Chapter One

BEFORE THE CURSE, Alaistar had been indifferent to the sea.

It had been just another element of terrain to be considered.

Until the magic fully settled at sunset of the third day after the curse struck. From that moment on, the pull of the sea was a constant in Alaistar’s awareness.

Even several hundred feet up, standing on the balcony that ringed the topmost room of the Lighthouse, he couldn’t escape its call.

He’d become adept at ignoring it. Instead of giving in and going down to the secluded cove south of the Fortress, Alaistar stood his ground. Resolutely unmoving, he watched the harbor activity from his lofty viewpoint.

When he’d visited this watch post as a child, the Fortress that protected the Lighthouse had been a fascinating, fast-paced city all its own. Exhilarating in its confusion and chaos. Especially the market square on the north end of the complex. Back then, it spilled out of its confines, bubbling with noise, music, and laughter. The entire stretch of the thoroughfare, from the docks to the square filled with stalls and merchants, had felt more like a carnival than a serious business district.

Now, though still busy, it felt too quiet. Too melancholy. Too desperate in its pace.

Trade continued, and the docks and warehouse remained crowded. But the wharf didn’t quite overflow with traffic like it once had. And ship captains had much less need to bribe, bully, or beg for docking space. 

Just one more symptom of the troubles that plagued Darkhar.

“This sudden fascination with high places you have is not good for my knees. Is the view really worth it?”

Alaistar didn’t bother to turn toward the lamp room.

Partly because he was confident in the guards stationed at the base of the Lighthouse. The post might be more ceremonial than necessary, but every soldier under Alaistar’s command took even the most mundane assignment seriously.

Mostly, though, because he’d heard Oenry’s steady progress up the spiral staircase long before his second-in-command had stepped through the trapdoor that led into the lamp room. For a big man, he could be surprisingly stealthy when he chose to. But the Guard Captain didn’t bother with the effort unless necessary.

Nearly seven feet tall, Oenry had the breadth of muscle to match. Somehow, though, the curling blond hair and boyish smile lessened the intimidation others felt around him.

Unlike Alaistar, whose icy demeanor and ruthless reputation had kept almost everyone at nervous arm’s length even before the curse. Now the grotesque mask and green-tinged skin did an even better job of securing his solitude.

“It’s not the view, Oenry. It’s the privacy. Too many people come looking for me in the Governor’s Residence. In retrospect, it was a terrible idea to have my office and my living quarters in the same building.” Alaistar shrugged indifferently. “I should have known I couldn’t hide from you, however.”

Oenry was smart, honest, forthright, and diligent in his duties. Which was why Alaistar had made Oenry his second-in-command. If Alaistar allowed himself the indulgence of sentimentality, he might consider the big man his best friend.

“Let me guess,” Alaistar drawled, exasperation stirring in every syllable. “The fight for warehouse space has escalated again.”

Oenry nodded. “Indeed it has.”

For several minutes, they discussed stockpiles and allotments and expected arrivals and departures. Eventually, they came to a compromise that would make no one happy but would ensure no one’s inventory was left to rot on the docks.

Then they went over a few more bits of daily headaches needing to be dealt with. When the business of the Fortress was complete, Alaistar finally asked the question uppermost in his mind.

“Has there been any word from Lord Brathe?”

“Not yet, but it’s only been a few days.”

Oenry joined Alaistar at the railing, his usual easy-going smile pulled into a frown of concern. “Do you really believe he’ll find a traitor in Darkhar?”

Alaistar could hear the second, unasked question. Mostly because the same thought had crossed his mind. More than once. But his gut told him more than just the missteps of the royal family were at play.

Or, perhaps, that was his own wishful thinking. Curious for Oenry’s take, he asked, “Do you think the renewed troubles in Darkhar are of our own making?”

“I wouldn’t say your making, exactly,” Oenry answered diplomatically.

“My father, you mean,” Alaistar growled.

Aegron the Cruel had left his kingdom on the brink of destruction. Greedy and controlling by nature, he’d mercilessly used Darkhar’s unique position as the crossroad of the continent to further his own agenda. Continuously raising tariffs and taxes, he’d bullied the other four kingdoms with threats of war and deprivation.

His efforts had brought the crown power and wealth.

Temporarily.

But, in his need for domination, he’d spent any gains as quickly as he acquired them.

The dwindling coffer, combined with the alienation of their neighbors, already had Darkhar teetering on the edge.

The war with Thuaidar was supposed to fix all that.

Alaistar’s strategic cunning had brought them to the cusp of victory, pressing deep into the northern kingdom until they’d had no choice but to bend.

When Thuaidar’s queen began petitioning for peace talks and hinting at increasingly desperate sums of tribute, Aegron had felt there was little need for a general of Alaistar’s caliber to remain in the northern wastelands any longer.

