Warrior Witch: Malediction Trilogy Book Three

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He inhaled softly, and I knew he was thinking of deflecting my question, but instead he shook his head, a quick jerk from side to side. Not all right.

  “Your aunt,” I said. “She told me things about your father–”

  “I can’t,” he interrupted. “Not now. I just… I don’t want to think about it. Him. Them.”

  My heart ached along with his, knowing full well what it felt like to lose a parent. My mother might have died years ago, but I hadn’t known that until Anushka revealed the truth. The pain had been fresh and horrible, and how much worse would it have been if I’d lost my father, too. Or my gran?

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, then twisted around so that my knees were on either side of him. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled him close, feeling his breath warm against my collarbone. I carefully pulled through the tangles in his hair with my fingers while I waited to see if he wanted to talk, knowing better than to press him. He knew that I felt his hurt, and maybe that was enough.

  His hand slipped under the bottom of my shirt, palm hot against the small of my back, his other hand tangling in my hair. Clinging to me as though I were the strong one.

  And maybe I was.

  “I wanted him dead,” he said, his voice muffled. “I planned for it.”

  He had. It seemed like a hundred years ago that we’d stood in the stables in Trollus and I’d blackmailed him into telling me the truth in exchange for the return of the plans for the stone tree. Looking back, he seemed so much younger, so convinced of his emotional fortitude because it had never been tested. Not really. And now, whatever naiveté he might have once possessed was gone, burned away by pain and fear, loss and guilt. No longer a boy and a prince, but a man and, whether he liked it or not, a king.

  Which I supposed, whether I liked it or not, made me a queen.

  “You didn’t plan for this,” I said. “Angoulême did. And we need to make him pay for what he’s done.” I leaned back so that we were eye to eye. “With Roland controlling Trollus, the Duke will believe we’re on the run. That he’s hunting us. But he’s wrong.”

  I felt Tristan’s anger chase away his grief, and he lifted me up and set me back on the cot. “I’ll get the others.”

  I retrieved the steaming cup my gran had left for me, and, moments later, Tristan returned with the twins, along with my father and Jérôme.

  “You going to live?” my father asked, and when I nodded, he added, “Good. I wouldn’t want you to die before I had the chance to wallop you like the idiot child you are.”

  “You should let me do it, Louis,” Victoria said, crossing her arms. “It will hurt more.”

  “I–”

  “Shut-up, Cécile,” Victoria said. “I’m not interested in hearing your excuses. You took advantage of our trust and ran off without so much as leaving a note to say where you’d gone. We thought Winter had caught you. Or the Duke. Then we tracked your horse to the labyrinth just in time to watch it collapse. Do you know what it was like for us watching the sky for Marc’s signal that Tristan was dead or near to it because you’d gotten yourself killed?”

  I licked my lips and glanced at Tristan, but the look in his eyes told me I was on my own in this. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Both Victoria’s eyebrows rose. “You think sorry is going to make up for leaving us to watch your grandmother weep for fear of what had become of you? Not even close, Cécile. You’re going to have to earn our forgiveness.”

  “I understand,” I said, knowing better than to ask how I might accomplish that. Just as I knew better than to try to justify my actions. What I’d learned had been worth the risk, but that didn’t mean I was exempt from the consequences of my actions.

  Chris came running in then, bending over as he struggled to catch his breath. “Came back as soon as I heard Cécile was here.” His eyes landed on Tristan, and his face broke into a grin. “Well, if it isn’t the prettiest prince to ever walk the Isle. So glad you could finally join us.”

  “Necessity,” Tristan replied. “As you can see, my attire has been woefully neglected since my half-trained manservant abandoned me to a greater cause.”

  Chris’s face turned bright red, then he laughed and slung an arm around Tristan’s shoulder. “How fortunate that you make even rags look good, Your Highness.”

