by Brenna Lyons
Ondrea took a shuddering a breath. “I'll burn the dress,” she vowed.
She'd have to. The blood stains were likely permanent, induced by magic as much as the physical spikes.
"Ondrea,” he soothed her. “The dress is a minor thing."
"Is it?"
Kieran sighed. In truth, he didn't know how fates and possible futures overlapped or entwined. “Would it make you feel better to leave the castle?"
She looked at the bed, seemingly torn between fear and longing. “Yes. As soon as possible."
He pulled Ondrea to his chest, rocking her back and forth. “I'll pack and send my belongings ahead. Then we'll retrieve your belongings. We'll be gone before lunch."
* * * *
What caught Ondrea's attention first was an uncertain thing. The image coalesced into a heart-stopping whole in a few beats of her racing heart.
She grasped at Kieran's hand, yanking him to a stop, staring at the carpet then the decorations on the walls of the sitting nook. Her mouth went dry, saliva replaced with copper fear.
Why didn't we translocate? It would have been rude, but it would have been safe.
"Ondrea?"
"No,” she protested. “We must leave.” She pulled him back the way they came, prepared to drag him from harm's way, if needs be. “Wait. We can translocate to—"
But, ‘harm’ stared them down. Gabriel stood in the doorway, clothed in the same suit he'd worn the day before, his hair in disarray and his eyes red-shot.
He performed a similar inventory on her then glared an accusation at Kieran. The fact that she hadn't changed clothing but Kieran had wouldn't escape Gabriel's notice.
Ondrea backed off a step, running aground on Kieran's chest. Under any other circumstances, she'd find his touch comforting. At the moment, it was a glaring reminder that she could lose him to death within the hour.
Kieran guided her around him, stilling her fight to shield him with a bark of order that stunned her to silence and compliance. He faced down Gabriel, calm though he knew what was coming as well as she did.
Gabriel scowled at them, a look not unlike the one he used when his morning juice was soured. “Was he talented, Ondrea?"
Her face burned at the audacity of such a question.
"Do you always address ladies so rudely, Sarke?” Kieran inquired, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.
"Was she a lady in your bed, Medici? Not an hour earlier, she accepted my kiss, you know. How ladylike of her."
Kieran stiffened, but he didn't take the offered bait. Ondrea touched his shoulder, both wanting to deny it to give Kieran ease and wanting no lies between them.
"She's chosen me,” Kieran replied shortly. “Nothing Ondrea did before she knew our destiny together is of any consequence."
Of course, he knew well enough that a kiss or two was nearly the extent of the liberties she'd allowed anyone.
Gabriel's jaw tightened, and his eyes hardened. “Destiny? It is an abomination, a fool's game ... a sham at best."
"No. It is not,” Ondrea insisted.
"Isn't it? A day ago, you loathed Medici."
She shook her head. “I didn't.” Hadn't she considered how different he was than her memories of him? Hadn't she rationalized her attraction to him away?
"You didn't trust him,” Gabriel insisted.
"I didn't know Kieran then."
"You don't know him now!"
Ondrea recoiled from his vehemence, and Gabriel pressed onward.
"You know me. You've always trusted me. Then the mirrors wove their illusions, and what did you do? Bed a man you have no reason to trust and rebuff one you always have."
"The destinies—"
"Are self-fulfilling,” he thundered. “Don't you see that? We make our own destinies, when we choose to."
Ondrea shook her head. The magic wasn't wrong. It couldn't be.
Gabriel advanced a pace, and she retreated. Kieran did the same, keeping her at his shoulder.
"Not all magic users are invited here, Ondrea. Some of those with no destinies marry happily. How? Why do they? Reason that.” He took another step.
"Keep your distance, Sarke,” Kieran ordered.
Gabriel moved his eyes from Ondrea to Kieran, an expression that promised pain twisting his features. “Fate magic is for the weak mind, the easily led ... the easily corrupted. I thought Ondrea too sensible for it, but I see now that she's another sentimental fool."
