When we arrived at the palace, my escort—a full squadron of heavily armed guards—brought me inside through the back, away from prying eyes. My lips turned up slightly at the soldiers surrounding me. They were not to protect me, but to protect the king from me. The king, my father, was afraid. And he had every reason to be.
Inside, the palace was lavish, the latest style dripping from the walls and saturating the floor with expensive rugs and banners, jewels and tapestries, all leading to the throne on its dais—all the warmth trying to hide the cold beneath. The chamber was resplendent with so many bright colors that they would be burned into my eyes for several minutes after I left.
The king finally made an appearance, and I saw what my poison had already done to him in such a short time. He had lost weight, so much so that the skin hung off his bones. He had no fat or muscle left on him. His back was bowed, his body not strong enough anymore to support him. His face was gray and wan, and his dark eyes had the dull shine of death to them.
I tried to keep my glee to a minimum as I curtsied. “My king, such an honor to be in your presence,” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “How,” I added, attempting to keep the anger out of my tone, “may I assist you?”
“I need—” he began before dissolving into a coughing fit. One of his attendants brought him a glass of water, and he drank using his own hands, even though they shook. He wore his crown, and had his faithful trident at his side, trying to show his worried servants that he was still strong enough to rule. The servant by Father’s side flicked his frightened gaze to me. To them he was good, and I was the spawn of evil. They didn’t see what he hid inside.
The king’s coughing subsided, and he said, “I need an antidote. I have been poisoned.”
My eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “Oh? By whom?” I laced the question with power. I wanted to see the torture on his face as he spoke his answer.
He struggled to utter the words. His face twitched in agony, and he finally said in a strained tone, “My son. My son did this to me.”
“I see,” I said. I noticed Christophe’s absence, an absence not unlike a large hole in the floor, but said nothing. Time enough for that later. I stepped closer to examine him, but one of my escorts stepped in my path, blocking my view of the king, my father. Triton. “I need to look at him if I am to determine what ails him,” I told the guard drily.
“Let her through,” Triton murmured. The soldier frowned at me, suspicious. He should have been. But he let me through, and I sauntered past, up to the dais. I made a show of examining him before I pulled a vial of liquid out of my bag. It was vaguely red, and resembled blood.
“You must drink this, M’lord, if you are to be well,” I said, holding it out to him.
His hand reached out, yet he hesitated. “Do you tell me the truth?” he asked, his voice querulous as an old, dying man’s.
I could feel his power, faint, but there, in his tone. He did not have much, but I had seen him command armies through his words alone. And he would be able to tell when I lied.
“Of course, M’lord. If you take this potion, it will allow you to live for many more years.”
He nodded, satisfied, took the vial, and swallowed the potion in three gulps. As I watched, I clenched my fists. I was not my mother, who attempted to kill the king in broad daylight, among his soldiers and attendants, in a fit of rage.
No, I thought, as King Triton coughed and straightened, before pain deepened the lines of his face, my anger simmered slowly, allowing me to scheme, to prepare the ultimate punishment. Father screamed in excruciating, biting pain, his body writhing in the chair. I watched his pain with vicious satisfaction and a cruel grin spread across my face. I had told him he would live many more years. I had not said he would live those years in happiness.
The room fell into chaos. My father’s attendants rushed to him, one calling for a doctor. The soldiers swarmed me and I laughed as one grabbed me by the arm and screamed as my magic hit him. He dropped to the floor unconscious. Triton stopped writhing, his body prone on the floor; his eyes, however, were clear, and they were filled with fury along with the pain.
“Did you think,” I spat, “that I would help you after you killed my mother? After you disowned us and left us to rot? I have damned you, King Triton. And I regret nothing.” Forget us? No. Thanks to me, he would always remember.
“Take her,” he told his guards, his voice laced with pain.
Ah, but I had no intention of allowing such a thing. I flung my arms out as I shouted a spell and all the soldiers went flying from a rush of wind. They landed on the floor, slammed into the walls, and all fell unconscious.
