by Jade Kerrion
Tristan chuckled, a bitter sound. “You’re our prince now. You need to get over your bad habit of ditching your bodyguards to find peace and quiet on your own.”
“Who’s going to hurt me?”
“There’s trouble in the outlands.”
“It’s not new.”
“We’ve had a threefold increase in border skirmishes over the past two weeks.”
Varian frowned. The report was probably in the folders piled high on his desk, one of several dozen thesis-length dossiers he had to review before the end of the day.
His friend continued, his voice grim. “Something happened yesterday in the palace.” Tristan shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. It can wait.”
Varian stepped over the threshold, which was magically sealed against anyone who was not a Delacroix. He whispered a spell, and the fluted columns in the mausoleum gleamed with soft, white light. The glow washed over his father’s effigy on the marble sarcophagus, his expression serene and at peace in death.
Prince Rainier had not been so in life.
The faint sounds of Tristan moving around outside scarcely intruded on the silence in the crypt. For a moment, Varian gazed at his father’s sculpture before sinking down to sit with his back against the raised marble dais.
Where would he start? He had so much to say, but could not find the right words.
Varian inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. In his personal darkness, it was easier not to feel the burden of his responsibilities and the weight of hundreds of years of illustrious and competent Delacroix rule bearing down on him. Why is it harder living up to the expectations of the dead than of the living?
His shoulders sagged as he exhaled. “Within a day or two, I should know if I can proceed with the Convello. If it has any chance of succeeding, then it’s done. The two deathbed promises—to take care of Tristan and to fulfill your vision for La Condamine—will be fulfilled.”
The tightness in his throat and chest made it nearly impossible to continue. “I’m ready,” Varian murmured after a long pause. “I know what to do, and I know why I need to do it.” I just didn’t plan on meeting Nithya. I didn’t plan on wanting something…someone different.
Varian’s head snapped up at the faint, familiar sound of distant cough, and realized it was only Tristan, faithfully keeping watch outside the crypt.
He shook his head, his thoughts returning to the inevitability of death. “I wish I had more time to make something else of my life.” To love Nithya and to win her love. To leave behind something more than disconnected memories that will fade into a passing mention in a history textbook.
I want more for myself. Not for La Condamine, but for me.
Why is that wrong?
Varian did not give voice to that question. He knew the answer—it had been drummed into him since he had been old enough to walk. His only responsibility was the protection and betterment of La Condamine. He was to live and die for no one and nothing else.
Not even Nithya. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Especially not for a common witch.
His father, if he were alive, would never accept a witch marrying into the house of Delacroix, especially not one as powerless as Nithya. Her bracelet was as gray as a cloudy sky. In a magical realm, power was everything. It was his only right to rule.
And when I spend it all on the Convello, even if it didn’t kill me, it would be the end of everything that defines me.
At that point, death would be a mercy. There would be nothing left to live for.
So simple. So obvious.
No way out.
Varian stood slowly. He touched the statue’s face. “Goodbye, Father.”
He walked out of the mausoleum and mounted his waiting horse. Tristan glanced at him. “Everything all right?”
Varian nodded. As all right as it’ll ever be.
A crack—like a twig snapping beneath a heavy foot. Varian glanced over his shoulder as something whizzed out of the bushes.
“Get down.” Tristan slammed his weight against Jet. The startled horse sidestepped, then reared, flinging Varian off.
The impact with the ground punched the breath out of Varian. His horse screamed, a sound filled with anger and pain. Jet twisted, his hooves stamping. Varian rolled out of the way as Jet’s hoof came down hard, less than an inch from his face.
He scrambled to his feet. “Easy, boy. Easy.” He grabbed Jet’s reins. Only then did he see the arrow that had pierced the pommel of the saddle. Only then did his stunned senses register the noise of a pitched battle.
Varian chased the sounds to a copse of pine trees. Tristan, his sword already stained with blood, fought a fae. Another two men—one witch, one fae—lay unmoving, their blood staining the snow.
Tristan was, by far, the better swordsman, and he defeated the other man easily. His teeth bared in a snarl, he drew his sword back for the kill.
“No, wait.” Varian stepped between Tristan and the injured fae. He squatted beside the beaten man. “Who are you?”
The fae’s wide-eyed gaze darted between Varian and Tristan before focusing on the latter who stood over him, sword drawn. Blood trickled out of the side of his lips. “It…it wasn’t me.”
“Who, then? Who sent you?”
The fae looked at Varian. He blinked repeatedly, and his lips moved but no sound emerged.
Tristan growled. “Speak up! Who sent you?”
“B…Baudin,” the fae stammered. “Lord Baudin.”
“No.” Varian’s mind reeled. “He would never—”
“Yes, yes, it was!” the fae insisted, his voice growing even more agitated. “They…they said—”
“They?”
“Stop the son the way we stopped the father.” The fae yanked a dagger from his belt and lunged at Varian.
Tristan was faster. His sword blocked the dagger’s downward arc and slashed up. His blade cut across the fae’s torso and sliced along his neck. Blood spurted beneath its edge. The fae’s eyes glazed and he toppled forward, his final breath escaping in a wheeze.
