“Stop this at once!” Vasco shouted. Yzabel made to move, but the ritual held her afloat, immobile as her skirts and hair whipped all around her. Rushed, anxious footsteps, and louder, he demanded, “Stop this before it kills her!”
Yzabel clenched her teeth, tried to turn again, but she was trapped, drowning under the moonlight and the magic, asphyxiating her—
A smack sounded in the darkness, and Brites screaming, “Vasco, let her go!”
“Domingos is right—you’ve been corrupting Yzabel, and I’ve encouraged it for too long. This charade ends now.” Vasco’s voice filled the night, the strength of his anger and threats a violent blow. How could he do this? What could Dom Domingos have possibly said that would turn him against them so quickly?
“I’ve told you he’s not to be trusted!” Brites shouted back. “We’ve known each other for years, and you believe him over—”
“You will stop this witchcraft, or I swear to God I will tell Denis everything!”
“We can’t,” Fatyan said, weak and strained as if struggling for breath. “The only way for Yzabel to come down is for the ritual to run its course.”
“So let her go!” Brites demanded. “Vasco, let that girl go and put the knife down!”
Knife?
Distant thunder roared, but it was Vasco’s hiss that cut through to deafen her. “Her business with our princess is done.”
A shriek, shrill and terrified. The faint rustle of grass, a choked cough, and all sound was lost to the ring of magic in her ears, an acute buzz that scratched at skull and teeth.
Fingers closed on Yzabel’s ankle, tried to yank her down as brilliant moonlight shocked her arms open, their bright fingers swaying in the sharp wind. Each one was an extension of herself, and when she closed her arms—she could move now—the light curled inward, folding and folding until it reached her chest.
The magic of her gift, once a shell isolating her from the world, crumbled into specks of dust as she welcomed it into herself. It was only then, as she finally allowed the magic to fully coexist with her, that she realized that the anger and hatred gnawing at her had been born of incompleteness. No longer did she feel like a foreigner in her own skin, sharing a body with another entity. She’d come to terms with the gift the same way she’d come to terms with her curly hair, her big forehead, her small hands.
The blessing became her, and she became more. The muscle she’d been training to control the magic now flexed as easily as any other. Light and warmth sung underneath her flesh, a river at her beck and call. Hearing returned to her as she floated back down, as did her breath—her legs buckled her as soon as her feet touched down, and she fell forward, gasping. In the corner of her eye was a lump of flesh lying on the ground, the stench of singed hair and charred meat making her gag.
“Yza…bel…” he groaned.
“Vasco!” She hastily crawled toward him, gathering his head on her lap. Charred black puckered his skin and deformed his lips. The hand on her leg, trying to bring her down when she’d been exploding with energy… It had been him.
She did this to him.
“Oh Lord, Vasco…” She leaned closer, her tears falling to mingle with the ashes of his skin. “Why did you try to stop me?”
“The Moura…lied. Brites, too.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His neck stiffened, and from his lips sprouted flowers, stems growing and petals swirling. Though he was gagging, he had enough strength to touch her cheek with a burned hand and say, “Don’t let them replace you.”
He choked on a breath.
It was his last.
Chapter Thirteen
Beautiful Death
The rain returned, washing away the ashes of the magic circle as Yzabel cradled Vasco’s head in her lap. Tears fell on his forehead, not on skin but on rough bark, not on hair but stalks of barley. Branches of flowers grew out of his mouth, and more ripped his stomach open in a swirl of roses and daisies, pansies and gardenias, dandelions and daffodils—flowers of all kinds, some of which she’d never seen before, bearing colors she couldn’t name, rising in an intertwined rainbow of petals and leaves.
Yzabel didn’t know death could be so beautiful, or that betrayal could cut so deep.
Paranoia swirled, a disease twisting the acid in her stomach, nausea up her nose. “What did he mean, don’t let them replace you?” A hesitant question, each syllable breaking out in a bitter sob. Was that what Fatyan had been trying to do in the springs, feeling Yzabel’s body in lazy, casual touches to replicate every line and lacking curve? Looking up, she found Brites helping the Moura up, a complicit look passing between them, a pool of light at their feet washing away in the pelting rain. Louder, Yzabel asked, “Is that your true goal? To replace me as princess when you regain your freedom and power?”
