Marceline closed the space between herself and the herald. She ran at him—eyes narrowed.
He produced a two sided dagger. He jabbed it upward as she approached. It pierced her right side, slicing through skin and muscle.
Marceline flinched—ignored the pain ripping through her—aimed for the herald's neck and missed. The stiletto charged through the herald's mouth. Exited through the back of his throat.
He thumped to the floor.
Marceline dislodged her stiletto, holding her side.
There wasn't too much blood.
Lucius Changed. Human again, he flopped to the floor, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Marceline snatched soiled clothing from the herald's corpse and threw it to Lucius. He slipped on a bloodied chemise and shoved himself up. Limped his way into Ghyslain's bedroom. Marceline and Gerard followed.
Silence pierced the air.
“Merde.” Lucius cursed. “Gone—just like that.”
Ghyslain's lavish bedroom was empty. A window sat open, the tall pane creaking as it was battered by the wind.
Upon a puffy bed of lavender and rose silk, Marceline found a note.
“'The decree was my own. He knew too much.'” she read aloud, the tiny slip of parchment thin between her hands, “'Payment will continue. Take my family. Leave.'”
From the doorway, Gerard moaned, “Well...fuck.”
THIRTEEN
Reine
The wagon rocked her like an obsessive nursemaid. Hay clung to her, poked through her outer garments and scratched at her skin as the wagon swayed and jerked.
The way forward was drowned in a gentle rain. A dirt road churned with muck and rocky debris. Overhead, rain battered the cloth roof of the wagon. Tap, tap, tapping.
Reine rubbed her ruddy eyes. They burned. Her lids were heavy.
The tapping stole her sleep. The guilt, the worry—the looming white walls of Safrana's western citadel progressing farther down the road every time she peeked out from the wagon's interior—it riddled her soul. It pained her.
Why did they have to leave?
Under the cover of darkness, no less. With the sun barely breaching the horizon, those agents—one she had never met, and one she did not like; along with Marceline, forced herself and Florette to run. To flee like skittering vermin. Like dogs with their tails between their legs.
Did father...truly kill Loris Couture?
Rumors buzzed that he was the slayer—but Reine...couldn't believe that.
She had seen the slayer—with her own eyes, she had seen him.
And it couldn't—it could not be Ghyslain.
Nevertheless, she was informed that he had disappeared. And, that if she valued her life, she should disappear as well.
So, here she sat. In a wagon bound for home.
The Roselet Estate—her childhood home.
Reine rubbed her eyes once more. Pulling back the black thatch at the wagon's rear, she looked up to a bleeding sky. Peering down the road, she gazed upon the fading white walls of the western citadel.
Her home.
The chateau's pearly spires shot up like a blaze of white light. It sat in the heart of the western citadel, amidst the pastel colored buildings and waving tapestries weaving through the city streets, the Victoire Chateau sat as a beacon.
It was all she knew.
To Reine, it was a beacon of hope.
Now, she waved goodbye. Perhaps she'd never return.
And where was her father in her hour of need? Where was her mother?
Ghyslain—left of his own accord.
Her mother—leagues deep in the dirt.
Though, the Roselet still stood. And she still possessed a stepmother.
Both Reine and Florette did. And it was to her that the agents were taking them. To her—back to the Roselet Estates.
And once again, Reine would be nobody to everyone. Once again, she would not matter.
I don't want to go back.
From her right, Florette curled up upon the straw. She hid her lavender skirts beneath a black cloak lined with ermine. Beneath her curled up feet, slouched the agent Reine did not like. The one sworn to her father—Lucius, she believed his name was.
She did not like the bitter taste his name left in her mouth, nor her mind.
Marceline and the agent Reine did not know rode in the front, guiding the horses who pulled them.
Pulling the black thatch open once more, Reine slipped out of the wagon.
Her slippers slapped muck. Rain pelted her head.
The rain was gentle, kind even.
