“How terrible.” Rumbold gave no evidence that he knew of whom Mordant was speaking.
“Coincidentally, my own . . . messengers . . . have sent word that she currently resides in your kingdom.”
Rumbold continued to play the fool. “We have had a marked increase in population since the ocean made its appearance on our doorstep.”
“Can you tell us her name?” Sunday asked. “Perhaps we can help.”
“You would not know her by name,” Mordant said evasively. “She would want to conceal her true identity.”
“I understand completely,” said Sunday. “Then what does she look like?”
Friday hid her smile behind her hands. Her little sister made a very clever queen.
Mordant took a moment to compose his reply. “We believe she has altered her appearance to the same end. Describing her to you would be similarly futile.”
“Hmm. What a shame. I am afraid we can be of little use in your quest.”
Friday sensed the delight in Sunday’s voice. She hoped Mordant and his sorceress did not have similar powers of perception.
Mordant snapped his fingers and the mystery man once again appeared at his side. The man bowed gracefully to Rumbold and Sunday.
“If you would but allow the Infidel the freedom to search for the girl on these grounds, Your Majesties need not concern yourselves further.”
Sunday and Rumbold exchanged glances. It would be impossible for them to refuse.
The urge to blurt out something—anything—to stop this madness was overwhelming, but Friday remembered her promise to Mr. Humbug. For whatever reason, for better or worse, she needed to let this act play out.
“Sir . . . Infidel.” Rumbold addressed the mystery man. “Have we met?”
The Infidel took to one knee and bowed low before Rumbold, turning his silk-clad body into little more than a smudge against the carpet.
“The Infidel does not speak,” said Mordant, “the better for him to concentrate on his duties. But if I might answer on his behalf, I do not think it likely that your esteemed path has crossed his humble one.”
“Thank you, Lord Mordant.” After another long pause, in which none of his advisors was able to offer up any objection, Rumbold said, “You may proceed with your search.”
Friday wanted to cry. Poor Elisa. What good was the power to feel, when everyone around you was frightened or in pain? Why couldn’t Friday have been given some useful power, like invisibility?
The Infidel bowed lower—as if such a thing were possible—and then fluidly snapped back up to a standing position. He leaned in toward the sorceress, careless of the deadly beast around her neck. She whispered something into his scarf-covered ear and he vanished like smoke down the hallway.
Conrad quietly slipped out of the Great Hall after him.
Friday said nothing about that either.
Searching the whole of the palace and castle grounds was an impossible task for any one man. Friday should not be worried—but she was. There was something wrong with this Infidel, though she could not put her finger on it. She could not get a clear sense or feeling from any of these visitors from the Green Isles, as if they were wooden figures with neither hearts nor souls. There was something wrong with all of them, and the sooner they left, the sooner Arilland could go back to healing itself. Until that time, Mordant, his sorceress, and his Infidel would fester like blight.
“Lord Mordant, if you and the Lady . . . ?” Sunday let the address float in the air until Mordant deigned to fill the silence.
“Gana.” The “g” was hard and guttural. The lady in question tilted her head toward the dais.
“. . . Lady Gana would like to stay, we can have rooms prepared for you.” Sunday left the impetus on Mordant to rudely announce how long he intended to darken their doorstep.
Sunday was good at this game.
“Thank you, Highness. You are most gracious. We will trespass upon your kindness one evening and no more.”
“You have such trust in your . . . man’s . . . abilities?” Sunday would not bring herself to call anyone “Infidel.”
Mordant’s answering grin made Friday’s skin crawl. “He is very good at what he does.”
Friday wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep her wretched tongue from disobeying her. “I need to leave,” she whispered to Monday.
Monday kept her eyes on the red-robed figures as Sunday summoned guards and maids to see the guests to their rooms. “You cannot go to them,” Monday replied without so much as moving her wan smile. “You will draw unwanted attention.”
Friday fought back tears, hating the wellspring of emotions that spilled over so often that she was constantly left weeping in its wake. “I must do something.”
