Mother was one of the strongest women he knew, and aside from the broken relationship with Father, perhaps Rielle would find her life an inspiration. Flawlessly running Maerleth Tainn and all the lesser holdings, supporting Father, raising the next generation of Marcels to be strong, intelligent, clever.
Blinded by the trials, Rielle didn’t see the appeal of that life now, but she enjoyed her time with him, and taking her place as the future duchess would only mean more time spent together, enjoying each other, taking care of their lands, their people, and someday soon, their own family. She’d come to realize it before they returned to Emaurria. He’d make certain of it.
He hopped in after her, taking the seat across from her, and looked her over as she rearranged her turquoise overcoat, hitting him with a breeze of her intoxicating scent, mingled gloriously with his. She smelled like him, thoroughly claimed, and wore his marks on her skin—the violet of his kiss on the side of her neck and, beneath her clothes, on her breasts and just above the crease of her thigh. And on her hips, the dawn-colored imprints of his hold in the heat of passion. It was just as well that she couldn’t heal them, since he would have forbidden it anyway. She’d given him her blood earlier, as she did monthly to help him control his Change, and he still had the taste of it on his tongue.
And on her finger, the ring of a Marcel bride—the future duchess. Any man, ignorant or doubtful, had only to look there to know to whom this beautiful, deadly woman belonged. In just a few short months, they’d be married—bound to one another in law.
And she wasn’t ready yet, but someday she’d be full with his heir, his woman in every way possible. Someday.
She crossed her legs and raised an eyebrow. “I’m no mind mage, but with that look on your face, even I can tell what your thoughts are.”
“And do they please you?”
A little smile. “You will.” Even as she held his gaze, boldly, irresistibly, she squirmed, straightening in her seat.
“That’s a given, bride.”
Her cheeks reddened as she grinned and looked away, out the carriage window at the rain pounding the grass. “How long before your family gets here?”
When he’d sent word to Mother about their trip to Magehold, she’d made some hasty new arrangements. Although they usually summered in Bellanzole, this year Mother, Nora, the boys, Una, and Caitlin would meet them here in Magehold at the mansion.
It seemed Father had extended his stay with Marie de Brignac in Courdeval, or gone on to Xir to see Kehani.
Although Father had always kept mistresses, as the years wore on, he did so with increasing openness, and Mother had always been a proud woman. Too proud to wilt in Maerleth Tainn alone while her husband openly chose his mistresses over her.
“A couple weeks,” he replied. “Mother had some business to handle before the voyage.”
She nodded. “Is there anything we can do for them? Maybe order this season’s gowns, or arrange for some entertainment—”
He could have laughed, but suppressed it. Only just. After the past few weeks of wild lovemaking on the ship, wearing the Marcel ring on her finger, having sent invitations to their wedding, she worried about their family accepting her? “It’ll be fine, Rielle.”
Her cheeks reddened. “I—I just want your family to… I want them to be…”
He leaned back, sprawling out on the seat. “You want them to like you.”
She looked away. “You say that like it’s ridiculous.”
It was. What did it matter whether she ordered gowns or entertainment? He’d brought her home. He’d preferred to take his conquests elsewhere, and here, he’d kept a room in a nearby inn—it was Silen, after all, with a beauty in sight every fifty feet—but Rielle was different. They knew she was different.
He leaned forward and rested a hand on her knee. “Trust me. You’re my bride, not just some woman.”
A fleeting smile, and she nodded. The Marcels rarely liked each other, but if the need arose, they killed for each other. He leaned back again.
Fidgeting in her lap, she watched out the window as the rain came down harder. “So you think they’ll eventually like me?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied, because he was marrying her regardless. “But I think they already do. And considering the trials, they’ll only be all the more impressed when you win.”
She rolled her eyes.
And as for him, he hadn’t exactly won over her brother, but her great-grandmother approved. That counted for something—to her, maybe. And he wouldn’t have to deal with her ship-captain brother for some time, praise the Great Wolf.
