Warrior Witch: Malediction Trilogy Book Three Page 7

  “He’s telling the truth,” Marc said. “I was on the docks when the waves came in. I did what I could, but…” He lifted one shoulder. “Most of the harbor was destroyed, lower reaches of the city flooded. Those living there will need help.”

  “So much for your protection,” one of the councilmen muttered, but I ignored him, giving the command to evacuate those whose homes had been damaged to higher ground as my mind turned to my father and Angoulême.

  Both of them were banking on my refusal to harm my brother. Cécile had heard Angoulême say as much, and even if she hadn’t, the fact that the Duke was allowing his puppet prince to roam in plain view made it abundantly clear. If he truly believed Roland was at risk from me, he’d be taking more care. And my father? I toyed with the cuff of my sleeve, wishing I had any such certainty about his strategy. He had the capacity to stop Roland, but he hadn’t done so. He had the ability to pull Trianon out from under me, but hadn’t so much as stirred from Trollus. And the Winter Queen? I scrubbed a hand across my eyes, the questions Cécile had raised making me wonder if her actions were part of a larger game than I realized.

  “Your Highness?” I heard one of the advisors speak, but I ignored him. This was as complex a game of Guerre as I had ever played, but there was far more at stake than tiny gold figurines. People were dying as I sat safely behind castle walls trying to unpack the plots of a multi-headed enemy, and I knew that if I sat here another month I still might not understand every motivation, every plan. And even if I did, at that point, would there be anything left to save?

  I stood up, the humans flinching and Marc squaring his shoulders, seeming to sense my plan of action before I’d uttered a word.

  “My brother cannot be allowed to continue unchecked,” I said. “Ready your ship, Captain. We move against him tonight.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cécile

  “You should rest,” I said to Lady Marie as I entered the cell, holding up my hands to the brazier. I’d expected her to put her son in a sumptuous suite of rooms, but even in her grief, Marie was pragmatic. The dungeons, dank from the river that ran to either side of the castle, were rarely used (as far as I knew) since the construction of the Bastille, but they had been maintained, the iron bars on the windowless cells strong and secure. The heavy stone assured no sound would pass into the upper levels, and the singular entrance made it easy for the trolls to keep anyone unwanted out. Most importantly, in my mind, should Aiden become unmanageable, then the dungeon would serve its intended purpose.

  She shifted on the stool next to the cot on which Aiden lay, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Do you truly believe I’m going to leave my son alone with you, witch?”

  She said “witch”, but I heard another word. Judging from the scowl that appeared on Vincent’s face, he heard the same. I gave a slight shake of my head. “What precisely do you think I’ll do to him?”

  Marie’s jaw tightened and she turned bloodshot eyes on me.

  “He needs to be watched at all times,” I said. “There are only a handful of individuals we can trust with the task, and most of them are needed for more important ventures.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “And that includes you. My brother is bright and capable, but he was raised on a pig farm and you’ve abandoned him to impersonate a man raised with all the power and privilege the Isle has to offer. This is your plan, motivated by your desire for your son to have a chance at life after we triumph, but if there is to be any hope of it succeeding, you must remain present and involved.”

  Her eyelid twitched. “There was a time I felt sorry for you – believed you were naught but an innocent victim. Of the trolls. Of Anushka. Of fate and chance.” She rose to her feet and dropped into a deep curtsey. “As you wish, so shall it be, Your Highness.”

  Vincent let out an explosive sigh after she left. “Stones and sky, Cécile. You couldn’t have come sooner? Cursed woman has been staring at me as though I were a rabid dog.”

  “Have you ever seen a rabid dog?” I asked, leaning down to listen to the lord’s breathing. Even in sleep, it seemed unsteady. Afraid.

  “No.” He pushed away from the wall, coming to stand next to me. “But it’s a turn of phrase that I’ve always wanted to use.”

