The king’s jaw tensed. “I remember.”
“I was seven years old. Seven. Have you for one moment regretted it?”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t have tried to steal from the Auranian palace. It would have caused great embarrassment had you been successful.”
“Seven years old!” Magnus’s throat hurt as he practically yelled it. “I was a mere child making a mistake, tempted by something shiny and pretty when I was used to living a bland, gray life in a bland, gray palace. No one would have known that I’d taken that dagger! What difference did it make?”
“I would have known,” the king hissed. “That dagger you wished to steal belonged to Elena. I would have known because I was the one who gave it to her, back when I was a foolish boy trying to woo a beautiful girl. I didn’t know she’d kept it, that she’d cherished and displayed it all the time we’d been apart. When I saw it in your hand six years after her death . . . I didn’t think. I just reacted.”
Magnus found he had no immediate reply. To have these questions answered after so long, he couldn’t process it quick enough. “That doesn’t excuse what you did.”
“No, of course it doesn’t.”
Magnus tore his attention away from the king and tried to focus on something, anything else. It helped to notice that the world went on beyond this conversation. A large man walked toward the bar with an armful of empty cups, his tunic riding up high enough to show a hairy belly. A barmaid coyly slapped the hand of a sailor away. The musicians in the far corner played a lively song, and many clapped along. Several others danced on a tabletop.
“Power is all that matters, Magnus. Legacy is all that matters.” The king said it as if trying to convince himself of this. “Without it we’re no better than a Paelsian peasant.”
He’d heard these platitudes so many times they’d become no more than words that held no true meaning. “Tell me, did Elena Bellos love you in return, or was it a sad and hopeless obsession that turned both your heart and soul to solid ice?”
His father didn’t answer for so long that Magnus thought he might have stood up and left. He turned his gaze away from the busy tavern to be sure the king was still beside him.
“She loved me,” he finally said, his voice nearly inaudible. “But that love wasn’t enough to solve our problems.”
Magnus clenched his goblet. “Are you going to tell me a tale of love and loss now—about a boy meeting a girl?”
“No.”
The thought that his father would dangle this epic love story before him without sharing it fully was as expected as it was frustrating.
“Then why are you even here?”
“To share the lesson I learned. Love is pain. Love is death. And love strips one of their power. Had I to do it all over again, I wish I’d never met Elena Corso. I’ve since come to despise her.”
“How romantic. Since she married Corvin Bellos, I assume she felt the same.”
“I’m sure she did. And now, I’m reminded of her every day of all that I’ve lost by that deceptive little creature, Cleo. She has become your fatal weakness, Magnus.”
The hatred had returned to Gaius’s voice. Magnus met his father’s cold eyes. “Your ongoing hatred for Cleo seems incredibly misplaced to me. The witch who cursed Elena is the one you should blame.” Magnus let out a breath in shock as he realized something. “You do, don’t you? That’s why you’ve condemned so many witches to their deaths over the years—to pay for that witch’s crime. You might say you despise Elena, but you still love her—even beyond death. Why else would you have taken Grandmother’s potion?”
“Think what you want.” A muscle in the king’s cheek twitched. “The potion was the only way to burn away the grief, the pain, and leave only strength behind. But now that strength is gone, stripped away when I fell from that cliff. The pain and grief is back, worse than ever before. And I hate it. I hate everything about this life, what I’ve had to do, how I’ve spent all this time obsessed with nothing but power. But it’s over now.”
“So you keep promising.”
Magnus needed out of this noisy, smoky tavern. He needed the time and the space to clear his head.
When he stood up, the king grabbed his arm. “I beg you, my son, send Cleiona away before she destroys you. She doesn’t truly love you, if that’s what you think. No matter what she tells you, she speaks only lies.”
“The King of Blood begging. Now I’ve heard everything.” He sighed. “I’ve had enough to drink for tonight. Such a pleasure to have had this chat with you, Father. Try to make it back to the inn without dying. I’m sure your mother would be very upset.”
He left without another word, hating how conflicted he felt about what to think, what to feel.
In the narrow alley outside the exit he’d taken, someone blocked his way to the main road, a large man with wide shoulders and a dark look on his face.
No one else was in sight.
“Yeah, I thought I recognized you the other night,” the man said. “You’re Prince Magnus Damora of Limeros.”
“And you’re horribly mistaken. Sorry to disappoint.” Magnus tried to elbow past him, but the man’s large mitt of a hand shot out to clutch his throat, drawing him close enough that Magnus could smell the ale on his breath.