frog or the scream of a hunted animal being devoured. My thoughts slid in dozens of directions, trying to figure a way to escape the presence of the Wicked Prince. Methrin. If I let down my guard, I’d see him as someone other than the Prince who’d single-handedly destroyed a nation and unleashed monsters to wreck the land.
The boat bumped against the shore. Methrin took off his cloak as he splashed into the water, straining to push the boat into the mud. Mist curled around his legs and when he stood tall, I got my first real glimpse of him. Even in the low light, he was power incarnate, and a halo of princely authority surrounded him.
A black shirt clung to his broad shoulders and opened in the front, displaying an expanse of muscled chest. Air didn’t fill my lungs as I gawked at him, suddenly aware of the sculpted perfection of his body, the deep set of his intense eyes and the strength in his arms as he released the boat.
A pit opened up in my stomach. I recalled his long fingers gripping my arms as he yanked me from the waters as though I weighed nothing at all. In the dark with his expression hidden, it had been easy to speak plainly with him. In the daylight it was clear he could rip off my head should he choose.
Verses from the tale of the Wicked Prince floated to my memory with a cold reminder that he could be brutal, ruthless should he choose. Like my father?
“Princess?”
I jolted.
Methrin stood on the shore, holding out his hand to me. Dazed, I took it.
Heat flared up my arm and our eyes locked. I was lost for a moment in his gaze, aware how his eyes shone like jewels.
Beautiful. Enchanting.
As I stepped out of the boat my slippered feet sank into cold mud and revulsion snaked through me. Isnatched my hand out of his, embarrassed by my reaction and wishing I had boots.
Methrin took the bag out of the boat, dropping it into the thick reeds. His cloak followed. “I need a piece of your dress, your jewelry, and a bit of your blood.”
I stumbled away from him, almost tripping over my own feet. So he was wicked after all. He wanted to cut me up into pieces. “Why?”
Methrin crossed his arms and a lock of raven hair fell over his perfect forehead. “Magic leaves a trace. I assume these Venators you speak of will seek us and we’ve left them a clear path. An abandoned boat, muddy footprints, we might as well leave a trail of crumbs pointing in our direction. But a sunken boat, bloody strips of cloth, and identifying jewelry will confuse them.”