Eyes wide and eyebrows raised, Fatyan tried to speak, but all that left her mouth was a wheezing croak. Hand on her throat, she desperately shook her head and turned to Brites.
“Vasco cut her too deep. She won’t be able to speak for a little while.”
Agony twisted its dagger in her gut, and her hands froze on Vasco’s shifting form, the delicate touch of vines and flowers razors on her icy skin. Shocked eyes landed on Fatyan exposing the white line bisecting her neck, spiderwebs of flesh knitting it together. The knife forgotten on the cobblestones finished the story Yzabel had missed while suspended in air and moonlight, unable to move or speak or hear.
“We didn’t lie, little princess. But we did keep some secrets from you.” Brites came closer, voice and footsteps nearly drowned in the storm. Despondent loss glistened in her crestfallen eyes. “I wish he’d talked to me before he decided to turn on us.”
Yzabel wiped the rain from her eyes, a moot gesture, considering how strongly it pelted them. “What did you keep from—”
A burst of energy turned her question into a yelp, and she crawled backward as roots broke out from Vasco’s body of wood and flowers, digging between the cobblestones. The plants parted, rearranging themselves as the bark of Vasco’s skin curled upward to become a sapling, and she fell back as the trunk swelled and branches stretched up into the night.
“Fatyan’s life is tied to yours. The only thing that can kill her is your death, and the only reason I know this is because a long time ago, I freed an Enchanted Moura of my own. Regardless…” Brites gave the growing tree a look that simmered with anger and sadness, sniffing at the water running down her cheeks. “We have more pressing matters to take care of.”
Yzabel’s mind raced to grind the conflicting emotions tearing her in different directions, and words piled on her tongue, hurtful questions and selfish demands knotting together into an angry rant. What else did they know, what else had they kept from her, the other Enchanted Moura Brites had freed—but the expression on her face snuffed all those thoughts out, and all Yzabel could mewl was, “You can’t.”
“We have to. No one will be able to explain a tree sprouting in the middle of the night. They’ll start looking, and they will find us. Find you.” Brites retrieved her knife again, fixed her gaze on Yzabel as she said, “I won’t let that happen. Fatyan, take her back to her rooms. Use the servants’ passage just in case and avoid the kitchens.”
“No,” she said, rising to her trembling feet, crossing her sodden arms over her chest. “I won’t move until you tell me what you’ve been hiding.”
“You might be my liege, Yzabel, but you’re not entitled to every one of my secrets. Especially when they aren’t mine to tell.” The harshness of her sentences slapped Yzabel harder than the freezing rain, rocked her worse than the thunder roaring above their heads. “If you want the truth, you’ll leave. Now.”
The skies began to lighten, sunrise fast approaching in the horizon. Pressure formed around Yzabel’s hand as Faty’s fingers wrapped around hers, tugging her along. She resisted, planted her heels on the cobblesto
nes until Fatyan wheeled around to grab her face.
“I would never…” Fatyan’s wispy voice cracked and broke, and she coughed until it cleared. “I would never try to replace you. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. No one can.” She brushed rain and tears away from Yzabel’s cheek. “You’re irreplaceable.”
The newfound heat made her realize how cold it was, how her wet clothes clung to her skin in a freezing veil. And Faty’s eyes, so wide and earnest, her lips tucked into a despairing pout—how could she not believe her?
Yzabel turned to Brites, her maid’s accusations of entitlement pushing to the front of her thoughts. It was the blatant remorse on her expression that stopped her from voicing them. Daylight seeped further in, shining on them the threat of discovery.
“You’re telling us to go, but what about you?” Yzabel asked. “Someone might see you. Or the fire. And what about the ashes?”
“I’ll take care of everything. Now go.”