Varian’s gaze swept over the spread of death—crimson against white.
The crimson of his father’s blood—hacked up from ruined lungs—against the white of the bedsheets.
His father had died suffocating on his own blood.
Varian drew a deep breath, but could not fill his lungs. Cold dread spread from the pit of his stomach. The men I trusted. My father’s closest friends…
“Stop the son the way we stopped the father…”
Amid the familiar trappings of his study, Varian leaned back in his chair. For the first time, he was grateful for the chill in the air. It lightened the atmosphere in the room.
Tristan paced the breadth of the room with the snarling energy of a caged tiger. “Do you deny that he served you?”
Lord Baudin stood at the window, staring down at the three dead men whose bodies lay in the palace courtyard. His florid face was unusually pale as he straightened, as if from a silent sigh. “No, I do not.”
Tristan spun to face Varian. “Conspiracy against the throne? That is high treason.”
Varian waved Tristan away. His friend glowered but backed down. Varian drew a deep breath. “Why?”
“Why?” Baudin turned ponderously to face Varian. “You are reckless, driving change that the people are not ready for. You won’t shatter the barrier, Varian, but you will shatter the fragile equilibrium of La Condamine—the social balance.”
“The magic that the fae will spend, supposedly in pursuit of my dream?” Varian asked. “Don’t you know the witches are contributing their magic, too?”
“To gain favor with you, certainly, and they’ve succeeded, haven’t they? They have nothing to lose. But the fae…if we lose our magic, we lose our place in society. You have no respect for us! No respect for our standing, our position—”
“Is that why you killed my father?”
Baudin’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“Stop t
he son the way you stopped the father?”
“That’s not…” Baudin’s voice trailed. His vast shoulders stooped. “That’s not what we meant. Not what we intended. Ever.”
Varian rose to his feet. “Our retainers behave according to what they think we want from them. How could you veer so close to treason and not expect them to fall over the edge trying to please you?” He frowned. “Who else, Lord Baudin? Who else conspired with you to stop my father?”
Baudin shook his head, but Tristan spoke. “The plot to kill you led from hidden passages in the old palace to the executive wing, where I found him yesterday, conferring with Montagne, Grimaldi, and Sauvageau.”
Varian’s eyes narrowed. “Just four of the fae lords on the council? What about Lecuyer and Pelletier, who had even more reasons to dread my father’s retribution? Did they conspire with you too?”
Baudin’s silence screamed louder than words.
Varian pressed his hand against his chest, but nothing stemmed the burning in his lungs or the wrenching pain in his heart. His father’s council—his father’s closest friends—had escalated a political disagreement into assassination.
Varian opened his mouth to speak, but a cough ripped through his lungs. He doubled over his desk, shoulders heaving. He tasted blood and bile in his mouth.
Sound rustled beside him. He raised his head as Tristan rifled through his drawer, tugged out an herb sachet, and mixed its contents in a glass of water, before bringing it to his lips. Varian breathed out a scarcely audible thank you, before slowly swallowing each mouthful. The rawness in his throat eased, even if the burning pain in his lungs did not.
My father died like this—coughing, suffocating in his own blood.
Lord Baudin’s voice rang through his mind. “That’s not what we meant. Not what we intended. Ever.”
Varian wiped away the blood he had coughed up and straightened. “Lord Baudin, did you and the fae lords plot to kill my father?”
“Never.” The answer rang with certainty. “We loved him, Varian. We thought he was leading La Condamine astray, but we would never have hurt him, never have raised our hand against him or against you, nor ordered others to do so.”
Tristan made a growling sound low in his throat. “Your intent is worthless.” He flung his arm out at the bodies in the courtyard. “They attacked Varian. They could have killed him!”
Yet, my good intent is my only defense in demanding my people aid me in casting the spell. Varian drew a deep breath. “You are relieved of your duties at the palace, Lord Baudin.”
Baudin looked stricken. His broad frame sagged, but there was odd kind of relief in his eyes.
Tristan turned on Varian. “He and his fellow lords just tried to murder you, and for what? Because your spell will upset the balance of power in a society where worth is measured by the glow of your bracelet?” He slammed his fist down on the desk. “And for that, you’re relieving him of his duties at the palace? Is that it?”
“That is all.” Varian’s tone carried a note of finality. He glanced at Baudin. “You may leave.”
The fae lord bowed low to the prince and retreated from Varian’s office.
Varian looked at Tristan. “Now what did you have say?”
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said? I can’t believe you just let him go.”
“You saved my life today, and it’s not the first time you’ve done so. I could never have made it this far without you. Your judgement and your support mean a great deal to me, but I can’t be ruled by emotion. I can’t let my anger ruin La Condamine. In three days, I could be dead. La Condamine could be in the hands of the most grossly unqualified prince ever to sit upon the throne. Grimaldi, Baudin—I need them alive. I need them to navigate Conrad into safe waters.”
“They tried to kill you. What part of this isn’t obvious to you?”
“There is no evidence that they tried to kill me.”
