Warrior Witch: Malediction Trilogy Book Three

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “Idiots don’t know the first thing about serving royalty,” Lessa muttered.

  “Perhaps you might instruct them, my lady,” Roland said. “Given your own expertise in the matter.” There was a sly edge to his voice that reminded me of his brother, but I shook away the thought.

  “He knows she isn’t Anaïs,” Marc murmured, and I nodded. Knew, and wasn’t entirely pleased about the deception.

  “Check them,” Angoulême said, his tone sour. Indeed, for one who, in his mind, had won a victory a lifetime in the making, he seemed of a poor temper.

  Roland glanced at Sabine, then turned back to the fire. “They are who they are. Human. No magic.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Roland slowly lifted his chin to meet the Duke’s gaze, and the hatred in his eyes was like nothing I’d ever seen. A wrath inhuman in its magnitude. “By all means, Your Grace, please check for yourself. Or perhaps have the lady check them, given she excels with disguises. Or at least thinks she does.” His eyes shifted to his half-sister, eyeing her up as though wondering how she’d look without her skin.

  Lessa licked her lips nervously, and shifted a few inches away. But Angoulême seemed unperturbed. “Do not test me, boy,” he snapped, jerking the tray from one of the women’s hands and slamming it on the ground.

  Noticeably trembling, Sabine approached Roland, and I took hold of Marc’s hand, squeezing it hard to keep my fear in check.

  “Your Majesty,” she whispered, dropping into another curtsey, then carefully setting the tray in front of him, her body obscuring Angoulême and Lessa’s view. Then she slowly lifted her face to meet his eyes and I held my breath. Please don’t hurt her.

  Roland’s head tilted ever so slightly, expression considering. Then his eyes flicked to the scrap of paper Sabine carefully dropped onto his tray.

  Please. Please.

  “Thank you,” he said, his smile revealing too many teeth to be comforting. Then magic plucked up the scrap, he glanced at the words, and it disappeared in a smokeless puff of flame. “It smells delightful.”

  Sabine curtseyed a third time, then retreated with the other women back to the distant cook fire. Roland watched her go, then began eating, showing no interest in divulging the existence or the contents of my note to his master. He finished his meal and rose to his feet. “Excuse me.”

  “Where are you going?” Angoulême demanded.

  Roland stopped in his tracks, and even from the distance where we watched, I felt the ground tremble. “You’ve made it quite clear, Your Grace, that I’m responsible for dirtying my hands for you, but I did not realize that you intended to reciprocate.”

  Marc snorted out a laugh. “Madness aside, he’s got a Montigny tongue on him.”

  Angoulême scowled. “Don’t be long.”

  “That’s hard to predict,” Roland replied, strolling off into the woods.

  “You pushed him too hard,” Lessa hissed once he was out of earshot. “He hates you. And you heard him – he knows who I am.”

  “What of it?” The Duke broke the roll on his plate into tiny pieces, eating none of them. “He is under my control and no threat to you or me.”

  “Is he?” Lessa shoved aside her untouched tray. “If he looks hard enough, he’ll find a way around your commands. Around his promises. There is always a way around.”

  “Speaking from experience?”

  Lessa recoiled, then leaned forward, catching at the Duke’s sleeve. “My family cast me aside,” she whispered. “Yours took me in. Gave me everything and taught me everything. Do not let Tristan and Cécile’s lies turn you against me – you know I’m loyal. And they’re dead.” She reached up to touch his cheek and he slapped her hand away violently.

  “Not while you’re wearing her face.”

  Lowering her arm, Lessa glanced around, then let Anaïs’s face melt away to reveal her own. “Anaïs was loyal to Tristan, not to you,” she said. “I killed her because she was a traitor.”

  “You killed her to further your own ends,” Angoulême snarled. “Anaïs was my child, and you slaughtered her. Then you lied to me about it.” He leaned closer. “Lied like a cursed human.”

