Capture the Crown (Gargoyle Queen #1) -Jennifer Estep Page 0,4

. .

This cornucopia is stale . . .

I can find a better price for this blue silk . . .

Those silent thoughts and dozens more assaulted me as I hurried through one of the plazas. Hearing all those murmurs in my own mind was exhausting, like being forced to listen to music that never slowed down, took a break, or stopped. Even worse, I could also sense people’s emotions, which added to the perpetual cacophony in my head and my heart.

At times like these, I didn’t feel like a puppeteer with strings attached to my fingertips, skillfully manipulating everything around me. No, right now I was a tiny, fragile ship caught in a raging storm, with waves of thoughts slapping me to and fro in a sea of emotion, and everything from icy disdain to lukewarm interest to sizzling anger cascading over my battered deck.

Topacia and I stepped onto a less crowded street. The incessant buzzing in my ears faded away, my pendant cooled against my skin, and my internal ship slowly righted itself as the storm of chattering people receded. I sighed with relief.

We circled around to the back side of Blauberg Mountain. This area was mostly shops, all designed to serve the workers heading toward the mine. The street opened up into an enormous plaza, which was lined with merchant carts. A gray stone fountain shaped like a gargoyle with its wings spread out wide stood in the center of the plaza, and several miners stopped to throw a penny into the bubbling water. Andvarian mines were among the safest on the Buchovian continent, but it never hurt to ask the gods for a little bit of luck before going down into the dark.

Beyond the fountain, a low stone wall cordoned off the rest of the plaza from the mine, and a black hole dominated this side of the mountain, as though it were a kraken’s mouth frozen open in an enormous yawn. Carts filled with jagged chunks of raw ore rolled out of the main opening, along with the surrounding side shafts, and skated along metal tracks toward a large building in the distance.

Inside the refinery, miners would carefully chisel the tearstone, gemstones, and anything else of value out of the surrounding mundane rock. Then the tearstone, gemstones, and the like would be further processed, cut, shaped, and polished, until the final products were ready to be shipped out to their buyers.

I jerked my head at Topacia, and we slipped into an alley that ran between two bakeries.

Topacia eyed the people moving along the street. “I’ve heard rumors that some Mortans are in Blauberg. Not just common merchants, but wealthy, high-ranking nobles, along with their guards, although I haven’t seen them for myself—yet.”

While I was staying at the cottage and working in the mine, Topacia had been renting a room in one of the city’s inns, as well as visiting shops and taverns. In addition to being a fearsome warrior, my friend also loved to talk to people. Topacia had never met a stranger, and she excelled at picking up gossip and casually asking all the questions that I wanted answered. Her news about Mortans being in Blauberg increased my own suspicions.

Andvari and Morta were old, bitter enemies, and the Morricone royal family had long coveted the Ripley mines, which were full of precious metals, gems, and more. But one of the most defining moments in the centuries of hostilities between the two kingdoms was the Seven Spire massacre.

Roughly sixteen years ago, King Maximus Morricone of Morta had sent his bastard sister, Maeven, to assassinate the Blair royal family of Bellona. Even worse, Maeven had blamed the attack on my uncle, Prince Frederich Ripley, and a group of Andvarians who had been visiting Seven Spire palace in Bellona at the time.

I was one of a handful of people who had survived the horrific tragedy.

I had been twelve back then, but sometimes, it seemed like only yesterday that Crown Princess Vasilia Blair had plunged a dagger into Uncle Frederich’s heart during a luncheon on the royal lawn, then killed Lord Hans, an Andvarian ambassador, with her lightning magic. After that, I’d hidden under a table like a coward and watched the turncoat guards slaughter everyone around me.

Screams and shrieks rattled around inside my mind, punctuated by softer but even more agonizing whimpers of pain and fear, along with choked, tearful pleas for mercy.

But there had been no mercy—only death.

I would have died too, if Everleigh Blair hadn’t yanked