A cold smile pulled up at his lips, and Ondrea shuddered, grasping a handful of Kieran's jacket. It was coming. The attack was closing fast.
"That's too bad, really. I was hoping she'd be reasoned enough to avoid the trap.” His gaze panned Kieran's body. “Of course, there is a way to prove I'm right."
"No,” Ondrea pleaded. “Don't do this, Gabriel."
The dagger materialized in his hand, gleaming silver inset with rubies catching the light. It had a kris-shaped blade, snaking in graceful arcs that Ondrea would once have described as “a work of art” or “a singularly elegant display of master craftsmanship.” No doubt, it was his father's work; even Gabriel wasn't gifted enough to craft such a blade yet.
She wrapped her arm around Kieran, intent on evading the blow, if they could. The kris was, first and foremost, a stabbing weapon, though its shape increased effectiveness in a slice. If Gabriel meant to kill Kieran, he'd be aiming a thrust for the ribs.
He sliced instead, cutting the air and sending the wake of magic to do the work for the blade. The magical strike took her forearm, along with Kieran's chest. Ondrea screamed in pain of both the body and soul.
Kieran collapsed to his knees, a hand pressed to the wound. Ondrea urged him to his back, rattled, trying to apply pressure though her hands didn't cover the length of the damage. Her blood mixed with his. She sobbed in the impossibility of stemming the flow.
"Help! Someone please—we need a healer.” Only the elders lived within the walls, but there might be another healer about ... or someone who could translocate them to a healer.
Gabriel laughed. “There'll be no time for that.” He raised the dagger for another blow.
Her mind spun then locked on her early O'Ken training. Her family's strength was in offensive fight spells, not magical weapons like the Sarkes but spell work.
Ondrea had never been able to work them correctly, worse even than she worked defensive spells. Though neither was likely to save them when pitted against Gabriel's prowess and weapon, the only spell she could call to mind was from her weaker spell set.
Fate does love irony. How often had her father said that? Too many.
There wasn't time to analyze why it was happening this way or to complain about it to the gods. The words rolled from her lips, and her hands left Kieran's chest to flow through the motions. The power swelled in her, and Gabriel's smile faltered.
All around them, glass shattered, hurtling at Gabriel. He lowered the blade, gaping at the efficiency of her attack. His free hand came up to initiate a defensive shield ... a moment too late.
The glass pierced his body from all angles, and the dagger fell to the carpet. Gabriel's roar of pain dug at her ears. Then he fell—writhing, panting ... an obscene, moving pincushion.
Kieran moaned, and Ondrea dragged her gaze back to him, restoring pressure to his wounds, sickened by what she'd done.
As if he knew her mind, Kieran offered assurances. “Anything ... worth having ... is worth fighting for."
She wanted to argue it, but it was precisely the choice she'd made.
His eyes slid shut, and her heart stuttered. She was losing him.
"Kieran! Fight, Kieran. Life is worth having; fight for it.” Her further reasoning that their future was worth fighting for was cut short by a most unexpected sight.
The elder Medicis rushed into the room, averting their eyes as they passed Gabriel's still form. Kieran's father reached him first. He pushed Ondrea's hands away with a growled order for her retreat.
"I might have kno
wn a Sarke and an O'Ken would be involved in this butchery,” he accused.
"He would have killed Kieran. I had no choice,” she protested.
Markus Medici ignored her, putting his attention to his son's injuries. His power beat at Ondrea's nerves, a raw brush against the remnants of the O'Ken spell she'd used to kill. It was no wonder he'd pushed her away. This magic wasn't nurturing, as her plant healing was. She'd dampen his efforts, until the effects faded.
Malcolm dropped down next to his son and grandson, casting a different spell over Kieran than his son did. The lacerations knitted loosely, and the blood around him disappeared, most likely into his body or a cleaning spell that would prepare it for safe transfer back into Kieran, at a later time.
"Good enough to move,” Markus stated.
"There was no hope for the other,” Malcolm reported. “I sent the remains to the elders. They'll handle the ... removal."
"I agree. Kieran is our only concern."