  “The trouble with a rabid dog,” I said, resting my hand against Aiden’s forehead and frowning as he flinched, “is that no matter how much you care for it, you still have to put it down.” I straightened. “I’m afraid that when he wakes, there won’t be anything human left.”

  * * *

  It was several hours later when Vincent roused me from where I’d fallen asleep with my head resting on the edge of Aiden’s cot. Sabine stood just beyond, a lamp full of troll-light in one of her hands.

  “Tristan give you that?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  “No…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “But Tristan does want to see you – both of you. I’ll stay with Lord Aiden.”

  * * *

  We found Tristan in the council chamber in the company of Victoria, Marc, and my brother. I wanted to go to him, but there was an agitation in his movements that warned me to keep my distance.

  “We need to act now,” he said with no preamble. “Allowing Roland to continue as he has will cost us more than we can hope to gain by waiting.”

  “Tristan–”

  “I know, Cécile.” His eyes ran over me, then he turned away as though what he saw was physically painful. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Then who–”

  Fred slammed his cup down on the table, interrupting me. “I’ve things to take care of, and my opinion on this venture has counted for nothing.” He stomped from the room.

  “Marc, Vincent, and Victoria will go,” Tristan said, his voice steady. “They are trained in combat, whereas Lessa and Roland are not. It might give them the advantage they need to take them down.”

  “Might?” I was on my feet, though I couldn’t remember standing. “You can’t be serious, Tristan? You’re sending them to an almost certain death!”

  “So little faith,” Victoria said, an unfamiliar smile crossing her face. “Lessa and I have a score to settle, and it’s not one I intend for her to walk away from.”

  “Only if I don’t get to her first,” Vincent said, crossing his arms behind his head and leaning back until his chair creaked dangerously. “Marc, you can take Roland.”

  “Thank you for that.” Marc leaned forward, dropping the magic that hid his face so that I could see him. “Cécile, it’s the only option. We cannot allow Roland and Lessa to continue unchecked, and we dare not send Tristan out with the power Winter has over him unless there is no other choice.”

  “You mean if you’re dead.” My eyes burned.

  Marc sat back. “Yes.”

  I sank my teeth into my bottom lip. “Then we need to even the odds.” I turned to Tristan. “I’m going with them.”

  I expected a knee-jerk reaction from him. An instantaneous no. But he had expected this. “You’re in the same circumstance as I am, Cécile. She wants to get her hands on you, so she can get to me. They’ll be watching for you, and not just the fey, but the trolls as well. You’re too recognizable.”

  I pulled the knife from my belt. “I can remedy that.” I sliced the blade across my braid, as close to my head as I could get without risking my neck. Then I dropped the slowly unraveling crimson plait on the table. “I’m going with them. End of story.”

  * * *

  “Oh, Cécile.” Sabine stood back to inspect her handiwork, giving a slight shake of her head.

  “It’s just hair.” I said the words, but as I tugged the black locks hanging just above my shoulders, I knew I was lying. It was vain and foolish, but my hair had meant a lot. “It will grow back.”

  “And the black will come out, I promise.” She hugged me, the long plait of my hair falling over her shoulder. It would be the other part of our deception: Sabine, disguised as me, going out onto the towers with Tristan.
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  I rubbed the dark that had transferred from my hair to her shoulder, and took one final glance in the hand mirror, confirming that the cosmetics she’d applied had satisfactory darkened my lashes and brows. I wore trousers and a coat that had been hastily altered to fit, and the scarf Sabine handed me completed my disguise. It wasn’t as good as troll magic, but unlike magic, it was firmly in place.

  “Sabine, I need to speak with Cécile.”

  I’d felt Tristan enter the room, but I took my time turning around, not entirely desirous of him seeing me like this.

  “You look dreadful,” he said, stepping aside so that Sabine could leave the room, seemingly oblivious to the dark glare she cast his direction.

  “I didn’t realize your feelings were so dependent on my appearance,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “They aren’t.” And before I could blink, he was across the room, lifting me up and against him. “But I’m tired of disguising you and sending you off while I wait to see if you’ll return.”

