“You really don’t know?” Vendla shook her head. “Gods, girl, what has become of you? This is how you’ll lead Dvara? Forgetting your own religion and customs? It’s almost time for the Mating.”
Varda’s cheeks caught flame, but she held herself straight. She’d forgotten about the day their bears would choose mates. With Blizzard, she didn’t have to worry about pregnancy and cubs—a birth was a clear sign that the other bears would soon mate—but the onset of spring usually informed her that the big day approached. With this prolonged winter, who could tell if the Mating was near?
How many cubs had last season’s Mating offered? She couldn’t ask without revealing how little she knew. No matter what she tried to blame for her forgetfulness, a certain pair of ripe, round hips and the way they swayed was the greatest source of Varda’s distraction.
She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Ah, when?”
“Ten days.” Olaf’s voice was far-off. “There will be fox fires to mark the night.”
“Blizzard will be there,” Varda said.
Vendla put her elbows on her knees and rested her head on her fists. “So will Skjold.”
Varda laughed.
“Problem?” Vendla glanced at her from the corner of her eye.
“Not at all, Mother. It’s just that Skjold’s a bit old for this sort of thing, don’t you think?”
Olaf, however, stared down his nose at Vendla with that smoke-induced vacancy in his gaze, head cocked back. Sweat ran down his paint-smeared skin in rivulets, lifting the pigment and depositing it elsewhere. “Skjold, Skjold, Skjold…” He hummed and chanted, now fast then slow, words and melodies bunching together to lose all meaning.
He reached into a chest for a bunch of herbs and set the ends alight, then moved around the interior to spread the smoke.
Vendla closed her eyes and drew a deep breath of the stuff when Olaf passed.
Varda clenched her jaw and did the same as Olaf neared her. Acrid yet fruity smoke smouldered in her lungs, and another breath clouded her thoughts.
The more she breathed, the more her surroundings blurred. She held out her hand, palm up, and waited for Blizzard to press his muzzle to her skin.
She didn’t wait long, then everything changed as he transported her to the realm of visions.
Varda saw herself standing on a hill between Frank and Nita. Frank held one hand, Nita the other, and they pulled and pulled until Varda’s arms snapped off. Malak was there, just in front of them, wearing a dress of flowing blood. She pressed a knife to her throat and laughed as she slit herself open.
The scene shifted to black. Spiderwebs fell on Varda from above, and she was tangled in them, but they weren’t spiderwebs, they were chunks of hair. Braids snaked around her ankles and arms, held her in place, but she struggled and struggled until she was free, then ran and collided with her mother.
Vendla held two new-born bear cubs in her arms while Skjold birthed a third. Three? But—
The white doe called from where she grazed in the distance. She always edged Vendla’s visions, watching, waiting. For what, though? A trickle of blood ran from the doe’s neck, thin and shiny as a red ribbon, and snaked across the ground into a thicket behind her. Was there a fawn in the bushes? The blood formed a tether to whatever lurked behind the leaves.
Varda reached to ask Vendla about it.
The ground rocked and shook and split between them into a yawning chasm. “Mother!” Varda called, but Vendla was too caught up with the third cub to notice.
Cara and a blond woman appeared next to Vendla, hands joined and smiling.
Cara glanced at Varda, her pupils sharp and vertical, like those of a cat. Golden scales glinted on her skin, and smoke erupted from her nostrils. She opened her mouth to reveal small, sharp teeth.
“Help me!” Varda screamed, and Cara reached out, but she was too far.
Varda scrambled off a falling rock, back, back, farther from her mother. Alone.
But she wasn’t alone. A warm bundle squirmed in her arms—a baby? Pitch black hair and eyes that were grey, too wise for a thing so small, a thing with gooey, pink gums. The eyes were hers. Her father’s. Ylva’s.
The child screeched, but Varda did nothing. She watched herself frown down at the baby.
Nathan Cutter appeared close to Varda and fell into the chasm. Nita materialised and reached out for him, screaming. Varda glanced at the baby, then hurled it at Nita and dove into the chasm after Cutter.
