To Scale the Emerald Mountain (The Willowbane Saga #1)

21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ALEC

E llya and I sit on the floor, clinging to each other while I whisper incoherent apologies that will never be enough. The stain of Locane’s blood on the top of her head pokes at the beast wanting to rage in my chest. I try to control it and tell myself nothing matters now that she is home.

She is here with me—where she belongs.

Ellya cries openly as she sits cradled in my lap, clinging to me with her face buried in my chest, her tears soaking through my shirt. Her shoulders shake as I continue to hold her, afraid to break free from the moment—afraid she will disappear before my eyes. Stroking her hair gently, I kiss the top of her head often.

When Ellya’s sobs finally begin to fade away and her grip on me loosens, holding tighter to her back, I stand to my feet, lifting her in my arms. I carry her up the stairs of the mezzanine and into her chambers, opening the ajar door with a kick of my foot. My feet carry us through her sitting room and into her bedchamber.

The room is lit with soft glowing flicker lamps, gentle light splashing across the floor. Stopping in the middle of the room, I consider my next move. Ellya is a mess. The blood on her head keeps snagging my attention, and I yearn to wash him from her hair. To gently scrub my fingers through the tangles and across her scalp as I clean away the physical reminder of his wrongdoings. I glance back and forth between the poster bed and the bathing chamber.

“Do you want to bathe?” I murmur softly near her ear.

Ellya shakes her head vigorously and without another word I walk across the room. I awkwardly manage to continue holding her close while I pull back the thin blanket. With great reluctance, I deposit her softly on the bed and pull her boots off.

Covering her gently with the smooth satin sheet, I then pull a chair next to her, and sit—resisting the urge to nestle myself behind her and continue holding her tight. If I do, I will never get up to face what lies ahead.

I stare at Ellya openly, curled into herself. Her hands are balled into tight fists and are still taken by tremors. She is back to keeping her eyes screwed shut, refusing to look at me.

It hurts. Gods, it fucking hurts. But I can only imagine how my pain pales in comparison to hers.

Leaning forward, I brush her hair back from her face. The contact makes her flinch, and I retreat quickly.

“What can I do?” I ask pathetically, my throat tight. She merely shakes her head and more tears slip free, staining the pillow beneath her. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything at all?”

I am useless. Utterly fucking useless.

Ellya shakes her head again, and I sit back, leaving her be. It does not take long for her body to uncoil itself and her breathing to become deep and even. I could watch her sleep for hours; and I intend to, after the other half of this matter is addressed.

It pains me to leave her, but it is necessary. I mentally reach out to Mhaylene—who Ellya seemed to recognize immediately—asking her to stay in the event she wakes up before I return. Standing silently, I place a gentle kiss on her forehead, and then another. Although she is sleeping, I whisper to her, “I will be back soon,” and brush my lips against her cheek.

My nerves scream as I pull away. She moans quietly and leans towards me, as if even in sleep she is resisting my departure. Lowering the lights further, I leave just enough to be able to see. I turn to her one last time before I go, scarcely letting myself believe she is truly here. Before I change my mind and crawl into bed with her—right where I belong—I walk into the hall.

The door closes silently behind me. The palace is eerily quiet tonight, and I know it has nothing to do with the hour. Kraeston is standing guard when I exit. His large frame towers over mine, a feat given my own considerable height.

My eyes turn towards the stairs to see Mhaylene ascending to the landing and heading towards us.

“How is she?” Kraeston asks. His concern is genuine. After all, he has known Ellya as long as I have and has spent much time with her throughout the years, accompanying me on most trips to Brhadir.

“Sleeping.”

“Did she speak to you at all?” Mhaylene asks in a hushed tone.

“She did not. I only asked her if she needed anything. All she would do was shake her head.” I rub my temples. Exhaustion that I have been ignoring is creeping in, its fuzziness blanketing my senses. A headache is forming between my eyes at the prospect of facing Locane. “Will you stay with her? She should not be alone if she wakes up.”

“You are going to see him now?” Mhaylene’s brows rise with her question .

I nod once.

Mhaylene gnaws her lip before replying, “Should it not wait, Alec? You’re exhausted and raw. And you should be with her.”

“It cannot wait. I am fine. I will return to Elly as soon as this is over,” I tell her rubbing my temples again.

“You are not. You have been running on liquor, adrenaline, and fearful rage for months. Kraeston was just admitting his worry earlier—telling me he’s ready to slip you a sleeping draught if you don’t rest on your own soon.” She crosses her arms with apprehension, her knowing eyes taking me in.

Kraeston gapes at her indignantly. “Thanks for throwing me under, Mhay.”

“Please, he needs to hear it,” she tells him before turning her attention back to me. “Yes, we have all been worried sick about Elly, but we are also worried about you, Alec. Just promise me you will take care of yourself now.”