“I think the trials will involve combat.” Her voice dropped. “Has to be. ‘Victor’ means multiple candidates, and I don’t suppose they’d just grade exams against one another. Not when there’s a banquet and fanfare.”
It did no good to speculate when the Grand Divinus had clearly thrown tradition out the window; there was no way for Rielle to plan the trials. The only way she could prepare was to gather her confidence, calm her nerves, go into this knowing she had all the knowledge and skill she would need. “Whatever they are, you’ll beat them.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Magic is my life. Whatever’s coming, I’ll be ready.” She crossed her arms. “What about infiltrating the Archives?” she whispered, her gaze unfocused. Worried. “Are you sure you want to risk that? Do you think you’ll find the records we need?”
“Leave it to me,” he replied. “I want to do this.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she said softly.
“Being immune to magic helps. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. It’s the Divine Guard you want to save your sympathies for,” he said with a smile, and she mirrored his expression.
The answer to who’d killed her family was important, but after questioning Sincuore, he needed answers, too—that Rielle knew nothing about. And telling her would mean admitting Father’s treason, and his own role in covering it up. Someday, perhaps, but not yet. Not until they were married.
Had Father been working with the Grand Divinus? Why would she back him? What could have motivated the regicide, the siege, so much scheming?
And was Father in too deep to extricate the rest of the family? He wouldn’t let Mother, his sisters, or Rielle fall over Father’s all-consuming ambition. This had to end.
While Rielle participated in the trials, he’d work behind the scenes to break into the Archives. If he found proof of a conspiracy between the Grand Divinus and Father, he’d destroy it… and anyone else involved. For the family.
If he found evidence that the Grand Divinus had ordered the attack on Laurentine that had killed Rielle’s family, then she would have it. And use it to burn down the Divinity if she wanted to, with him at her side.
The rest of the way, she fell into a contemplative silence as the sky stormed, raindrops pattering the carriage’s roof, and they were at the Marcel mansion just before dark.
The grounds were well kept, and inside, the style was old-world Emaurrian, with touches of Sileni antiques and a purple palette of colors. Mother’s style, as expected.
Once the chamberlain showed them to quarters, Rielle immediately headed for the desk, hastily sitting down and scrambling about for writing supplies. No doubt writing a note to Magehold about her arrival.
With a relaxed exhalation, he approached her from behind, his hands finding her shoulders. He rubbed them gently at first, slowly increasing the pressure to sensual rhythm. The quill in her hand struggled at its task before abandoning it entirely. No more magic—nor all the distractions that went with it—tonight.
He untied her braid and glided a hand up her neck, his fingers threading through her hair to massage her head as he bent to her ear, nudged her tresses aside.
“We’ve arrived in time for the welcome banquet next week,” he whispered, then kissed her cheek. “They’ll know we’re here.”
“I just—” She moaned as he kissed down her neck.
> Worrying too much, again.
“Once I send this, it’ll be out of my head. But right now, it’s just—”
He locked his lips with hers, kissed her deeply, as his fingers unfastened her overcoat. “My bride,” he whispered against her lips, low and deep, “there are much better things to fill your head with.”
As she gasped, he claimed her mouth once more, and with needy arms, she reached for him. Only him.
Chapter 14
Marfa shivered in the darkness, against the slick stone of the cell. It wasn’t the cold that made the fine hairs on her skin stand on end, nor the damp air, nor even the dark. The reek of old magic flooded the air heavily, suffocatingly, but that wasn’t it either.
It was the great void, the quiet, the echoes of echoes with not a soul in sight. It was the arcanir bars and the small cell, the growls, snarls, and scratchings of beasts all around her, the vast nothing of this place.
