Gods and Trickery: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 3) Read online

  Gods and Trickery

  Candace Wondrak

  Copyright  Candace Wondrak.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover is by Venkatesh at Killer Book Covers.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  The elegance of the bedroom was stifling, choking in a way most people wouldn’t understand. Odd, for it shouldn’t have been. It was larger and grander than her room in the College, full of meticulously-carved wooden furniture with dragons etched in the bedframe and leaves along the sides of the dressers.

  And there were three of them.

  Who in all of Rivaini would need three dressers, along with a full walk-in closet? Whoever had this room prior to Lena, clearly.

  It had been a man, she’d guessed, based on the clothes that had filled the dressers and closet before. Velvet pants, doublets and other various and hideous combinations of haughty colors that made her head hurt when she looked at them. Cailan had them removed the hour after he’d given her the bedroom.

  Still, even though it was hers—had a giant window and a balcony, the whole shebang—it was nothing more than a prison. Lena sat on the side of her bed, its large space decked in sheets that sparkled from the candelabras hanging on the wall, glimmering in the sunlight streaming through the windows. A pale yellow the topmost sheet was, the hue of her natural hair. Right now, her hair and eyes were still a fiery red, which Cailan constantly got a kick out of.

  Lena let out a sigh, rubbing her hands along the sides of the bed. As her arms moved, the reminders of what this was clicked. Though her body was dressed in a tight gown—a royal blue, the only color Cailan let her wear since she’d passed the enchanter’s exam—she was not free. This was not a voluntary stay inside the castle.

  She was a prisoner. Cailan would not let her go.

  Two cuffs sat on her wrists, one on each, the silver metal a shimmering barrier to magic. They were her jail cell cuffs, taken from the chains so she’d be free to roam the castle, much to Henrik’s chagrin. They were heavier than bracelets—much uglier too—but she couldn’t get them off, and because of that, she couldn’t cast spells.

  To think there was a point in her life not too long ago when she’d hated the very thought of casting. Now, Lena would do almost anything to get out of here, to find out if her men were okay…if Bastian, Vale, and Tamlen were even still alive. After severing the bargain with Zyssept while she was across the Veil in an ill attempt to prove she would not fall to the temptation of dark magic, she’d realized she might not have the power to raise the dead.

  Which meant that her men, her lovers and her confidants, might be no more than skeletons once more.

  The mere thought was harrowing, and as she usually did, Lena did her best not to think about it. No matter how often she spoke of the outer reach of farmhouses, most of them abandoned, Cailan just waved her off and said something along the lines of I’m handling it. The Seneschal always glared at her when she spoke up during meetings, for he thought a mage shouldn’t be allowed to live in the castle, especially one who’d been suspected of allying with the ex-High Enchanter Gregain. But Cailan was good at a few things, and defending her so-called honor from Henrik was one of them.

  Cailan certainly had his plate full. Not only was he trying to get everyone in the castle and the city used to having a mage living in the castle, but he was also planning a grand funeral procession for the recently-deceased King. His body had already been embalmed, and it now rested in the undercrofts of the castle, waiting until the day it would be carried by the shoulders of his loyal guards as they strode through the streets of the city.

  Oh, and then, during his coronation, he’d officially announce her as his soon-to-be bride.

  Yes. How could Lena have forgotten that little tidbit? Prince Cailan wanted to marry her in some foolish, idiotic attempt at proving to the normal, unmagical citizens that mages could be trusted, that just because one was a bad apple didn’t mean they all were.

  Were non-mages not the same? Were there not criminals rotting away in jails that hadn’t an ounce of magic in their blood?

  But Lena knew there was more to it. Somehow, someway, she’d gotten his attention in the dungeon cell. She’d suspected he wasn’t too sane, but the night he came to her with a wine bottle and wearing the blood of his father, she knew it totally and completely. Cailan had professed the killing of King Philip for her, for him, for them. Then he’d kissed her, ran his hands all along her body as if she belonged to him.

  And she didn’t. She didn’t belong to him. Lena was tired of men—gods and princes alike—who thought they could claim her, own her like some piece of property or land. She was a person, a mage, and she would bow to no one.

  That’s what she thought…but Lena also knew she didn’t have much of a choice with her current situation. She was blocked off from leaving castle grounds, so she couldn’t return to the College, whose gates were still down and would remain down until Gregain’s body was found. Cailan, at least, was sending carts of food inside, but nothing else. No others could come and go.

  Ingrid. Yet another person Lena had to make sure was all right. She had her potion skills and her wits—which were both exceedingly more well-honed than the typical woman’s, mage or not—but if a guard had gotten wind she’d helped Lena before Cailan exonerated her, she didn’t know what would happen.

  Moving her hands to her lap, Lena gazed down at the thick metal bands shimmering on her wrists. The College guards wore armor that was similarly enchanted, so anytime there was a rogue mage—which didn’t happen often, since everyone knew what happened to such mages—or even a young and untrained mage throwing a fit, they weren’t hurt by any flying spells.

  Odd how something could be enchanted by mages to be impervious to magic itself, she thought. Enchanters from the College had to create such things; they couldn’t refuse, even if the king asked for thousands of similar manacles. Any enchanter worth their weight in spells knew never to go against the king.

