Fatyan.
Chapter Thirty
Perspective
“Tell me you know nothing about this,” Denis said, voice dangerously even. “That you didn’t know she was a shape-shifting Enchanted Moura. That it was indeed a miracle back then and not because you have this…sahar.”
But Yzabel wasn’t looking at him. Yusef and Faty held her attention, Faty saying, “I’m sorry, Yza. I failed,” while he pushed her forward, closer but not close enough. “He kept saying terrible things about you. I couldn’t—”
“Yzabel,” her betrothed called, demanding. “If there’s any hope to salvage this, you will tell me the truth, and you will do it now.”
She inhaled courage, meeting Denis’s stare. “Did he tell you who he is?”
His arm blurred, and she gave a small jump when his fist hit the table so strongly the platters clattered. “Don’t deflect me.”
Yzabel’s eyes flickered between the Mouros and Denis, between Faty’s hardened jaw, Yusef’s smug grin, and her betrothed’s scowl. At a small nod from Faty, Yzabel slowly made her way to him and the bread and cheese on the table, left over from dinner. She laid her hand on them, let her magic flow freely, and turned it all into roses and lilies.
“I knew she was an Enchanted Moura, and I do have a gift, and I’m sorry I hid it from you, and I will tell you all you want to know about it later,” she said, brisk lips filled with terror and urgency. “I know you don’t have much reason to trust me, but if you ever had any esteem for me, you’ll believe me when I say the enemy in this room is Yusef—the man you know as Matias.”
A small furrow appeared on Denis’s brow as he regarded her, then the Mouros, then her again. Yusef scoffed, pulled on Fatyan’s hair to further expose her throat, where his sword was pressed. “My king, all she says are lies—”
“I want to hear it,” Denis said without looking at him, his undivided focus on Yzabel. His voice wavered, and she realized she’d misread him again. It wasn’t anger that coated his words; it was sadness, and betrayal, and confusion. “I want to know why you did what you did. Why you felt like you still needed to hide from me even though I’ve been nothing but kind and patient with you.”
The hideous sound of blade rending flesh spun Yzabel around just in time to see the tip of a sword protruding from Fatyan’s ribs, and her body falling to the floor.
Denis stood so abruptly his chair crashed backward, but Yzabel barely registered the noise. It was Brites’s reminder of when she cursed Yzabel just as Yusef had Faty that sunk its spectral fingers into her ears, the same sentence repeated over and over in her mind.
I don’t know if both of you will die when one does.
Yzabel stepped back, hitting the table as an agonized shriek ripped out of her. Although every inch of her body tugged at her to run to Faty, Yusef was there, snorting at her, blocking her. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. You know death doesn’t stick to her.” His tone was of mocking dismissal as he stepped over Fatyan’s body and the blood pooling around it. Red dripped from his sword as he advanced on her. “But it will stick to you.”
It happened before she could blink, his speed unnatural, his strength ungodly. Denis shouted. Pain burst through her stomach, and Yzabel looked down, to the hilt of the sword splitting her middle, and all that left her was a gasp.
“Your greatest mistake was in believing Fatyan can forgive,” Yusef taunted as he thrust the blade upward with a twist, shredding her insides into pure agony, and even then, no sound left her. “The more she hates me, the more powerful I grow. And now I’ll be sure she dies in an explosion of spite. And you”—he turned to Denis—“you are weak, Denis of Portugal. But your country will be weaker with you gone.”
Yusef removed the sword and side-stepped Yzabel as she fell to her knees, then to her side. Agony radiated through her, spiking to excruciating when her shoulder hit the floor. By the window, Faty’s fingers, still and stiff, dead. Behind her, Denis screamed for the guard, feet rushing to the corner where he kept his sword and shield.
“You told them to leave after she was brought,” Yusef reminded with a chuckle, the sound of his steps unhurried. “You didn’t want anyone else overhearing the conversation, remember?”
Yzabel’s mouth filled with blood, and in vain, she coughed. It kept on coming and coming, and soon she couldn’t breathe, and she was gasping, flailing—
“Why?” Denis shouted.