Kraeston steps in for me. “He’s right, Mhay. Now would be best. While Locane’s still freshly drained would be the safest time to have him out of irons. He won’t talk freely, and even if he did, we can’t trust anything he says. Alec needs to look. It should be now.”

She cuts her eyes back and forth between us. “Prepare yourself for what you might see.”

My shoulders tense with Mhaylene’s words. I have not allowed myself to ponder on the interactions that were witnessed between Ellya and Locane, or what those interactions might mean. As I think about it now, unsavory images bombard my brain, nausea churns, and I see red. A low, wrathful growl escapes my throat.

“Will you execute him tonight?” Kraeston asks me, seeing my quick change in demeanor. Him and Mhaylene both watch me closely as I crack my neck .

Gods, I want to. First, I want to rip Locane’s throat out with my teeth then feed him the images of him drowning in his own blood at my feet. But the thought of Ellya, of what she may have experienced and what she might require moving forward, wipes the images of all the ways I could end his life from my mind.

Cracking my neck again, I attempt to roll some of the tension out of my shoulders.

“No,” I finally answer. “If Elly has anything she wants to say to him, or if she wants to see his death at her hands, I will not steal that from her.”

Kraeston nods in understanding and Mhaylene squeezes my arm affectionately before walking into Ellya’s room. She closes the door behind her, and Kraeston and I share a silent interaction.

After so many years of friendship and companionship, we can understand each other without words—similar to how I could with Locane, but not nearly as deeply connected and ingrained. We nod at each other in tandem before he leads the way through the winding maze of halls and corridors, understanding my need to work off some anxious energy by walking to the dungeons below the throne room, rather than jump straight there.

The king’s residence sits on the eastern end of the palace—a sprawling estate with three large wings. From the private entrance, it could be mistaken as a separate building from the palace entirely. Another large home in the Vahnsing District, the affluent neighborhood named after my family.

It takes us nearly fifteen minutes to make our way through the labyrinth and emerge in the cavernous official entrance hall, devoid of life at this hour. Another several minutes finds us in the winding staircase beneath the throne room that leads to the dungeons .

The cells are dug deep below the palace, the air stifling and stagnant. The amenities of comfort seen throughout the palace are excluded from the dungeons, and the deeper we get the air turns hotter and drier. We reach the bottom of the stairs; my boots grit against the grainy surface. The parched sands on which this city was built litter the floor, seeping in through cracks with an ominous patter—the soft hiss like that of a snake.

We reach the maximum-security cells and come upon ten guards standing at the steel door. They silently part as I approach. I wave my arm, no incantation necessary for the current heir of the Vahnsing line.

I am its master.

As soon as the enormous steel door creaks open, I see Locane through the barred wall of his cell. He is standing with a large iron collar around his throat. Thick iron cuffs circle both wrists and connect with two short links of iron chain. His ankles are shackled in a similar fashion with a few extra links. A leather gag remains clamped between his teeth.

Striding towards the door of the cell, the guards follow me, stopping just short of entering. With another wave of my arm, the magicked sliding lock unseals with an odd squelching sound, temporarily releasing the wards around the cell. The door slides open with an ear ringing clank.

Stepping aside, I watch silently through the bars, arms folded as the dancing flames of the torches behind me cast shadows across my face. The guards—led by Kraeston—replace Locane’s iron holds with steel. They start with the collar and slowly work their way down, thick leather gloves protecting them from the magic draining metal. I hold Locane’s eye, never breaking connection while they move .

Locane does not try to hide the hateful smile he wears. He is the exaggerated version of what Milo described, having obviously taken even more of a downturn. His skin is so waxy and off color it does not appear human. His shirt hangs loosely from his emaciated form, and I can imagine the jutting rib cage beneath. There is no life left in his eyes, and his hands are black as the void itself. The stain extends past the tips of his fingers, fading out to inky blots near his wrists.

“Everything alright, brother?” he asks cruelly after a guard removes his gag. “You don’t look yourself.” I do not immediately dignify his cruelty with an answer. It does not deter him. “Perhaps not sleeping well lately? Any reason why?” Locane’s twisted smile widens, and I bite.

“You are one to speak, Locane. You look as if you are about to fall right into the arms of the Lady of Death.” I shake my head an infinitesimal amount—my hurt and disappointment on full display. “What have you done, brother?”

His smile fades completely, and his expression morphs to something cold. “I only did what was necessary.”

I scoff at his answer, unfold my arms, and step inside the cell. “Oh, yes. What was necessary. Kidnapping a princess?” I halt the rest of the words that I want to say.

My princess.

“I didn’t kidnap a princess,” Locane snaps. “She walked out the door on her own two feet.”

