The Beginning of Everything Page 2

  This was a surprise.

  Especially after all these years of trying.

  They were the most powerful witches of their lands, Ophelia by far the most powerful among them.

  That was not strictly true.

  They were the most powerful witches anyone of their lands knew.

  At the now.

  It would seem the others would need to be revealed.

  “The prophecy must commence,” Fern shared.

  All the witches closely watched Ophelia after this was uttered.

  But it was true.

  When the Beast was banished, the coven had risen.

  And every generation for millennia, the daughters were selected.

  And the sons.

  Just for this happenstance.

  In order that they could banish it back.

  “We can delay no longer, Ophelia,” Rebecca said kindly. “We’ve all attempted to find them. We’ve all cast repeatedly to stop them. We’ve spent the last two years in these endeavors. It’s come too far. The Beast has awoken. He rises closer to the surface. I no longer need to feel the earth move to know this is true. I feel…it when they feed him.”

  “You worry about your daughter,” Lena noted, still regarding Ophelia closely.

  “I worry about all of our daughters,” Ophelia replied.

  “It is too true. None of this will be readily accepted,” Fern said under her breath.

  “You mean none of them will be readily accepted,” Nandra declared irritably. “As ever, it is the woman’s wont to seek and build her place with the man. Especially in your land.”

  Fern looked away, color coming to her cheeks, but Ophelia spoke.

  “We must not be cross amongst ourselves. It will serve no purpose. Fern, of any of us, even the Nadirii, is aware of what takes place in her land.”

  Nandra closed her mouth.

  “Of the daughters sent forth, yours, I fear, my sister, my friend, will have the most difficult path to walk,” Rebecca remarked to Ophelia. “We, none of us, have blood in this game. It is not one from our own wombs who go forth into this tribulation. Only yours.”

  “I am aware of that,” Ophelia responded. “But my Elena will, as ever, walk with shoulders squared to make her sacrifice.” Ophelia glanced amongst her sisters. “They all will. The lore has endured for millennia. The devastation the Beast wrought to this earth and its peoples may have become stories parents tell their children to give them a different type of chill on a cold winter night. But the Go’Doan will have felt it. The witches. The seers. The sorcerers. The veil of magic grows restless across Triton. Not one of them will desist. They will all agree. And it is not entirely a bad hand they’ve been dealt.”

  “You are, of course, talking about the warriors,” Lena said tetchily.

  “Or the warriors with staffs they only hold in their hands for personal purposes,” Rebecca murmured.

  Ophelia drew breath in through her nose as her way of affirming.

  “We must toss the tiles, make the matches and be done with it,” Nandra declared. “We all have rulers we must speak with and convince of their futures. And the tossing of the tiles will by far be the least onerous of our endeavors.”

  She was correct.

  On all accounts.

  Including the fact they must toss the tiles.

  Ophelia felt her heart clench.

  “The Head is already mated with The Crystal, so I shall not toss,” Lena pointed out. “And it would best be remembered that has come about.”

  “And why is that?” Nandra asked.

  “Because it shares that this is destiny. They were meant to be,” Lena replied. “They mated without our intervention as, it could be, the others if given time would do as well.”

  Ah, Lena.

  Brusque to the witness, but soft within.

  She sought to make Ophelia dread less what might be coming, especially in her current state.

  But there was naught which could make Ophelia dread less what might be coming, no matter what the tiles decreed.

  She had hoped her daughter would succeed her.

  Second born.

  But born to rule.

  “It’s my understanding Aramus and Ha-Lah detest each other,” Nandra returned. “Has your king even consummated the union?”

  “Not for lack of trying,” Lena retorted.

  “His seed spent on his stomach is why we don’t feel their growing power,” Nandra observed.

  “I’m uncertain when he spends his seed, it’s on his stomach…at least not regularly,” Lena muttered.

  “That is worse,” Rebecca uncharacteristically snapped.

