Her intake of breath was sharp, and she closed her eyes for a moment. “He doesn’t need mercy, Tristan, he needs a victory. He couldn’t help Élise, he couldn’t stop Angoulême, and now what? Do we strap him to a horse and send him galloping into battle where in all likelihood he won’t make a damn lick of difference? This could be something. It could be the solution.”
“To what?” I demanded. “To my moral dilemma over killing my brother?”
“No,” she shouted. “To our mistake!”
I froze, not entirely believing what I was hearing.
“I was wrong,” she said. “You were right about not breaking the curse and a fool for letting me convince you otherwise. Maybe we might make it work for our lifetime if we rule with an iron fist, but what then? There will always be more Angoulêmes, and God help us, more Rolands, and what will happen with us not there to stop them? So many have already died because of the choices we made, and this might be the chance to make things as right as they can be. To save both your kind and mine.”
She scrubbed a hand across her face, leaving a smear of blood and grime. “Your kind doesn’t belong here, and with God as my witness, I’ll send every troll back. And if it’s what you want, I’ll send you along with them.” Then she turned on her heel and stormed into the darkened woods.
My boots seemed fixed to the ground as I watched her retreating form. Of all the things I’d expected to hear her say, that wasn’t one of them. Always, always, she was the optimist, and to hear her give up on our dream, to say that our fight was hopeless… It made it true.
Your kind doesn’t belong here.
If she was right, if the spell worked, then what she was offering was a solution beyond what I could ever have hoped for. Not only a way to save both our kinds and keep blood off our hands, but for me, it was a chance to see my people thrive. They’d be immortal once more, no longer afflicted with iron-wrought maladies, or fearful of what the cursed metal would do to their children.
Your kind.
It would be a freedom so much greater than just release from Trollus. The lands of endless summer would be theirs again, along with countless other worlds and endless years to explore them. It would be the greatest gift I could give them – the ability to return home.
You.
You don’t belong here.
The cold seemed to bite through my clothing, the wind blowing through the trees a mournful howl. On numb feet, I slowly followed her tracks into the woods.
I found her sitting on a dry patch beneath a fir tree, face buried in her knees, shoulders shaking. “If it’s what Martin wants, do it,” I said, swallowing the tightness in my throat. “And if it works, I’ll do what I can to see every other full-blooded troll goes with him.”
“Every?” Her voice was soft.
“I think most will clamor for the opportunity.”
“Will you?”
I thought of her sharp words, the guilt and the blame. What I had done and left undone, and all the blood on my hands. Our hands. I knew she would forgive me for my failures, because that was her way. But would she ever forgive herself? If I stayed, would I not always be a constant reminder of how she’d forsaken her own kind, however temporarily, for me? Would it be better if I left? Would it help her forget?
“This is all speculation,” I said. “Neither of us know if your spell will work.”
It was the worst of silences, but I felt too cowardly to ask if her heart had veered so far in the opposite direction that she now wanted me gone with all the rest of my kind. And I feared her silence was reluctance to ask it of me.
“Do you have everything you need for your spell to do it tonight?” I asked, needing the moment to end. “One way or another, I need to leave at first light.”
“Gran was gathering what we needed,” she said, getting to her feet and wiping her face with a sleeve. “She should be done by now.”
Cécile started back to camp, and I knew I needed to say it now. “Cécile–”
She stopped in her tracks.
“Given the choice between one lifetime spent with you or a thousand without, I will always choose you.” I took a deep breath. “That is, if you still want me.”
She didn’t turn, kept her back to me and didn’t answer. But this was what made the bond between us worth every risk – she didn’t need to say anything at all. Slowly, she stretched her arm back, palm open, and I took it.
Chapter Forty-Six
Cécile
“Do you smell that?” I asked as we approached the camp.
Tristan sniffed. “Smells like outside.”
“Like summer,” I said, hurrying my step. And then stopped dead.
The camp we’d left behind had been all snow and mud, but now it was a lush oasis of greenery. Grass as high as my knee carpeted the ground, bushes were thick with leaves, and wildflowers painted the clearing in a myriad of colors.
We approached Gran and Chris, who stood near a bunch of lavender flowers.
“Always such a fondness for pretty things, Christophe,” Tristan said. “Were you planning to leave some on my pillow?”
“What I planned to leave on your pillow didn’t smell half so nice.”
Ignoring their banter, Gran took hold of my arm. “Whole clearing took to bloom after you two scampered off to have your spat.” She jerked her chin at the flower. “Lobelia.”
“That’s certainly no coincidence.” I plucked one of the blossoms. “Shall we?”
* * *
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I asked Martin, tucking the blanket around him. “It will not be pleasant.”
“Can’t be any worse than what he did to me.” We’d brought him out of the tent and laid him on the grass, but his eyes had been on the Duke the whole time.
“Stay back,” I said to Tristan and Chris. “The last thing we need is you getting caught up in this.” Victoria stood a little further on, Vincent sitting on the ground at her feet, fingers plucking at the grass, and I waited for her nod before I turned back to Martin and my grandmother.
