Page 27 of A Flame of the Phoenix (An Heir Comes to Rise #6)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Tarly

“ I t’s your lucky day,” a male voice sang into his cell.

Tarly turned taut. He’d been wondering when he’d hear it again.

The dark fae came into view, shadowed mostly right outside his cell. Maverick , Zaiana had called him. But Tarly knew him by a different name.

“You’re a traitor,” Tarly said. It had been burning in his throat ever since he laid eyes on the presumed dead Prince of Dalrune.

The only reaction he gave was a mild flex around his cold, black eyes. Once a vibrant cobalt blue like his lightning, now they were completely soulless. But it was enough to wipe the small kernel of hope Tarly harbored that he didn’t remember who he was. Only then could Tarly understand his aid of the enemy.

“You don’t know a thing,” Callen said resentfully.

“By all means, explain to me how you’ve been killing innocents and siding with the ones who collapsed your kingdom all this time you were dead ,” Tarly hissed.

He couldn’t help it—part of him was reeling with betrayal. They weren’t all that close personally, but their families had hosted one another, their parents been friends, respected and loved by each other. To see what had become of Callen washed him with horror.

“Now you’ve come to do the same?”

“Your family were slaughtered by them !”

Tarly’s rage kept building, yet Callen remained so emotionless, and it only riled him more.

Dakodas’s proposition of Transitioning Tarly to dark fae recoiled in him even more now. Would he become just as heartless? Would he look at Nerida and forget all the dead pieces of himself she’d brought back to life? Would it all be for nothing?

He couldn’t let that happen. He would never choose that.

“You think I don’t know that?” Callen seethed.

“It’s been over a hundred years, and you’ve been helping your family’s killers. Your mate’s killer?—”

Callen’s hand slammed the bars, silencing Tarly’s reel of outrage. The stare he locked on him was nothing short of a deadly warning. Callen took a few calming breaths before he spoke.

“Like I said, you don’t know a thing. So before you go pointing traitorous fingers, why have you betrayed them all to come here? Like father like son?”

Tarly would have lunged to strangle him were those bars not there. Though he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance. Callen was stronger as dark fae now, and Tarly hadn’t forgotten he was powerful in his Firewielding ability. Tarly was once again reminded how weak of an heir he was compared to the rest of them. Shit, even a human had risen from the ashes to become something capable of taking kingdoms if she wished.

Tarly chastised his mind for the pitying comparisons now. This wasn’t the time for reflecting on himself.

“As if I would tell you anything,” Tarly grumbled.

“Then let me tell you, if you’ve come as some spy or on some heroic endeavor, you’ll be snuffed out before you can get close.”

“By you? Is that why Dakodas sent you—to keep an eye on me?”

“Yes.”

“What a good lapdog you are.”

“Careful, Wolverlon.”

“Nik would kill you without a thought if he saw you now.”

In their younger years, Tarly had been jealous of the quick bond between the two other princes. Any parties or meetings, the princes of High Farrow and Dalrune found enjoyable company in each other.

“Probably,” Callen agreed.

“I want to speak to Jakon and Marlowe,” Tarly said.

Callen scoffed. “Could you make your false allegiance here any more obvious?”

“They’re making Phoenix Blood. I can help. My mother was a healer, and I know how to make the potions for Marlowe to spell.”

“Is that so? Well, in that case, let me set up three of Faythe Ashfyre’s closest allies in a fucking tea party.”

Tarly glowered. “Then what have you come to do with me? I’m hardly of use elsewhere.”

“That much we can agree on.”

“You’ll be watching us the whole time,” Tarly reasoned.

Callen considered. When next a key twisted in the lock of his cell, Tarly sagged with relief. He thought he might go insane, gaining hardly any sleep against the hard floor, without anything other than his cloak against the bitter night air.

“As you might have heard, I don’t spare a second for mercy. That’s your only warning,” Callen said, his smile jarring at these words.

