In the Shadow of the Sun

by EM Castellan

  When the world took shape again around me, I sat on the lawn above the grotto, the castle’s lights twinkling in the distance. The warm night air filled my lungs, and affecting relief wasn’t difficult: We were out of the cave.

  Fouquet bent to meet my gaze, his hands on his thighs. “Better?”

  I coughed again for good measure and nodded. He straightened, and turned his attention to Philippe, who’d landed on his side and struggled to sit up. I cast a quick glance around: Athénaïs and Armand were nowhere in sight, the vast expanse of the gardens dark and empty, the stars above the only available light. Upon witnessing my disappearing act, they must have gone to fetch help. I hoped they had—I needed reinforcements as soon as possible.

  Before Philippe could reach a comfortable position, Fouquet pushed him to the ground again. He stiffened and spat blood in the Crown Magicien’s face. Fouquet’s hand clenched into a fist.

  “Don’t hit him!” I snapped. “He’s linked to his brother now. You don’t want to hurt him and give away your spell before you have a chance to kill them.”

  Using my “royal tone” with him worked as well as it had on Louise all those weeks ago. He lowered his fist and pointed a finger at Philippe.

  “Don’t you try anything.” The threat was clear and Philippe didn’t move again. Fouquet looked up at me. “Now, my dear, shall we proceed?”

  * * *

  Casting a spell was like embroidering fabric, Sister Marie-Pierre used to say. The Source chose the yarn and handed a thread to the magicien, who sewed the pattern and produced the embroidery. Neither could fulfill the other’s part of the task. Only the Source could provide the magic and say the words of the incantation, while the magicien alone used both to perform the spell and create the required effect. The magicien couldn’t use the Source’s power without their consent and the Source couldn’t change a spell once it was cast.

  That was the rule. Magiciens who transgressed it paid for their disobedience with their lives. And there was no record of any Source ever endeavoring to subvert it.

  Until now.

  Louis and Philippe weren’t perfect men. They weren’t a perfect king or husband. But they were my king and my husband. I respected one and loved the other. And I couldn’t let anything happen to them. I would do whatever I could to protect them.

  Even attempting the impossible.

  Just like we had for the linking spell, Fouquet and I knelt by Philippe’s prostrate form and held hands. Philippe’s breathing grew panicked and he squirmed on the ground, his wide eyes flicking between us. I ached to touch and reassure him, but I buried the instinct once more. I had only one card to play in this game of deceit and illusion. I couldn’t afford to reveal it too early.

  So when Fouquet squeezed my fingers, I spoke the incantation. A killing spell was such forbidden magic that I half expected to be struck down the moment I uttered the words. But just like earlier, the golden specks of my own power mixed with the Crown Magicien’s magical shadows as he guided the spell around Philippe’s neck. To avoid later suspicion and unwelcome inquiries, his plan was to strangle one brother to make it look like the other had choked to death. The tendrils of his dark magic, swollen with the bright speckles of my own power, wrapped around Philippe’s flesh and squeezed.

  Philippe’s body seized in a desperate effort to fight off the pressure on his neck, but between his bound hands and his weakened state, it was in vain. His face turned crimson, while my own heart slammed against my ribs.

  It was now or he would die, and Louis along with him.

  My breath stuck in my throat. I bit my lip to force my focus.

  You’re the one in control of the magic, Sister Marie-Pierre’s voice echoed in my memory. The magicien only has power over the spell.

  During the mirror spell, when Louis had lost control of the magic for the briefest moment, I had managed to reroute it. All I had to do now was redirect Fouquet’s spell.

  Between us, Philippe’s chest heaved at a frantic pace, but little air reached his lungs. Tears streamed down his temples and his eyes remained shut, his entire body fighting to stay alive.

  I stared at the interwoven shadows and lights roped around his neck. You’re in control of the magic. I latched on to them with my mind and pulled back.

  For an agonizing second, nothing happened. Panic flooded me: Fouquet was going to realize what I was doing and react. I’d have lost my only chance.