  “Ah, the Dellish and their quaint customs,” Nandra muttered in return, her full lips quirking.

  “Perhaps The Crystal will be more disposed to his charms if she knows mating with him will save the land,” Lena rejoined swiftly before Rebecca could.

  “I hear she’s quite feisty, so even that might not work,” Fern murmured while leaning toward Rebecca.

  “Bring forth the tiles,” Ophelia bid on a sigh.

  Rebecca dug into the pocket of her skirts to find her tiles, her gaze on Ophelia, her tone again gentle.

  “Would you wish to go first, my sister?” she offered.

  “My daughter’s match will be the last,” Ophelia declined. “She will take what is left.”

  They all felt that was wise. If Ophelia tossed the tiles, the magic would make the selection, but it would be direct from her hand where the fates aimed her Elena.

  However, before they could decide who would go first—Wodell, Firenze or Airen—Rebecca bumbled the tiles in her hand.

  Or…

  She did not.

  Either way, they burst from her hold and clattered on the slab.

  Rebecca and Fern gasped.

  Nandra’s eyes grew wide.

  Lena smiled.

  Ophelia watched intently.

  Sparks of cool marine, bright vermillion, leaf green, striking white and deep coral danced as the rectangular cream tiles danced.

  The one with the crossed bow and arrow imprinted in black on two sides.

  The Warrior.

  Signifying Elena of the Nadirii. Princess of the Sisterhood. Daughter of Ophelia.

  The one with the diamond shape.

  The Crystal.

  Ha-Lah of the Mar-el. New queen to King Aramus of the island nation of pirates.

  The one with the shroud.

  The Shadow.

  Silence of the Dellish. Countess of the Arbor. Niece of the king.

  The one with the hand with the eye in the palm.

  The Sage.

  Farah of the Firenze. Daughter to a traitor. Stripped of status and possessions. Living in the desert in exile.

  Then there was the one with the upside-down triangle in the circle to which at two sides there were wings.

  The Head.

  Aramus. King of the Mar-el. Pirate. Protector of the Seas.

  And the one with one triangle over the other in a circle, around which there was a flower.

  The Heart.

  True. Prince of the Dellish. Heir to the throne.

  And the one with the crescent moon at the top, surrounded by two circles, which was surrounded by lotus petals.

  The Cock.

  Mars. King of Firenze. Ascended the throne after his father’s assassination. Ruled now beloved by his people.

  And the last, another upside-down triangle in which was a flame over a lamp, boxed in a square, surrounded by a circle, out of which, north, south, east, west, sprung lotus petals.

  The Balls.

  Cassius. The Second Son. Prince of Airen. Born but a soldier and now heir to the throne.

  With a clatter, The Crystal and The Head shot together, clacked loudly, sparked marine fire and dropped as one tile with now the crystal in the center of the insignia.

  The others snapped and rattled.

  And with a strike of vermillion, The Sage mated with The Heart a
nd fell to the altar, the wise hand now embedded in the center of the triangle on the sign.

  And then there was a flash of green, The Shadow united with The Cock and fell to the alter, the shroud gone, a face with eyes wide open, lips curved into a small smile where the crescent moon had been.

  It was that which made Ophelia emit a hushed whine she could not control before the blaze of coral took The Warrior tile straight to The Balls, and with a muted explosion, they dropped to the slab, the candle gone, a unicorn now standing proud in the center of the symbol.

  The magic receded, and the altar was lit only by moonlight as the witches stared down.

  They knew Aramus and Ha-Lah.

  But now it was Farah and True.

  Silence and Mars.

  And Elena and Cassius.

  There could be no worse coupling for Ophelia.

  For Elena.

  It was her deepest fear.

  Realized.

  Rebecca spoke first.

  “I am sorry, my sister.”

  “As am I.”

  “As am I.”

  “As am I.”

  Ophelia gazed at the unicorn on the final tile for long moments, hoping its magic and abundance signified something promising, before she lifted her eyes to her sistren.