Before he Transitioned, Callen had always carried an edge of playfulness and cunning, but he was also considerate and utterly enamored with his mate. Thinking of that, Tarly looked over the fallen prince with his first slice of deep sympathy for him. Perhaps losing her had been the thing to give his soul over to the unfeeling dark completely.

As he left his cell, Tarly couldn’t help but think of Nerida. Gods , all he did was think of her, both in torment and as the only thing that kept him wanting to wake up every day. She probably despised him for leaving, but she never would have let him go. He might have hurt her, but it would spare her from worse pain later.

Every movement had begun to ache in his poisoned side. He was rapidly running out of time.

Tarly followed Callen up the winding steps, back into the main body of the castle. He’d only been here once in his life. Rhyenelle was mostly unfamiliar to him, but he’d always admired the tales of the legendary kingdom that had birthed the Phoenix riders.

“Were you the only one to make it out when Dalrune was invaded?” Tarly couldn’t stop the curiosity that spilled out in their silence.

“No one made it out.”

“Your parents, your brother?—”

Being shoved against the wall shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. The impact against his bad shoulder, even though not that hard, blackened the edges of his vision.

“I am not that prince. My name is Maverick Blackfair, and if you want to live, you’ll remember that.”

Tarly’s thoughts swam with the jolts of pain that were seizing through his chest, so he couldn’t respond, but he heard.

“What’s wrong with you?” Callen asked irritably.

Pushing off him, Tarly had to brace his hands on his thighs until he could breathe right again.

“A bite by your kind, Maverick ,” he said resentfully. If that was who he wanted to be, Tarly had no problem with that.

When he found the strength to straighten against the wall, he found the dark fae studying him.

“When?”

“A few months ago. I’ve been told I shouldn’t really still be alive, but death is catching up.”

“How did it happen?”

“In Olmstone—from someone who was posing as a friend to Tauria.”

“Tauria.” Callen said her name as if he’d forgotten her after all this time. “When her kingdom fell, at least she had the sense to run to Nik—her mate, am I right? Or is that still a secret to no one but themselves?”

“I thought you weren’t Callen.”

He shrugged. “I can still be curious.”

“Yes, they mated. Until Marvellas broke their bond. Tauria’s in Valgard.”

He kept insisting he was Maverick, an uncaring dark fae, yet Tarly swore that news disturbed his expression.

“I guess they don’t tell you everything,” Tarly said.

“And where, dare I ask, is Nikalias?”

Tarly sealed his lips against that. He wouldn’t divulge any of their whereabouts to this traitor.

Callen huffed with a cruel smile. “Not doing a very great job of convincing me you’re actually here to join our cause. They should have sent a better liar.”

“I don’t know where any of them are,” Tarly snapped.

“Then how do you know about Tauria?”

Shit, maybe he was terrible at this.

“She was taken to Fenstead before that. The word of a returning princess is bound to spread fast. My guess? Nik has gone after her, but I wouldn’t know where he’s been all this time.”

Callen hummed. “Good attempt. Now let’s go.”

He was brought to a room in the far west side of the castle. Guards became less, which was surprising if he was being led to Jakon and Marlowe. He’d have thought Faythe’s allies, as Callen still called them, would be under closer supervision. It made him think they didn’t want the knowledge of the Phoenix Blood to be made public yet.

Callen welcomed himself through a door, and Tarly found a man with dark brown hair and a blonde woman. He’d never really met them before, only seen them briefly when they’d infiltrated the Olmstone castle with Nik to help stop Tauria and Mordecai’s wedding. He’d thought that incredibly courageous of two humans.

They were in one of the kitchens, with the room entirely to themselves for this task. Many vials of clear and red liquids were scattered across the table, along with various herbs, containers, and equipment.

The blonde woman sat at the bench, her eyes lifting at their intrusion, and they were so hollow and tired that he pitied the human, who was clearly being forced to work beyond her magickal capabilities. Her skin was pale and sickly, and the human man didn’t seem much better. Only, his deterioration was purely out of concern for her.