“Is Baudin’s word alone enough for you? You heard that fae’s confession—from his own lips!”
“The actions of an overeager retainer? How is that any different from your men who arrested my citizens at your command?”
Tristan’s jaw dropped. “You’re comparing those two situations? The people I arrested didn’t die.”
“I cannot…will not take any stronger action unless I receive an unforced confession.”
Tristan scowled. “What do you mean?”
Varian frowned, turning away from Tristan to pace the room. “It didn’t feel right. The fae—his fear was too…” He searched for the right word. Real? Immediate? Excessive? “Baudin has enemies. Many of the lords on the council do. Would their enemies take an opportunity to ruin them for their idle speech? And why not? If you lack power, what other means do you have for you to ascend the political ladder, but through deceit?” Varian shook his head. “It may well be that Baudin’s greatest crime is his lack of discretion. Even so…” I didn’t need this. Not now.
Tristan sighed heavily. “You’re right, of course. La Condamine is in enough chaos as it is. We can’t afford any hint of the council turning against the prince. What are you going to do about the unrest in the outlands?”
“Double the guard on the borders.”
“Won’t you need them in the city for crowd control during the casting of the Convello?”
“I trust my people. I don’t trust the outlanders. The transition of power will be rough; we don’t need to add a hostile external audience into the mix.”
“All right. I’ll take care of it. You need a break, even if it’s just for a few hours.” Tristan placed his hand lightly on Varian’s shoulder as he passed. “Things are going to be all right, Varian. I’ve got your back. We’ll get to the end together.”
“I know,” Varian murmured. The soft tread of Tristan’s footsteps was almost at the door when Varian glanced over his shoulder at his oldest, closest friend. “Thank you.”
Tristan grinned. No words were needed.
Varian’s secretary looked in. Her brow furrowed with concern. “Do you need more time, or should I send in your next appointment?”
As it was, he was running late. “Send them in.”
The panicked expression on the faces of his officials explained more in less time than the sheaves of paper they brought with them.
The officials had culled through the noble and wealthy families of La Condamine for anyone above a certain threshold of magic. There should have been more than enough magic, but they were short. Not by a fraction, but by vast amounts.
“It’s just not there,” the officials apologized, unable to explain why reality was so far off from their estimates. “It appears that vast amounts of magic have simply vanished from our population.”
“How can that be?”
“We don’t know, your highness. It’s mind-boggling. We’ll expand our search to the bourgeoisie. I know you did not intend to tap into their magic.”
“Most of them have so little to begin with.”
“There is no more magic to spare anywhere among the ruling class and the wealthy. If you would ask from the council—”
“No, the council is not to be touched.” They would need all their magic if Conrad truly turned out to be a disaster. “Tap into the other citizens of La Condamine. Bring any magic adepts to the palace. I’ll have to speak to each person individually.”
“Certainly, your highness.” The officials bowed and departed, leaving him alone in his study.
Damn it. Unless a huge store of magic suddenly appeared, there was no point in attempting a spell that could not succeed.
Which meant that he and Nithya—
An ironic smile touched his lips. My one chance at the love of a lifetime shows up two weeks before the end…
If he decided not to go ahead with the Convello, he could have a lifetime.
No. I can’t. I have to stay focused. My only responsibility is to La Condamine, no matter the cost.
There is no future for me, not with Nithya,
not even if the spell isn’t cast.
A tap on the door drew his attention away from the mathematics that refused to add up. “Mother.” Varian smiled and rose to his feet. He kissed her on both cheeks before taking her arm and escorting her to a seat.
“You hardly ate anything at dinner,” she said.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“You need to keep up your strength, Varian. In a few days—” Her voice was steady but her hands shook. “I’m so afraid.”
Varian reached out and took her hands in his. “I am too,” he murmured. “But I’m still convinced it’s the right thing to do.”
“I’m not here to talk you out of it. I’m here because you need to talk about what’s weighing on your mind.”
He laughed, a bitter sound. “What’s weighing on me? Do you want the list alphabetically or in order of priority?” He turned his head to cough lightly into his fist.
“I want to be sure you’re not set on this suicidal path because you think you’re going to die anyway from the disease that killed your father.”
“That, Mother, was a tickle in my throat.”
“I know you don’t like the herbal powders, but they work. The sickness can be managed indefinitely.”
“I know.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ve met someone.”
“Tell me.”
“She’s a witch with a huge heart beneath her polished exterior. With her customers, she’s poised and elegant, cool and smooth. But when we’re together, her sharp points and edges emerge, and then she’s amazing. She’s strong-willed and witty. She makes me laugh, makes me think. We argue about what’s right for the people, what’s right for La Condamine. We don’t agree on anything—” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. Falling in love for the first time always matters, especially if it’s forever. Does she know?”
“She knows me as Dace, not as Varian. I’m one of her customers; she owns a jewelry store.”
“Nithya?” Sabine brightened. “She’s wonderful.” She suddenly frowned. “But you were so cold to her at dinner.”
“I was fighting off verbal attacks from Grimaldi, and I was braced for you to attack me, too—”