Bowing grass surrounded the dirt road they traveled down. Verdant and paling yellow blades shivered, moving like a sea beneath a rainy splash of wind.
Reine ventured up to the front of the wagon. She rubbed her eyes once more.
“I want to stop.” she said, keeping pace with the slow movement of the horses. “I need to,” she wrung her hands, “...you know...”
Marceline crouched in the rider's seat. She cringed, her face parchment white as she held the horses reigns in one hand and her aching side with the other, “Wait.” she stated bluntly, “We aren't out of the woods yet.”
Reine threw up her hands, “There are no woods for miles!”
Marceline's jaw tightened as she set it. She would say no more. Shivering in the seat, she stared ahead blankly.
The silver-haired agent seated beside Marceline leaned over. Kind eyes met Reine's before they scanned Marceline's form. Gently, he slid the horses' reigns from her clenched grip, “You're bleeding through the bandages again, Marcy.”
Reine looked on. Marceline peeled her hand from her side and brought it up. Scarlet stained it.
“We can stop. I'll redress your wound and we'll be off again—,” he snapped his fingers, the brown mares guiding the wagon whinnied weakly, “just like that.”
“They'll...” she brought her hand back to her side. She hunched over, hugging herself, “...fine.” she grunted feebly, her forehead touching her lap, “Be quick, then.”
Steering the horses towards the side of the dirt road, Reine followed until the silver-haired agent brought them to a soft stop.
A heavy gray hung over them as if night had come again.
Thorny bushes hung over the roadside and Reine tore through them. Branches snagged on her gown, ripped at her cloak, and forced her cowl down over her head.
She kept going—ignoring the bushes and their callous branches. She kept going until she hit wild grass.
Green and yellow blades swallowed her. Grass pressed on her chest as if she were braving a stagnant ocean. If she ventured far enough—peeled back the grass blades low enough—she could see the white walls of the western citadel. She could see the blazing spires of the Victoire Chateau.
She could see it all—her home. The place where she mattered.
Her heart raced. It became a drumbeat in her ears.
Reine bit her bottom lip.
From far away, she could hear the silver-haired agent's husky voice. He spoke to Marceline, whose only reply was icy silence.
They wouldn't know she was gone until she was halfway back to the chateau.
She could do it—she could run.
What did Ghyslain know? Demanding that she go back home—what did Ghyslain know of her own ability to protect herself?
Already, she had an offer of peace from Madam Couture. In the chapel, the woman had offered her allegiance—she had offered a way into their family.
But Reine had decided to think on it—and then Marceline had suddenly disappeared...along with Madam Couture's guards.
Back then—she had seen it as strange. The women aligned with Madam Couture disappearing. Marceline dangling from a window—falling only for Reine to catch hold of her hair.
It had all been very strange. Yet, enticing.
What did Madam Couture hope to gain in welcoming Reine Savatier into their family? What did she hope to do to Safrana? Who did she hope to seat upon the glass t
hrone?
Obviously, their eldest son, Loris Couture. Who was...dead now. Apparently, by her father's hand.
Now that she was so far—so close to going home and being nobody...Reine wanted to go back and accept Madam Couture's offer—strange or not. She wanted to be somebody—to stay as the court's Odette.
She had worked so hard...given up so much to be dubbed as such.
Now, here she was—turning away from it all because her father says she must.
But—Ghyslain isn't here.
Reine listened for voices. She heard Marceline's sigh. The wind cradled it.
Who says she has to listen to him? Go back and be nobody? Go back and give everything—everything she'd worked so hard for—up?
Safrana needs an Odette as much as it needs a leader.
Safrana needs me.
Picking up her skirts, Reine dove through the wild grasses. Heaving and huffing—she kept her gaze glued to the high walls of the western citadel. Her eyes climbed the high spires of the Victoire Chateau. In her mind, she walked the eastern ramparts and looked to the gray skies above.
