A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2)

by Yolandie Horak

  If Frank was anything like his bedroom, he valued function above all, and would use a thing until it could no longer be repaired. Nothing grandiose, nothing to indicate his position as a monarch, only things that had a purpose. Was there a reason he’d sent for Nathan to come here, to the inner sanctuary? A message?

  Nathan studied Frank.

  Frank and Cara were cut from the same pattern: the nose, the jaw, the mouth. Frank’s hair was jet black, whereas Cara’s was rich chocolate. His eyes were golden brown and not quite as wide as her blue ones, but the eyebrows were slanted in the same way.

  The pensive cast of Frank’s features as he read was so like Cara’s contemplative expression, they could have been the same person.

  But what Nathan had seen of Frank so far in terms of personality wasn’t at all like Cara. Was this how she’d have been, had she grown up as the royal she was?

  Frank lowered the report with a sigh. “It never stops. The bloody nobles are almost as bad as the emperor sometimes.”

  Nathan smirked.

  “I trust your transition into life here at Collinefort has gone well?”

  So, they’d exchange pleasantries, as though Nathan’s world wasn’t crumbling under the surface. “Everything is fine, though we do worry about Cara. There are rumours that she’s sick.”

  Frank chuckled. “If that were the case, we’d have called for Aelland’s best to attend her. No, Cara is fine. Adapting to life as a princess, which is why I’ve asked her to stay away from you, of course.”

  And there it was. Ashes. To hell with crumbling. Everything inside crashed and shattered, while the outside froze.

  Nathan suppressed a shudder. “Me.”

  “Look, I’m not going to waste breath. You seem a good-enough man, but you’re a second son. I’m not going to let her court you while I’m swimming in requests from suitors.”

  A pain shot through Nathan’s chest. “Suitors.” Had he become a thick-skulled mule, capable of responding only in single words? He’d never convince Frank he was worth more if he couldn’t manage at least some eloquence. “How, ah, many suitors are there?”

  “More than I care to count.” Frank narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t think otherwise? She’s a strain-bearing princess of Mordoux—the most valuable kind of asset in the game. The Plamondons have a son of the right age, as do the Rosseaus, and both have already reached out to me. Those are powerful houses. It’s a pity Armand Faucigny doesn’t have children, or I’d have arrange that marriage instantly.”

  They’d made a mistake in coming here. Collinefort was more dangerous for them than Aelland had been with rot and civil war combined.

  “Not that it makes a difference, to be honest,” Frank said. “The nobles will fight over her for a while but won’t influence the marriage I’ve already arranged for her.”

  Nathan balled his fists to hide their shaking. Not this. Creator, not this!

  “Were you two sexually involved?”

  “No.”

  “Good news. I doubt Cara would have had much opportunity with anyone else.” Frank scratched his chin. “Look, I know none of this can be easy to hear, and as I said, you seem like a good man. Had Cara not been a princess, I’d have been happy to let you court her. You must understand, though. Never in a million years could I ever have imagined that Cara would even find a man to fall in love with, let alone enter a relationship with one. I had to protect her.” He stuck his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a paper folded into a tight square.

  The paper was stained with dirt and blood, crumpled and smudged and likely illegible, but Cara had toyed with that tarnished sheet so many times, Nathan would recognise it anywhere: the letter she’d written to Seraphine from the slums with the reply on the back.

  “I love my sisters,” Frank said. “And I want the best for them.”

  “Will he—” Nathan cleared his voice, grasped for a surgeon’s calm once again. The incense went to his head, blocked his airways, yet it wasn’t enough. Other kinds of smoke would poke holes in the heaviness in his chest. “Will he be good to her?”

  Frank leaned back in his chair. “Yes. You’ve met him—my second in command, Dominic De la Fontaine. It’s a strong house, rich and loyal. Not as powerful as Faucigny, but good enough.”

  “And as your second in command, he knows the resistance in and out.”

