Illusions: Faction 4: The Isa Fae Collection Page 3

  “Passion…” His hand clasped her wrist, turning it so that another facet of the garnet shattered light into a thousand pieces. “Passion allows it to shine without its light diminishing.”

  His breath whispered close to her ear. Nithya’s pulse skittered. Desire tightened around her spine.

  She felt as if she were floating.

  His other hand gripped her waist, anchoring her to him.

  How did he, in a single moment, step into her carefully defined personal space without triggering all the alarms?

  He’s cast a spell on me.

  No, don’t be ridiculous. A part of her mind, still functioning, spat back at her. He’s trying to dump his mistress, not find another one.

  Nithya twisted deftly out of his grasp and took several steps back, putting a safe distance between them. “Just the amazonite and the garnet, then?”

  “One more, but I’ll leave it to you. What happens now?”

  How many levels of meaning did he weave into those three words? Nithya choose to answer the simplest one. “I’ll draw up a design, and once you approve it, I’ll require a 50 percent down payment to begin work.”

  “And if I don’t like the design?”

  “We’ll go back and forth until we come up with something that meets your approval and still clears my hurdle for professional integrity.”

  He laughed. “You’ve designed some hideous pieces, haven’t you?”

  “When I was starting out and couldn’t afford to turn away a client. Some of them had more wealth than taste. By the way, a custom design will be expensive. Will you be paying in magic or supplies?”

  “Supplies.” His answer was immediate. “Name your price. Food. Wood. Cloth. Tapestries. Anything at all.” He shrugged. “Even land.”

  “What would I do with land?”

  “Centuries ago, you might have been able to grow something on it. Now, it’s a status symbol with little actual value.”

  “You sound a trifle bitter. You must own a lot of land.”

  “I do.” He chuckled. “I can’t even give it away for free.”

  Definitely a nobleman, from one of the ancient great houses. She was no closer to uncovering his identity, though. Nithya removed the amazonite and garnet from the drawer and set it aside. “Come back next week. I’ll have the design ready.”

  “Can you rush it?”

  “It’ll cost extra.”

  “Of course. I’m told you’re worth the price you demand. I’ll see you in a few days.” His grin turned roguish as if he had enjoyed their flirtatious game.

  She welcomed his altered mood. She knew how to deal with a rogue. What she did not know how to handle was the power and pain in his beautiful, dark eyes. They teetered on opposite ends, precariously and—for the moment—perfectly balanced.

  What would happen when one overwhelmed the other?

  Chapter 4

  Once, when Varian had been a child—and a hopelessly ignorant one at that—he had drawn an image of a king sitting upon a throne, dispensing laws and unleashing armies with a wave of his hand. The king looked benevolent, just, and happy, probably because he wasn’t drowning in paperwork.

  Varian had not drawn a desk stacked with files nor an appointment book that dictated how every minute of his life was to be spent. If only he had known. The tower of paper on his desk never diminished. All the edicts had to be read and edited to mean exactly what he wanted to say. The laws drafted by the ministers had to be read in triplicate to ensure someone did not try to sneak something in. If I had known that being prince of La Condamine meant spending twelve hours a day working as a glorified editor, I might have run away and become a pirate. Not that he would have gotten far on the frozen seas that locked La Condamine’s extensive coastline in ice.

  Sighing, he strode to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Winter’s cold gray light washed over him. In spite of the chill wind screaming down from the mountains, the palace courtyard bustled with activity. Witches and fae, bundled in fur coats and heavy hoods, scurried between the stone buildings that housed La Condamine’s government ministries.

  No one complained about the eternal winter. Activity ebbed and flowed depending on whether the chill on a particular day rated as one-fur-coat-thick or your-thoughts-will-freeze-in-your-brain. Life went on. Life just was.

  Perhaps he was overreacting. He did not have to fix a problem no one else gave a damn about.

  Varian gritted his teeth so hard his jaws ached. That’s because they’re so busy trying to survive today, they’re not thinking about tomorrow, or next week, or next month. It doesn’t matter that their world may not exist in a hundred years when they’re not even sure they’re going to be alive next year.

  An accident of birth put him in charge, which meant that it was his job to look ahead, to avert disaster.

  If it even could be averted.

  Won’t know until I try.

  His hands closed into fists.

  And I won’t know if I succeed.

  He was not even twenty-eight and he stared death—suicide—in the face. “Damn it.”

  “I raised you better than that,” a quiet voice chided. “Your years of education should have provided you with a far more extensive vocabulary of expletives than ‘damn it.’”

  Varian shoved his bleak thoughts aside and spun around, a smile on his face. “Mother.” He crossed the room to hug her. “What brings you down from your needlework and poetry readings?”

  “Don’t be snide. You know the Department of Fish and Wildlife brought their proposal to me for a second opinion. I’ve spent the past day reading their thesis. Do their secretaries get paid by the word?”

  Varian glanced at his overflowing desk. “I suspect they do. I already said no to them.”

  “Good, because Lord Condin is an idiot. He has no experience whatsoever managing the fish nurseries or the farms. They’re better off staying under the Department of Agriculture. Condin’s empire-building, and you don’t have time for that nonsense.”