“I do not want you dead, Father,” I said. “I only want you to understand the suffering of my mother, of me, of my sister. Every day, tenfold.” The potion had been laced with his own blood and magic, and so would loop back on itself. It would never end, not until his death.
But my work was not yet finished.
More guards were called. I could hear their feet stomping the ground, but I could not let them catch me. Morgan needed me. I would not leave her alone. Ever. So I ran.
But my father was smart, and he had managed to kill my mother, who was a powerful witch in her own right. A soldier, hidden in the shadows, jumped out from behind me and slammed something into my head. I knew no more.
***
Today, Early Morning
I woke with a start, finding myself upright, something solid pressing against my back. Sunlight speared my eyes and I squinted, my eyes watering, so at first I could not see much of my surroundings, but I heard the scuff of a foot here, a murmur there. A dark form stood in front of me and I realized it was a guard. I frowned. What had happened? My head pounded and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth it was so dry. I blinked several times until the dark form took the shape of a man, who tied off the final knot in the ropes binding me. I tugged my arms but the ropes held fast around me, squeezing so tightly against my skin I could already feel the bruises they created.
The guard looked up at my struggling, and he swallowed. To his credit, he didn’t jump back, but it was a near thing. “I’m sure you’re familiar with this, miss?” he asked.
Fear shivered through me as my nose remembered the scent of Mother’s burning flesh. I searched for the well of magic inside me, ready to break free, to run, but I found nothing. Nothing at all.
Cold fury enveloped me and I screamed, fighting to find even a drop of magic. Nothing. What had they done to me?
The courtyard had gone eerily quiet, the crowd waiting to see what I would do. The guard stepped back, hands raised in placation. He glanced down and to the side, then back up, not meeting my eyes. He cleared his throat, nodded, and hurried off the wooden platform that had been seared into my memory since I was fourteen. My skin felt strange and I turned my gaze to my arm, ignoring the bodies packed around me for a moment, fidgeting and shuffling against each other, impatient and afraid. Glittery paste covered my skin, and it felt heavy and damp, creating a constant chill, even though the sun’s rays, though soft from the early morning, beat down on me from above. What was this?
Shaken, I looked around, finally taking in the presence of the crowd. Despite my fear, my lips quirked up at the sight of them, all pressed together, wearing looks of anger and revulsion for a person they knew nothing about, cursing me for being a witch, for being horrible. And yet they were hardly any different from me. The difference was the law gave them permission, whereas I did not have that same permission.
The thought amused me so much I began laughing. The courtyard was set up as a play, the king on his throne, looking down on me as if I were so much dirt, and the mob waiting to sling insults at me and watch with excitement as I died. The guards surrounding the structure to ensure no one could interfere with my royally sanctioned death held their weapons tightly and gave each other anxious glances as
I laughed and looked up at the wooden post they had tied me to, the thick piece of wood sticking up into the sky, as if pointing out where I should be going instead of where I knew I would go when I died.
When I finished, the crowd emitted so much noise, a wall of horror and venom. If I had bothered to speak, I would not have been able to hear myself.
The king held up a single hand, and everyone quieted at once. They watched him, captivated, as if he held the secrets to the very reason of the world. They loved this man, but they did not understand. They did not know him like I did.
“Sea Witch,” King Triton intoned, “you have committed crimes against this kingdom. How do you plead?”
I smirked. If I was going to die, I was going to do it spectacularly. “Well, I am trussed up like a turkey, so I would assume you know the answer to that. Tell me,” I said, raising my voice when I heard grumbling, “what happened to your dear son? Did you kill him for trying to make you see reason? Or perhaps because he poisoned you in a misguided attempt to protect you?”
Murmurs ran through the crowd, worry mixed with fear and confusion. Many of them knew and liked Christophe.