She loved the rain. Loved the smell of it before it fell.
I can do it—I can go back. The Roselet isn't my home—the chateau is! That is where I belong!
Sweat broke upon her brow as she continued, sprinting with her skirts in her hands. High grass bowing for her as the courtiers often did during a dance.
Everyone wanted her affection—everyone, everyone!
She couldn't go back to being a nobody.
Reine slapped her hands to her knees. Fought to catch her breath.
As the grass around her shivered. Blades shifting.
Clutching her skirts once more, she ran.
Grass broke behind her—around her. Something growled—low and guttural.
An animal snorted hungrily. Two...three.
A dog's head sprouted from the grass before her. Speckled gray fur was matted with reddish-brown ooze. Yellow canines were crooked. Almond eyes were black.
Reine stepped back. Tripped and shifted her weight to her other leg.
The creature was too large to be a dog. Its head came to her shoulders. The creature opened its long mouth and belched rotting air. It smelt of decay and death.
The grass surrounding her shivered.
As Reine backed away and turned—the animal on her heels as she swam through the high grass.
Another head poked through. Stopped her. Grunted as it prowled upon her, moving forward with a slow saunter.
More grunting—feverish snorting.
Within moments, four beasts surrounded her. They wove through the grass, revealing themselves to her only to prowl away and disappear. Their presences remaining—the acrid stink of them.
Reine fell to hands and knees. Slapping her hands over her head, she pressed her face into the dirt.
Tears stung her skin. She trembled.
The Odette...dead in a field...eaten alive by rabid beasts...
Reine held her breath as something crunched through the grass before her. She heard voices—human—screaming. A male's voice.
A ravenous warcry pierced the air before her. It made the beasts stiffen and back off. A hand touched her shoulder. Something warm fluttered over her.
Reine looked up.
Marceline's tired eyes snapped to her, before moving to the beasts. In her hand, she held a burning stick of wood.
“Get!” she screamed.
The beasts prowled backward.
Blood mottled Marceline's side. She winced as she offered Reine a hand.
She took it.
They took off, sprinting for the safety of the open road.
Behind them, the beasts snarled and barked. They jumped—propelling themselves towards Reine and Marceline. They held onto pieces of their garments with crooked yellow teeth and yanked.
Marceline forced Reine to keep up as she sprinted, the dried blood on her side becoming wet.
With a harsh snarl—teeth connected with Marceline's arm. The torch slipped in her grasp—Marceline gawked. Screeched—but kept going. Three more bit at her—attempted to slow her down. The torch fell from her hand.
They smelt blood. Reine could taste it in the air.
Marceline roared as she charged for the caravan—dragging Reine along as her side bled.
They escaped the grass. The beasts.
The fallen torch stopped the rabid dogs. Lit a patch of grass on fire before growing. Becoming orange wildfire.
Smoke swirled towards the sky.
Reine slapped her hands to her knees. Heaved a breath in. Out.
She looked to Marceline, her eyes wet, “I want to go back,” she pleaded. Dropping her face into her hands, she whimpered, “Please...take me back. I am nothing...nothing...!”
Marceline met her eye. Grimaced at the tears that fell, dropping to the dirt like rain.
Shaking her head, Marceline walked off. Trudging towards the front of the wagon.
Reine stood, shriveled. Her shoulders wracked as she sobbed. Lightly, she wailed.
Hanging her head, she climbed back into the wagon.
“Dammit, Marcy!” she heard the silver-haired agent curse, “Don't go running off like that again! In your state you could've—,” the man grunted as Marceline whispered.
Reine sobbed—drowning Marceline's voice out.
“—I know she's your charge—”
“Then, shush—,”
“—don't you understand, you leanwit?! You could've died out there!”
Silence. Reine sat near the wagon's exit, holding herself. Sobbing.
She had been close. So close.
And now, she would be nothing. Nobody. Just another Savatier girl.
The wagon jerked forward. Horses whinnied.