  I gritted my teeth; rage building inside me. I would not let Philippe die. Focusing my thoughts, I wrenched back the golden specks of my magic from his skin, ripped the threads of the spell, and unstitched its action. This time, they yielded. They dispersed in a silent burst of sparks, like the gemstones of a broken necklace ricocheting on the ground. Fouquet stiffened, and his face slackened in surprise. I snatched my hands out of his grasp and shoved him away from Philippe. Around his neck, the magical rope dissolved into the air. Fouquet cursed. Realization dawned on his features, swiftly replaced by anger.

  “You…!”

  For an instant, he was at a loss for words and for a reaction. It was all I needed. The spell broken, I just had to prevent him from casting another on his own. He was too weak to kill anyone, but he could still inflict damage. So I dove for his silver-handed cane. The first swing hit his arm, and he cursed again. My second blow missed its mark, as he stood up and advanced on me. Shadows surrounded him now, his eyes flashing amid the churning tendrils of smokelike power.

  “Stay away!” I said.

  But my voice and my hands shook. He could cast an enchantment on his own. I couldn’t. And even without magic, he was still taller and stronger than me, and his body wasn’t swathed in layers of fabric. I stumbled backward, the cane held up like a pathetic ward against his power, while he marched in my direction.

  His hand rose, engulfed in shadows, and he muttered a spell. My insides quivered. My vision blurred, my throat closed up, and my lungs screamed for air. I swayed.

  He was stealing my magic. He was killing me.

  I blinked, too shocked and aching to react. Golden flecks danced before my eyes—my own power floating toward their new master. Behind Fouquet’s dark silhouette, Philippe pushed his weight off the grass.

  The Crown Magicien’s fingers gripped my neck like claws, and more magic floated out of me. In a fog of pain and fear, my mind shouted at my body to respond to the aggression. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Philippe’s figure grow. The rope binding his wrists now hung from his fist. He staggered forward and my lips struggled to form the words to warn him to stay back, to get help, to stop before Fouquet hurt him again.

  No sound came out. Not even a breath. Only dust of golden magic.

  Black dots swirled before me as dizziness threatened to overcome me. Giving into it would be so easy. I would just fall asleep.

  Then Philippe swung his rope around Fouquet, jolting a reaction out of me. I tightened my grip on the cane, and instead of using it to strike the Crown Magicien, I mustered all the strength I had left and stabbed him. The walking stick went through his body like a knife through water, his shadowy form more ethereal than solid. At the same time, Philippe tautened the rope around his chest.

  Fouquet roared.

  Releasing me, he lurched to the side, his fingers clawing at both the rope and the end of the cane like the legs of a flailing spider. His exhaustion catching up with him, Philippe let go of the rope and fell down again. Fouquet staggered away from us, the dark magic around him pulsing. With an inhuman grunt that echoed under the starry sky, he pulled the cane out of his writhing form. The rope around him burst into flame and dropped to the ground. Then the shadows pitched him off his feet. His silhouette collapsed, but the moment they touched the lawn, thunder clapped in the quiet night and he vanished.

  I gaped, and the sudden air that filled my lungs tore a coughing fit out of me. I fell to my knees, my hands over my mouth until my breathing settled at last, and I blinked my surroundings back into focus.

 
Philippe lay in the grass next to me, fresh blood on his skin and his gaze on me. A tired smile pulled at his lips as he reached out to me, his aim inaccurate. I grabbed his cold fingers.

  “The rope.” I wheezed. “That was … very stupid.”

  His smile widened, and a spark of mischief flashed through his eyes. “At the wedding,” he said, his voice hoarse and halted. “I promised … to protect you. I’ll be damned if I don’t—”

  Blood poured out of his mouth, and he released an agonizing moan of pain. Dread surged through me anew. He couldn’t speak. Fouquet’s spell still held. I wiped the red liquid from his lips and he grimaced, closing his eyes. In the distance, the lights of the castle twinkled in the night. I had to get help. The prospect of leaving him was unbearable, but the thought of losing him altogether was even more insufferable. I kissed his forehead—the only part of his face that wasn’t marred with blood.