Ondrea scrambled to her feet to accompany them. Two pairs of deep blue eyes regarded her stonily.
Markus forced his voice first. “Clean the blood from your hands, O'Ken. You are an affront to the senses."
His dismissal laid a deeper furrow than Gabriel's bespelled blade had. “But, Kieran is—"
"None of your concern, butcher,” Malcolm growled. “I cannot even heal you, what with the stink of death on you as it is. You won't be fouling my grandson's healing."
It was only then that she realized Markus was casting a translocation spell.
"Wait,” she cried. “Where are you taking him?"
They were gone in a blink. Ondrea looked around, a sob catching in her throat. They were gone, and she had no clue where to. Tracking had never been a talent she possessed. Even had she, she was too weary to cast such a complex spell.
Silently, the blood evaporated from walls and carpets, forming a red mist, a pale smoke ... then nothing but the scent of lilacs on the air. The glass fragments glittered in the late morning sunlight, rising from surfaces all over the room. In a tinkling, the windows, mirrors, and sconces reformed.
There was no sign of what happened, save her own bloodstained hands and clothes. The sensation of a soiled soul persisted, and Ondrea rushed to her rooms.
With a quick spell, the fire was roaring. She fed the dress to it ... then the rest of her clothing.
The tub saw three consecutive scrubbings of her body, emptied between, with the addition of salt, sage and lavender at the final washing. It was a futile attempt at purification, she knew, but the need to purge herself of the pall of death ate at her. In the end, she wasn't certain she'd done more than burn at the still-open wound.
At a loss for direction, Ondrea dressed and sat on the sofa, stitching her wound with only her medicinal plants to dull the pain. That accomplished, she stared at the door.
Kieran was her mate; surely, someone would send word to her about his condition. Or he'd return to her.
* * * *
Her head snapped up at a light knocking. Ondrea moved stiffly, noting the fire burning low in the hearth. She opened the door, blinking in the much-brighter light from the corridor.
The form of an elder coalesced. Ondrea bit back a sigh and waved her in, clearing the way to the sitting area. She closed the door and lingered at it, wondering at the visit. It was unlikely that news would be delivered to her by an elder, but she held out hope that was the case.
The elder tsked her loudly. “You should not hide yourself, young one.” She lit the lamps and sparked the fire with a wave of her hand.
"I'm not hiding. I'm waiting.” There was no need of light for that.
The elder settled in an overstuffed chair. “Waiting? Whatever for?"
Ondrea found she couldn't meet the old woman's gaze. “For word on Kieran."
"His family is too angry and upset to consider sending it,” she imparted.
Ondrea nodded, swallowing down a sob. They didn't approve then.
They'll never approve. She should have reasoned that. Kieran's bias against her at school had stemmed from his family. He'd been too young to form such hatred from personal experience.
"He is whole and resting,” the elder continued. “The young Medici will carry scars, but he'd expected that, I'm certain."
She sagged against the door, tension easing from her muscles. “Good. As long as he's well."
"But you're not."
Ondrea cleared her throat, for once not attempting to still her fidgeting. “I'm well,” she lied. It wasn't quite a lie. Physically, she wasn't badly marked, though she wore the bandage and would always wear the scar. O'Ken only sought out healers for life-threatening or debilitating injury or illness; all were trained to treat minor injuries themselves.
"A person who is well eats,” the elder countered.
Just the thought of food turned her stomach. And ... “I can't do it yet."
"Do? Whatever must you do?"
"I can't see them together. I hear them in the corridors ... laughing. It's too much to ask."
Ondrea saw the sad shake of the elder's head out of the corner of her eye. Words passed too low for her to hear, and a steaming plate of food appeared on the table next to Ondrea. She stared at it, dismissing the idea of eating, no matter how it offended the elder.
"You must eat, Ondrea. The nutrition taken early in pregnancy and before is paramount to a babe."
Her heart stuttered, and Ondrea met her eyes fully. “From yesterday and this morn?” she managed. The odds on such a thing had to be astronomical.