“Go to Cook,” said Monday. “She will be overwhelmed.”
Friday realized Cook would have her hands too full with Mordant’s bounty to concentrate any more of her efforts on confounded nettles. She reached forward and squeezed Monday’s hand. “I will. Thank you.”
Monday squeezed back. “And stay away from the pond. If luck is with us, they will find nothing and leave by daybreak.”
Luck was not with them.
The already-short autumn day passed all too quickly. By late afternoon they assembled in the Great Hall once more, and the Infidel stepped from the shadows with Elisa in tow.
Friday could not hear Elisa’s thoughts, but she felt the girl’s exhaustion and fear. Instinctively she leapt forward, but Velius held her back. Elisa was tossed to her knees on the carpet before them, hands bound.
“Your Majesties.” Mordant stepped forth and bowed before Rumbold and Sunday. The sun setting through the windows behind the dais lit the gems in his magnificent robes and made him sparkle with power. “I request that this girl be executed immediately.”
Sunday and Monday gasped. Friday would have too, but all the air had left her body. Arrested? Of course. Restrained, perhaps. Thrown into the deepest, darkest dungeon even, but . . . execution?
“I am not in the habit of executing my subjects,” Rumbold said carefully, “nor the subjects of any other country without a fair trial.”
Sunday did not have Rumbold’s restraint. “What is her crime?”
“She was once a princess of the Green Isles, under the reign of the previous monarchy. After my armies defeated those of her family, I took the throne, ceased the fighting, and spared her life out of mercy. I put to her the task of caring for the other orphaned children of the palace . . . poor souls.”
Sunday’s eyes didn’t actually roll, but Friday felt it just the same. “What happened to the children?”
Finally, the sorceress spoke. The gilt-red cowl framed her black hair and eyes, giving her equally red lips a magical, hypnotic quality. “She killed them, Your Elegance.” The Lady Gana’s voice was deep and heavily accented. “She sacrificed them to her gods in exchange for magic.”
“Did you do this?” Rumbold asked Elisa.
Elisa shook her head.
“Of course she would deny any charges put against her,” said Mordant. “She is not a fool.”
“Nor am I,” Rumbold said seriously. “Were these children under your care?”
Elisa nodded.
“And they are now dead?”
Sadly, Elisa nodded again.
“Do you know what happened to them?”
Elisa stared at Rumbold for a very long time. She gave a half-shrug, and then slowly nodded her head once more. She pointed at Mordant and his consort, and then turned up her palms in a pleading gesture.
“She will not even speak in her own defense!” Mordant cried.
“She is mute,” said Sunday.
“She is not,” said the sorceress.
Reluctantly, Elisa nodded again.
“The girl is silent by choice,” said Gana. “And wisely so, for she cannot incriminate herself this way.”
Rumbold sat back in his chair. “It seems we are at an impasse, as neither party can present
proof of these claims.”
“Oh, there is proof,” said Mordant. “We just had to wait for it.”
And with that, the sun set.
Before their eyes, Elisa’s form shifted from that of a dull, gray, mousy little scullery maid to that of a spindly-limbed young woman with long golden hair and wide, cornflower-blue eyes.
“You deny now that your appearance has been altered by magic?” Mordant accused Elisa. She spread her arms wide in answer, as if to say, As you see. “And those children died because of you.”
Once more, Elisa nodded. Her eyes met Friday’s in desperation and grief.
Tears streamed down Friday’s cheeks. She could feel Elisa’s frustration, but without the added magic of the sky tower, she could not read the girl’s mind to hear her side of the story and come to her rescue.
Tristan was going to kill her.
Ultimately, Elisa’s fate was left to Rumbold. “I am still not convinced that this is enough evidence by which to hold an execution.”
“Fine,” said Mordant. “Release her into my custody, as a subject of my kingdom, and we will depart with the tide.”