  “It’s Your Majesty, now. Although I suppose Roland might contest my claim.” Tristan’s tone was light, but Chris seemed to sense that congratulations were not in order.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” he said, taking a swig of a wine skin before passing it to Tristan. “I’ve trouble enough finding hats to fit your ego as it is.”

  Then they all turned expectantly to me. “What’s the plan?” I asked. “When do we leave?”

  “As soon as you tell us where we’re going,” Tristan responded.

  Unease prickled over my skin. “Didn’t Martin tell you…” I trailed off.

  “Martin isn’t here,” Tristan said, then turned to Vincent and Victoria, who both shook their heads.

  “He was with me when we learned what had happened to you,” I said, setting aside my cup. “He was supposed to come here and tell you where Angoulême’s hiding – your family’s tombs,” I added, glancing at Tristan. “I gave him directions to find the twins and told him the signals to use.”

  “I don’t know this Martin fellow,” Chris said. “But given he’s never been outside of Trollus, there is every possibility he’s wandering around lost in the woods.”

  “Or that he’s run afoul of someone he shouldn’t have, and they know our location,” Vincent said, scratching his arm. “We may need to move our camp.”

  They all argued about where Martin might be and what he might be doing, but I barely heard them, my ears full of a strange ringing.

  Tristan touched my arm. “Cécile?”

  My mouth was dry. “He was in love with Élise.”

  Tristan hissed softly between his teeth, and everyone went silent.

  “I promised him revenge,” I said. “That you would see Angoulême dead for what he did to her.”

  “And in discovering I’d lost my magic, he likely believes he’s the only one left to deliver that revenge.” Tristan rattled off a string of profanity. “We need to go. Now. Cécile, you are sure this is where the Duke is hiding?”

  I explained how Martin and I had come to the conclusion based on Lessa’s words.

  Victoria rubbed her chin, eyes on the map Chris had spread flat. “Makes sense. The tombs are deep in the mountains and are easily defended.”

  “And difficult to reach, as I recall.” Tristan pressed a gloved finger against the map. “One needs magic – or significant climbing skills – to reach them. It isn’t a place you just stumble upon. Chris, can you guide us there?”

  My friend nodded. “I’ll ready the supplies. Who’s going?”

  “Us three and you,” Tristan replied, then he chewed on his bottom lip.

  I was about to voice exactly what I thought about being left behind, when he added, “And Cécile.”

  My gran made a noise of protest that was seconded by my father. “She’s dead on her feet already. You trying to kill her, boy?”

  “We’ll all be dead if we don’t succeed in this,” Tristan said, his voice betraying none of the guilt my father’s accusation had instigated. “It would be one thing if merely killing the Duke was an option, but we need to capture him. To use him to lure Roland out of Trollus to a place where I can engage him without fear of casualties. And our success may depend on Cécile’s power.”

  “Then I’m coming, too,” my gran said. “I’m not powerless myself.”

  Tristan nodded absently. There was already a plan forming in his mind. I could see it; could feel it. And there was some comfort in knowing that. I should’ve known that Martin had no intention of sitting idly – that he would’ve gone after the Duke himself. But I’d been so caught up in my concern for Tr
istan that I’d been blind to anything but my own plight. I prayed we’d catch Martin before we reached the tombs, or that he’d change his mind and come back. And though it pained me to do so, I prayed that if he managed to reach the Duke, that he’d fail in his quest. Because if Angoulême was killed, Roland would be free to do what he wanted.

  And all the world would burn.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Tristan

  “What is with you trolls and mountains?” Chris muttered, rubbing his hands together to warm them.

  “We like impressive things,” I said, resting my elbows on the rocky outcropping. Dawn was upon us, and, just then, the sun crested the horizon, illuminating the faces of two towering statues of a king and queen seated on thrones. Though time had worn the stone, the crown resting on the king’s brow was deeply familiar to me from the countless times I’d seen it on my father’s head.

  Chris whistled through his teeth. “Relatives of yours?”

  I nodded. “They were the first. He was the brother of the Summer King, and both were immortal until the iron bound them to this world. Even then, they lived and ruled for many hundreds of years before succumbing.”

