The woman looked up as if surprised to find us still standing there. “Why are you here, young man? You’ve collected your pearls. Now be on your way.”
She waved her hand once more, and Nicholina gasped. Stumbled. Next second, she lunged at Madame Sauvage with a snarl, but I pulled my wrist sharply, forcing her to a halt. The hood slipped from her face, and she glared between the two of us in silent fury.
“It doesn’t feel very nice, does it? To lose bodily autonomy?” Madame Sauvage shooed us from the cart without further ceremony. “A lesson well remembered, Nicola. Now, go. You all have rather more pressing matters of which to attend, don’t you?”
Célie clutched my arm when I didn’t move, pulling me down the steps.
Yes. Yes, we should go, but—
My gaze caught on a glass display of pastries near the snake. They definitely hadn’t been there before. Torn between trepidation and interest, between fear and inexplicable ease, I nodded to them. “How . . . how much for the sticky bun?”
“Ah.” Madame Sauvage brightened abruptly, plucking the pastry from its case and wrapping it in brown paper. She followed us down the steps before extending it to me. “For you? Free of charge.”
I regarded her warily.
“Never fear.” She tugged her sign from the mud. An oddly mundane gesture amidst the uncanny circumstances. “We shall meet again soon, Reid Labelle. Plant those seeds.”
With a cheery wink, she vanished before our eyes, taking her sign and her strange little cart with her.
Le Cœur Brisé
Reid
“We’re here,” Coco said softly.
A quarter hour ago, she’d forced us to stop, to bear Nicholina to the ground and tip a sleeping tincture down her throat. It hadn’t been pretty. It hadn’t been fun. I still had bite marks on my hand to prove it.
We stood beneath the shadow of a lone cypress tree—at least, I thought it was a cypress. Below the smoke and clouds, true darkness had fallen once more. The forest at our backs stood eerily still. Even the wind had ceased here, yet a hint of brine still tinged the air. No waves, however. I heard no waves. No gulls, either. No signs of life at all. Shifting my feet uneasily, I took in the path ahead. Narrow and rocky, it disappeared into fog so thick I could’ve cut it with a knife. A chill skittered down my spine at what could be lurking within it. Despite no signs of Morgane and Josephine, the hair at my neck lifted. “What now?”
Coco came to stand beside me. “We keep going. Straight down.”
“Into that?” Beau too stepped forward, halting at my other side. He eyed the fog skeptically. “Can we not?”
“L’Eau Mélancolique lies past it.”
“Yes, but surely we can find less overtly ominous access.”
“Le Cœur Brisé is everywhere. One doesn’t access the Wistful Waters without him.”
Célie swallowed hard. “But—we only have three pearls. Madame Sauvage said humans aren’t allowed near the waters. She said they could drive us mad.”
“The waters can drive anyone mad. Human or witch.” Coco straightened her shoulders, still staring into the mist. “But you’re right. We just have three, so we’ll—we’ll walk the path as far as Le Cœur allows, but only Reid, Nicholina, and I will continue to shore.” Her eyes flashed to mine. “If we can pass his test.”
“What test?” I asked with mounting unease. “No one said anything about a test.”
She waved a curt hand. “You’ll pass.” Glancing at Nicholina, however, she added, “I’m not so sure about her, but he only tested us the once. Maybe he won’t this time either—”
Beau pounced on this new information, whirling to point a finger at Coco. Triumphant. Furious. “I knew you were hiding something.”
“Lou and I played at L’Eau Mélancolique as children,” Coco snapped. “It’s hardly a secret. Of course we ran into Le Cœur a time or two. He liked us, so he didn’t ask for pearls. We brought him tricks instead.”
Célie blinked in confusion. “But you said we needed black pearls.”
Huffing impatiently, Coco crossed her arms and looked away. “We do. We did—just not all the time. Lou once magicked them into spiders when he touched them. He’s terrified of spiders.”
A beat of silence.
“And he liked you?” Beau asked, perplexed.
“He liked me better than Lou.”
“Enough.” I hoisted Nicholina higher in my arms, starting toward the path. Tendrils of fog stretched out to meet me, curling around my boots. My ankles. I kicked them away. We were so close. Too close. “We didn’t come all this way to leave now.”