That last command uttered, Brites held the blade to her palm, then pivoted to the adult cork oak and its crown of flowers in the middle of the garden. A sharp movement, then blood mingling with rain on bark and leaves. Sniffing, she ran her arm across her face, and a long breath trembled in her nostrils as she placed her hand on the trunk.
“Da chuva nasce óleo,
Do meu sangue fogo nasce,
Pr’a queima até à cinza
Esta árvore de desastre.”
The wind howled, a beast come alive. Brites’s blood caught fire, a sputtering flame, then a pyre, consuming the tree that had once been Vasco.
Numbness spread on her senses, and she let Faty guide them through the servants’ corridors. The silent halls haunted her, the swishing of her wet skirts on the stone floor bouncing off empty walls, but she heard nothing but the beat of her own heart, heavy and fast, thumping in her ears, flooding her with a bedlam of emotion.
Vasco had died in her arms after trying to interrupt the ritual.
After trying to kill Faty.
After screaming that Dom Domingos had been right about Yzabel being corrupted.
Knowing Vasco had gone to the Chancellor-Mor behind their backs brought more questions than it answered. Did Dom Domingos know about the magic, or did he simply mean Brites was corrupting Yzabel by insisting she eat and take care of herself, therefore foregoing the hunger and pain that purified the body?
But above all—Vasco was dead. Never again would he kiss her forehead goodnight, never again would his steady presence be at her back. The closest thing she had to a father, gone in a flash of light and a cornucopia of vegetation.
In her rooms, the embers smoldered in the fireplace, the promise of warmth hypnotizing her to follow. While Fatyan threw kindling in to bring the flames back to life, Yzabel shed her sodden dress and donned her robes and nightgown. The events of the night hit her straight on, and she didn’t fight the weakness that made her legs give and her knees hit the rug.
Sorrow emptied her heart and filled her eyes, and once she started crying, there was no stopping it. Loss gnawed at her chest, bobbed in her throat. Yzabel hiccupped, startled as an arm covered her shoulders, brought her around into an embrace. She buried her face in Fatyan’s neck, let her hold her through the tears, comfort her through the sobs.
“Oh, Yza…” Fatyan said, perching her cheek on the top of her head. “Someone who has kindness hanging on her every move shouldn’t have to pay so much to have miracles at her fingertips. I wish things had gone differently. I wish Vasco hadn’t suddenly judged what we were doing as terrible.”
Her fingers closed around the neckline of Fatyan’s shirt. “He could’ve retired to a vast fortune and a coveted title, but he chose to stay by my side to protect me. Since our first meeting, that’s all he’s ever done.”
“I tried to stop him.”
“I know.” She sighed against Fatyan’s neck, traced the vanishing line made by Vasco’s knife. “I can’t believe he tried to kill you. Or that you didn’t die.” She pulled away. “Or that you didn’t tell me you couldn’t.”
Guilt flashed in Fatyan’s elusive gaze. “You were dealing with so much, I…I didn’t think it wise to add to the pressure. But yes—the life of an Enchanted Moura is tied to whoever breaks their curse. Even after I’m free, even if we’re apart. I’ll die when you die.”
It was in her own interest to keep Yzabel healthy and alive, yet Fatyan had no way of being certain how long Yzabel’s life would be, or if she’d recover from her malnourishment. “And you risked making a bargain with me?”
A shrug. “I’d rather have a short life through someone who’s good, than a long one through someone who’s not.”
The strings pinching Yzabel’s features snapped, and the doubt Vasco had cast on Fatyan evaporated. Belatedly, she realized her hand was still on Faty’s neck, thumb brushing her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She’d lost Vasco. She’d almost lost Faty. And Brites… Oh God, Brites had stayed behind, holding on to secrets while she burned away the remnants of tonight.
“Even now, you take time to be kind,” Fatyan mused in a whisper full of curious wonder.
“That’s something Vasco taught me. Kindness isn’t something you are. It’s something you choose to be, every single moment of every single day.” She almost smiled, remembering his face that day, the seriousness in his voice. “When we met, he made me promise to choose kindness always. Our own secret deal—I’d be kind, and he wouldn’t tell Denis about the magic.” A small sniff, a long yawn. “He might not have believed it in the end, but I still do.”