  “And the pass leading to the tombs runs between them?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Give the sun a few more moments, and we’ll see it.”

  The line of golden light slowly edged its way down the statues, revealing the queen’s elaborate jewelry, the king’s embroidered coat, a scepter resting across his knees, and a blade across hers. And then it revealed something else.

  “What is that?” Chris asked, leaning forward.

  It was a bundle of fabric suspended across the mouth of the ravine between the two statues, the loose ends of the material flapping in the breeze. Whatever was contained within it was large, and my skin crawled. “Something,” I murmured, “that we were meant to find. Stay close.”

  I shielded us from sight and from any form of attack as we moved across the open stretch, the ground still dark until the sun rose a little higher. There was only one set of footprints, but Chris insisted on poking the ground in front of us with his walking stick. “Ain’t falling for my own trick,” he muttered.

  I didn’t argue. Despite the frigid temperature, sweat was trickling down his brow, and there was no missing the staccato beat of his heart. If doing something eased his nerves, so much the better.

  The bundle swayed on a strong gust of wind, droplets raining down from the soaked fabric. My eyes followed the drips as the sun crested the mountain behind us, bathing our path with light. Beneath the bundle was a circle of crimson, and as the breeze reversed, the metallic tang of blood filled my nostrils.

  “God in heaven,” Chris whispered, and I debated sending him back to camp and out of harm’s way. Except with Angoulême, Lessa, and Roland still alive, was anywhere safe? Chris knew the risks, but he’d agreed to come anyway. He wouldn’t thank me for sending him away.

  “Whoever it is can’t have been dead long,” Chris said, stopping just shy of the circle of blood. “Doesn’t take long for a body to freeze in this weather.”

  I knew who it was, and, catching a slight tremble of motion from the bundle, I knew he wasn’t dead. “This is either a warning, a trap, or both,” I said. “Be ready.”

  Slicing through the magic suspending the drenched bundle, I lowered it to the snow, the fabric falling open as I relinquished my hold, limbs spilling out with it.

  Chris staggered away and retched into the snow. I wanted to do the same, but instead I swallowed the burning bile and approached the dying troll. “Martin?”

  The librarian didn’t answer, his open eyes twitching, but unseeing. Unconscious. Which was a small mercy, because what had been done to him was a testament to what even a lesser troll could endure. But there was no coming back. Not from this.

  Kneeling next to him, I pulled out a knife. A blow to the heart would end his suffering. I owed him that. I lifted the blade, then his eyes snapped into focus. “No!”

  I lowered my arm. “Martin, you don’t want to survive this.”

  His gaze was full of the knowledge of what had been done to him, but still he said, “Not yet. Not until Angoulême is dead.” He shifted awkwardly in the snow, back arching and head twisting from side to side in a futile struggle to move. “He has to pay for what he did to her.”

  “He will,” I said. “I promise he’ll pay for it.” The air pulsed slightly with the power of my oath, and he settled back, eyes on me. “Let me help you,” I said.

  “No,” Martin whispered. “Not until he’s dead. I need to see him dead.”

  I exhaled softly, knowing I couldn’t deny such a request, then turned to Chris, who was still on his hands and knees. “I need you to take him to Cécile’s grandmother. He shouldn’t be that heavy without–” I broke off as Chris blanched. But then he nodded.

  “Cauterize them,” Martin whispered. “I don’t want to bleed out while I wait.”

  For the first time in my life, my magic faltered. Trying again to raise heat, I swallowed hard as it failed again.

  “Cécile’s braver than you,” Martin said around clenched teeth. “She wouldn’t flinch.”

  “I know.” Then fire burned in the palm of my hand, and the stench of scorched blood filled the air. Martin screamed once, then fainted, and when I was finished, I vomited in the snow.

  “Go,” I said to Chris, and without looking to see if he complied, I followed the trail of Martin’s blood into the ravine.