BUT LEAVE YOU SHALL. An abrupt, unfamiliar voice thundered around me, through me, and I stumbled, nearly sending Nicholina face-first into the mist. By the others’ reactions—Célie actually screamed—they’d heard it too. The mist at my feet visibly thickened, swirling up my legs now. I felt its pressure like a vise. Panicked, I leapt backward, and the mist released me. It didn’t stop thickening, however. It didn’t stop speaking. IF YOU CANNOT DRINK OF THE WATERS AND SPILL THEIR TRUTH.
I nearly stepped on Célie in my haste to retreat.
“What is it?” She clutched my arm, clutched Nicholina’s arm, clutched anything to ground herself in reality. But this was our reality—possessions, harbinger dogs, shape-shifting dragons, talking mist. It would never end. “Is it Le Cœur?”
In answer, the mist slowly darkened, drawing in on itself as a spider might spin its web. Growing limbs. A head. A pair of chilling coal-black eyes. Despite the ominous voice, those eyes softened on Coco as their owner stepped forth. Powerfully built—taller even than me—the man heaved a booming laugh and opened his arms to her. She hesitated for only a second before rushing forward. Voice hitching with laughter—perhaps tears—she buried her face in his chest and she said, “I’ve missed you, Constantin.”
Beau stared at them, dumbstruck, as they embraced. I might’ve found his expression comical if I too hadn’t felt this revelation like a blow to the head.
Constantin. Constantin. I knew the name, of course. How could I ever forget? Madame Labelle had held me captive with it in the Bellerose all those months ago, weaving magic with her tale of star-crossed lovers. Of magic rings and seas of tears and witches and holy men. Of Angelica and Constantin. The saint who’d gifted the Church his blessed sword, the original Balisarda. I’d carried a part of him with me for years, unaware his sword hadn’t been blessed at all, but enchanted by his lover. She’d wanted to protect him. He’d wanted her magic. When he hadn’t been able to take it from her, he’d eventually taken his life instead.
This couldn’t be the same man. Of course it couldn’t. The story said he’d died, and even if he hadn’t, he would be thousands of years old now. Long dead. And Coco—she hadn’t spoken a word about knowing Constantin during Madame Labelle’s tale. She would have told us. Surely. Lou’s life had been tangentially tied with him and Angelica, whose ill-fated love had first sparked the war between the Church and Dames Blanches. She would’ve told us. She would’ve.
“Constantin.” Beau said the name slowly, tasting it. Remembering. “I know that name. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
Coco stiffened at his brash words, but Constantin merely chuckled. Ruffling her hair, he gently disentangled himself from her arms. “My reputation precedes me.”
“You’re Le Cœur Brisé?” I asked in disbelief. “The Broken Heart?”
His dark eyes glinted. “The irony is not lost on me, I assure you.”
“But you aren’t . . . you aren’t the Constantin. You’re not him.” When he simply stared at me, I exhaled a harsh breath and looked at Coco, unable to articulate the sudden, painful flare of emotion in my chest. She hadn’t told us. She’d . . . withheld information. She hadn’t lied—not exactly—but she hadn’t told the truth either. It felt like a betrayal.
“Right.” Shaking my head, I tried to refocus. “How?”
“Who cares?” Beau muttered, near indiscernible.
Constantin
extended his arms. “I am cursed eternal, huntsman, because I yearned for more.”
Coco cast him a slanted look. “I think you went a bit further than that.”
“You’re right, of course, Cosette. I broke a woman’s heart in the process—my one true regret in life.”
Rolling her eyes, Coco said, “Constantin leapt from these cliffs. When Angelica wept her sea of tears, the waters . . . revived him.” She gestured to the mist around us. The very mist from which he’d formed. “Their magic gives him life. Now he serves as a warning.”
We all stared at her. “What does that mean?” Beau finally asked.