  Lessa crouched in on herself, realizing, I thought, that she’d made a mistake in killing Anaïs. That Angoulême had cared more for his daughter than he’d let on, and that it was only his unwillingness to disrupt his plans that kept him from having his revenge. But that might not always be the case.

  “I’ll give you another,” she said. “And once our child is strong enough to hold the throne, we can be rid of Roland.”

  Angoulême’s anger fell away, and he stroked a finger down her cheek. “I can’t help but admire your ambition, darling. Your willingness to see your entire family dead in your pursuit of the crown.” He leaned forward and whispered something in her ear, her face growing still. Then he sat back. “You promised to love me. Remember that.”

  “I love you,” Lessa whispered. “I always have.”

  “His cruelty really does know no bounds,” Marc murmured, and I moved away from the portal, unwilling to watch any more of this abuse. Never would I have thought to have cause to feel sympathy for Lessa, but to be forced to love that monster? I sighed.

  Then Martin spoke. “Roland’s gone some distance from the camp. He’s waiting.”

  “You ready for this, Cécile?” Marc asked.

  My pulse was loud in my ears, my ice-cold hands drenched with sweat, but I nodded at Martin and the world tore open to reveal the monster with whom I needed to form an alliance.

  Hissing in surprise, Roland leapt back and swiped at the tear, but his magic passed through it as though the opening wasn’t there.

  “This is fey magic,” I said to him. “You cannot attack it.”

  The violence fell away from him, and he tried again to pluck at the edges of the tear before giving up and acknowledging me. “Why aren’t you dead?”

  “It’s not for lack of your master trying,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “I am King,” Roland replied, his face twisting. “I have no…” His throat choked off the lie, and I could all but feel his fury. “What is it you want, human?”

  “Revenge.” I hesitated, terrified of saying something that would trigger one of the traps the Duke had placed in the boy’s mind. “Angoulême has taken everything from me, just as he has taken everything from you.”

  “He gave me the crown, just as he said he would.”

  “Has he?” I asked, then before he could respond, “For your brother’s sake, will you hear me out?”

  “Tristan cares not what I do.” Roland said, eyes going to his boots. “He’s dead.”

  It was no answer, but I knew I had him – that he’d listen. “I know the Duke forced you to kill your parents and your aunt,” I said. “And to… attack your brother.” I bit the insides of my cheeks. “He has your name and he controls what you do.”

  The barest hint of a nod.

  “How can you truly be king if you are controlled by another?” I asked. “He is only using you for your power, Roland. To eliminate any who are strong enough to contest him.”

  Silence.

  “You know that is Lessa pretending to be Anaïs? That he betrothed you to his lover who is also your half-sister, and if that were not awful enough, he intends to cuckold you and pretend the child is yours. And when that child is strong enough to hold the throne, he intends to kill you and your sister so that there are no Montignys left. So that there are none alive more powerful than him.”

  “What is it you would have me do?” Roland’s voice was acidic. “As you say, he is the one in control.”

  I lifted my chin, forcing myself to hold his gaze. It was like staring into the eyes of a viper. “So you would live the rest of your life under his thumb, as his puppet, until he decides to do you in?”

  Roland’s jaw tightened.

  “What if there was another way?” I asked, before his temper snapped. “What if we could make it so that
he could no longer use you as his weapon?”

  “How?”

  I swiftly explained to him how my spell worked. “You would be immortal,” I said. “Your powers would be the same as your great ancestor, the King of Summer, and you’d be able to travel to worlds beyond counting.”

  For all he was mad, Roland wasn’t stupid. I didn’t dare mention that if he went through with our scheme, that Angoulême wouldn’t last long in the land of the living: Marc was certain the Duke would have set triggers in the boy’s mind to attack anyone who threatened his master. I didn’t have to say anything – Roland knew as well as anyone that Angoulême had many enemies who would take advantage of his vulnerability.

  “If I did this, I’d be king of nothing,” he eventually said.

  My hands shook as I debated my response, then I crossed my fingers and said, “You’re already king of nothing. Angoulême rules. But you can take that away from him, if you want.”

