Clarysa wrapped her arms about her middle. “I know about the banishing, but naturally our teachings told a different account. To my people, they were ridding a plague of evil from the lands.”
Stellan smirked. “Naturally. And I suppose all the children who died on that torturous journey were also part of this ‘plague.’” He blew out a breath. “Your forbearers never gave a moment’s thought to the consequences, did they? Not to mention the unyielding resentment their actions would foster among my people.”
Clarysa hung her head. “No. No they didn’t. Our tapestries…” Her voice failed her.
“Yes, I can imagine. They must paint a decidedly biased picture.” He stared at his right hand. It began to glow with magickal power, then immediately waned. “After being driven out into the Wastes, dissent grew among those who survived. The oldest clan leader tried to maintain control, but he was ill and his magick was severely weakened. One night, a young man seething with vengeance saw the opportunity. He staged a coup.” Stellan’s gaze locked with Clarysa’s. “If I were to tell you the manner of the deaths that followed, it would give you nightmares for years.”
Clarysa could only nod slowly. Was her father aware of this information? And if so, why risk ignoring the lessons of history?
Stellan crossed his arms. “Of course, all of this occurred long before my birth. But it’s the world my mother and I were born into…a world where the first words a child is taught are a call for death to the outsiders. Magick took on a whole new form–and purpose. My people explored dimensions that had once been forbidden. Talents that had once been nascent and elementary were cultivated into much more powerful skills. They reasoned that if the outsiders’ bigotry had made them fear our ways, then we would give them sound cause to tremble in the night.”
“Is that why Pestilence was created? Revenge against Aldebaran for something that happened decades ago?”
“Many sorcerers believe we survived the Wastes for one reason and one reason only–to witness the souls of the outsiders torn to shreds and cast before us into oblivion.”
Stellan’s expression turned distant. What was he thinking? Clarysa finally dared to break the silence. “But…why do you torture yourself so? I’m sure your mother wouldn’t blame you. You were only a child. What could you possibly have done?”
“I was twelve at the time. Father brought me before him. Said he had something he wanted to show me. Said I should remember it well if I wanted to become a true sorcerer. You see, I had a litter of wolf pups. They were orphans I’d found on the edge of the Wastes. Every day I rose early to nurse them. Every day I watched them frolic in the courtyard.” Sorrow contorted his face.
“What happened?”
“My father slaughtered them all. Said this is what the outsiders had done to us, and what we would soon wreak upon them.”
“How awful!”
“It gets worse. Like an idiot, I just stood there. I hadn’t come into my full power yet, so I didn’t dare cross him. This hesitation to act would later come back to haunt me, for it prevented me from opposing my father when I knew he was wrong.” His head dropped; his words tumbled to the floor. “Perhaps I could have saved Mother if I had just done something. Anything.”
The Dark Prince smashed his fist into the stone wall beside him. “Well, no more!” He hit the wall again, stripping the flesh from his bare knuckles. “Now I’m stronger. I am no longer the timid boy with a soft heart for animals and his mother. Experience has changed me, hardened me with fresh purpose. I know this–and soon, so shall they.”
By “they” Clarysa guessed he meant his father and uncle. She reached out and cradled his bloody hand in the folds of her skirt. “I don’t believe that.”
Stellan cut her a look and tried to withdraw his hand.
But she maintained a firm grasp. “Well, stand there and glare if you like, but the boy with the soft heart is still in there. I can feel it! He may have built a mighty wall to protect himself, and he has every right to feel angry with the world, but a part of him still cares about the good in it.”
Stellan snorted. “What makes you think so?”
“Because he’s here with me right now.”
He glanced away.
She studied his scraped hand and then began lightly stroking it. “Such lovely hands,” she whispered.
Something like a warning growl issued from his mouth, but he didn’t pull away.
She shouldn’t breach his protective shell too fast or too soon, or she risked alienating him altogether. After all, she now understood what she represented to him. “Stellan, change has to begin somewhere, with someone willing to take up the mantle.” She swallowed hard. “If I haven’t made it clear before, I’m doing it now. I want to help you.” Her gaze poured deeply into his. “For what it’s worth, you’ve converted me to your cause. Please believe me!”
The prince nodded, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “There is a way you can help,” he murmured.
Her heart pounded, hoping his definition of “help” included a hug, or maybe even a kiss. “Yes?”
“Clarysa, would you care to explain how you came here without an escort? Or, for that matter, without the King?”
She winced. “Who says I did?”
His stern gaze warned her against any mischief.
“All right. The truth is very few people are brave enough to visit this spooky, old castle of yours.”
“Spooky? Who told you that? And you haven’t answered my question.” He ran his fingers across her belly.
Clarysa shrieked with laughter. She liked this other Stellan, so funny and playful. Nothing like the beast others made him out to be. “How can I answer anything when you’re tickling me without mercy?” She spun