“This is how two people working to grant your side an astronomical upper hand are treated?” Tarly said in distain. He had no emotional attachment to the humans, but their neglect stirred his anger.

“She is the one pushing herself,” Callen countered.

There was broken glass and spilled glittering crimson against the walls and over various counters, as if every attempt she’d failed had ended in a slip of violent frustration. It seemed so unlike the gentle nature he’d heard of, but this was war, and war broke even the calmest of souls.

“What are you doing here?” Jakon directed this at him.

Callen clapped a hand to his—mercifully—good shoulder. “You have yourselves a new eager helper.”

Jakon didn’t shed a fraction of his distaste or hostility. It was no matter—Tarly was well-acquainted with needing to be in places where he wasn’t wanted.

“How are the potions coming along?” Callen asked, weirdly cheerful. He strolled into the room, one hand in his pocket, while the other swiped one of a dozen vials of crimson liquid. When he shook the contents, it swirled like liquid stardust.

“She’s doing all she can,” Jakon said through his teeth.

Callen tutted. “Not good enough, I’m afraid. There’s only so much patience Malin has, and let me tell you, it really isn’t a lot.”

“It doesn’t help that he’s taking vials for himself so often. She can hardly keep up,” Jakon snapped.

Callen shrugged. “This is his operation.”

“How many is he expecting?” Tarly asked.

“Enough to heighten an army of magick wielders.”

Tarly surveyed the amount created—a few dozen. It seemed a ludicrous expectation.

“Aren’t there others with the same magick to help her?”

“We’ve been scouting, but the human mages are a long dead breed. Most never even know what they’re capable of, so they’re impossible to pick up on. Others are very well adept at keeping hidden.”

Tarly couldn’t understand why the human would accept this task alone. Faythe was adamant Jakon and Marlowe hadn’t truly betrayed her; that Marlowe—an oracle— had a greater plan she had no choice but to trust in. Yet at this display, Tarly was beginning to wonder if that had been a lie and their betrayal was true.

“This one is active?” Callen asked, still admiring the bottle.

“Yes,” Marlowe said, her voice barely a broken whisper.

Tarly thought Callen would take it; try the effects for himself. He set the bottle down.

“Seems like the new king will have to rethink his grand plan if you die before you produce an amount of substantial impact.”

Callen headed for the door.

“You’re leaving?” Tarly said.

“I have better things to do with my time than babysit this poor show.”

“What happened to keeping a close eye on me?”

“I have my ways, but by all means, do something foolish if you think you’re safe. It makes it more entertaining for me.”

Callen didn’t glance back again before he disappeared.

The tension in the room grew awkward. He didn’t know how to place himself around the two humans who continued to study him with bemusement and distrust.

“I can make the potions,” he said. “Then you just have to focus on spelling them.”

“Tauria believed in you,” Jakon threw at him with accusation.

Callen’s threat lingered in his absence. Tarly scanned the corners of the room for eyes.

“Faythe believed in you. I guess we’re all disappointments.”

Marlowe pushed something across the table to him. “We’re glad you’re here,” she said, so kind he didn’t expect it when her husband looked about ready to lunge for his throat.

What lay on the piece of fabric was small cuts of a Phoenix feather. A real one. He could hardly believe it and actually started to build excitement to work with it.

Jakon caressed Marlowe’s shoulder and neck, peering down at her with pain and concern, but she smiled up at him in an attempt at reassurance. That unspoken exchange relaxed Jakon, and Tarly had to admire their close bond.

He took up a seat on the bench, leaning into Marlowe’s warmth. Tarly’s heart ached worse than it ever had before. It reached and strained toward ripping in two from being apart from Nerida. He hadn’t meant to let her burrow inside him so deeply, but now there was no prying her out of his chest. So Tarly began his task, hoping it would distract him from the heavy parting he felt in his soul.