The elder's smile widened. “No, but very soon. It is fated, after all."
A spike of wholly-unexpected disappointment sliced at her. Ondrea rationalized that the visions of a happy pregnancy were simply preferable to the misery she was currently experiencing.
Soon. “Only if Kieran returns to me,” she reminded herself.
"You doubt he will?” There was no anger in that. The elder seemed genuinely curious.
Ondrea considered her words carefully. “What about Gabriel's mate? He was invited here.” Her heart ached for an unknown woman who wouldn't find what she sought, when she'd come here full of hopes and dreams.
"He had no destined mate. There is no one seeking him."
She ambled to the sofa and sat, her mind rioting. “Then why was Gabriel invited?"
The elder didn't answer, leaving Ondrea to reason it.
"So I would kill him?” she demanded. “Because it was fated for him to attack Kieran within the castle and meet his end?"
"Fate decreed an end to the Sarke line. The entire experiment was an abomination.” The elder looked affronted by nothing more than speaking about it, though Ondrea couldn't fathom why she would.
"Experiment, elder?"
She sighed, the lines on her weathered face creasing further in her misery, her over-bright eyes focusing on the flickering flames in the hearth. “Four generations ago, the elders of the time reasoned—being users of fate magic with too little respect for Chaos—that the balance of Fate and Chaos was a fallacy. That Fate was ... superior."
The elder paused, her hand moving in the beginnings of a spell then stilling. “They dabbled in futures and found a man and woman without set destinies, Chaos's children. The probable futures showed them to be a good match."
Ondrea forced a steady breath at the revelation. “So the elders invited them to the castle and pronounced them destined mates?"
She winced. “Just the pair. No others."
"They lied. They...” Spirits and spells, but the thought was horrifying. “It wasn't just the pair.” Gabriel's family had sent generations of invited to the castle to find mates. “It was generations of—"
"The line created,” the elder amended. “It seemed to be going so well that they brought each descendent back to be matched. None of them ... None of them had destinies."
"Because they all belonged to Chaos,” Ondrea stated the obvious.
"Worse,” the elder croaked. “They lo
st the awe of magic they'd once had. You saw what a monster four generations of tampering created."
Her mind spun. “But he was right,” she breathed.
"Pardon?” the elder asked.
"The Sarkes did make their own destinies. Their fates were lies, self-fulfilling fantasy stories."
"They didn't weave fates,” the elder fumed. “I admit they were lied to. Left to me, it never would have happened."
Ondrea nodded, heartsick.
"Your destiny, on the other hand, is real. You must know that."
"Is it? Or is it real, because I choose to follow it?"
"I don't understand."
Ondrea stared at her. Had the elder never questioned? Had she never considered what would happen if one abandoned Fate? “Does anyone choose to escape Fate? Does anyone choose to take another path and not the one destiny indicates?"
"Chaos's children do not have destinies, but they forge their own paths."
"Of Fate's children?"
"Why would one wish to?"
"Do they?” Ondrea pressed, her heart racing as if she were at the precipice of some great discovery, something more than the manipulation of the Sarke line.
"No. I don't believe they have. Oh, I admit some might have tried, in a show of temper, but who can escape destiny?"
"Then how can you know they aren't all self-fulfilling?"
That seemed to confuse her.
"The users of fate magic interfered in Chaos. What would happen if Chaos did the same?"
The elder's face twisted in a look of horror. Ondrea didn't get an answer.
* * * *
Kieran shifted beneath the blankets, his senses alive to the sounds and smells of his home. He didn't recall coming home, but perhaps he'd been translocated while he lay unconscious.
He forced his eyes open, but he was alone. His heart sank, and he realized he'd been expecting to see Ondrea, hovering over him, sick with worry, or maybe asleep at his bedside. Kieran called for her, certain she was near.
Footsteps rushed toward him, and Kieran sighed. It seemed his family wasn't content to wait until he'd greeted his mate. The door burst open, and bodies crowded in. Kieran looked from one face to the next, but Ondrea wasn't among them.