  “How do I know this isn’t a trick,” he said. “How do I know you aren’t lying, and that this isn’t an elaborate scheme to try to kill me?”

  I nodded at Martin, who stepped through the tear. “She’s telling the truth, Your Majesty,” the librarian said. “Cécile took the iron from me, and now I can travel back to Arcadia. She will do the same for you, if you wish it.”

  “Why?” Roland demanded of me. “I’ve harmed you. Killed your kind. And I…” His throat convulsed. “I killed my brother, to whom you were bonded.”

  “And I hate you for it,” I said. “But you are Tristan’s brother, and he loved you for all your faults. For him, I will do this.”

  Roland stared at me for a long time, seeing but not, and then he nodded. “Come meet me here and do the spell now, he will notice if I am gone for much longer. Come alone, and Cécile…”

  “Yes?” I was so afraid. So terribly afraid.

  “Mind your words. If you say the wrong thing, it will not go well for you.”

  * * *

  Following Martin’s directions, I walked on silent feet through the darkened woods, my body twitching at every rustle in the blackness. Marc was watching, but he couldn’t come close for fear of Roland sensing him, his primary goal to prevent Angoulême or Lessa coming upon us mid-spell. Martin had gone to update the twins, and they were to retreat if they could and engage with Angoulême’s camp when the rest of his followers arrived.

  “Breathe,” I told myself. “Just breathe.”

  Then magic had me by the hair and I was hurtling through the trees, branches lashing at my body as I passed. I tried to scream, but my jaw was locked shut, invisible rope twisting around my wrists and ankles. I landed heavily in a pile of snow, then small hands were on me, ripping through my pockets and tearing at my clothes before shoving me aside to inspect my bag.

  Roland appeared in my line of sight, and smiled. “Can’t be too careful – I know all about your spells.”

  My jaw was released from his grip, and I whimpered, curling in on myself.

  “Did that hurt?” His breath was hot on my ear.

  “Yes.”

  He laughed softly, then sat cross-legged next to me. “Good. Now get up and get started. If he comes, I won’t be able to stop him from killing you. He made me promise to leave you to him, if we found you alive.”

  I pushed up onto my hands and knees, extracting the flask containing my premixed potion. His eyes tracked my every move. “If this doesn’t work, I won’t be happy,” he warned.

  “It will work.” I swallowed hard. “If you would remove your coat and shirt and lay on the ground, Your Majesty. ”

  He obliged, the snow immediately melting to form a pool around his overheated skin.

  “It will be painful,” I warned.

  “I don’t feel pain,” he said, then his eyes flicked to me. “I feel nothing.”

  “Then let’s begin.” I poured the potion, and drew upon all the power the world had to offer.

  Chapter Sixty

  Tristan

  I drifted just outside the threshold of consciousness, aware. But not.

  It was cold. I was cold. Numb.

  Bodies jostled against me, dead limbs clutching and grabbing. Faces full of accusation. They dragged me deeper and deeper until I couldn’t breathe. The weight of a thousand corpses, a thousand victims, pressing down on my chest.

  Get off, I screamed at them. I tried. Did everything I could.

  The dead do not listen. The dead cannot hear.

  I reached for the flame that was my magic, clawed at it with desperate fingers. But instead of burning bright, it guttered. Faltered. Blackness tugged me away from consciousness, further and further until it was only a distant gleam. But something wouldn’t let me go.

  A sound, sharp and repetitious. Familiar.

  “Tristan!” A voice I knew well. “Don’t you dare be dead, you stupid pretty-faced troll!”

  Then the weight was pushed off my chest, the bodies shoved away, and hands, warm with the heat of life, were pulling me out of the cold.

  I opened my eyes.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Cécile

  Roland opened his eyes and sat up, staring at one misty hand as though he couldn’t believe it was his own.

  “Roland,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  His form solidified, and I eased back, ready to run if I had to. Just because he couldn’t harm me with magic any longer didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of ripping out my throat. “Roland?” I repeated.

