Page 65 of Angel in Absentia
If the Belgearian Lord had not attacked Alkerrai in pursuit of power, it’s likely he’d still be alive, Prince replied as if explaining something simple to a child.But I suppose the illusion is especially crafted for you, so for you it may not be simple. Just don’t fall for it or it will lead to your destruction.
She stared.
If you don’t fall for it, then you will both be free. I will be free. You will set the entire world free, he replied dreamily.For it is Alkerrai’s vice that binds us all, and all this time, he’s been looking only to be defeated. That is his illusion. He aches for redemption from his vice and cannot defeat it on his own, though he is damned to try for all eternity, systematically destroying all that resists him in the process. His vice is the light and the illusions it creates.
“So…” She paused. “What you’re saying, and let me make sure I’m understanding”—she emphasized the words—“is that he loves me, and at the same time, he is systematically trying to destroy me because he can’t help it, and is ultimately hoping I will defeat him, even though the way to defeat him is incredibly obscure and all along, I’m walking along a trap and if I make one stray move, I will be destroyed by my own weaknesses and doom the world?”
Yes.
Clea stopped short, opened her mouth, and then closed it. “You’re joking,” she said. Prince didn’t reply, and she stopped talking and considered who she was speaking to. “Have you been lying this entire time? Prince?” she urged when he didn’t reply.
You’re the one that fell in love with him, not me, Prince replied.Though I am convinced he fell in love with you because youmay very well be the one to free us all. You must simply avoid falling into your own illusions, and you will be fine.
“Prince,” a voice called clearly and coolly from the door. She jolted, and Prince evaporated into smoke.
Clea turned toward the door to see Ryson standing there, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised.
“Prince tells a lot of epic tales,” Ryson said, unfolding his arms as he walked into the room. He walked to the windowsill where she’d spent so many evenings and looked out at the city. It was strange seeing him in this room where she’d spent so much of her life.
“He’ll go on and on if you don’t stop him,” he said. “Mostly nonsense. It usually leads to him talking about getting his body back, which, trust me, isn’t the exciting triumph you think it could be.” He looked over his shoulder and then faced her as he eyed the room. “How do you like your prison? I thought you’d be accustomed to it after so many years. Odd, it’s where they kept you locked, and with plenty of other rooms, you still prefer to sleep here.”
She glared obstinately. Ryson approached her until they were face-to-face. For the first time, it was just the two of them. Clea swallowed, holding onto the chains around her wrists above her. Her armor had been removed, but she stiffened in the clothes beneath as if she were still going to war. Her shirt and pants were still tinged in dirt and sweat from the battle. Her hair was still fastened in its braid, strands hanging loose around her face.
He assessed her in her disheveled state. She assessed him in his refined one.
“Hello, Princess,” he said as if truly greeting her for the first time, and the greeting felt so familiar that her heart twisted. She momentarily glanced away.
“Let me go,” she whispered, pushing herself to maintain his gaze.
He was close to her face, and her legs were tired, but she stood straight in front of him.
“You aren’t actually trapped,” he whispered and then smiled. “But you’d know that if you weren’t so intent to play pretend.”
“These,” she snapped, jerking on the chains above her head, “feel rather real.”
“Oh, yes, but you wouldn’t have asked for them and dared me to kill you if you actually knew your city was on the line,” he whispered. “Ethics are rather predictable, you know. Yours especially.”
“You claimed you cared. I simply put those claims to the test,” she whispered back angrily. “If only to prove your savagery.”
“In testing them with such high stakes, you only demonstrated how much you believed them. You, Princess, showed your hand,” he said, lifting a hand to grasp the chain above her shackles. “You know exactly who I am. You always have, and as soon as you’re prepared to surrender this little charade—which, by the way, I am rather enjoying”—he tugged once on the chain, which shook her abruptly—“then you and I can at last be truly reacquainted after our long and agonizing season apart.”
“You’re Alkerrai al Shambelin,” she said. “You’ve killed thousands, likely millions of people. You’ve ravaged thecontinent with warfare. You are the opposite of everything that I have strived to be since birth, and I am a tragedy in that I have your heart and you have mine.”
He let her go, and she almost thought he winced at her calling him by his title instead of the name she’d once used.
“Oh, please,” he said, backing away from her and taking a small turn in the room. “Thousands? Millions? Strange how history always seems to be so vague on the details. You accused me in my blindness in King Kartheen’s castle; I’ll now accuse you of the same in your own castle,” he declared as he approached her again, lowering his voice to a sharp whisper.
Clea braced herself, prepared in her defenses and fully ready to battle him with words.
“You,” he started sharply, his eyes aglow, “are a queen only of the forests of Shambelin. A personification of its beauty and its duplicity, you reflect the light of the sun with such staggering brilliance and beauty.” His voice softened, words alternating with severity and admiration. “And yet, the moon, as I am, exposes the feral creature that you are.”
“Liar,” she hissed back, thrashing once in the chains to show her protest. “If anything is to be exposed, it’s the infection that you are. Your heart is a poison that I steel myself to resist every day. I should never have healed you.”
“Ha!” he laughed, pacing back as he shook his head with a grin. “Resist? You cling to that heart, Princess, just as I cling to yours. You keep comfort in this room where they once locked you”—he gestured around at the room—“because this entire city is a prison to you.” He marched up to her again, ready to deal a final blow. “Let’s be honest with ourselves, shall we?” he said, faceclose to hers, arm circling her back and pulling her close with a jolt. He breathed the words, “Every night you lie in the comforts of this lavish bed when all you really want is to be back on that stone altar, strewn out like an offering to, who was it again?” he asked, voice low and gruff as a wicked smiled turned his lips. “Oh, yes, the Warlord of Shambelin.”
A flush burned through her because not so long ago, she’d had a similar dream in which she’d felt completely captured in such feelings, a woman, part of the forest, an offering under the moonlight. She was terrified for a moment that somehow, he’d seen that very dream. She couldn’t hide the obvious signs of her embarrassment, and he inspected her face, clearly pleased by it as if it had secured his victory.
Even feeling the firm press of his hand at her back softened her against him, just as his touch had softened her on the altar. She tried to convince herself, looking into his eyes, that he was different than Ryson, but his eyes, his voice, his sharpness were all the same. She kept her mouth firmly closed, when every inclination urged her lips to part and receive a kiss that would never come. His touch urged her to relax in the shackles and let his arms hold her instead.