It took a bit of time to create the potion, Gran murmuring instructions as I worked, but when it was finished, I wished it had taken longer. If it didn’t work, not only would I be back to square one, who knew what state Martin would be in?
I started pouring the basin of liquid at his forehead, moving slowly down his body, until I reached the stumps of his legs. The potion sat suspended in a gleaming line, trembling with each of his nervous breaths. Picking up the cast-iron pan, I touched fingers to either side of the liquid on his forehead, and murmured the incantation. The potion spilled in two sheets to either side, flowing like twin waterfalls. At first, it seemed as though nothing was happening, that it was nothing more than an interesting trick to entertain the eye. Then all at once, gravity seemed to double in strength, dragging me down.
And Martin began to scream.
The potion turned pink, then bright red as the spell tore apart his skin, his eyes, his insides, rending him as it took back what belonged to the earth.
Tears streamed down my face. I wanted to stop. Needed to stop. But it was too late. The potion thickened into a metallic slurry that pooled on the ground.
Then it was done.
The twin waterfalls ceased their flow, and I changed my focus, catching hold of his magic and bending it to my will, forcing it to heal him. The gruesome carnage faded, but his chest was still.
“Come on, Martin,” I screamed, slamming my hands down on his chest. “Breathe!” My fists struck him again, then again, but as I flung them down the fourth time, instead of hitting flesh, they sank along with his clothing into earth beneath him.
“Stones and sky!” I jerked my arms back so hard I toppled onto my bottom, watching as his misty figure drifted and swirled, then finally coalesced into the librarian I knew and loved.
He blinked at me.
“Martin?” I bent closer. “Can you hear me? Are you all right? How do you feel?”
His lips p
arted and his eyes shifted back and forth. “There are no words for this, Cécile. Not in any language.”
It was only then that I realized he was whole once more. “You are as you imagine yourself to be,” I breathed, so painfully happy that I’d fixed my friend that it took me a moment to realize I felt no relief of my promise. Martin was free from iron and fey once more, but there was something more that needed to be done. Something that I’d missed.
“Tristan,” I said, turning. “I think I…” But the words died on my lips, because I found myself face to face not with Tristan, but with Victoria. And before she even spoke, I knew what she would ask.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Tristan
“You fixed him,” Victoria said to Cécile, her voice strange and breathy. Desperate. “You made him better.”
I knew where this was going, and judging from the look on Cécile’s face, so did she.
“Victoria, no,” I said, catching hold of her arm to draw her back.
In a blur of fury, she spun, her fist connecting with my face in a burst of pain. She’d hit me. I touched my lip, then looked at the blood on my fingers, trying to understand how we’d gotten to this point. How instead of untrussing Angoulême and dealing with him, I was fighting with my closest friends.
“It’s not up to you, Tristan. Not this time.”
“Can we please discuss this rationally,” I said as Cécile crept away on her hands and knees. But before she got more than a few paces, magic lashed around her leg, jerking her back. Her grandmother grabbed her hands, but Cécile brushed her away. “Go,” she said. “Get out of the way.” And when the old woman didn’t listen, to Martin: “Take her.”
His brows furrowed, then his misty form solidified. Snatching up the fragile woman, he bolted for the trees. Chris remained, crouched low to the earth, pistol in hand. He was no more likely to leave with Cécile in danger than I was.
“Let her go.” I circled, trying to get closer to Cécile, but Victoria pivoted, keeping between us. I didn’t want to believe she’d hurt her, but Victoria was mad with grief, and that made anyone unpredictable.
“You owe me this,” she said. “You owe Vincent. Let Cécile fix him.”
“She can’t. Not yet.”
“Why?”
Against my will, my eyes flicked to Cécile then back. “You damn well know why not.”
Victoria laughed, and the sound of it made me cringe with its unfamiliarity. Not only had Angoulême stolen Vincent from us, he’d taken Victoria, too. Destroyed her spark, her humor, her spirit, and left a bitter angry girl in his wake. “Because you still have a use for us? Because you don’t want to give up any of your tools?”
“Don’t,” I snarled, remembering how Lessa had lobbed the very same insult at me when I still believed she was Anaïs. “You bloody well know how much he means to me. His loss hurts more than just you.”
“He’s not lost,” she shrieked, and Cécile winced, clutching at the magic wrapped around her ankle. But she caught my eye and shook her head. I’m fine. Which was all well and good until Victoria lost her temper and accidentally snapped her leg in two.
“How can you say that?” I couldn’t keep the edge from my voice. “I’ve looked in his eyes, Victoria. He’s not there!”
“You don’t know that.”
“But what if I’m right?” I demanded. “What if Cécile strips away the iron and his mortal form and there’s nothing left? Think of what that will that do to you.” I couldn’t lose her, too.
“Think of what this is doing to me!”
“At least you’re alive,” I said, putting voice to my thoughts. “Be grateful for that.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The grass smoldered and burst into flame, and the magic holding Cécile whipped her body through the air like a rag doll.