  He lifted his head, and I sensed in the moment that his eyes met mine that his madness was gone. That in removing the iron from his body, I’d stripped away the poison twisting his mind. “I’m sorry it hurt,” I said, gently touching his hand.

  He flinched, and I wondered how long it had been since someone had comforted him, if they ever had. If he had even wanted it. Then warm fingers clutched at mine, his chin trembled, and I knew the pain of the spell was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. How much terror had he caused in his young life? How many had died at his hands? His parents and his aunt, and, in his mind, his brother. Worse, how much emotional neglect had he suffered at Angoulême’s hands? His iron madness had been what drove him to commit all those atrocities, but now it was gone. And he was going to have to find a way to live with what he’d done.

  A sob racked through his shoulders, and in a movement almost too fast to see, he curled up in a little ball, my fingers clutched painfully tight in one of his hands. In the same moment, I felt Tristan regain consciousness and relief thundered through my heart.

  “Roland, Tristan’s alive,” I said. “He’s all right.”

  He went still, then peered up at me with hope. Then his gaze flicked over my shoulder, and in a blur of speed, he slammed into me, knocking me flat on my back. I struggled against him, convinced that I’d been wrong about his madness being gone, when a wave of heat washed over our heads.

  “You little human bitch,” Angoulême snarled. “What have you done?”

  “Cured him,” I shouted, allowing Roland to pull me to my feet. He stepped between me and the Duke, and I wondered if he knew his powers had changed. “Good luck using him now, you abusive coward.”

  “Cured him?” The Duke’s hands were balled into fists as he stalked toward us. “Cured him? You’ve ruined him – now he is nothing. He is worth nothing!”

  Roland flinched, but stood his ground.

  “Feeling brave, are we, you miserable little wretch?” Angoulême lifted a hand, face twisted with fury. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

  The air filled with fire, but instead of incinerating us, it blasted around a shield of magic. Marc stepped into the clearing. “It’s over, Angoulême,” he said. “Surrender.”

  The Duke spat in the dirt at Marc’s feet. “We’ve been through this before, you broken fool. You can’t defeat me.”

  “Perhaps it’s time we put that to the test.”

  Angoulême laughed. “Kill her, boy.”

  Roland st
iffened. Slowly, he turned to face me, and I saw tears were running down his face. “I’m sorry, Cécile,” he said. “I must obey.” Then he lunged.

  Stars burst in my eyes even as I heard explosions punctuating the air as Angoulême and Marc fought. Magic ripped Roland off me, tossing him into some bushes, but he was back in a flash, body turning to mist as he ran through Marc’s defenses, solidifying just before he struck. I rolled, his fists striking the earth where my head had been seconds before.

  But he was on me in an instant, fingers clawing and bruising my legs as he clamored up my body, reaching for my throat. Then Martin appeared out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around Roland’s waist, and pulling him off me. Prying open the boy’s lips, he emptied a handful of gleaming blue liquid into Roland’s mouth and let go of him. Roland stood gaping at him for a heartbeat, then a tear opened in the world and Martin stepped through, dragging the troll prince with him.

  But I wasn’t out of danger yet.

  Angoulême and Marc battled on, magic flaring bright with concussive blasts that made my ears ring. Swaths of trees were leveled while others were reduced to a smoking ruin. And beyond, I could see the twins had brought the battle to the camp to keep Angoulême’s people from helping their master. Ignoring the aching pain of my body, I rolled behind a boulder, keeping my head down as I watched.

  For all of the Duke’s bluster, it seemed an even match, both dripping sweat as they dodged and attacked. But like Pénélope, Angoulême had spent his life avoiding any chance of injury, and that sedentarism had come with a cost. His breath came in great winded gasps, and he began to trip and stumble as he dodged Marc’s blows.

  “Come on,” I whispered. “Come on.”

  Then he fell, landing on his side in the mess of blood the spell on Roland had left behind. He struggled backwards, barely deflecting Marc’s next attack.

  “There’s a long list of people who wanted this honor,” Marc said, pulling out a sword. “I hope they forgive me for taking it myself.”