They continued on.
REINE OPENED HER EYES to a sun hanging high in the sky, its blurred rays breaking through the black thatch of the wagon.
Opposite her, Lucius still slouched. Snoring silently. To her right, a collection of brown blankets shivered.
Florette was gone. Outside, Reine could hear her silvery tinkle of laughter. Happy chatter broke through the gloom and monotony as she and the agent outside spoke.
For a moment, warmth blossomed within her chest. Hope.
Until her gaze fell upon the shivering blankets once more.
She crawled through the hay and approached it. Peeled an itchy corner back and looked upon Marceline's pale face.
Somehow, her skin had become more languid. Corpse-like almost.
Her garments were stained a ruddy brown and bright red. She still bled from her side. The wound upon her arm oozed brown slime.
The agent shivered as if she were naked in a snowstorm. Hail pelting her. Ice slicing her skin.
She wouldn't open her eyes. Her mouth twitched.
Reine shrugged off her dark cloak and draped it over Marceline's small frame. She threw off her overdress of thick silk and pressed it around the agent's shoulders as well.
Placing her back against the jerky wall of the wagon, Reine brought her hands into her lap as she watched Marceline tremble.
“I have never known a woman more dutiful, more loyal, to anyone but themselves and their house...” Reine sighed, lowered her head and shook it, “...though your loyalty comes at a price—you are the most dutiful person I have ever met.” Reine pressed her hands together, flattening them. She brought her fingertips to her nose, “I am so sorry you became involved in all of this—in our family. I am sorry you ever swore your life to my own. Thank you,” she whispered, “for all that you've done...”
Beneath the blankets, Marceline gurgled her response. Twisting and twitching as if she was crawling away from something. Frightened. Feverish and drenched in sweat.
From Reine's left, Lucius chuckled, “Don't thank her.” he snapped bitterly, “Don't thank any of us.” he turned away from her, shaking his head, “If someone wanted you dead for double the price your father pays to keep you protected,
you can bet we'd be on the opposite side of all this.” Lucius slipped her a sidelong glance. Smirked, “She isn't your friend and confidant. None of us are. She's only doing her duty.”
Reine kept her gaze down, “You're all only human—,”
Lucius snorted, tossing long black locks from his face.
“—and though the people say we are born cruel, I believe we die good. Surrounded by those we loved. Beloved by those we've created and those we’ve helped.” Reine pursed her lips as she took in Lucius's hunched form, “Be bitter all you like. But you're only human. Though coin may change the tides of friendships, make enemies and fair-weather kin; in the end—when everything is taken and we are simply our raw selves—,” she jabbed a thumb into her chest, “we have a desire to do good. To help each other. No matter the cost.”
“Naivety,” Lucius spat, staring at the wagon's black exit, “will not take you far in this life.”
“Neither will bitterness. Nor, hatred.”
“You are a sheltered thing.”
“And you are a snake!”
Reine jerked forward as the wagon halted abruptly.
Their conversation stopped. Outside, Florette's laughter ceased.
“Your papers?” Reine heard. The voice was authoritative. Uppity.
“Papers?” Florette repeated, laughter shadowing her voice, “I'm afraid we have none.”
Reine pressed her lips together. Who could be stopping them?
“Where are you headed?”
“Roselets.” snapped the silver-haired agent.
“Not Danae?”
“Non.”
“We'll have to check your wagon.”
“Fugitive got out of the citadels. Some murderer—,”
“Tis only protocol, sir.”
“We can't—we can't let you do that!” Florette stuttered.
“And why not?”
They're border guards.
Florette should know how to deal with this!
Reine sighed heavily. Standing, she ripped the last of her skirts away to reveal puffy white undergarments and a chemise.
She was the Odette—she could trick them. Make them pay attention to her instead of the wagon.
Merde—Florette should know how to deal with them!
Was she purposefully acting clueless?
Blade and Soul Page 8