  * * *

  The walls rose up to either side of me, cut sheer by a stream that had run this way since before trolls walked this world. At first, the rock was unadorned, but as I rounded the first bend, the carvings began. Princes and princesses, dukes and duchesses, their expressions austere and eerily similar to my own. Many of them I recognized, but as I drew closer, the elements had washed away all but the suggestions of faces. It didn’t matter: they were my family. All of them. And Angoulême had no right to be in this place.

  The ravine snaked its way between the two mountains, abruptly opening into a wide circular space, with a third peak at its far side. At the center lay a small lake frozen solid, and all around rose statues of the kings and queens from before the Fall. Their eyes were set with glass that had once been filled with troll-fire, and it seemed they were all watching me, fixing me with silent scrutiny. The entire space hummed with magic, the ground coated with it and the air so thick with it that it seemed scarcely breathable.

  But there was no sign of life.

  Maybe he’s gone, a little voice whispered my head. Maybe you’re too late.

  But I didn’t think I was. The tombs were the most defensible place on the Isle, and Angoulême could hide within them long enough for Roland and Lessa to arrive. Little did he know, we planned to be long gone by the time they got here. When I went up against my brother, it would be in a place of my choosing.

  On my terms.

  I walked up to the edge of the lake and stared across. Twin falls poured down the mountain’s face, and between them stood a door twice my height and carved of solid stone. It was closed.

  I eyed the track of footprints and blood leading around the right half of the lake, then at the untouched snow around the left. With little tendrils of magic, I searched the statues for anyone who might be hidden behind their bulky stone shapes, and opened my senses to any troll of power who might be near, but it was impossible to tell when the air was teeming with so much latent magic.

  Which was very likely their intent.

  The shield encircling me was as strong as any I’d ever used, but it gave me little comfort. Angoulême was clever, and underestimating him might see me dead. I knew something would happen, but not what. And not when. And not where.

  Exhaling softly, I stepped onto the frozen surface of the lake and began my way toward the door. I was about halfway across when I felt the surge of magic as it resolved toward its purpose. I started to run, but it was too late.

  The lak
e exploded around me in liquid fire, and the world fell out from beneath me.

  The weight of the magic shielding my body dragged me down into the depths of the lake, bubbles from the boiling water obscuring my vision as I descended further from the surface.

  Clever bastard.

  Lessening my shield enough for buoyancy to pull me back up put me at risk of cooking alive, and it left me vulnerable to whatever attacks Angoulême had planned for when I resurfaced.

  I lashed out with ropes of magic, blindly aiming for one of the statues, but they slammed against a shield at the surface of the lake, the impact driving me further into the depths. I struck out again, harder, but I had no leverage, and the motion sent my sphere tumbling, disorienting me until it slammed against the lake bed. Bracing against the ground, I flung the full force of my power at the shield, destroying it with explosion that made the earth tremble.

  My ropes of power swung through the air, searching for an anchor, but Angoulême knocked at them with his own power, preventing them from finding purchase. I fought blindly, earning a concussive blast each time the magics collided.

  Louder.

  While my ropes continued to flail above, I turned my attention to the rock beneath my feet, channeling heat into the earth until it glowed brilliant red, the water boiling and turning to steam in a violent blast. I launched out of the lake under the cover of the white cloud of mist, landing in a crouch on the edge of the now dry lake.

  A whistling razor of power sank into my shield, then another and another, all coming from different directions. Pulling out my sword, I coated the steel with magic and listened, swinging hard, not just deflecting, but destroying the invisible weapons with explosions of silver sparks.

  Then I turned on the door.

  “Come out, come out,” I crooned, slipping strands of magic through the cracks to magnify my voice to a deafening level. Lifting a hand, I scratched my finger through the air, mimicking the magic I used to claw at the door. The sound was horrible, and with a smile, I repeated the gesture. Then I punched out with my fist, and a giant crack formed in the granite. Again, and a large piece split off, smashing as it hit the ground.