Blizzard broke their contact with a growl, and Varda groaned. Waves of nausea came with the sensation of her soul slamming back into her body.
Both Olaf and Vendla were staring at her.
The tent twirled around Varda, the chair tilted beneath her, and she threw up over one of the canvas walls.
“You saw it, too?” Olaf asked. “The third cub?”
As though that was the most important part of the vision. “Yes.” Varda’s voice was hoarse.
“Skjold will mate, chief-queen.” Olaf stood. “The time has come.”
Varda vomited again then frowned at Vendla.
Vendla nodded. “When I was young, our gothi predicted this day. Prepare for war, girl. Everything is about to change.”
There it was again, this long-outstanding prophecy of Vendla’s. Only this time, it feels more dangerous than ever. Gods preserve us.
Chapter 15
Sera wriggled out from Victor’s embrace. He snored in protest but did not wake.
Since the first time they’d had sex, they hadn’t stopped. Sera now slept in Victor’s suite at his request, but she still wasn’t at home there. Or in his arms. The frequency with which they went to bed increased as Richard’s illness became worse.
Meanwhile, Sera’s repulsion towards Victor grew as his adoration for her soared, and if there was a quickening in her belly, no female instinct informed her of the fact. So many women had giggled about how they just knew when they were pregnant. Sera would pay good money for the same additional sense.
She slipped into her robe and left Victor’s suite on silent feet.
The green guard fell in behind her.
Thatcher took his position outside the door of her frilly pink suite while Laura bathed and dressed her. Sera’s reflection at the dressing table looked old and exhausted. Makeup barely improved her appearance.
In years prior, she’d be up to her elbows in preparations for a banquet—it was Sprouttide, the festival of the harvest. This year, Aelland was sick. During the next few weeks, the harvest would take place, but with so many farmworkers ill, who would do the reaping? Who would distribute the produce?
Victor meant less than ever. He could ride her well enough, but apparently couldn’t manage much else. So, Sera contended with George to take over everything on Richard’s work pile. George was no idiot, but his ruling style was without finesse, too blunt to do good, and she certainly had no time to teach him the alternatives. Nor did she want to. If what Intelligence believed was true, and he was a member of the Sanctus Sect, she had greater reason to remove him from the line of succession. Forcibly, if needed.
Laroche helped where he could, even if that amounted to keeping George occupied. Though Sera wouldn’t admit it to Laroche, his aid comforted her. As did his presence, but that was another thing she didn’t tell him.
Every spare thought was divided between him and Cara.
Laroche the father, the killer. Whenever she thought she couldn’t possibly unearth another moment in which he’d terrorised her to keep her safe, one would pop up in her memory. He’d tried, even when she hadn’t known he’d been trying, but she’d pushed him away.
She wanted to talk it out with him, but how? And, what if he chose Cara over her? His blood.
And Cara, off in Mordoux, trying to find Frank to save Aelland. What if Celestine had cultivated Frank’s darkness, and he wouldn’t be the ally Cara hoped to find? What if Frank used Cara? Hurt her? Sera’s conviction in the reality of her fear grew. Maybe it was no more th
an paranoia, but hadn’t Celestine raised her to be paranoid? Which led to another concern. Once, while Sera had been queen of a safe kingdom, she’d told Cara to be a queen. But would sweet, quiet Cara be able to handle what Sera now faced? Would she be able to rule amid the chaos? Maybe Cara wasn’t suited for this life after all.
“Magnus wants to see you, majesty.” Laura pulled a pencil out of her hair bun and gathered her notepad and schedule from the small table by the door. “He’s already in the waiting room.”
“Of course.” Sera stood. She’d wanted to ask Laura something. What was it? She frowned, then shook her head. “Did Kida come last night?”
“No, my queen, but I refilled her bowl. She was here to eat, at least.”
A shiver slipped down Sera’s spine. “Thank you, darling.” Kida refused to sleep in Victor’s suite. Maybe she was as disturbed by what went on in there as Sera. Where did she go, though?