  “Exactly.” Frank inclined his head. “If I were to die, he could take over. I thought Cara would still be the timid mouse I left behind in Aelland, but I couldn’t have known how she would change. So, I arranged this with Nic, thinking he’d have to lead if I died, and she’d be a figurehead queen.”

  Nathan’s voice disappeared. What could he say to this? Nothing. Pointy had said he could find a way for Nathan and Cara to be together, but Pointy hadn’t considered what the king of Mordoux had planned, away from the meddling hand of Intelligence. Or what the king might do while trapped in the palm of another meddling hand altogether.

  Even if they managed to get Cara away from here, she’d still be a princess of Mordoux. What kind of future could she and Nathan have together? He hated court life, and no matter the outcome, she was destined for just that. To play the game, outmanoeuvre nobles, and be the pretty little bird in a pretty little cage for them to gawk at.

  “Nic is a good man,” Frank said.

  “I…” Nathan shook his head. “I knew this would happen. I did. But I stupidly believed there was hope.”

  Frank frowned. “There is no hope for you and Cara.”

  There had never been. Nathan had known that from the start, and it would be better if he left. But would he give up so easily? He loved her, didn’t he? However difficult, he had to fight this. Fight for her. If they got her out of Mordoux, maybe there could be a way for them to be together.

  “Still,” Frank said, “you’re a physician, and I can use that. Would you be willing to remain and serve the resistance? If not, I’ll set you up with an escort back to Aelland. You could go home. Truth be told, that would probably be the less complicated option, as Cara would accept her fate more easily if not faced with a former romantic partner every day. But the choice is yours.”

  Practical to the bone, yet manipulative. Frank had to know Nathan couldn’t leave, despite everything. He’d stay, if only just to see her from afar.

  Nathan swallowed. “Would I stay in Collinefort?”

  Frank nodded. “Until the fighting starts in earnest when the weather improves. It’s technically spring, but the cold will continue for a few more weeks, then there’s usually a last blizzard just before temperatures rise. After that, you’ll be needed on the battlefield. I’ll see you trained, and you’ll be housed in a cottage inside the keep, outfitted, and fed. I have but one request.”

  “Which is?”

  Frank smiled. “Stay the hell away from my little sister, or someone will get hurt. Likely her. You know, heartache.”

  Was that a threat? Frank wouldn’t hurt his own sister, would he?

  Nathan bit his cheek until it bled. “Of course, your majesty.”

  Chapter 5

  Varda glared at the crossbow in the corner of her room. The weapon had done no wrong, other than the fact that it was a constant reminder of her stupid outburst at camp, and the way Frank had looked at her.

  Since their return to Collinefort, she’d remained apart from everyone else, ashamed and afraid, like a naughty child who’d had a temper tantrum. Her behaviour hadn’t been much better than a toddler’s, and all because she hadn’t said what she’d wanted to say. Vanth’s balls, Varda Ahlström, what have you done?

  The longer she left it, the deeper the divide between her and Frank would become. That was no way for an alliance to start, never mind a union. He still hadn’t apologised for the way he’d treated her the day she’d found Malak sneaking outside the keep. Nor for taking the ship she’d whittled—what had he done with that? He’d been unjust then and would probably never admit to it.

  Varda was wron
g now, for the way she’d treated Cara and for not explaining it to Frank. Maybe if he knew about Ylva and the heartache surrounding her, he’d be more tolerant. If he understood Varda as a person, if he saw her suffering, maybe they’d even grow a little closer.

  Even if they didn’t, it would be better if she could clear her conscience.

  She’d also apologise to Cara—properly—no matter how difficult. The memories unearthed in Cara’s presence were unbearable. Still, the task wouldn’t do itself. The first step was peace with Frank, then Varda would continue with Cara.

  Decided, she drew her cloak. “Come on, Blizzard.”

  The bear was curled up in front of the fireplace. He gave a yawn and half-lifted his head.

  She sniffed. “Fine, stay. I’m going to talk to Frank.”

  He grunted as she left.

  The council room was deserted, so she found Nic in the courtyard and asked after Frank.