“Because of your trickery and illusions, no doubt. Tell me, brother, where did she think she was going when she left?”

Locane laughs and the sound makes my blood run cold. “She was going to her freedom. ”

The guards have finished swapping his irons, but it will take several minutes for the dampening to ease enough for me to accomplish my task. Locane lurches forward suddenly with a surprising burst of strength, jerking the chains and making them sing with ringing echoes against the stone walls.

Three of the guards flinch and cower away. Kraeston will have to replace them. It is so difficult to find any men of substance these days.

I do not so much as blink.

My stare takes in Locane silently as the pattering hiss of sand continues to croon around us with its maddening song. Sweat beads at my neck in the choking heat.

“She would have been extraordinary,” Locane barks at me, breaking the silence. The fanatical glint that was ever present in our father has come to fruition in Locane.

“She is extraordinary,” I say passionately.

He chuckles. “Please, you and Mhay coddled the greatness right out of her until all that’s left is another spoiled princess who thinks she is far more special than she is. Her pathetic father willingly handed her off to be raised by you two.”

My muscles tighten with the fear that he has poisoned Ellya’s mind against the integrity of her relationships. I was told she did not know who her father was, but that does not mean Locane could not have planted a seed of doubt about the man who helped create her. A seed that would easily grow given the difficulties of their relationship. Did he do the same with Mhaylene? With me?

“Does your friendship with Milo throughout the years mean nothing to you?” I ask, and he laughs cruelly. Until the years leading up to Father’s death and Locane’s abandonment of his responsibilities, he and Milo had a bond as deep as the one I hold with Kraeston.

“Save your superiority, brother. Tell me, how has your friendship with Milo been the last eighteen years?” Locane asks me with a knowing smile. His face shifts back to maniacal in barely a blink. “Do you even know what she can do, Alec?”

Locane leans forward as far as his restraints will allow, the pressure of the steel collar holding him making the chords of his neck pop. His words are a breath of fanatical awe, and I see so much of Father during the dark days.

“Nothing similar to her electricity has been recorded throughout history. The Ettanelle power of her mother is barely a fraction of what Ellya holds.”

I growl at the sound of her precious name on his spiteful lips. “Why did you take her? Why her?” I cannot keep the hurt from my voice when I ask him.

“Are you certain she was only meant for you?”

My gut begins to fill with hot, heavy stones when I consider that possibility. I do not give him the satisfaction of showing my worry.

“We are made from the same matter. How do you know she wasn’t as drawn to me as she is you? Maybe Ellya was happy to go with me. She was quite upset with you. How do you know she didn’t happily run into my arms?”

My rage turns savage, and I stride towards him. My hand clamps around the barely exposed portions of his neck and squeezes—struggling to hold back enough to not kill him here and now.

The steel collar bends where my crushing grip overlaps.

Saying nothing, I stare into Locane’s dead, malicious eyes and pull from his mind the truth of his actions. The onslaught has my brow quickly breaking out in beads of cold sweat, blood slowly dripping from my nose. I take in his treachery and manipulation, grunting with the combination of rage and effort to control the pace in which his memories come to me. If his words are true, there are things I do not wish to see.

It is obvious when I have reached that point. I see them kiss and cast a haze over the images that follow before burning the memory from his brain matter, destroying it beyond repair. Locane roars as I rip into his mind. I revel in the sounds of his screams and give him a cruel smile of my own.

He does not get to relive that for his pleasure.

The extent of their time together came to completion just hours after he stole from Ellya.

The only solace I find in everything that I have learned is that my mating bond does not extend to my twin. There is no connection between them at all. The familiarity my Ellya kept feeling was her searching for the pieces of Locane that connect to me. He knew it even when she did not; and he used it in his manipulations.

The cruelty Locane treated Ellya with astounds me. Not only did he plant seeds of doubt about her father, and indeed Mhaylene, but about herself as well. About her strength and abilities. Those seeds grew, tender roots sinking into festering ground. Even when her words fought him, they began to lack conviction. With every insult, the doubt and insecurity in Ellya’s eyes grew. All the more infuriating because the reason she did not know Locane when he appeared—as the kyniors closed in—is because she fought his mental hold so thoroughly. Both leading up to that point and after.

Ellya kept trying to turn and head back in the direction of Crane Hills. She tried multiple times to attack Locane when her subconscious was telling her he was dangerous. He eventually removed himself from her and kept his distance, making Ellya wander aimlessly while he tried and failed over and over to break her to his will. Her vapid expression and the sudden change make sense now.

Locane reached new levels of desperation when the kyniors found her. He sank to the ground on his knees, cut his hand open and drew runes with his blood while chanting guttural incantations in a familiar tongue. His power swelled with a cloud of blood red darkness that settled before he erased every part of Ellya’s life with his amplified magic. He then fed her an illusioned lie of being locked in a dungeon before making an impossible escape. Locane then put a glamour on himself to look healthy and non-threatening before swooping in just in time to make a grand rescue.