Laura gave Sera’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sure she’s fine, my queen.”
“Probably.” Sera pushed down the flutters in her throat and smiled. “Let’s see Magnus.”
Laura and Thatcher shared a secret smile—which was what Sera had wanted to ask about. But the way they peeked at each other, then looked away, suggested they wanted to keep whatever was blooming between them secret. Laura would talk when she was ready, and Sera had enough to worry about as it was.
The palace was deserted. These halls had always been bursting with nobles, guards, and immaculate staff members, but after the Court Assassin’s return, their presence had dwindled. Now that the people knew the palace hadn’t been spared of rot, even staff members stayed away.
For the first time since Sera had come to live there, the vases lining shelves and tables hadn’t been filled with fresh, sweet-smelling flowers. Shrivelled petals littered the floor, and bent-necked stalks and leaves had gone from vibrant emerald to a shade of green dark enough to border on black, stinking of decay. Dust glittered in front of the windows and settled on surfaces. Mirrors were dull, portraits hung askew.
Aside from Sera and Laura’s clacking heels and the guard’s stomps, the whisper of steam in pipes had become loud and eerie. Where was the soft murmur of voices? The distant sound of music? The grand piano in one of the intersections between hallways was closed, covered.
Once, Sera had been adept at playing the piano. The instrument had been her compass and the melodies she’d created, her map. With music, she’d navigated the darkest times in her life. Celestine’s death had put an end to that. Sera hadn’t played in years.
Her steps faltered. In fact, she hadn’t even sung lately. Even when she hadn’t played piano, she’d loved to sing. Nothing had been able to take the music from her. Yet, the song in her soul, such an integral part of her, was quiet.
Maybe she shouldn’t let it fade.
***
Magnus sat on a couch in the waiting room, flanked by two physicians. They stood then bowed. One was the orange-maned Jerry Scrivenor, and the other a towering Sudriahn with pitch-black eyes and hair, as well as a broad forehead. Had she met him somewhere? Something about his face sparked a memory, but Sera had no recollection of a name to accompany the face.
They looked exhausted. The physicians and apprentices worked their fingers to the bone at the quarantine camps, and their numbers were dwindling. Initially, the healers had remained strong, but as they were increasingly overworked and exposed to ever-growing lines of infected, they also became ill. What would happen when the healers were all dead?
Magnus held a black cane with a silver orb at the top in his right hand. He leaned on it so heavily that the rubberised end vibrated on the tiles. The whites of his eyes were muddy yellow, and a vein had burst to form a pool of blood around his left iris. His jowls perked up, but nothing whimsical lit his face. The stale stench of illness laced his breath.
Sera took his free hand and led him back to the couch. “Creator, Magnus, you look terrible.”
His eyebrows rose then fell. “Just a bit tired, my queen. Which is why I’ve brought on these two strapping boys. You’ve met Professor Jerry Scrivenor, and this is Physician Ahmed El-Amin.”
She narrowed her eyes as she held out her hand to him. “El-Amin? I know you from somewhere.”
He kissed her hand. “I mean no disrespect, majesty, but I would have remembered if we had been introduced.”
Laura leaned closer. “He was at the library with Bullard, my queen. When we went to research Mordian customs for Carnival.”
Sera nodded. “Of course. You were arguing with the old bat about rot. Or she was arguing with you. How is she? Safe from all of this?”
“Last I heard, majesty,” El-Amin said.
“Good.” She knelt by Magnus and held both his hands in hers.
He tried to push her away, but she held fast. “Please, majesty, you can’t kneel—”
“Hush,” she said. “You’re not well, and I can kneel whenever I damn well choose to. What did you want to see me about?”
Magnus rolled back his head, eyes shut. “It’s not good. Ahmed was one of the first physicians to deal with rot, and Jerry is one of the brightest minds in Aelland. But despite their expertise and my experience, we’ve made no progress with Prince Richard. We have amputated some of the diseased tissue, we have given a great variety of medications—even some we’ve tried for the first time.”
Her insides froze. “He isn’t going to make it.”