The king’s lips drew into a thin line, and his expression was grim. His eyes narrowed. He clearly hadn’t wanted me to say that, and was wishing he had a spell to take my voice away. Hmm...now that would be an interesting spell. I tucked the thought away for later.
“You are a liar, witch,” he said finally. I snorted. Words spoken could not be taken away. They were in the air, floating on the wind. His eyes flicked to those around him and he sighed, though his eyes were hard. “However, everyone, even you, deserves last words. Have you anything to say before you die?”
There were many things I could have said then. I could have pleaded for Morgan, professed my innocence. But I did neither of those things. I had done what I wanted. I’d put the thought in their heads. And while they might not think anything of it now, sooner or later something would happen that would make them think of my words, and they would remember what I said. They would remember betrayal.
My heart was a hard knot in my chest but I said the last words that needed to be said. “Only that the game has begun. I can’t wait to play.”
My executioner lit a match and set the wood and straw around me aflame.
***
The heat grew in intensity very quickly, the flame eating at the straw as if starved and moving onto the wood with greedy fingers and tongues. I pulled at my bindings, but they were too tight around my wrists and arms. Sweat poured down my back and I tried to school my expression. If one must play the part of evil, one must never show fear, even though that fear be as quick as the fire in eating my thoughts so I could not even decide how to rescue myself. The smoke wafted up and I coughed.
Smoke billowed around me as the flames grew, soot catching on my skin as I wheezed and hacked. I could not die like this. I still had work to do, and little Morgan to look after. The scent of singed hair reached me and my throat convulsed. I locked my jaw so I did not vomit. The fire licked at my boots to see how they tasted, the leather beginning to burn and sizzle. I tried to move my feet away from the fire, but it was no use. Anger and fear were a volatile mixture inside me threatening to burst out on a helpless scream. My body was slick with sweat and covered with soot, the fire was smothering me, and the paste was smearing, rubbing off from my struggles and the fire and—wait.
The paste was wearing off. And I felt the smallest trickle of magic.
Hope burst inside me as I felt some of my power coming back to me, flowing in my veins the same as blood. It flickered in and out, but it was enough. I cast a spell to unbind the ropes tied around my wrists and all down my chest and waist and they fell into the flames, devoured and never to be seen again. Still coughing, I jumped forward and landed on my hands and knees in the crowd. They screamed and scrambled back, afraid of the witch without the assurance of bindings to entrap her. They were all fools. These people had no idea what a real witch was capable of.
I forced myself to stand. It would not do to appear to cower in front of them. I tested my magic with a flick of my fingers and the fire died down some. I smiled and turned to the king, who’d stood, leaning heavily on his trident.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” I muttered, not bothering to raise my voice over the din as people ran every which way. Another flick of my fingers and I encouraged the fire to grow and grow and grow. It became a bonfire, snapping at the air and pawing at the ground as it sought further purchase on the earth. It found what it looked for, twigs and dry leaves, and spread outward. My heart pounded and my head ached from pushing myself so much when my full powers were not even back, but I did not care. I hurried the fire along, reaching farther and farther out, gobbling up the city, perfect fodder to feed its rage and hunger, until it hit the forest line. There, my magic faltered, but the damage was done.
More screams reached my ears, cries for water, soldiers, parents, family, life. I lived in a bubble of quiet as chaos escalated around me. And then I saw the soldiers running towards me. I pulled up my skirts and disappeared. I couldn’t let them catch me again.
***
Today, Afternoon
Morgan hid behind me as the horses pounded against the ground, kicking up sand and disturbing the air, the peace of this place, by their presence. The king was at the front of the hunting party. He looked tired, drawn, his skin tight around his face. His hair was slowly turning gray, even though he was not yet old enough.
He stopped ten paces from me, the rest of his squadron behind him. He sat on his horse, as regal as he ever was. But his lips were pinched, his fists were shaking, and he looked like he was one second away from falling off his horse.