  “It is done,” she announced.

  It was not.

  Not yet.

  But it would be.

  By every goddess and all things holy.

  Ophelia just yearned deep into the core of her heart that none of those daughters suffered.

  Overly much.

  Especially her own.

  But alas, for her own daughter she feared she would not be there to see.

  3

  The Second Son

  Prince Cassius Laird

  Crown Prince’s Bedchamber, Sky Citadel, Sky Bay

  AIREN

  Cassius held his hand over the maid’s mouth as he thrust inside her, his other hand tucked between her legs, his middle finger busy.

  And effective, if the difficulty he was having containing her moans and whimpers and muted “Pleases” and “Mores” and “Harders” could be credited.

  Fortunately, in short order, she climaxed.

  Now, finally, he could see to himself.

  This he did as swiftly as possible and with a grunt that he did not try to stifle and not only because it was not loud.

  What had just happened had been…

  Adequate.

  He did not bow into her when he finished in order to recover, mostly because there was not much from which to recover.

  Drawing breath, he pulled out, dropped her skirts that he’d been holding up with a forearm at the front, her hips had done that at the back, and stepped away from her where she held on to one of the posts of his bed.

  He put both hands to the buttons of his leathers after he tucked his still-wet-and-hard cock inside. He’d wash her from him later, when she could not see.

  “Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, moving toward the door, continuing to button his trousers.

  “Your Grace!” she called.

  By the bloody gods, this was the part he hated the worst.

  He turned eyes to her to see she had languid, but bright and hopeful eyes on him.

  “It is…always so quick. I could…visit you in the night,” she offered haltingly.

  “No,” Cassius declined abruptly, turned and strode from the room.

  Only to practically run into Mac as he made his turn into the passageway seeing as his man was leaning, shoulders against the black stone of the citadel right by the door to Cassius’s bedchamber, head turned toward Cassius, sly smile on his mouth.

  “We should get you a professional, my brother. You’d climax a whole lot louder,” Mac, or as his father had named him, Macrinus offered.

  “I tire of my hand,” Cassius murmured, continuing to walk down the wide passageway, his boots muted by the thick runner swirled in dark colors from black to charcoal to midnight with bare hints of silver.

  If you had the time, which he rarely had, and you stood in the corridor and allowed your eyes to take it in, the long expanse of runner looked like a never-ending strip of the night sky.

  In truth, all about him was dark. The black stone of the castle. The carpet. The wrought iron around the large, grand and ostentatious chandeliers dangling from chains along the ceiling. The long, heavy, midnight velvet draperies dressing the sides of the wide, spiked windows to his right. The black leather shirt, trousers and boots covering his and Macrinus’s bodies.

  Bloody dark.

  The lot of it.

  A physical metaphor for Cassius’s life.

  Mac fell in step beside him. “You know, it’s not just a bodily function.”

  This he knew.

  So very well.

  Cassius just stopped himself from closing his eyes at just how much he knew precisely that and kept on without breaking stride.

  Macrinus’s tone was much altered when he began, “Brother—”

  “Speak more on this topic, you’ll be doing it through swallowing your teeth,” Cassius bit out.

  Mac gave it a moment, striding beside him, before he said, “I wasn’t hanging about outside your room for an audible audition of the comely maid you’ve chosen, Cass. Your father sent me to get you.”

  At that, Cassius stopped short and turned to his friend.

  “For fuck’s sake, why?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Mac answered. “The earth is round. The sky is blue. His eggs weren’t done to his liking this morning. He breathes. You breathe. I breathe. Does Gallienus need a reason to demand your presence?”

  Unfortunately, his father did not and never had.

  This being not only because the man was his father but because he was also king.

  Cassius resumed walking.

  Mac did as well.

  “The tremor happened again last night,” Macrinus noted unnecessarily.

  “I know, Mac,” Cass said on a sigh. “I felt it. The trolls and pixies and gnomes felt it. Even the mermaids and gogmagogs probably felt it.”