  “You’d best not go now,” Nic said. “He’s with Physician Cutter in his suite.”

  “Why?”

  Nic shrugged. “I must warn you, though, Frank is in a mood. If you’re going to pick a fight with him, I’d reschedule.”

  Varda swatted his arm. “I want to apologise, if you must know.”

  “You could wait and see if he wants to see you.”

  “Thanks.”

  He paused. “Do you want to meet up at the tavern tonight? We could drink away whatever happens today.”

  As a friend? Nic was much nicer than all the other Mordians, and they’d shared a moment back at camp, so maybe this would be good. “See you then.”

  “Great. And good luck with Frank.” Nic waved, then left.

  Varda took the way to Frank’s suite. She sat on the bench in the hall and glanced at his door every few seconds. When Cutter finally emerged, he was pale and rigid, and left down the far hallway.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea if people came out of there looking like that.

  Stalling would do more harm than good. Was she a weak fingerling, or a draugr fish? She rolled her neck, then crossed to the door and raised her hand to knock, but stopped when Frank’s voice sounded.

  He was alone in his quarters; Cutter had just left. Malak was with Cara, Nic elsewhere, and no one had entered, unless Varda had been struck momentarily blind. Interesting.

  Varda pressed her ear to the door, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the noises within. She couldn’t make out individual words—the soundproofing in the room accounted for that—but there seemed to be a second voice. Alone in his quarters, but having a conversation with someone who hadn’t entered through the only door? Varda couldn’t help but grin. Had she caught Frank in conversation with his spymaster?

  “What have we here?”

  Varda yanked her head away from the door.

  Nita stood a few paces from her, smiling in that lopsided manner she seemed to love.

  Upon meeting her, Varda had thought Nita pretty, but in the golden afternoon light, pretty was too small a word.

  She wore black. Form-fitting and low-cut, though not much of her chest was visible other than bandages and a band of discoloured skin near her collarbone. The paleness of her neck was splotched with red under her thick, woollen coat.

  A pair of medium-brown braids hung over her shoulders, their ends tied with strips of leather just below her ample breasts. Intelligence glittered in tawny eyes—her most attractive quality, besides her plump body.

  Gorgeous? Stunning? Blessed Ehrd, Nita was flawless.

  She spoke softly. “That room is soundproof, but if you really want to know what he’s saying, I can help.”

  Varda regarded Nita for a moment. Beautiful but treacherous. She remained a spy, and her business was studying and exploiting people. Could she be trusted? She seemed nothing if not straightforward. Honest. As a member of Mordian Intelligence, this honesty was probably faked—no more than an endearing quality to garner trust with potential allies or sources of information.

  But if she could truly make it possible for them to hear what Frank was saying…

  “All right,” Varda said.

  “Just do me one favour first?”

  Varda arched her eyebrows.

  “Scratch my back for me? This thing is so itchy.” Nita yanked at her coat.

  A strange request, and a waste of time. What Frank was saying in that room was important. More peculiar was the way Varda’s heart bounced around, the way her fingers trembled.

  “Fine.” Why had she said that?

  Nita turned and shifted down the coat.

  The colourful lines of a tattoo peeked out from under the bandages, right between her shoulder blades. A firebird. To study the tattoo without the clothes would be— Varda shook her head and scratched Nita’s back until she smirked over a bare shoulder and righted the coat.

  “This way.” Nita’s round hips swayed as she walked. She was sensual in a way Malak could only dream of. Effortless.

  Vanadis’s teats, Ahlström! Get over yourself.

  Nita glanced up and down the hall, then entered a room two doors down from Frank’s. She winked, pointing at a tapestry on the wall. “You just have to know your history. This is Sebastien the Third. Whenever you find a tapestry or painting of a third-named king, you have a way in.”

  She pulled the fabric aside to reveal a stone wall.

  Varda arched an eyebrow.

  Nita grinned, then shifted the wall out of the way in slow, calculated movements.