  Right. Before Varian became prince, he hadn’t realized that checking egos was also part of his job description.

  The dowager princess continued with asperity. “He needs something else to distract him, but he’s such a pompous ass that no woman will spend more than three minutes in his company.” Princess Sabine huffed out her breath. “Lady Bettina came closest. Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

  “You timed it?”

  “Of course. She seemed the best bet; she’s looking for a wealthy husband, after all, but Condin apparently required more of a sacrifice than she was willing to make.” His mother’s smile was demure, but her eyes twinkled. “He’ll have another chance at my party.”

  Varian stiffened.

  No one else would have noticed, but of course, his mother did. She laughed. “Are you dreading it already?”

  Yes, because it’s on the night after the blood moon. After the spell…

  Varian’s hands curled into fists. She could be bereft of husband and son—her entire family—on her birthday. How can I do this to her, leaving her nothing but a piece of jewelry to wear next to her heart?

  His breath curdled in his lungs. But if not on the winter solstice…then never.

  And La Condamine, like all the other factions on Isa Fae, will perish because I chose to do nothing.

  “Varian, are you all right?” His mother’s hand rested on his shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” He glanced up at the flicker of motion near the open door and blessed his friend for his perfect timing. “Tristan, come in. We need to talk about the trade treaty.”

  “I’ll leave you to your work. Remember, dinner tonight.” The dowager princess pressed a quick kiss to Varian’s cheek and left the room, nodding to Tristan as she departed.

  Tristan had tact to wait and the good sense to shut the door before speaking. “You haven’t told her, have you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to have to tell her.”

 
; “The timing is terrible. Her birthday falls after the blood moon.”

  “It can’t be helped.”

  “I know.” Varian expelled his breath in a sigh.

  “You’re going ahead, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “And my mother has the power to talk me out of it.”

  Tristan chuckled without humor. “So, your plan is to minimize the amount of time available to her to talk?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

  Varian managed a wry smile. “Always.”

  Tristan settled into a chair. “So, you wanted to discuss the trade treaty?”

  “I want to tie up loose ends, and I’m running out of time. At some point, all the late nights may catch up with me, and I’ll be too tired to cast the Convello, let alone channel someone else’s power.”

  His friend laughed. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. By the way, two things have come up—probably more important than the treaty.”

  Varian trusted Tristan’s judgement enough to rearrange his agenda. “What is it?”

  “The Ministry of the Interior completed its report on Lord Pelletier’s holdings.” Tristan handed Varian a thick file.

  Varian opened it and stifled a sigh. The ministry’s failure to include a one-page summary of its findings would cost him several hours of sleep. “What’s the conclusion?”

  “He’s been underpaying his taxes for the past decade. The underpayment from just last year’s taxes would have paid for more than three hundred pensions.”

  “What?”

  “Exactly,” Tristan snapped. “That’s three hundred more people who would have had food and coal if Pelletier had just paid his share.”

  Varian quickly scanned the pages in the file. “My father launched this investigation two years ago. Why did it take so long to complete?”

  “Government bureaucracy. Cross-departmental failure to communicate.” Tristan flung up his hands. “I don’t know. Take your pick. Pelletier caught wind of it, though. He’s been quietly divesting his holdings over the past year, making it exceptionally difficult to put all the pieces together.” Tristan paused. “What do you want to do?”

  “He’ll pay it back.”

  “It’s a huge amount whether he pays it back all at once or in installments. It’ll impoverish Pelletier either way. You can count on him fighting it all the way to court.”

  Varian frowned. Did that huge amount warrant the murder of a prince? “Tell the ministry to negotiate a payment schedule with him. If he objects to the terms, he can talk to me.”

  “Are you going to keep him on the council?”

  “I’ll have to think about it.” Was there no end to the issues that demanded his attention? “You said there was something else.”

  “Unhappy murmurings from Chateau Grimaldi.”

  “Grimaldi’s been unhappy for more than a year now, ever since my father suggested the idea.”

  “But now that you’re a month away from actually executing it, his murmurings have grown louder and less discreet.”

  “He’s entitled to his opinion.”

  “But he’s not entitled to undermine your support. You need the people behind you. You need their magic if you ever want to pull this off. Grimaldi is telling everyone that your plan is suicidal, and that anyone who helps you is signing up to die. I’m surprised your mother hasn’t heard of it. His unhappy grousing is spreading through the court like wildfire.”

  “Damn it.” Varian sank into his seat. He raked his fingers through his hair. He had so much to do; he did not need an additional complication on his agenda—certainly not one as large and influential as Lord Grimaldi.

  “Do you want me to take care of it?” Tristan asked.

  “No, I will.” Varian glanced at his appointment book. “My mother and I are having dinner with his family tonight.” He grimaced. “She was going to have to find out anyway, so why not in front of our closest friends? When it goes to hell, she’ll turn to the Grimaldi family for solace and support, and they can blame it on me.”

  “Do I detect bitterness or sarcasm?”

  “Both.” Varian drew a deep breath, but he could not seem to fill his lungs. He ground his teeth. The crushing weight against his chest had better be stress instead of the onset of the disease that had killed his father. “If not for you, I’d be fighting this battle entirely alone.”