Especially with rumblings that Laerthar intended to take advantage of Aegron’s distraction and attempt to circumvent the lopsided trade agreements.

So he’d sent Alaistar to the western coast of Darkhar, certain the presence of his ruthless second son would squash any such ambition.

All should have gone to plan.

But Aegron’s greed and arrogance were his downfall.

Irritated that Darkhar controlled only three of the four watch posts guarding travel across the continent, Aegron had always wanted to rectify the problem. Once he had a foothold in the northern reaches, he’d sent his heir to lay siege to the Library of Witches.

And, against all odds, Kyllean succeeded in overrunning the stronghold, enraging the witches who’d claimed it as their domain for centuries. And riling up the populace of Thuaidar, who considered the Library a sacred site.

After that, the exact timeline of events grew murky and confused, impossible to tease out from rumor and panic and exaggeration.

But, hours before Aegron was to meet with the queen of Thuaidar, he was assassinated in his own quarters by an assailant who was never caught.

On the very same day, dark curses began to change each surviving member of the royal family.

A silver mask covered Alaistar’s face, gills formed on his neck, webbing appeared between his fingers and toes, and his skin took on the green cast of some fearsome sea monster.

Rumors abounded that Kyllean’s transformation was even worse. The eldest and heir refused to be seen outside his chambers without a magical cloak concealing him from head to toe. But those few who’d claimed to see him insisted he was now more beast than man.

Darian, Alaistar’s silver-tongued younger brother, had sprouted useless black wings at the moment the curse took hold. And in the years that followed, he’d slowly withdrawn from his family and the world.

Then there was Raneir. The illegitimate son Aegron never acknowledged as his own, yet used ruthlessly as a pawn. More than one witness swore that the captain of the vaunted Phoenix Guard had either become a demon, or was possessed by one. And that the curse was slowly driving him mad.

And Islyne… poor sweet Islyne. Alaistar’s sister had fallen into endless slumber as a magic forest of thorns sprang up around the Winter Palace. And the few inhabitants of the isolated castled had abandoned her to save themselves.

By the end of the third sunset the magic had settled and the curse was complete. Alaistar and his four siblings had each been changed by the spell, and arbitrary boundaries of magic surrounded the strongholds where each of them resided.

Anyone within these bounds when the curse finally settled was Trapped. Unable to cross the invisible line that encircled each territory.

Thankfully, those who’d been outside the magic could still come and go as they pleased. Since the initial unrest had pulled a good chunk of the Fortress soldiers out into the countryside to calm the citizenry, at least part of his garrison was free to move beyond the boundary. 

In the aftermath of those shocking, life-shattering days, Alaistar and his brothers each struggled with the alterations in themselves. The unexpected change of circumstance and the isolation of the boundaries that kept them Trapped were obstacles that took them longer than it should have to overcome.

And while they’d floundered, Darkhar fell further into disarray.

“As much as I’d like to lay the blame at Aegron’s feet, my brothers and I are just as culpable for the kingdom’s state.”

None of them had been willing to stand up to Aegron before his death. And they’d all wallowed in self-pity much too long after the curse.

Slowly, though, they’d adjusted to the new world they lived in. Bit by bit, they had been making progress in righting the damage done to Darkhar.

Then, things started to fall apart again, revealing a disturbing trend that Alaistar couldn’t ignore.

“But there is something more than ambition or neglect underlying the kingdom’s current troubles. Kyllean has become more obsessed than ever with finding whoever is responsible for the curse. To the exclusion of everything else. I’m not sure what is happening with Raneir in the south, but rumor is he’s on the verge of starting a war with the Daesar Empire. And no one has heard a word about Darian in months.”

Considering his youngest brother’s penchant for attention, that might be the most worrying development of all.

“Even I reacted to the rumors of smuggling and unrest filtering through my intelligence network by tightening my grip and furthering the divides within the kingdom.”

Alaistar pressed a frustrated hand to the back of his neck, irritated that he’d allowed himself to be manipulated.

“Do you think it’s part of the curse?” Oenry asked.

“I don’t know.” That was the most frustrating part. Alaistar knew there was a pattern to the problems. But he just couldn’t see it.

Yet.

“It could be the curse. Magic is never straightforward. It will twist and bend and shape itself to the circumstance at hand. But my gut says there’s something more. Someone is behind all of this.” His mouth twisted with the sour taste of frustration. “Even if you ignore the way my family is making a mess of things, the dukes of the middle counties are on the verge of open rebellion. Someone is stirring up trouble, ensuring that we live down to our reputation as the Dark Kingdom.”

Someone capable of using their own worst impulses against Alaistar and his brothers. And there was nothing he could do about it. The infernal curse kept him, and more than half his garrison, Trapped within two miles of the sea.