  Most unfortunately, now the king was Cailan.

  Technically he was the Sovereign Prince, the heir apparent. Cailan wouldn’t be the king until his coronation.

  Lena snaked her pinky finger beneath the manacle on her right wrist, itching the skin beneath. What she’d give to be free of them, then she could leave this place, use her magic to reach the others and find Ingrid, make sure her friend was safe.

  This world, the events of late, they’d changed her. She knew it, and she wouldn’t argue with it. It was not so long ago when Lena blushed as Ingrid told her stories involving her and a man doing intimate things, and it’d been even a shorter time since Lena had felt her skin practically crawling when she thought about using a spell.

  Any spell—it didn’t matter. She’d hated them all. The only things she was remotely fine with were potions and the art of spell-crafting—how to linguistically craft a new spell, for all initiates and most apprentices had to recite the spells aloud for their effects to take place; those more skilled didn’t have to speak and could whip up new spells on the fly. Ingrid was one of them, Lena wasn’t. And it didn’t shock her to know the two things she was okay with were two things initiates weren’t taught. Maybe that’s why she liked them.

  Lena wanted to get out of here. She want
ed to shake off the slimy feeling that grew inside her each time Cailan made advances toward her. There’d been plenty of that so far, but at least he’d been as gentlemanly as he could, given the fact he was a crazy royal. He’d stolen many kisses from her, a few caresses, but she always stopped him before he went too far. It did not escape her mind that all it would take is one time, one drunk or particularly crazy day for him to take more from her.

  She knew he wanted it, wanted her.

  She’d rather make him scream than let him have her, but maybe that was the boredom talking. Maybe she just felt cooped up, because she was. She was stuck in this castle, forbidden to go out and do the things she had to do.

  Lena had thought about calling them, using the bond between a necromancer and her thralls, but honestly, she wasn’t even sure she was a necromancer anymore. If her link to Zyssept, an old god of death, had been the reason why she was so connected to black magic, it was pointless. They were probably dead, not for the first time, if that was the case.

  But she refused to think of it like that, didn’t want to face the fact. Plus, if she did call them, how would they get to her without ending the lives of innocent men and women? She would not be the reason the castle’s guards and servants were slaughtered in a poorly-executed attempt at getting her back.

  Though the guards and servants mostly didn’t trust her and looked at her with a mixture of rage, confusion and fear, Lena couldn’t blame them. They were brought up like that, taught to fear mages. For Rivaini’s sake, she was a mage and she was fearful of magic. And really, the guards were only doing their jobs. Though some of them were probably scoundrels and perverts, most of them didn’t deserve whatever fate Vale, Tamlen, and Bastian would unleash on them if she called them to her.

  But, her mind insisted, at least she’d know if they were alive.

  No. That wasn’t enough to warrant the pending death upon any guard in the nearby vicinity. Having mages storm the castle would only instill more fear into the populace, which was something Rivaini did not need after the whole raising-the-undead incident that plagued the city recently, thanks to Gregain.

  If the College’s high enchanter could be corrupted, it wasn’t so far of a stretch to think others were, too. Lena knew the logic behind it, and if they were proven right in any capacity, things would go on as they were now, possibly get even worse. And, maybe because she’d been spending so much time around Tamlen, or perhaps even Cailan’s twisted mind, she didn’t want things to get worse in Rivaini, especially for mages.

  She wanted things to get better. She wanted less segregation and more trust.

  A selfish wish, one she’d never have granted, not in her lifetime. One mage could never undo all the mistrust.

  A soft knock on her door alerted Lena to another’s presence. Whereas a royal might’ve demanded to know who it was without getting up, Lena made her way to the door, her cuffs clanging as they slid down her arms as she went for the door handle. She pulled the heavy door open, its wood gilded in gold and silver leafing, meeting the small brown eyes of the woman who’d been unlucky enough to become her maidservant.

  Her name was Anne. Just Anne. Anne had claimed she had no surname, none she recalled, anyway. She was a short woman, perhaps ten or so years older than Lena, which put her around thirty. Her hair was thin and often greasy, a brown color, usually pulled back into a tight bun so not a single strand would get in her face. Her white skin was pale, as if she never left the halls of the castle. And she probably didn’t. It wasn’t her duty to tend to the gardens or wash the clothes and hang them on the line. She cleaned, helped Lena prepare for any appearances with Cailan, and was her to-and-fro between her bedchamber and the kitchen after any dinner that hadn’t filled her up enough.

  Like last night, for instance. The kitchen staff had prepared veal. Lena did not fancy herself eating anything that came from a baby animal, so she didn’t eat much. As soon as Lena was in her room for the night, Anne spent the next hour coordinating another meal to be cooked specially for her.

  Anne was nice enough, but the woman could hardly stand to meet Lena’s eyes.

  The instant she opened the door, Anne’s gaze fell to her feet. She spoke, her voice a bare whisper, “Dinner is served, milady.”

  Lena thought about telling the woman she wouldn’t turn into a toad if she looked her in the eyes, but immediately thought better of it. There was already too much weighing down the air between them that any joke she would’ve attempted would’ve fallen flat.