“Because you weren’t going to. It’s the only way to kill the Moura.” He gestured toward Fatyan’s unmoving body. “And the quickest way to ensure the Christian kingdoms go to war.”
Steel clashed against wood, then steel, the sound of strife growing distant. Her throat spasmed, fighting to kick the blood from her airways.
“It will be mostly amusing to watch the Portuguese try to explain what happened tonight,” Yusef’s voice trickled into her ears as if behind several doors. “Her brothers will never forgive this country if she dies under your care, and Castela will be happy to aid them in the upcoming war. The Kingdom of Portugal and the Algarves will be erased from the peninsula, and with the forces of Castela and Aragon depleted by the conflict, the Caliphate will take back the land you reconquered.”
The room dimmed and blurred. A terrified whisper blew into Yzabel’s left ear—no, not a whisper. A primal wail that tore the air in half, born of the deepest sorrow and the most furious of wraths. It was Yzabel who was too far gone to hear it.
Fatyan’s crying face filled Yzabel’s fading sight. “Yza, hang on, please don’t go. Yza, please, Yza, Yza, Yza.”
She was alive and saying Yzabel’s name, over and over like a prayer. While her vision faded in and out, Yzabel mustered enough strength to cup Fatyan’s jaw and turned it to Denis.
Her limbs lost their strength. Darkness fell on her like a blanket but did not claim her.
The light did.
…
At first, Yzabel thought herself in Hell, and the fire sweeping through her insides was that of eternal punishment. Then, her senses returned at once, and she saw no flames and smelled no brimstone.
Broken clay and glass littered the floor, and beyond the upside-down table, the fight raged still. Denis backed into a corner, lifting his cracked shield over his head to deflect a heavy blow from Yusef. Fatyan, meat knife in hand, aimed for the back of the Mouro’s neck, him twisting out of the way to take the blow on the shoulder, and the crunch of broken bones when his elbow met her face.
Neither of them noticed the light in Yzabel’s chest knitting her back together.
“You should’ve died when the princess did. How are you still alive?” Yusef slammed the sole of his boot against Faty’s stomach without looking back, flawlessly parrying a sword thrust from Denis.
Faty clutched at her head, swaying as she tried to get back to her feet. Her knees hit the ground again, and in doing so, she looked back.
The brief meeting of their eyes came to an end with the crash of Denis’s shield as it broke in half. The next blow, he blocked with his sword, yet Yusef proved too strong, too experienced against a young king who preferred women and poetry to bloodlust and battle. He kicked the weapon out of the king’s hand.
Behind him, Fatyan changed, adding more muscle to her limbs, growing taller, broader, hands so big they wrapped around the full length of Yusef’s arms. “It was you who made the mistake, Benzedor Yusef.” With him firmly in her grip, she spun them both around. “You forgot that the difference between a blessing and a curse is perspective.”
Yusef’s eyes landed on Yzabel standing before him, teeth gritted as she held the gift in her left hand, the light burning hotter than the summer sun at its pinnacle. He’d sentenced Faty to a stone and tried to use her to live forever. He tried to kill Denis, calling him soft when he was strong, and throw the realms of the Catholic Church into war.
This was for peace. Including his.
Yzabel shoved her fingers deep into his hair, dug her nails into his scalp, and shot the magic straight into his skull. Between seconds, hair withered, skin charred and fell off in ashen flakes that burned off into petals of all colors and shapes, and she didn’t let go until the light spread to every vein, every organ, every limb.
A growing flurry of flowers and vines sagged under the mounting weight to fall flat on the carpet. It jerked and spasmed until his chest faced the ceiling. The sound of cracking branches and the slithering leaves haunted the room as what had once been a chest bloated and burst.
At its center, a cradle of moss, and within it, a weeping newborn.
Dizzy and sapped of power, Yzabel fell to her knees, breathing hard, and deeply. Fatyan was immediately at her side, proportions back to normal, and together, they stared at the infant, bellowing with all the strength in his tiny lungs.