  Not stone at all—wood painted to resemble stone with such detail that nobody would notice, had they not been looking. A dark passage opened behind it, and cold air rushed out.

  “I’ll lead you,” Nita whispered. “From now on, not a sound.”

  “Aye.”

  Nita ducked into the passage.

  Varda inhaled then followed.

  The shadows devoured all light. Varda could see nothing, not Nita, not her own fingers. What now?

  Nita’s hand clamped around hers.

  How did she know of this place? She’d been here only a few days.

  There would be time for questions later. First, Frank and his spymaster. Varda squeezed Nita’s hand and followed in the direction she was tugged.

  The tunnels were without smell or sound, the chill so profound, Varda’s nose ran. She dared not sniff, and instead dabbed at her nostrils with her frozen fingers. She’d suspected listening holes in the meeting room, but these tunnels were vast. Probably connected all the rooms in the castle.

  They’d gone about forty paces when Nita stopped. A sliver of dappled light opened in the dark like a beacon. A listening hole. Varda shifted closer, her cheek pressed to Nita’s.

  “—wouldn’t you consider letting Cara continue her medical studies?” Frank said. “If the emperor is rounding up physicians, maybe having one of our own could be fruitful.”

  “We have other physicians,” a woman said. Her voice was old, possibly sick. The spymaster, at last.

  What could the emperor want with physicians? Ah, but what else? A cure for the plague.

  Frank grunted. “You didn’t see Cara out there, stitching up Cutter’s wound. She was good. Really good. And she’s studied so hard—”

  “She might as well have studied ash. Or smoke. That’s what her studies have amounted to. I’ll not have her waste more time on this fruitless pursuit.”

  “Dammit, Grandmama, see it my way,” Frank said. “She’s still my sister, and I hate what you’re making me do to her. I just want to give her something to convince her to not hate us when this is over.”

  What was she making him do to Cara? And Grandmama? He’d said his spymaster was a woman who’d run a household and had raised the children. He’d neglected to mention he was one of those children.

  “And she’s still my little one. She won’t hate us, Francois,” the spymaster said. “This is for her own good. For yours. Your betrothed has caused enough problems—”

  “You could fix that if you app
lied yourself.”

  “I could,” she said. “But why would I want to?”

  “Because I’ve begged you and am still begging you. Because of the Dvarans, the Elions finally want to ally with us.”

  “Why would we ally with them now?” she said. “We must wait. We have too many foreigners as it is.”

  “All right. Then because the Dvarans have strengthened the resistance, and even you can’t deny that.”

  “Bah.”

  “You’re really being difficult today.”

  “I’m on edge, boy, and rightly so. The son of my boiling enemy is in my house, badgering my people. Carabelle is here, traumatised near insanity, and under this very enemy’s spell. Who knows what lies he’s told her? Du Pont is dangerous. Much more than you give him credit for. Put him in front of a firing squad, before you squander away what I’ve spent a lifetime building for you.”

  He groaned. “I’m not squandering anything away, and I don’t trust Du Pont—but the people do. The legends surrounding his family are still strong. I’d lose too much faith if I executed him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a plan.”

  “A plan?”

  “It’s easy, really. We just need to defame him a little.”

  Nita’s palm was sweaty. Her fingers were locked in place, and her arm did not bend when Varda tried to move.

  “Easy.” The spymaster tsked.

  “As for Cara,” Frank continued, “let her finish her apprenticeship.”

  “No,” the spymaster said.

  “But—”

  “Keep pushing me, Francois, and I won’t believe you’re truly sorry about the Dvaran.”

  “Please, Grandmama. I’m begging you to intervene. You made your point with that village—really. But we both know the resistance will crumble if they leave now. We need them. I can’t stand Varda, but I’ll marry her for my kingdom. All you have to do is blackmail a few lords.”

  Son of a whore! Varda’s blood turned black. If he’d just tried to get to know her, they could be friends, if nothing more. A small voice accused her at the same time. If she put in more effort it wouldn’t be so difficult for him to like her.