“Still, you don’t have to apologize for something he did.”
“But I do—he was in my service, had my trust. Misguided as it was, it was in my name he tried to kill you.” Yzabel shook her head, wiped her face with the back of her arm. “He mentioned Dom Domingos. Do you think he told him who you really are?”
“I don’t think so. But it’s possible Vasco heard one of the less flattering versions of my tale and thought it the real one. Namely the one where I lure people into my domain, and then kill them so I can assume their identity.” She scoffed. “The reason why I refused to leave for so long was because I wanted someone who didn’t want me to be anyone but myself.”
Sleep tugged at Yzabel’s eyelids, questions at her mind. And Brites—why wasn’t she back yet? Was she meandering in the corridors trying to buy herself time? Would she run so she’d never have to give Yzabel answers on the other Enchanted Moura? Why hadn’t she told her before? What had she meant by secrets that weren’t her own to share?
Had Vasco known them?
Yzabel had yet to reverse her gift, and after she did, she would have to find a way to distribute any food she made from flowers. All of this—finding Faty, the training, the ritual—had been done with those goals in mind. But how was she supposed to accomplish them when grief tore a chasm in her breast and so many different questions vied for her attention?
Chapter Fourteen
Deceit
The merciful oblivion of slumber didn’t last long. It seemed as if Yzabel had just closed her eyes and drifted off when she woke up to Fatyan shaking her, Yzabel’s name an urgent whisper on her lips.
Fighting the sunlight, she opened her eyes to the day, hissing as the brightness stabbed at her head. Small, compared to the grief that overwhelmed her, that dug its claws into her heart and tore it to shreds.
Vasco, dead. Brites, still not here. And the tree…
Muffled voices sneaked under the door as she fished a handkerchief from the nightstand and blew her clogged nose. Speech rough in her sore throat, she asked, “What’s going on?”
“Matias raised the alarm when Vasco wasn’t here to be relieved of his watch,” Fatyan answered in a rushed whisper. “And that man you mentioned before, Senhor Davide? His house—”
Before Fatyan could
elaborate, the knob rattled on the door and someone banged on the wood. “Yzabel!” Denis’s voice called from the other side. “Yzabel, open this door!”
His demand nailed her to the mattress, brought a shiver up her spine and panic to her breath, frozen as the key on their side trembled and fell. The lock turned, ominously slow, and the door swung open to let the distressed king inside.
Denis made it to the bed with hurried steps. When he saw Yzabel, odd relief sighed on his lips. “You’re…you’re here. And well.”
Yzabel barely had time to turn before Lucas jumped onto the bed, nuzzling her neck and licking her cheeks, and she gratefully leaned into him. Nervousness tickled her fingers and nose, and she made a show of blowing her sneezing nose while she gathered her thoughts. “Aside from this cold, yes, I’m well. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her betrothed’s face hardened to stone, brown eyes flicking between her and Faty. “Where’s Brites?”
She wished she knew. “Not sure—although it’s odd she’s not here yet.” Yzabel hacked into the kerchief and took a hand to her spinning, thrumming head.
“I can go look for her,” Fatyan offered, rising from the bed.
“Don’t bother,” Denis said, encroaching on the Moura’s space. “You’re the nun.”
“Novice.” Fatyan stepped back. Denis followed, driving her back until her knees hit the mattress.
“Brites was training you, wasn’t she? To take care of Yzabel?” His nostrils flared, his teeth clenched. “Did she teach you anything else? Anything uncanny?”
Yzabel’s heart skipped a beat. “Denis, what are you—”
“Quiet!” he screamed at her, rage roaring red in his cheeks. “I know what you’ve been hiding—keeping a Carajua as your lady’s maid. Inviting pagan witchery into this house and country. And this one…” He grabbed Fatyan’s arm, pulled her toward him. “Dom Domingos talked to the Abbess this morning and she knew nothing about sending a novice to help you.”
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