She had been swimming with Lisandra in the river, not far from the pack, when it had happened. On the bank, she’d watched Lisandra spasm and cry out, even as she’d spasmed and cried out herself. The last thing she remembered was trying to rise, trying to get to the water and to Lisandra, and then she’d awoken in a vast, dark chamber, shuddering violently on the ground, while a Coven of witches—no, many Covens, all together—had dragged her and the others and beasts of all kinds here. To these cramped, dark spaces. To this… prison.
Where was the river? The pack? Lisandra? What had happened to her? Why wasn’t she here?
She always felt Lisandra nearby, and the pack, like a distant song just past the trees, but now… Now there was nothing.
How had she gotten here, to this chamber? Why had the witches taken them prisoner? Why had the Dragonlords allowed it?
These witches had taken away her clothes, cut fur from her body, beaten her, stabbed her, starved her for months. So many witches, all wearing the same uniform. When she was in human form, they gave her a little more food perhaps, a little more water, although never enough.
And even with her heat, it was cold here, and she hadn’t even a blanket nor a shirt to stave off the chill.
The way the witches looked at her, like an unwanted dog, sent shivers down her spine. Humans didn’t keep dogs that had no use, that couldn’t herd, couldn’t watch, couldn’t guard. What use did they want of her? And if she didn’t serve…
Why were they keeping her here? For how long?
Where was the pack?
She dropped her head in her hands, palming back matted, greasy hair, then drew in her knees, rested her chin on them. There were eight others here, not pack, although none seemed to speak the common tongue or, if they did, none desired to respond.
She was alone. Completely, maddeningly, unendingly alone.
And where did that leave Lisandra, somewhere out there in this new, human-run world? They had only each other and the pack, and Lisandra was a gentle soul, a kind soul, and would never survive alone among the humans. Not for long.
Marfa chewed her chapped lower lip and rocked herself. The witches were keeping her for a reason. They’d expect her to serve sometime, and when they did, she would have her chance. She’d try to escape, maybe fight, whatever it took, but she’d get out of here alive, and she’d find Lisandra.
* * *
As night fell, Leigh entered the mixed-oak forest outside of Courdeval, with Ambriel behind him, his bow at the ready.
Gustave had passed along intelligence that the heretics were meeting in the woods tonight, some ritual. Dancing under the moon, whatever. Leigh shrugged. If this group was hoping to usurp the Tremblay Coven, then it stood to reason that they would try to practice some of that Dark Age of Magic nonsense.
“I hear them,” Ambriel whispered, “chanting. There are… many.”
“It’ll be worth it.” The Tremblays were known for their battle magic, and they were essential to any force standing against the Divinity. Along with the Forgerons—known for their magical smithing—and the Beaufoys, with their forbidden magic and daring eyes and long, flowing locks and swaying hips and—
“There’s something else,” Ambriel said quietly. “The trees, they’re—”
Leigh looked over his shoulder as Ambriel shook his head. The chanting was loud enough that he could hear it, and flashes of firelight filtered through the tree trunks. Torches amid dancing bodies, surrounding an oak—
No, at the center, entangled among the wood, was a woman. Her body was claimed by oak tendrils that gave way, gave way, gave way. Her face was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, eyes with long lashes closed.
“A dryad,” Ambriel hissed. “The fools are waking a dryad.”
He’d read myths of the dryads, how they spoke to trees, could take on the form of a tree themselves, and sometimes did, forgetting themselves for centuries or all time. How they despised fire above all things, and humans nearly as much. How they could turn seeds into towering oaks in the blink of an eye, and an entire forest against any enemy.
“They are waking her in the dark, amid fire,” Ambriel said, taking a step back. “She will kill them all. It’ll be a massacre.”
A massacre, and a Forgeron potentially killed on Tremblay territory. “We need to find the Forgeron mage. Fast. Most of them are red haired, so—”
“Don’t look directly at her. She’ll—”
The last bit of wood keeping the dryad extended her outward, placing her gently upon the grass, which greened vividly at her feet. Her ghostly white skin took on a greenish hue, growing from her toes up her legs, over her limber naked body, and up to her hair, which sprouted thick and massive, moss green and growing leaves like ornaments.