Sunday, Monday, Friday, and Velius all sat forward at this request, but Rumbold held up a hand to stop them. “I would like the evening to mull over this decision. Rooms have already been prepared for you. If further proof presents itself overnight—or if the girl decides to speak and defend herself—I will consider it in my final ruling.”
“And if there is no change?” asked Mordant.
“Then she will be yours come morning.”
A morning that would mean Elisa’s death sentence. Friday could not read the pair’s emotions, but it was clear they had no desire to postpone Elisa’s execution until they got back to their ship.
“As Your Majesty wishes,” Mordant said through his teeth.
Friday’s grip on the seat of her chair was so tight that she began to lose sensation in her fingers. Rumbold had given Elisa all he could: one more night to finish the nettle shirts and break the spell.
Once Friday returned with Elisa to the sky tower, she would find out what exactly had happened back on the Green Isles . . .
“In the meantime, I request that she be thrown in your deepest, darkest dungeon,” Mordant added. “You do have one of those, don’t you?”
Rumbold and Sunday exchanged glances. Well used or not, every proper castle had a dungeon somewhere. “I’m sorry, my dear.”
Gracefully, Elisa got to her feet, curtseyed deeply, and awaited her fate.
Rumbold nodded and motioned for his guards. “Take her away.”
As the two guards lifted her, Elisa slumped over, unconscious. Friday was unsure what had finally overcome the girl, but was somewhat grateful that Elisa would not feel pain for a little while. From the corner of her eye, she saw Velius stretch his fingers. Mordant gave the duke a nasty look. Velius gave him nothing in return.
Friday waited for her brother and sister to dismiss the wretched assembly, making plans to join Elisa in the dungeon all the while. So far from the sky tower, Friday would no longer be able to communicate with the girl at all . . . not that it mattered, really. Friday and Conrad would collect the supplies from the tower and bring them down to the dungeon. They would continue their task and Friday would help Elisa in whatever way she could.
By morning, one way or another, this curse would be broken.
10
Swansbody
TRISTAN COULDN’T BELIEVE his ears. “But . . . you just sat there and did nothing?” She would have felt the cruelty in his words. His anger didn’t let him care.
“It was not my place,” said the princess. “When it comes to the politics, I am merely a piece on this game board. I must act—or not act—accordingly. There would have been no wisdom in showing my hand. Or my heart.”
“But how could you? Perhaps you have no heart.” No one believed these words, but Tristan said them anyway. He needed to lash out, and thanks to this wretched curse, his hands were tied. He could do nothing but sit back and wait for Friday to report the news to them. That she had sat there and said nothing . . . done nothing . . . He should probably be praising her composure under such duress, but deep down he just wanted to smash things.
Friday turned and walked away, crossing the room to collect Elisa’s materials so that she and her squire could deliver them to the dungeon. Tristan seethed. He wanted to march down those steps and give Mordant a piece of his mind—right before he put a dagger in his brain.
“Stop it right now.” Sebastien grabbed Tristan by the arms and shook him out of his spiral of hatred. “You’re being rude and inappropriate, and you’re scaring Odette.”
Tristan glanced over to where his brother’s swan-lover smoothed her feathers fitfully in a crude nest of rushes. “What do you care?” he spat. “You don’t even want to break the curse.”
Friday might not have punched him for his nastiness, but Sebastien had no such qualms. To his elder brother’s credit, the pain did help Tristan focus. Somewhat.
“Better?” asked Sebastien.
Eyes watering, Tristan nodded and rubbed his jaw. If he spoke, he might have fought back, and he did not want the anger to overcome him again. Satisfied, Sebastien retreated to Odette’s pathetic makeshift nest.
Tristan caught a glimpse of Philippe, hovering in the shadows against the crumbling wall. His perpetually furious almost-twin smiled sardonically.
The Elder Wood door opened slightly and three more staves of nettle fiber slipped politely through.
The true twins ignored their brothers and addressed Friday over the sack of food she’d tossed them upon her arrival. “You want us to keep spinning?” asked Bernard.