“Why have you done this?” he roared, even though it had to have hurt.
“You still ask that?” I asked, anger beating against my chest in time with my heartbeat.
“I am a good king,” he said, as if he was desperate to redeem himself in my eyes somehow.
“Yes, you are. It is far different, however, from being a good man.” He had taken care of his kingdom, his wife and son, loved them all. But he had never taken care of us, never loved us. “Why?” I found myself asking. I had thought I did not care about the answer, but I did. “Why have you never wanted us? We are your blood, just as Christophe is.”
Triton let out a croak of a laugh. “Bastards are mistakes to be remedied or forgotten. They don’t warrant love.” The words, so filled with scorn, were like a slap to the face. Fear and disgust filled his eyes and his lip curled, but he didn’t seem to be looking at me. I frowned. I had known he was afraid of us, afraid of the danger we represented to his crown and his power. But in that moment I saw something more, and it made me grip Morgan’s hand all the tighter. It wasn’t just hate for me. It was hate for himself. He hated that he was like us, that he was drawn to people like us. He could have gone to his physician when he fell sick, but instead he had come to me. Had it been some kind of compulsion? Something in the blood that demanded to be acknowledged?
My father dismounted, and he fell to his knees, coughing and wheezing. The pain was etched in his skin, a mark he would never be able to wash away. After a few moments, he stood, swaying. His soldiers dismounted as well, but he held up a hand to keep them back.
“You hate what you are.” He used his gifts so often, and yet he hated them. Christophe was safer—he didn’t have a lick of power, but Morgan and I were reminders of the kind of man he didn’t want to be, so he tried to erase us. “I won’t let you forget,” I said quietly. The words were a promise. The betrayal of every single one of his children would ensure he remembered.
“You will not win, witch,” he said, drawing his sword. It trembled in his grip, dipped toward the ground. “Evil never wins.”
Régine, I wanted to shout in frustration. My name is Régine!
“Ah, but what is good or ev
il, Father? What is the real truth?” I did not tell him I had already won, because it was obvious. Pain pinched his lips and the dark circles had overtaken his eyes, making him look like a shadow of what he had been. It would take him a long time to understand the truth. I intended to help him with that.
I pushed Morgan farther behind me and calmed my racing heart, readying myself for the challenge that still lay ahead. We were exactly where I wanted us to be. I had prepared this spell over a year ago, had woven bits of it into the sand, the sea, the air. Into the trees, the rocks, the roots inside the earth. Half of the kingdom would be lost, but that was a sacrifice I was willing to make. After this, he would always remember. He would not be able to be rid of his children, his blood, ever again. I would make sure he could never hide from himself again.
I called to the spells I’d placed around us, activated them, and like puzzle pieces, everything began to fit together. The ground started to shift, frightening the horses, but Father refused to show fear.
He wanted to be the perfect example for his people. But he was only human. I would be there to remind him of that too.
“You will have four more children with your loving wife,” I called out above the horrible grinding sound, as if a wheel or engine were being ripped apart. “One of these children,” I prophesied, “will forsake you. And when that day comes, she will come to me.” And I would welcome the girl with open arms. I knew which girl it would be, but I wanted that to be a surprise for dear Father. “This child,” I went on, “will be your downfall.”
The look on his face was priceless. In the end, all his children would betray him, but this way he would have to wonder which one. Every night he would lay awake, the paranoia, the doubt, and the fear eating away at him. Let him love and hate all his children. The powerful king would never rest easy again.
Before the horses arrived, I’d dunked myself in the sea, washing away the remains of the hideous paste that had snuffed out my magic. Now I spread my arms and cast one spell after another. Triton lunged, scoring my upper arm so blood welled, but he landed hard and fell into the surf at my feet. My father, like me, refused to stay in that position, and rose clumsily to his feet, his breathing harsh. The soldiers came to his aid, meaning to attack me, but they had bigger problems now.
The Big Bad II Page 10