Magnus shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll survive the night.”
Salamander’s spit, it would happen. George would become king.
“There might still be hope,” Scrivenor said. “We’ve seen patients looking far worse and still make it. Initially, we had no luck with reviving patients who were infected after coming into contact with fluids. That has since changed. Some people survive, no matter how they were infected.”
She looked at Magnus, who gave his head a small shake.
Sera raised his hands and pressed her forehead to his knuckles. “Thank you for all you’ve done. You don’t have to worry. Go home. Rest. I’ll tell Victor.”
“I’ll stay to the end.”
“As shall I,” Ahmed said.
“And me.” Jerry shifted to the other foot.
“Thank you.” Sera rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see the king.”
***
Victor was still in bed. Naked. He smelled of sweat and sex, sheets stained beneath him. He didn’t look up until Sera stopped by the side of the bed.
She put on her best queen’s face, free of anything she felt. “I just spoke to Magnus and two of his colleagues. They say Richard isn’t likely to survive the night.”
Victor whined, and his eyes filled with tears. He opened his arms to her.
Not again. Sera shuddered yet lowered herself to the bed. Allowed him to unbutton her dress. Allowed him to make a mess of her carefully made-up face and styled hair. He rolled her to her stomach, each breast cupped in a hand, and came at her from behind—a blessing, since she didn’t have to control her expression.
While he grunted and moved, she wept.
Creator please, let this be the day. Let us make an heir.
***
Sera wasn’t sure why she stopped in front of Laroche’s door. Her hair was still wet from her shower, her face bare, dress rumpled. She resembled no queen. Laroche would know something was wrong—he always knew. He’d probably comment on her state. At least, he would have in the past.
What would she say to him? Nobody could do anything to change Aelland’s fate. Despite it all, she wanted to be in there.
She reached to knock twice, but her hand hovered in mid-air, then dropped. Her head prickled where her guard, Thatcher, and Laura watched on from behind.
“Go on, my queen,” Laura said. “I’ll see that you’re not disturbed.”
Sera nodded then entered.
Laroche rose from the chaise and dropped the papers in his hand. “Majesty, what happened?”<
br />
Always majesty. Sera’s voice shook. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
“Please, sit.” He motioned to the chaise he’d just occupied.
Like her current suite, his didn’t suit him at all. The chaise was peach, for Creator’s sake, and the décor included flowers, lace, and fruit. His old suite had been styled in stone greys and navies. Stripes and leather. Did he feel as out of place as she did? Would he understand?
Her every muscle itched to edge into the crook of his arm. Just one hug from her father. She sat and hid her face in her hands.
He remained a few steps away but dropped to his knees. “Please, majesty. Tell me what happened.”
“Magnus says Richard won’t live to see morning.” And no matter how she tried, it still didn’t seem her fool of a husband had given her the child she needed to save Aelland. Other women spoke of tender breasts, heartburn, or nausea only days after conception. Sera hadn’t experienced any of that.
“I see.”
Her cheeks heated. “Do you?” She snorted.
His neck went rigid, jaw locked. “Is this about the king?”
Perceptive as always.
“Does he—” His nostrils hissed as he inhaled. “Does he hurt you?”
She couldn’t keep tears from welling in her eyes. “No. He doesn’t much care for my satisfaction, but he doesn’t hurt me. It’s consensual.”
He rolled his neck then shook out his shoulders, arms, hands. Whatever stiffness there had been in his posture a second ago disappeared as he stood. “What do you want me to do, majesty?”
Laroche was most dangerous when calm.
I want you to hold me. Her lip quivered. Why couldn’t she control her emotions around him?
“Just direct me, majesty, and—”
“Will you stop calling me that? It used to be I’ll end you, little flame, now it’s always majesty.” Sera crossed her arms. “Maybe I don’t want to be your majesty. Have you ever considered that?”
“I—” The crow’s feet around his eyes deepened into harsh lines and aged him ten years. “Forgive me.”
“So now you won’t call me anything?”
A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2) Page 12