“It means Isla poked her nose in like a prying busybody,” Constantin said, surprisingly pleasant given the circumstances. He swept a hand down his arm, his bare chest. He wore nothing save the cloth around his waist, his lower half obscured by mist. Condensation collected on his skin, curled in his hair. “She watched everything between Angelica and me, and when the waters intervened, she swept in and cursed me to guard the women of these waters—and their magic—forever.”
Célie’s gaze darted. “The women of these waters?”
“The melusines.” Constantin’s face contorted with distaste. “Fish women. Fickle women.”
“Temptresses,” Coco added. “The ones who dwell here are also truth tellers. Some are seers. The waters have given them strange abilities.”
My arms began to burn, and I readjusted my grip on Nicholina. “Who is Isla?”
Constantin snorted in response. “The queen of the melusines.”
“Claud’s sister,” Coco said at the same time.
“Is she a goddess, then?” Célie asked.
Constantin bowed slightly, inclining his head. “Some would call her such. Others would not. Either way, she is very old and powerful. If you seek an audience, however, I must warn you: she cannot interfere in the affairs of humans. Not without repercussion.”
Coco touched his arm. “We aren’t here for her, Constantin. Not yet, at least.” She looked to Nicholina, to Lou in my arms, and her entire body seemed to wilt once more. Constantin followed her gaze, his sharp eyes tracking over Lou’s sallow skin, her gaunt cheeks. He hummed a low note of understanding.
“Louise is ill.”
“And possessed,” I added a touch desperately.
His eyebrows shot up. “You believe the waters will heal her.”
“They healed you,” Beau pointed out, “and you were dead.”
Constantin parted the mist with his hands, the tendrils curling between his fingers. It struck me as an idle gesture. An apathetic one. “It’s true. If anything can heal her, these waters can. Though they started as mere tears, they’ve become as sentient as the pulse within a Dame Rouge, as connected as a Dame Blanche to this land. Angelica was a seer, and her magic shaped them. The waters see things we cannot see, know things we cannot know. I am part of them now, yet even I do not grasp the future as they. I have lived a hundred human lives, yet even I cannot comprehend their knowledge.”
I struggled to extract the pearls from my pack while maintaining my hold on Nicholina. Beau extended his arms instead. Reluctantly, I handed her over before thrusting the pearls at Constantin. To my surprise, his hands felt solid. Warm. He truly was alive. “Our payment,” I said.
His fingers curled around the pearls. His eyes flicked to Coco. “Are you sure?”
She nodded resolutely. “She’s my best friend.”
He shrugged then, and the pearls dissolved into mist. “Very well. On her head be it.” To the rest of us, he asked, “Who accompanies the fair maidens?”
I stepped forward. “Me.”
“Of course.” His gaze swept from my head to my toes. He hmphed as if displeased. As if the mud on my boots, perhaps the bandolier on my chest, offended him. “I’ve heard of your exploits, Reid Diggory. I’ve heard of your glory in my legacy. I’ve heard all about the death and blood on yours and your brethren’s hands.” He paused for me to respond, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I didn’t give him any reaction at all. “To be honest, you remind me of a much younger version of myself.”
“I am nothing like you.”
He tilted his head. “Time changes us all, does it not?”
“La-di-da, mysterious bullshit, ominous warnings.” Beau repositioned Nicholina with stiff, awkward movements, exhaling an aggrieved breath. “Should we keep standing around, or—?”
“Point taken.” Constantin grinned, and with the wave of his hand, Beau and Célie vanished. Both just . . . vanished. Nicholina’s weight landed solidly back in my arms.
“Where did you send them?” Coco asked, voice rising in panic. “I mean—are they safe?”
Constantine’s eyes glittered knowingly. “No one is safe here, Cosette. Not even you. I protected you and your friend as children. This time, however, you seek the waters as an adult of your own volition. I can no longer bend the rules. You too must drink and speak truth. Now”—he stepped aside, gesturing to the path before us, the path still concealed by semisolid mist—“shall we?”
She swallowed visibly.
When I strode forward, however, she slipped her arm through mine, hurrying to keep up. “Have you never drunk before?” I asked her quietly. Though I couldn’t hear Constantin following, I sensed his presence behind us as we trekked down the path. It sloped gently, evenly, despite the rocks. Silence still coated everything. “In all the times you visited?”