  “I always come back,” I murmured, gently kissing his forehead, the heat of his skin against my lips making me burn hot in other places. “I will always come back. And besides, you aren’t sending me. I…” Frowning, I straightened so I could meet his gaze, seeing his self-satisfaction even as I felt it. “You knew I’d insist on going.”

  “Of course I knew,” he said. “Why do you think your brother was in such a foul temper?”

  “Am I so predictable?”

  “Predictable? No.” He buried his face in my neck, teeth catching at the skin of my throat. “Steadfast and constant? Yes. Brave? Always.”

  He walked backwards, then fell onto the bed so that my knees rested on either side of him on the coverlet. One gloved hand gripped my waist, then slid over the curve of my hip, while the other cupped the nape of my neck, gently tugging me downward. The feel of leather against my skin irritated me for reasons I could not quite articulate, and I resisted, bracing my arm against his shoulder. “Then why the pretense?”

  He turned his head, cheek pressing against the bed as he stared into the fire burning in the hearth. “In case I was wrong.”

  His doubt gnawed at me, and I sensed it was for reasons other than the subject at hand. And also that he had no intention of talking about them. Sighing, I relaxed my arm and lowered myself to his chest, listening to the measured thud of his heart. I wanted to stay like this for as long as I could, content in his arms, the warm glow of the fire in my eyes. But there was no time. For us, there was never time. “Tell me.”

  Tristan’s hand dropped from my waist. Lifting me up slightly, he extracted something from his coat pocket. I blinked and focused, then frowned as I saw it was Anushka’s grimoire, the latch unfastened. “You left it open after you helped Aiden,” he said. “I found it when I went back to the council chambers. There’s a spell in here that I think we could use.”

  Rolling me over so we were facing each other, our legs tangled together, he held up the grimoire and illuminated the text with a ball of light. “It’s near the back,” he muttered.

  Flip, flip. His gloved thumb turned the pages, and my head felt light as though I were about to faint as I waited to see where he would stop. Because somehow, I knew what page he was looking for.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tristan

  “Does this spell work?” I asked her, wishing that I didn’t have to. Wishing that I’d never picked up the grimoire and flipped through the pages. Hating the pragmatic and logical part of myself that had seen the spell and immediately considered how it could be used for my benefit.

  The shot of anguish was immediate and fierce. Cécile’s eyes shut, but tears squeezed out of the corners and dripped down her cheek. “Why?”

  I let the book slip out of my grasp to fall with a soft thud on the bed behind me. Pulling off my glove with my teeth, I wiped away one tear, then kissed away another before pulling her close so that her head rested under my chin.

  The words stuck in my throat, coming out as a slight exhalation of air. “I…”

  Her shoulders were shaking, a damp spot growing on the front of my shirt where her face was pressed against it. Was it even worth it, given the grief it would cause her? The grief it would cause me? Closing my eyes, I remembered my argument with Marc deep in the mines. If I backed away from this, I’d be nothing more than a coward and a hypocrite.

  “If something happens,” I said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, “it can’t happen to both of us. We broke the curse believing we could make a better world, and if one of us falls, the other must see our dream through to the end, whatever that end might be.”

  One ragged breath, and the tears stopped. “You’re planning for me to die.”

  “That’s not–” I broke off, tugging at the collar of my shirt in an attempt to relieve the tightness in my throat. “I’m sorry.”

  A slender arm wedged between us, and she pushed away. I let her. “Cécile…”

  Her blue eyes were bloodshot. Weary. Resigned. She pressed a cold finger to my lips. “No, it’s smart. It’s a good plan. I hate it, but it’s a good plan. We need to function with autonomy, which is hard when we can feel what each other is feeling–” Her voice cracked.

  Catching her hand with mine, I held it to my chest. There were things I should’ve said, explanations and justifications. Words to make her understand that in a perfect world, I’d never consider asking her for this. That in a perfect world, she would always come first, and I’d spend every waking moment proving it to her.