  “I’m going to fetch help. You stay here and don’t do anything foolish.”

  I moved to stand up, but his hold on my fingers stiffened, his expression turning urgent. He opened his mouth so I had to shush him.

  “Don’t speak. I’ll return at once.”

  Unbelievably, my voice didn’t break, but his features didn’t seem to register my reply.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I love you. I’m sorry. I—”

  The blood flow resumed, interrupting him. He let out a low whimper and his eyes closed again. He sagged against me, his grip on my fingers slackening. My heart stuck in my throat, I slipped out of his grasp and eased him onto the grass into the most comfortable position I could devise to help him wait while I fetched help. As I rolled him onto his back, his head lolled to the side, and I froze.

  “Philippe?”

  He didn’t stir. My hand lay on his chest, which didn’t move underneath my fingers. His heartbeat, so strong earlier despite his panic and pain, fluttered weakly under my touch. Air escaped my lungs, replaced by fear and disbelief.

  “Philippe?” I repeated, my voice an unconvinced whisper.

  My pulse pounded in my ears, too loud for me to detect his. He lay in the grass under the stars, unmoving and pale, blood and dirt all over his skin and clothes, like a hero after a battle in a story.

  Like a dead hero in a story.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Overlapping voices cut through the fog in my mind.

  My eyes fluttered open and blurry silhouettes materialized around me, shadows dancing against the bright dots of the stars in the night sky. My head and limbs still heavy, I blinked my hazy surroundings into focus. Vaux-le-Vicomte shone in the distance, a great beacon of wealth and glamour in the darkness. Warm air enveloped the quiet gardens and water gurgled nearby. Underneath me, a lawn softened the hard ground and the scent of grass filled my nose, along with a more pungent, coppery smell.

  The smell of blood.

  My body jolted. Shapes turned sharp and jumbled voices grew loud.

  “Your Highness, can you hear me?”

  “She needs to let go of him, otherwise—”

  “If you hold him like this—”

  I drew in a breath. Philippe lay cradled in my lap, motionless and blood-soaked. Athénaïs crouched at my side, her arms wrapped around me. Armand knelt opposite her, holding Philippe’s head while the Comte de Saint-Aignan and Prince Aniaba maneuvered into position beside him.

  “Your Highness, please let go,” Athénaïs said. Her tone was gentle and her gaze full of so much concern, it stole my breath away.

  Tears filled my eyes, and I shook my head, words stuck in my throat. If I let go of Philippe then it was over. I had failed to stop Fouquet and to prevent another death. I couldn’t face it.

  Armand’s breathing was loud as he struggled to hold back sobs. I bit my lip. If he cried, I would too. But the count planted his gaze in mine, more serious than I had ever seen him. Sweat trickled down his face and drenched his collar, as if he’d run all the way to this place in the gardens.

  “Madame,” he said. “You need to let go of His Highness so I can perform the spell.”

  I blinked, my mind blank. What spell?

  “There isn’t much time,” he added, his tone more urgent.

  Then it hit me. Philippe wasn’t dead. Not yet. Armand took his head in his lap with one finger on his pulse, and everyone regarded me with bated breath. Waiting for me to release my husband so my magic wouldn’t interfere with Prince Aniaba’s.

  “I should…” I swallowed, my mouth dry. “I should do the spell.”

  Athénaïs rubbed my arms as an invitation to step back. “You’re very weak, Your Highness. Let Jean and the count help.”

  With great reluctance, I pried my hands away from Philippe and let Athénaïs pull me back. The count and the prince didn’t miss a beat. They rested their hands on Philippe’s chest and inhaled a deep breath.

  “Guéris,” Prince Aniaba said.

  For a moment, the result of the spell remained invisible, and my pulse beat against my ears like drums on a battlefield, Athénaïs’s firm grip on me the only thing keeping me from dissolving into nothingness.