“Just once,” she whispered back, “when I tried to see my—” But she stopped abruptly, squeezing my arm tight. “When Lou and I tried to swim in the waters. Constantin never made us drink of them otherwise. We usually just played along the shore.”
“And that one time?” I asked.
She shuddered. “It was awful.”
“What did you see?”
“What I wanted most in the world.”
“Which was?”
She scoffed but didn’t withdraw her arm. “Like I’d tell you. I already spoke it once. I’m not speaking it again.”
“You aren’t serious.” An ache started to build in my right temple. “How can I know what to expect if you won’t—”
“You can’t,” Constantin interrupted, materializing directly in front of us. We both skidded to a halt. “None know what the water will show them. Desires, fears, strengths, weaknesses, memories—it sees truth and demands truth in turn. All you must do is acknowledge it.”
At his words, the mist behind him began to clear. It moved slowly, deliberately, each tendril creeping apart to reveal a vast, impossibly smooth body of water. It stretched between two mountains, extended as far as the eye could see. To the horizon. Beyond. The moon—silver as a freshly minted coin—shone clear and bright across its glassy surface. No smoke here. No waves either.
Not a single sound.
Constantin flicked his wrist, and from the fog, three chalices formed, solidifying into simple iron. They waited in the sand at the edge of the water. Almost touching it. Not quite. Gently, I lowered Nicholina to the ground. She didn’t stir when I lifted her eyelid, checked her pulse. “What did you do to her? She’s barely conscious.”
“It’s a simple sleeping solution—lavender, chamomile, valerian root, and blood.” Coco shrugged nervously. “It’s possible that I overdid it.”
“She will drink,” Constantin said, his form beginning to fade, “or she will die.”
I couldn’t suppress a snarl of frustration. “You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?”
When he lifted his hands, they dissolved into mist. Another arrogant smile. “I am a simple guardian. Drink of the waters, and spill their truth. If you succeed, you may enter their healing depths. If you fail, you will leave this place, and you will never return.”
“I’m not going anywhere—” But even as the words left my mouth, I felt the mist constrict around me like iron manacles, knew staying upon failure wouldn’t be an option. The mist—or Le Cœur, or the waters, or the magic itself—wouldn’t al
low it. Only when I muttered a terse agreement did the manacles dissipate. I still felt their presence, however, hovering over my skin. Their warning.
“Drink of the waters,” Constantin repeated, near immaterial now, “and spill their truth.” Only his eyes remained. When they found Coco, they softened, and a tendril of fog reached out to caress her face. “Good luck.”
He left us standing alone in the moonlight, staring down at our chalices.
The Waters’ Truth
Reid
I still remembered the exact moment I received my Balisarda. After each tournament, a banquet was held to honor the champions, to welcome them into the ranks of brotherhood. Few attended outside of the Chasseurs and Church, and the celebrations never lasted long—a quick address, a quicker meal. No toasts. No music. No revelry. A modest affair. The next morning, however, the real exhibition would begin. The entire kingdom would come to Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine to watch the induction ceremony. Aristocrats and paupers alike would dress in their finest. Initiates would line the aisle. At the altar, the Archbishop would stand with the inductees’ Balisardas. They would adorn the communion table, polished and resplendent in their velvet boxes.
I’d been the only inductee at my ceremony. Mine had been the only Balisarda.
Jean Luc had stood at the end of the aisle, hands clasped behind his back. His face tight. His body rigid. Célie had sat in the third row with her parents and sister. She’d tried to catch my eye as I’d marched down the aisle, but I hadn’t been able to look at her. I hadn’t been able to look at anything but my Balisarda. It’d called to me as a siren’s song, the sapphire glittering in the filtered sunlight.
I’d repeated my vows by rote. Shoulders straight and proud. After, the Archbishop had broken tradition to embrace me, but his public display hadn’t embarrassed me. I’d been pleased with it. Pleased with myself. So, so pleased. And why not? I’d trained religiously for years—I’d bled and sweat and sacrificed—all for this moment.
When I’d reached out to finally accept my Balisarda, however, I’d hesitated. Just for a second.
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