“Devils take me,” Denis let out, a hand over his heart. “Is that…”
“Yusef. Or, as you knew him, Matias.” Fatyan leaned forward to grab the baby, careful to keep her hair away from Yusef’s vicious, tiny fists. “He told you I’m an Enchanted Moura, and that much was true. But he neglected to mention that he was the one who cursed me, and that he bound himself to my hatred so he could live forever. This will keep on happening until I forgive him.”
Denis’s widened eyes blinked to Yzabel, still not quite recovered. “I saw him stab you. How…?” He gestured to both of them.
“I’ll tell you,” Yzabel said, respiration somewhat close to normal now. She stared at Yusef and touched Faty’s thigh. “Can you do it now?”
Faty set Yusef on the mossy cradle and stared intently at him as if waiting for hatred to fill her with its violent needs. Yet it was pity in her voice, when she spoke, pity and weariness. “I’ve despised you for a long time, Yusef. I hated you for telling my father that Sal and I were something other than friends, I hated you for suggesting I marry Bráfama as her, I hated you for the beatings, and the insults, and the despair you thought you were cursing me to.” She splayed her fingers on his chest, and a chubby hand started to slap it away. Unfazed, she closed her eyes, let a breath leave her, and sent the rancor along with it. “You bound yourself to me because you thought I was like you—but you underestimated Yza and how she makes people better.” She grabbed Yusef’s small hand. Green and dark brown eyes locked, and he quieted.
“For putting me in that stone, for giving Yzabel a chance to find me, for giving us what will turn out to be an eternity, I thank you, Benzedor Yusef.” Fatyan smiled. “And I forgive you.”
Yusef hiccupped, and the fingers around Faty’s fell away, a lifeless hand belonging to a lifeless gaze that withered to dust.
Faty turned to Yzabel, cheeks streaked with tears, and crashed into her waiting arms. “It’s over,” she cried, wetting her neck.
“No,” Yzabel said, looking up at Denis. “It’s not.”
Denis approached, and his presence loomed over them. His gaze surveyed the destruction, and, breathless and stunned, he asked, “What the thunder just happened?”
…
While the people outside cried for the freedom of their future queen, Yzabel told Denis everything. They sat, Yzabel and Faty on one side, him on the other, the table back upright and between them, pitcher and glasses on top.
He never interrupted her as she spoke about the blessing she’d believed a curse, about how she’d starved herself because all the food she touched turned to flowers. How her great aunt Erzsébet had the same gift before her and used it to perform a miracle years ago in Ungarie, how Brites had told her about an Enchanted Moura, and how she’d sought out a legend to put an end to her troubles, only to find out there was no way to drain the magic from her veins. How Faty had helped her see there was no curse, only a blessing from the Holy Spirit, meant to be mastered and wielded.
How Yzabel had sneaked out of the castle twice at night, feeding the people with nothing but flowers, how Matias had tried to kill her and Brites and she’d accidentally killed him instead, only to find out he was an Enchanted Mouro, too, named Yusef. How he made up the story about Brites, forcing her to be caught. How she went back inside the stone to get Fatyan back, she had become magic—and, as it turned out, immortal.
After two long breaths, Denis filled his glass with wine and took a long sip. The brown of his eyes shifted between Yzabel and Faty several times until it settled on the princess. “You women, I swear.” A defeated sigh left his shaking head. “Why don’t you tell the truth to begin with?”
“Because we’re afraid you might kill us for it,” Yzabel answered. “All I wanted was to help the Portuguese by using the gifts I’ve been given.”
His fingers shifted on the wineglass’s stem. “You resorted to deception and deceit. Made me look the fool in front of my men, my people. Had you been honest from day one, Vasco would never have perished. A death on your conscience because you refused to tell me the truth.”
“You had just dismissed Brites because she practiced the Caraju, and then locked me in my rooms! And today, a miracle transpired in your presence and your answer was to lock me in a dungeon.” The impotence wavered in her voice. “Can you blame me for being afraid of telling you the truth?”