  Then Philippe’s chest heaved, and he coughed. Agitation ensued, as he sat up and everyone talked at once again. Armand kissed his cheek, and the count shook the prince’s hand, both grinning at each other. Athénaïs left my side to hug Prince Aniaba, while the count slapped his thighs and laughed. Philippe wiped the remaining blood off his face with his shirtsleeve, and glanced around him.

  “Where’s Henriette?”

  I forced my stiff limbs to move. “Here.”

  Relief and concern mixed on his expression as he stood. He disentangled himself from the crowd around him and reached for me. I sank into his embrace, releasing all the tension in my body with a sigh.

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” He traced my face and body with his fingers, searching for signs of distress.

  But he was standing here, and he was alive, and I wouldn’t have noticed even if I had been bleeding to death. I buried my face into his chest, the tangled smells of his blood, sweat, perfume, and something that was just him wrapping around me.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” I said.

  He kissed the top of my head. “What?”

  “Try to be heroic and nearly die, you daft man.” I slapped his arm weakly but sincerity crept into my playful tone, and he heard it. A grave expression flashed across his features.

  “I promise.” Then it was gone, and he turned to the others. “Now let’s find my brother.”

  * * *

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  Louis paced the brightly lit salon, his whole body tense and his face a mask of rage. Outside, the chatter and laughter of departing guests filled the courtyard of Vaux-le-Vicomte as carriages lined up to retrieve their inebriated owners under Fouquet’s benevolent gaze. A few minutes ago, we’d all made it back to the château to find the Crown Magicien wishing his guests good night as if nothing was amiss. Prince Aniaba had found the king and his mother and we’d all gathered in one of the ground-floor rooms.

  “You are not,” the Queen Mother said, her voice strong despite the exhaustion etched across her face. “We agreed. We would gather evidence, arrest him in broad daylight, and try him for his crimes. Any other course of action will draw scandal to your court and your kingdom.”

  Louis ran his hands over his face and let out a frustrated groan. “Even though he tried to kill me tonight? To kill Henriette?”

  “And me,” Philippe said on the other side of the room. He’d washed in a basin and Armand was helping him into a change of clothes.

  Louis didn’t react to his interruption and kept his attention on his mother. She stood up from her chair. “Yes, even though he tried to kill you. His coup didn’t succeed. He knows he’s finished. But as his presence on his doorstep at this very moment shows, he also knows he stands a better chance bargaining with you than running.”

  “I’m not going to bargain with him!” Louis scoffed
.

  “Yet he doesn’t know that,” Anne d’Autriche replied. “And he must believe he still has the upper hand right up until the moment we arrest him and strip him of all he has.”

  “If I may ask,” Prince Aniaba said. “How are you going to do that? Arrest him? Isn’t he the most powerful magicien in the land?”

  The Queen Mother opened her mouth to reply, but the words left my lips as soon as the realization of her plan struck me. “You want to wait until he’s too weak to resist.”

  A tight smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and she acknowledged my answer with a nod. “From now on, Fouquet is going to be watched at all times. He won’t have a chance to steal another Source’s magic, and his power will decline as the days go by. In a couple of weeks, he’ll be too diminished to resist arrest.”

  “A couple of weeks?” Louis spat. “I’m supposed to pretend everything is fine and smile at my worst enemy for another two weeks?”

  “You are, if you want to do what’s right for your crown.” Anne d’Autriche’s tone was sharp as steel.

  Louis clenched his teeth and didn’t dare argue. “Can we at least leave this cursed castle?”

  He retrieved his cane and marched out of the room, the rest of us in his wake. Philippe caught up with him.

  “Cheer up, brother. Don’t they say revenge is a dish best served cold? You’ll still get his head in the end.”

  “It’s not revenge,” Louis replied. “It’s justice.”

  “Is there a difference when you’re king?” Philippe mused.

  Our arrival on the front porch cut short the discussion. In the most spectacular display of hypocrisy ever performed in the kingdom, Fouquet bowed to the king and offered him a compliment. Straight-faced, Louis thanked him for his hospitality before leading his mother to his carriage. The rest of our party passed by the Crown Magicien without acknowledging his presence, and he found himself too busy chatting with one of his servants to wave us off.