Our trackers and search teams struggled so badly to find Ellya due to another spell with blood magic Locane performed, before he even coaxed her outside of the castle—pretending to be me. All the extra wards to keep him out never mattered. Locane never left the walls of the castle when he came to inquire about Ellya.

It was all part of his plan.

Locane continued to purposely hide Ellya’s knowledge of her gifts from her until he trusted she would not try to attack him again or flee. He began to deteriorate after almost being caught in Glehsdor. He left Ellya in that clearing near the village to go to the house and get rid of any guards or staff who may have been there. Locane exerted profound magical effort on multiple people after struggling to keep Ellya under his control for so long.

He put up his wards—which he added Ellya’s blood to not much later. Adding her blood to his wards was Locane’s first targeted effort to dampen our mating bond. It was when she passed through those wards that her light within me dimmed to nothing .

The long jump carrying the full weight of them both stretched Locane’s abilities to their limits. His hiding Ellya’s magic from her backfired in that moment. If she had been aware, she could have leaned into her power to take some of the strain off him.

After Locane had her hidden, he used minimal power, putting all his strength into keeping up Ellya’s illusions and his lies. He tried to keep hold of the glamour he kept in place to hide the terrifying state of his appearance. It often slipped.

Ellya experienced Locane’s erratic and unpredictable emotions, usually during times when he was trying to force her secrets out of her. Those times confused her further on why she could not keep her own emotions in check. Locane purposely relinquished the memory of Mhaylene to Ellya, knowing that she was hands-on in Ellya’s training. He hoped that with each memory and vision, that she would be forthcoming with information.

She rarely was.

Ellya often felt the headaches that plagued Locane due to his over exertion and the taint of unnatural magic. With each passing day she laughed less—smiled less until she rarely smiled at all, becoming a shell day by day.

Locane never would have been able to achieve a fraction of this horror without the blood magic. Even still, he was unable to dig into Ellya’s mind for what he wanted to know. He was unable to compel her to tell him, despite Ellya’s minimal training in mental blocks. Her subconscious recognized the threat, and she guarded her secrets.

Locane and I had vicious fights with each other in the past and would burn out quickly. Part of our twin connection is that our power does not always work on the other and are only able to see into the mind of the other back so far. We would battle the mental effects of those fights for days. Our surroundings became surreal and unreliable. Our noses would drip blood from the strain of mental magic.

Locane held Ellya’s mind captive for months.

Letting go of his throat as soon as the flow of images comes to an end, I back away quickly.

Only months ago, I still hoped for the distance between us to close. Now, I do not think there could ever be enough.

“What have you done?” I ask in horror.

To himself. To Ellya. To me.

“I only did what was necessary,” Locane rasps, holding an unsettling stare.

“You used your blood magic to try to sever our mating bond—to permanently erase her memories of me.” I swallow down the sickness crawling up my throat. “When did you take my blood?”

When Ellya did not respond to their intimacy the way Locane had hoped, when she ran to find solitude instead of seeking him, he found his own empty corner of the property. He pulled out two vials of blood, one mine and one Ellya’s that he easily took while she slept, before slicing into his skin. He drew his runes, chanted his incantations, and attempted to sever our mating bond.

Locane erased all of Ellya’s memories connected to me in a much more binding way than his initial erasure of her life.

But he failed in his ultimate goal of fully destroying our bond. My bond with Ellya—gifted by the Fates—is too strong. Stronger than any natural or dark magic. Locane’s effort in desperation is what finally tipped him over the edge of control, the sands of his hourglass rapidly emptying.

Locane does not answer. Kraeston and the other guards start changing his chains back to irons .

“You get to have it all, brother. Your sanity, your pretty little mate, your Kingdom. Tell me, are you enjoying my title?”

My head shakes in disbelief at the audacity of his accusing question. “You abandoned your responsibilities, willingly dumped your title in my lap. I was not meant to be king.”

“You were. No matter that I came into the world first. We all know that it was I who split from you in the womb. ‘Two halves of the same whole,’” he scoffs at the phrase our mother has used for us all our lives.

He gives me a disturbing smile before continuing. “I may not have been able to claim her, but I’m sure that didn’t stop me from being able to make her purr. Tell me, brother, did your mate’s noises make your cock twitch even though it was I coaxing them from her?”

The words are meant to rile me, but it is Kraeston who loses his composure and punches Locane in the gut. Locane grunts and hunches forward, momentarily hanging himself with his chains.

The anger he seeks does not come to me, only overwhelming anguish. “What have I done to earn your hatred?”

Locane’s only answer is to smile at me, blood staining the creases between his teeth.