Shame turned his head to the side and heated his sharp cheeks. “I never wanted you to be terrified of me.”
“And I never wanted to hide anything from you,” Yzabel softly admitted. “We’ve both made mistakes, but Denis… I still consider you a friend—and we can marry as friends. Or, I hope we can.” She looked up at him, pleading. “I would keep working with you to make this country better.”
He gestured toward the window, to the mob chanting her name beyond the glass and walls. “The people are obviously on your side.”
“They can be on yours, too.” Yzabel reached across the table to cover his hand with hers. “We can work for them. Together.”
He scoffed but didn’t slap her away. “You have turned them against me.”
“I turned no one against you. They’re not asking for you to be ousted, are they?”
“No, but if you suddenly disappear, they will. There might be a war, like Matias, or Yusef, or whatever he’s called, wanted.” He gave a harsh frown. “Is that not what you wanted? To trap me between two bad decisions?”
“I know being king makes you all-important, but not everything is about you, Denis.” Yzabel sighed. “I never sought to put you in a difficult position. I never sought to involve you, which is why I kept it a secret. I did not want you to have to choose between believing your wife performed a miracle and believing her a Devil’s servant.”
“Those aren’t the words of one who regrets their actions.”
“I don’t. Had I the option, I would’ve done it again.”
His downcast eyes were on their hands as he asked, “Why?”
“Because even though it didn’t last long, even though it might have cost me my life…it made their lives easier. And that’s what it was about; helping those who couldn’t help themselves. I saw a problem. I tried to fix it one way, the proper way, and couldn’t. As much as I think you can be a miser, Denis, you were right when you said we can’t pay for the food that goes in everyone’s bellies. It’d bankrupt the kingdom. So I thought around it and worked my hardest to feed them another way.”
“And in doing so, you went against the king’s orders—the penalty for which is death,” Denis finished for her.
“You’ve changed many laws already; no reason you can’t change that one.” Yzabel held her betrothed’s stare. “No reason to admit you’ve made a mistake.”
Next to her, Fatyan shifted on her seat, finally speaking after holding her silence. “If you must hold someone accountable, hold me.”
Yzabel’s head whipped toward her. “Faty, no.”
But the Moura kept speaking. “I was the one who tau
ght her how to reverse the curse she was born with, a curse she’d have hidden her entire life had it not been for me. I was the one who poisoned her mind. I was the one who brought Yusef to your doorstep. Yzabel is innocent, and all she ever wanted was to make the lives of the people a little bit better, without wasting your precious money.”
“And when Yzabel doesn’t age?” Denis cocked his head, features unamused as he slid his eyes to her. “You’ve already played your miracle card. You can’t do it again.”
“I can be her in public,” Faty said, unwavering, her features changing to Yzabel’s, then wrinkling and sagging before going back to normal.
Elbows on the table, and hands on a steeple, Denis leaned forward. “Why would you do so much for her?”
“Someone else would’ve watched the commoners starve to protect herself. But she never did.” She looked the King straight in the eye. “Yza is the best queen you could ask for. And if you’d rather sentence her to death than forgive her, then I pity you. I pity your country, because they will never have a queen that genuinely cares as much as she does.”
“I know that—why do you think this marriage contract wasn’t annulled as soon as she told me she was in love with you?”
Faty flinched, then turned to Yzabel. “He knows?”
“He asked me last night,” she answered.
“And it didn’t occur to you to tell me he’s all right with it?”
Denis sighed, once again turning to the window. “If you love the people so much, why not tell them the truth? That you can make bread out of flowers?”
“Because then it will be magic, and not everyone sees it for the blessing it is. If you doubt that, all you have to do is look to Dom Domingos.” Yzabel sighed. “It’s not a miracle if it happens every day. But I will keep on using my gifts as I have, and now that you know, we can use it together, for greater effect. And today, you just tell them the Miracle of Roses made you see you were wrong in your ways.”
A Curse of Roses Page 29