  But ours was an imperfect world. Flawed and cruel.

  “Will it work?” I asked.

  She closed her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “I think it might.”

  * * *

  Cécile worked quickly, brow furrowed as she rummaged through Anushka’s chest, coming out with a vial filled with dried petals. “Passiflora,” she muttered. “Truthfully, I’m not sure the herbs are necessary. The iron I understand, but…” She sniffed the contents. “Might be that they are only to focus the witch on her objective. I just don’t know.”

  She wasn’t talking to me, so I didn’t respond, instead going to the window and drawing back the shade. Dusk was settling on Trianon, the sun backlighting the mountains in shades of red and orange. The ship would soon be ready in what remained of the harbor, and in the darkest hour of the night, I’d send my wife and closest friends to kill my brother.

  “I need blood, but only a little.”

  Pulling back my sleeve, I sliced the back of my arm with magic. Blood dribbled down my wrist, crimson lines in contrast to veins still blackened with the scars of iron rot. As soon as Cécile withdrew the basin, I jerked my sleeve down to cover the mess, turning my gaze back to the window.

  Soon, I’d feel nothing.

  Cécile murmured an incantation, and I felt the invasive pull on my magic as she drew on it, shaping it to her own purpose. “It’s done,” she said, and I turned back to her.

  On the palm of her hand rested three black balls the size of marbles. They fluxed and shifted like globs of oil in water, and Cécile’s fingers curled and twitched as though she desired nothing more than to fling them to the floor. “You’re supposed to eat them,” she said.

  “That’s unfortunate. How long will it last?”

  “I don’t know.” She bit her lower lip. “The magic doesn’t affect the bond – it affects you. You won’t feel what I’m feeling, because you won’t feel anything at all. You’ll be able to make decisions logically, not because of what may or may not be happening to me.” She held out her hand. “I suppose you should try one while I’m still here.”

  I picked up an empty glass and tipped the contents of her palm into it. Setting it aside, I said, “Not yet.”

  “Tristan.”

  Shaking my head once to silence her, I eased the coat off her shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. Beneath, she wore a boy’s shirt that covered far more than any of her dresses, yet concealed nothing as
her body reacted to my touch. The lids of her eyes stayed heavy, but the weariness was washed away by a heat far more to my liking. Catching hold of the laces at her throat, I tugged them loose, her soft exhalation making me ache in a way that bordered on pain.

  She caught hold of my hands, lowering them to her hips. “Let me.” Her eyes fixed on mine, holding me in place as she pulled loose my cravat, letting the fabric drift to the floor. She unfastened one button, then the next, her fingers sliding under my shirt to brush against my chest, my stomach, before stopping just above my belt, which she used to pull me closer.

  My breath was loud in my ears, quick and ragged, and beyond my control. Her hands drifted back up to my shoulders, pushing my shirt and coat down until they caught on my wrists, binding my arms in place until I was willing to let her go. Which I wasn’t.

  Only then did her gaze break from mine, eyes running over me even as her fingers traced feather-light lines of fire down my arms, across my ribs, up my back. She’d touched me before, but it seemed like it had been a thousand years ago. Like I’d been dying of thirst, but hadn’t known it until handed a glass of icy water. She was in my head and in my hands, desire ricocheting back and forth between us. There was nothing like it. There never would be anything like it.

  Cécile stood on her tiptoes, the linen of her shirt rough against my skin, her arms wrapping around my neck. Fingers tangling in my hair. She kissed me – barely more than a brush of her lips against mine – but it sent a shudder through me. Pushing my control to the very limits.

  Her breath was warm. Sweet. “We don’t have much time.”

  Prophetic words.

  I let go of control.

  It was not slow or sweet or gentle. Seams on clothing strained and tore. Kisses were desperate and edged with teeth. Caresses seared, fingernails scraping across naked skin. I needed to know every inch of her. Every taste. Every sound.