  Tristan smiled. “You’re not alone.”

  “I should let my mother know that dinner tonight may get heated. She hates being caught off guard.”

  Tristan cleared his throat. “You’re still wearing your other face.”

  “Oh…” Varian dusted off the glamour with a graceful shake of his head, then ran his hands through his dark hair to turn it blond. Stupid waste of magic, just for the sake of blending in with that ridiculous blond trend among the fae.

  “Did you wear that face to Illusions last night?” Tristan asked.

  “The jewelry store? Yes. I put in an order for a custom design. Amazonite, garnet, and something else.”

  “Beautiful stones.”

  “I’m sure the design will do them justice. The owner seems—” Lots of words instantly came to mind. Alluring. Intoxicating. Witchy. “—competent.”

  “Nithya’s designs are celebrated across La Condamine. The wealthy of other factions make it a point to stop by her store when they visit the city. I hope she didn’t rip you off.”

  “I haven’t seen the price yet, but she agreed to accept supplies.”

  “Yes, she does. I don’t know what she does with them. Her business is thriving, and at the rates she charges, she should have enough resources to buy a duchy, but she lives a modest lifestyle above her shop.”

  “She has the faintest hint of a foreign accent. She’s not from La Condamine, is she?”

  “No, she’s not. Ariel Grimaldi sponsored her entry into La Condamine several years ago, and has been her favorite customer ever since.”

  “Ariel’s a beautiful model for Nithya’s jewelry.”

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you and Ariel…?”

  “No. We’re just friends.”

  “I’m surprised Grimaldi doesn’t have a royal alliance in mind. It might be why he’s twisted in knots about your plan. If anything happens to you, he loses his chance to be the grandfather of the next prince.”

  Could Grimaldi be that self-serving? Varian frowned. “This is about La Condamine’s future. Grimaldi’s princely ambitions will not influence my decision.”

  Tristan nodded. “Grimaldi needs to know his place. No one has reined him in ever since your father died. That’s your responsibility now, as prince.”

  A sick feeling settled in the pit of Varian’s stomach. Yet another confrontation loomed; this time, with a man he deeply respected.

  Dinner was going to be hell.

  Within the hour, a carriage carrying Varian and his mother departed through the palace gates and rolled down Coronation Avenue. The chateaus of noble families flanked both sides of the street, larger and more grandiose the closer they were to the palace.

  Chateau Grimaldi was closest to the palace. If the weather were not as foul, Varian would have preferred a walk, but a walk would have been uncomfortable, especially since his mother’s mood was colder than winter.

  Just before they entered the carriage, he had broken the news of his plan to her; how could he not with an impending confrontation with Lord Grimaldi over dinner? Her hand had fluttered to her throat, and she suddenly turned ashen beneath the golden sheen of her glamour.

  “Mother.” Varian rushed to her side, but she held up a trembling hand to keep him at bay.

  “How dare you!” Her eyes glittered with fury.

  “You know what Father wanted for La Condamine. You know what he wanted me to do.”

  “Yes, but things have changed. You rule La Condamine now. If you cast the Convello, the consequences for La Condamine will be far direr than your father imagi
ned.” She glared at him. “How dare you keep this secret from me? How dare you wait until now, a month before you intend to challenge the immutable laws of nature—”

  “They are not immutable, and they are not laws. The icy barrier is a dark reflection of our magic. It sucks up our energy and twists our powers against us.”

  “I don’t care what you think it is. You are going to throw your life away on an ill-thought plan. You are the most powerful fae in La Condamine, but even you cannot do this alone.”

  “I know that, and I will do it with the support of my people, or not at all. I have a month, Mother, to rally the resources I need, and if I cannot find enough people to commit their magic to the cause, then it cannot and will not be done.” He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her stiff body. “I am not suicidal.”

  “Yet you may very well die…” Her voice cracked.

  “If I do, it will not be for nothing, and if I know I cannot succeed, I will not try. Mother, I swear—I will not throw away my life on a hopeless cause.”

  She stared at him with tears in her eyes. “I cannot lose you.”

  What could he say? You won’t? Varian could not make that promise to her. He drew a deep breath. “I know.”

  “Do you?” She shook her head. “I don’t think you do. You don’t know what it really costs.” She wiped her hand across her eyes. “I can’t go to dinner like this. I’m a mess.”

  “And maybe you shouldn’t. It’s going to be contentious.”

  His mother huffed. “Grimaldi always had good sense. He tried to talk your father out of it, too.” She straightened, and an elegant flick of her wrist refreshed her flawless glow of glamour. “We will go to dinner.” Her narrow-eyed stare was steely; she sounded as if she were marching to war.

  Varian tensed. Damn it. Now he would have to fight the battle on two fronts against Lord Grimaldi and against his mother.

  He was no closer to a credible defense when the carriage turned into the curved driveway of Chateau Grimaldi and stopped in front of the multi-columned entrance. The door was large enough to accommodate a twenty-foot giant, and the ceiling was even higher. The footman announced in a booming voice. “Prince Varian Delacroix and the Dowager Princess Sabine.”