“You’re hurting her,” I shouted, slicing through the rope holding Cécile even as my magic rose to counter Victoria’s attack. Our powers collided with a thunderclap, snow falling from trees for miles as the ground shuddered. But I’d used too much power – far more than I’d intended – and Victoria was launched through the air, landing heavily on her back on the far side of the clearing.
Cécile landed on the ground, the grass not doing as much as I’d hoped to cushion her fall, but already she was rolling to her feet, shouting at me to leave Victoria alone.
Victoria was struggling against my power, her voice a maelstrom of blistering oaths. “Enough,” I shouted at her, furious that she was making me do this. “If you have any loyalty left in you, you will stand down.”
But my words were drowned out by a roar, and something slammed into me, knocking me from my feet. Fists pummeled my face as we rolled into the trees, but I didn’t fight back, because it was Vincent. Vincent, who had come to the aid of his sister.
Victoria had scrambled to her feet and in a swift motion caught hold of her brother’s arms. The roaring ceased, his broad shoulders heaving with each breath he took. And although his eyes were still blank, for the first time, I had hope.
“This is something,” I said to Victoria. “You were right – he’s still with us.”
“Forgive me,” she whispered. “I was disloyal.”
I shook my head. “You’ve never been disloyal a day in your life. I know Vincent comes first for you, just as you do for him. If what you really want is for the spell to be performed on him now, I won’t stand in your way.” My eyes tracked to Cécile, who was chewing her bottom lip.
“The spell’s not complete,” she said. “There’s more to it, but I don’t know what.”
“She’s right.” Martin had returned, his form shifting from transparent to opaque, the effect dizzying. “I’ve read enough to know that I should sense Arcadia, but I don’t. Changed as I am, I’m not sure I could go back.”
“But you’re still whole,” I said. “Which makes it more than a partial victory.” I turned back to Victoria, who was holding tight to her brother’s hand. “What do you want to do?”
“We’ll see this through,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “The spell will wait.”
That was loyalty, pure and true. Where would I be without my friends? What would I be? And not just the twins and Marc, but Cécile, Chris, and Sabine. My nature was to be distrustful, but not with them. And it wasn’t a weakness.
Angoulême lay unmoving next to the fire where we’d left him, and I considered the state in which we’d found him. Alone and half mad, and not, I thought, from the solitude. It was the lack of control. He trusted no one. Not his mother, nor his followers, and certainly not Roland. The one exception seemed to be Lessa, whom he’d left to execute his plans. Only I didn’t believe for a second that he’d put his faith in my duplicitous sister without certain controls.
“He’s forced her into some sort of promise,” I muttered, knowing in my heart she wouldn’t have sworn to anything except under duress. Which, in its own way, would make him trust her less, because he’d know she’d be looking for ways to get out from under his control.
I was certain I’d rattled his confidence in her with the knowledge that she’d lied about Anaïs’s death, but what if we undermined it further? What would he do if he suspected she’d double-crossed him? What would he do if he thought she’d altered his plans?
“I’m glad of your decision,” I said to Victoria, my mind whirling. “I need you and your magic to take over Angoulême’s containment. And I need you to do a poor job of it.”
Victoria lifted one eyebrow. “Why is that?”
“Because I need you two to help me play a trick.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Cécile
“I don’t like this strategy,” I said, wrapping my arms around Tristan’s neck to steady my nerves. I was used to being on stage, but never before had lives depended on my performance. And we were trying to fool a master of duplicity. “I don’t trust Lessa – her only loyalty is to herself. Already she’s gone back on her word. They were supposed to remain in
Trollus.”
“I don’t trust her, either,” Tristan responded. “But we know she likes to play both sides until she’s certain who will land on top. Angoulême was a fool to believe she’d be content under his control. Lessa isn’t Roland.”
“No, she isn’t,” I said. “At least Roland cares for you in his strange fashion. Lessa only sees you as a means to an end. Once we’ve cured Roland, she’ll try to kill you. Or me. Again.”
“Likely,” he said, his voice cheerful. “But we don’t really have a choice. As long as Roland remains surrounded by humans, I can’t take him by force without risking casualties. And frankly, I’m not sure I could subdue him without killing him. Your spell took the iron from Martin and fixed him – I want that chance for Roland. And if we can cure his madness, then there’s nothing to stop us from killing Angoulême.”
My stomach clenched at his admission, scripted though it was. Just because he wanted to save Roland didn’t mean it was part of our plan.
“What if it’s a trap?” I asked, readying myself to lie. “What if she hasn’t given Roland the potion? What if we get there and I try to work the spell to cure him, and nothing happens. We’ll be caught in a battle in the middle of Courville.”
“It’s possible,” Tristan admitted. “But from her own lips, she doesn’t want Roland to be King.”
This was the crux of our plan: to create doubt in Angoulême’s mind of Lessa’s loyalty, but not certainty that she’d switched sides, because all he’d do then was have Roland kill her.
“You’re going to have to give up something,” I said. “She’s not going to let us near Roland without concessions, and we only have so much time before the potion passes through his system. And once it’s gone, we aren’t going to get another chance.”
Warrior Witch: Malediction Trilogy Book Three Page 25