While the remaining members of his troop were free to come and go, it still wasn’t enough to deal with the traitor trying to dismantle Darkhar from the inside. And he was forced to depend on others to get him the information he needed.

Others like Lord Brathe. A member of the Royal Council, he was widely respected as a mediator throughout the continent. He’d occasionally even been able to reign in Aegron’s more dangerous impulses. Even the members of the Dukes’ Council who’d opposed Aegron trusted in Brathe’s integrity.

He’d been one of the principal sources of information for Alaistar since he’d first become Trapped in the Fortress Complex.

But Brathe’s impartiality was a negative as well. While he’d been a stout friend to Alaistar and his brothers, the lord had also been a mentor to Conall, the thirteenth Duke of Lakentre.

The most vocal opponent of the royal family in the years since Aegron’s death and the curse. Even more disturbing was the rumor that the duke intended to make a play for the throne.

Kyllean was Aegron’s oldest son and presumptive heir. But tradition and law required his coronation to take place in the throne room of the Summer Palace. As long as Kyllean was Trapped in the Library of the Witches, he could never be king.

Conall had also been betrothed to Islyne shortly before the curse isolated her within the Winter Palace. The ties that contract gave the duke to the royal family were substantial. Coupled with his pedigree and the unrest, it might be enough to sway hesitant council members in his favor, should he attempt to usurp the throne.

When rumors surfaced that Conall had abruptly dropped out of sight, Alaistar worried that Brathe would be too blind by his affection to investigate.

Luckily, Alaistar had more than one source of information.

“What about Jake? Has there been any word from him?”

After Oenry, Jake was Alaistar’s most trusted captain.

He’d been in charge of the men patrolling the countryside when the curse settled, avoiding the indignity of becoming Trapped within the Lighthouse boundary.

Now, he regularly went on official and unofficial expeditions into the heart of Darkhar for Alaistar.

His last mission, Jake had disguised himself as a disgruntled soldier in hopes of getting recruited by the suspected traitor. In the process, Jake had tripped over rumors of Conall’s unexpected disappearing act. He’d sent a terse message telling Alaistar about it with a promise to follow up soon.

“The last news we received was that he intended to return sometime this afternoon.”

“That’s it?”

Oenry shrugged. “The only messenger he could find was not someone to be trusted with sensitive information.”

Alaistar scowled, frustrated that there’d been no word or insights from either Brathe or Jake.

The tightening of his expression pulled the metal covering his features. The unnatural feel of the movement was a constant reminder of the changes in him wrought by the curse.

In a habit that had become hard-wired over the past few years, Alaistar checked his cuffs and gloves to ensure no green-tinged skin showed. He curled hands into a fist to stop the next automatic motion of reaching up to check if the high collar of his uniform was still hiding the gills.

His sudden vanity was embarrassing. He’d always been considered handsome. Before. It was something he was aware of but paid little attention to. He’d taken more pride in his abilities and achievements.

Like the fact that he’d been undefeated in a duel from the time he’d turned thirteen. Or that he’d been the youngest general ever to take the field of battle for Darkhar. That he’d emerged victorious every time.

That he was feared across the continent for his martial skills, whether he was in single combat or at the head of an army.

And now Alaistar had been reduced to hiding his hideous appearance, so he didn’t have to watch the horrified reactions. To avoid the shocked, disgusted stares and the quickly averted eyes.

He was used to being alone. But somehow, in the wake of the curse, Alaistar’s solitude had taken on an edge of loneliness…

Alaistar growled at his traitorous, maudlin thoughts and reached for the icy calm he’d been cultivating since he was a child.

He’d learned that particular hard lesson early. And often.

Soft emotion only made things worse.

Aegron the Cruel had believed the only emotions a warrior needed were anger and hate.

Stony detachment once more settled over Alaistar as he scanned the horizon.

But there were no answers for him out to sea. The traitor was somewhere within Darkhar’s borders.

And beyond Alaistar’s reach.

With a growl of frustration, he stepped away from the balcony’s edge. The curse might keep him Trapped, but standing at the top of the Lighthouse in perpetual isolation would not help him uncover a renegade.

Dozens of rumors and snippets of information passed through his harbor every day. If Alaistar couldn’t follow a physical trail, the ephemeral spoor of gossip and suspicion might still lead him to his prey.

 But Alaistar was not going to find any leads locked away in a tower like some Gothic figure in one of his sister’s beloved books.

“That last ship that arrived… Where did it come from?” Alaistar asked as he strode past the lamp and its blue-green crystal shading the beacon with its unique glow.

Oenry filled him in on the comings and goings of the various ships as they made their way down the stairs.

At the base of the Lighthouse, Oenry peeled off to see to his other duties and Alaistar walked down toward the docks. Hoping to pick up some small, useful detail.