  And now wasn’t the time for jokes, anyway. So she simply nodded and let the woman lead her to the dining hall, where Cailan shared his meals with her.

  See: with her and no one else.

  It would’ve been a romantic thing, perhaps, if Lena wasn’t astute enough to see the shadows behind Cailan’s dark eyes, the lingering lust constantly sitting there and the insanity threatening to bubble to the surface. In spite of his put-together outer appearance, she knew she couldn’t forget he was the prince who’d killed his own father in cold blood and committed not only patricide but also regicide.

  Anne led her through the halls, hands clasped before her stomach as they usually were when they were not busy finicking with Lena’s hair or outfit. She’d never said anything about the fiery red hue or the startling unnaturalness of her gaze, probably because she refused to stare at Lena for more than five seconds at a time.

  The castle was a winding fortress, tucked into the heart of Rivaini. It had its own walls separating it from the rest of the city, towers that were so tall whoever stood in their peaks could see the entire city and the sprawling farmlands beyond its reach. There were also numerous wings; housing a library, a grand ballroom, the grand meal hall, trophy rooms, and various bedchambers for visiting nobility, along with an attached building for the guard barracks and servant sleeping quarters.

  And who could forget the dungeon resting below, dug out like a basement of stone? Lena sure couldn’t. She’d spent enough time there as it was.

  The moment Anne stopped before a semi-open door, Lena felt her hands clench at her sides. It was the same reaction her body had any time she was about to face Cailan. She knew she couldn’t trust him, knew he was dangerous. And he was the future king—a prospect terrifying and awful for more reasons than one.

  Anne gave her a curtsy. “I will return for you once you are finished with your meal with His Highness.”

  Lena knew better than to stall; she didn’t wait to see Anne scuttle down the hall, off to gods knew where. She simply walked into the private dining room and forced out a smile to the blonde man seated at the head of the mahogany table.

  Cailan practically leapt to his feet at her entrance. His body was nowhere near as tall as Tamlen’s, nor as muscular as Vale or Bastian, but she hated to admit he was a handsome fellow all the same, even if his charm was peppered with crazy. A strong jaw, a perfectly straight nose that dominated his profile, not a single blemish on his face. He was not overweight as she had expected, as she had read most royalty was due to their overindulgence in food and drink, among other things. He was fit beneath his fancy, frilly clothes. She knew it because his body had been pressed against hers more than she’d care to admit.

  A dimpled smile spread across his face, as one always did when he laid eyes on her. Cailan’s arm lifted, gesturing to the seat opposite his, only a few feet away. She was slow to sit in it after giving him a short and quite awful curtsey. There wasn’t much time to practice her royal etiquette when she was in the College.

  As Cailan slid into his chair, he rested his hands on the table, gripping its sides as if he were afraid the table would fall apart. He studied her. A look of sheer awe crossed his face, and he said, “You look spectacular, as always, my love.”

  He’d taken to calling her my love, which made her skin feel rather itchy. It was a term of endearment Lena didn’t mind hearing from Tamlen and the others, but from Cailan? It made her stomach churn, and not in a good about-to-have-sex way.

>   Still, she managed to continue smiling as she said, “Thank you.”

  The table between them was full of various plates of food. Fruit, pre-sliced bread, meat seared to perfection—smelling equally as delicious—and two wine goblets. She had to hand it to the cooks in the kitchen. Every meal there was something different, even if certain things, like last night’s veal, weren’t her favorite.

  She waited until Cailan had his personal plate full before she started taking what she wanted. “I do hope it’s not veal again,” Lena spoke softly, hesitantly. She never knew what might set him off.

  The meat smelled a little different, so she knew it wasn’t veal. It was ridiculously difficult to start up a conversation with the man across from her, let alone sit in silence with him as they ate. A different kind of torture than being chained up and forgotten in the dungeon.

  Cailan chuckled, for he’d found her reaction to last night’s meal quite hilarious. “No, and I told the chef never to cook it again, lest he desire to lose his position.” He started cutting the slab of meat on his plate, lifting a single eyebrow, an expression reminiscent of Tamlen. “Tonight we have pork.”

  Lena had to tear her gaze from him and focus on the food before her as she ate. With one brow risen, almost playfully, it was a painful reminder of where she was, of what she’d possibly lost to get here. The others…she refused to believe they were gone. It’d be too painful a realization, even if it was probable. For if she was no longer Zyssept’s bride-to-be, there was no need for the god of death to lend her his magic.

  If the magic belonged to Zyssept, that was. If she’d risen these men on her own…it was an even more harrowing thought. To be capable of such spells, to feel the rush as she sent magic into corpses and rose their bones, knitted flesh and muscle and tendons together, it was almost too much. It was why non-mages tended to fear those with such powers.

  As she lifted a speared piece of meat to her mouth, Lena caught the Prince’s gaze. Unlike Anne, he could not stop looking at her. Anytime she was in the same room as him, his dark eyes were on her, devouring her, eating her up like she was some prize he’d won. And in a way, she was. She was a prisoner here, perhaps even more so than she was in the College.