  “Well, my guess is, earthquakes don’t happen every fortnight on the hour for months,” Mac declared.

  Not missing a step, Cassius spared him a glance, inquiring, “Do you think?”

  Mac’s heavy brows snapped together. “You’re in a foul mood for a man who’s just used a maid for good purpose.”

  Cassius stopped dead.

  So did Mac and his brow had not cleared.

  “You need to—” his friend began.

  “Be careful how you finish that,” Cassius growled.

  “Cass, it’s been six years,” Macrinus growled in return.

  Cassius turned fully to him, lifting his brows and crossing his arms on his chest. “And this? This is something you know? Is this the amount of time it takes to heal after watching your wife grunt and sweat and scream and push and pray and bleed as she expels your daughter into your own gods-damned bloody hands? And then the last thing on this earth she does is smile at her wee babe, smile in your face, and then die?”

  “You know I have no wife and you know I can’t imagine—”

  “No,” Cassius grunted, turning, dropping his arms and resuming his gait. “You can’t. So cease speaking of it.”

  “Liviana would not wish for you to go on like—”

  His friend didn’t finish mostly because he had Cassius’s hand wrapped around his throat and he’d been slammed against the black stone wall in a passageway of the Sky Citadel, the castle of the King of Airen, situated in the capital city of that great and terrible realm.

  “Do not,” he rumbled, his face an inch from Mac’s, “speak of what Liviana would wish.”

  Mac didn’t fight.

  He also didn’t give up.

  “She would not wish it and you know it. She’d want you to find happiness and not with a bloody maid.”


  Like what he did with that maid brought him happiness.

  He hadn’t been truly happy, sadly even in his daughter’s presence, in six bloody years.

  Cassius’s fingers squeezed. “I’m warning you, Mac.”

  “And Aelia needs a mother,” Macrinus spat.

  Dear gods, he could actually feel the blood swarming in his head.

  “For the gods sakes, would you two break it up,” Nero called, and both men looked to the side to see their brother striding their way. “Gallienus is in a snit. Whatever this is, finish it later.”

  Cassius let his hand drop and turned away from Mac. “He sent you too?”

  “He’s called for all your lieutenants, and when you didn’t arrive, oh, about two seconds after Mac departed to get you, he started getting testy,” Nero returned. “Or…testier.”

  Cassius’s head turned again toward Mac. “You did not share this.”

  “Sorry, I was too busy being accosted to dive deeply into all of this morn’s news,” Macrinus retorted.

  Cassius moved his attention to Nero who had joined them. “Why are you all there?”

  “I’ve no clue. I also don’t much care outside of having things to do this morning, wishing to do them, therefore also wishing whatever this is to be done so I can go about doing them. In other words, will you two stop dawdling?”

  On that, Nero turned and prowled in the direction he’d come.

  “We’ll finish later, not with your hand around my throat,” Mac muttered.

  “We’ll speak no more of it, with my hand at your throat or otherwise,” Cassius muttered in return and resumed walking, now following Nero.

  Macrinus was wise enough to keep silent.

  Indeed, he was wise most of the time.

  It would seem when he was tired of seeing his brother suffer that his wisdom receded.

  In fairness, if the table was turned, he could see himself intervening with Mac.

  That table, however, was not turned.

  They descended the stairs, hit the grand entryway with its threatening, spiked, intricate, wrought iron candelabrum that was the breadth of two men—two tall men—hanging over it.

  They turned left, as Nero had done, into the Great Hall where Gallienus held court, as his father had before him, and his, and depressingly for centuries before that, their fathers.

  The king sat in the large, midnight-velvet-cushioned, dark-wood chair which was intricately carved, tall steeples rising high at each side, several feet over his father’s head. This behind a long table set on a raised dais where, during feasts, or required dinners as summoned by the king (which were often), Cassius sat to his father’s right.