“Please, if you don’t mind. Conrad can return later to collect what you’ve done. This shirt is almost finished, and I’m hoping Elisa can finish another while she’s . . .” The words didn’t need saying. Even if Elisa was allowed to weave in her cell, the shirt she might complete this night would still leave them one tunic short.
Sebastien’s dark form curled around his nervous swan-love; he smoothed her feathers and spoke in soft words. A shortage of tunics might leave him free to remain a swan, Tristan realized. Free of the responsibilities of the heir to the throne of the Green Isles. Free as a bird.
But the brothers needed a leader. Sebastien was the most mature, the most logical, and the most ruthless. He had been their father’s prize pupil; he alone understood best their parents’ intentions and plans for the future of the country. As a man, Sebastien would have done whatever it took for his family to regain their birthplace.
As a man, Tristan would also do whatever it took. “I’m coming with you.” He picked up the completed shirts and stuffed them in another empty sack. He grabbed Elisa’s crudely woven nettle mat with bare hands and threw it in for good measure, hoping the stinging pain it left behind would keep him clearheaded.
Friday would decline his offer, sweetly, and with the reason that they had been instructed to not test the boundaries of the curse any further than they already had. Yet hadn’t the damage been done? Mordant had found them and Elisa now faced execution. Ending up stuck as a swan for the rest of his life seemed trivial in comparison.
Sebastien would spend this last night pining over his love. Philippe would brood. François would read. Christian and the twins would spin the last of their hope and joy into that nettle fiber, futile as their actions might be. But Tristan could not sit idly by. “Nothing you can say will dissuade me.”
“I imagine not.” Friday reached down into the bag she held and removed several dark items of clothing and a pair of black boots. She shoved it all into his hands. “Just put these on first.”
There she went, surprising him again. “What’s this?”
“That assassin of Mordant’s—the one he calls ‘the Infidel’—wears all black, including a mask that covers his face. You’re about his build, if perhaps a little scrawnier, but not enough for anyone who might be awake at this hou
r to notice.”
Tristan stared at the black bundle. “I . . . I mean, I . . .”
“I’m not sure if he’s under Mordant’s command or the sorceress’s thrall,” Friday continued. “Like Elisa, he doesn’t speak, but that could be choice as easily as geis. Either way, it only adds to his air of deadly intrigue.” She shuddered. “The next time I see him will be all too soon.”
Tristan lifted the top item with fingers that still ached from their brush with the raw nettle mat. It appeared to be a scarf with two holes cut in it. He scowled down at Friday. “Scrawnier?”
Friday stuck her tongue out at him before turning to face the door. “Hurry, or I’m leaving without you.”
Stairs. So many stairs. Tristan couldn’t remember the last time he’d encountered stairs. If this eternal descent didn’t make him miss his wings enough, the inevitable climb back up certainly would. Every step he took in those heavy black boots was jarring. Perhaps he could time the return journey for sunrise. If they reached the bottom by sunrise.
And if Elisa lived that long.
Friday’s squire had remained just outside the Elder Wood door; when Tristan walked out, Conrad had done little more than nod politely. Tristan didn’t know anything about the dark-skinned boy besides his unwavering loyalty to Friday, but Conrad’s show of respect had just earned Tristan’s own. He did not insult the princess by asking how much of her squire’s watchdog presence was also for his brothers’ protection.
He adjusted the scarf on his face again so that he could see better through the holes. The fabric kept riding up the incline of his nose and bunching between his eyes. Did the Infidel have this problem? Surely not; such aggravation would have led to many botched assassinations.
Tristan was less bothered by the mask than he was the gloves. For all its refusal to stay where it was put, the mask felt a bit like the one he wore every day as a swan. The gloves, however, drew his attention to his hands. With his hands encased in leather, he couldn’t stop thinking how strange they were, or how large, or how hot.
Friday caught his arm when he stumbled. “Pay attention to your feet,” she said. “They’re the most important right now.” She removed the gloves from his hands and stuck them inside a pocket of her voluminous patchwork skirt. “You can put these back on when we reach the bottom.”
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