Her eyes opened, and it was like staring into a wellspring of life, bright white and pure, immaculate. He would live for her. He would die for her. He would do all her bidding.
The circle of dancers all froze, mesmerized, and she reached out a slender arm to hold the chin of a torchbearer, who smiled and relaxed in her touch.
His head wrenched off.
He dropped the torch, his blood spurting to douse the fire.
Oaks twisted and curled as if made of clay, growing and grabbing the dancers.
“Dreshan,” Ambriel hissed in his ear, but the dryad’s eyes were stunning.
Hands covered his eyes, and he shuddered, the tang of blood in his nostrils, and when Ambriel uncovered him, he raised a hand to cast.
Ambriel grabbed it. “No. If you kill her, the entire forest dies.”
She stood at the center as trees captured all the dancers.
Heart pounding, he scanned all the captive dancers, those who were yet alive. Who looked most like Joel Forgeron? Like Helene?
Shining red hair in a high bun. High cheekbones—Joel’s daughter, barely old enough to leave home, high in the canopy.
“Katia,” he whispered, circling around the creaking oaks to the one that held her. When he was just below, he spelled a cut right through the branch binding her, severing it, and she plummeted as the dryad shrieked an otherworldly howl.
Katia fell into his arms, and he set her down, backing away and looking down as she fixed her glowing white eyes on him. His repulsion shield sprang up in a bubble around him, Ambriel, and Katia, as the winding trees slammed into it from every side, but it held, it would hold, it had to hold until they were out, and then he could destabilize it and destroy every—
Singing—strange, hymnal singing—began. Elvish Tree-Singing. Ambriel.
The branches didn’t renew their assault, but stayed still, waiting. Listening? The dryad followed them with slow steps, her head tilted.
“Ambriel,” he warned, but the singing only loudened. Trees bent and curved over them.
She closed, and the grass beneath their feet grew taller, and his feet began to tangle in it.
“Ambriel,” he warned again.
A few steps more, and no more grass pulled up around his ankles. They were beyond the forest’s edge, and the drya
d paused, her gaze fixed on Ambriel as he kept up the song, bowed to her. Trees and branches crowded the edge of the forest, filled out every empty space, a dense wall of oaks that grew and grew and grew.
The dryad leaned against the edge, pushed.
Ambriel grabbed Leigh’s shoulder, turning him around.
“Don’t look,” Ambriel said at last in Old Emaurrian, hurrying him along while Katia kept pace.
He held the shield in place, maintaining his focus, while Ambriel sang scattered notes.
“We—we thought she would protect us, protect the forest from the beasts—”
“Don’t look,” Ambriel repeated.
Otherworldly shrieking and howling rang out through the night, wooden creaking and groaning spreading through a thousand awoken trees.
He didn’t turn, didn’t stop, just grabbed Katia’s hand and ran after Ambriel.
The Violette District was quiet when they returned to the city, some windows glowing with candlelight. Few passersby walked the cobblestone streets at this hour, but even fewer guards—the beauty of middling Violette: rich enough that the average riffraff didn’t fit in, but not so rich that it was teeming with guards.
“Is she all right?” Ambriel asked in Old Emaurrian, glancing toward Katia.
Leigh shrugged. Katia walked at his side, quiet but for the rare gasp as she found some new spot of blood to rub.
As soon as he presented her to Gustave, he’d have the favor of the Tremblay Coven.
“What did you sing to her?” he asked Ambriel in Old Emaurrian. “To the dryad?”
“I sang to her of Vervewood, of the dryad I'd met there in my youth. Of the trees I knew, and what they had told me.”
The dryad had been intrigued—enough to reach the edge of the forest, where she could not cross. “You saved us,” Leigh said.
Ambriel dipped his head. “I know you could have destroyed the forest and destroyed her—”
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