The Dvarans stomped their feet at that, a loud, earth-moving sound.
A number of Mordians stepped in behind Frank to stare down the Dvarans, but others sided with Vendla. Many of them, more than Varda had imagined.
She was stuck in the middle.
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. This was the chasm; the ground had already shaken. This was the event that would cost Varda her mother.
Go to her. Go to her now and leave this folly behind.
She wobbled on the edge. What if she defied the gods? Once, in a different life, Varda and Vendla had been close. They’d been a real mother and daughter, who laughed and were happy. Vendla had braided flowers into Varda’s hair, they’d sung duets together, and danced around the fire.
Vendla had taught her how to wield her axe. Vendla had taught her how to bake bread. Vendla had taught her everything.
Which included war. How to deaden her emotions. And that the will of the gods came before all else.
What if Varda was wrong? What if the gods didn’t want her with Frank?
But they did.
The gods willed her to stay, to have Frank’s child, and that was what she’d do—her mother had taught her that. She drew a breath then took her place on Frank’s side of the divide.
Vendla’s nostrils twitched, but most of the other Dvarans didn’t control their anger as well. They slammed their fists on their breastplates and sneered at her.
“Which passages do you mean, chief-queen?” Frank barked the words.
Vendla tilted her head heavenward and laughed, and every Dvaran and some Mordians joined her, on either side of the divide.
What in Ehrd’s name was Vendla thinking? Did she want another war on her hands? Though Frank was no better.
“Please, old whale,” Varda said. “I know she isn’t here, but just let him look. Please.”
“Ah, she asks so politely,” Vendla said. “Moments after she made her choice. What do you think, Olaf? Should I do what she wants?”
The place where Varda’s stomach used to be hollowed.
Olaf’s mouth curved down, and he studied Varda with something close to hatred in his gaze. “Yes.”
Vendla gave a nod. “Very well, a compromise. Search our tents, boy. Search them all day if you’d like. However, you’ll leave before dusk, and allow us our preparations for our holy day. When you find that your sister is not here, you’ll owe me a debt—one I intend to collect upon before this alliance has run out.”
“And when will the alliance run out, chief-queen?”
“Sooner than you think, if you keep talking to me like I’m your harlot.” Skjold growled and Vendla continued, “Do we have a deal?”
“If I do not find her here, chief-queen, you can claim whatever debt from me you wish. But if I find her here, you’ll pack up your people and leave. Immediately.”
One side of Vendla’s mouth perked up. “A deal is struck.” The Dvarans stomped their feet. “A warning, boy. If a drop of ale or granule of coffee is missing after your search, there will be war.”
“Psh.” Frank forced his way through the Dvaran line.
Varda followed. She met every gaze as she passed, head held high, but the hollowness inside her expanded with every step. She had betrayed her people for her gods. Let them now smile upon her.
***
Varda searched. Not a tent was left untouched.
At least the Mordians seemed to heed Vendla’s words, and every item they disturbed in their search was replaced as it had been found.
About midday, Nita joined Varda among the search parties.
Varda whispered, “Where is she?”
Nita entered a tent. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t be searching.”
Right. “Is she safe?”
Nita showed that lopsided smile that caused Varda’s innards to tangle, then nodded.
They searched in silence.
Hours passed as they progressed closer and closer to the outer wall, beyond the Dvaran camp, but not a sign of the princess could be found. She might as well have turned to steam.
When dusk approached, they returned to the keep, past the still-waiting Dvarans.
Frank didn’t even look at Vendla as he said, “You can collect your debt whenever you want.”
Vendla turned and led the Dvarans home.
No, not home. She led them to the place they’d been kept, like outcasts. Dvara was home, and everything Varda had done had been for Dvara. So her people could go home. She’d be the one to lead them there, and then her sacrifice would be worth it.
A crowd had gathered outside the castle’s main entrance. For once, neither Sven nor Sauvageon were present to be held responsible for the spectacle. The people spoke loudly enough to imitate the pair of giants, and some of them stood with sketches or sheets of paper, covered in notes.
Notes, or something they’d copied?
A hive of movement huddled closest to the door.
“Out of the way,” Frank commanded.
The people scattered.
Nailed to the door of the castle was a long, dark brown braid, and a sheet of paper. A rodent peered from a cage that had been strung from the flagpole and hung at the same height as the braid.
She didn’t. Varda bit her tongue to keep herself from smiling.
Frank’s eyes bulged. He hesitated for a second, then stomped closer and tore free the letter.
Varda went closer and read over his shoulder.
To the people of Collinefort and Mordoux
Since the night of my arrival in Collinefort, I, Carabelle Mordene Lenoir, crown princess and sister to King Francois the Fourteenth, have been held prisoner in my quarters on the command of my brother and king, while drugged against my will with the substance ethirin.
My brother and king forced this substance upon me, simply because of my friendship with Jacques Du Pont, Director of Mordian Intelligence in Aelland. As the good people of Mordoux well know, no Du Pont in the history of Mordoux has ever done any deed to harm or threaten any bearer of Lenoir blood, and this includes me.
Jacques Du Pont is a good Mordian citizen, who has worked tirelessly to return me to my homeland.
Had my brother and king chosen to discuss the matter with me, he might have learned Jacques Du Pont, as every other Du Pont in existence, lives to serve the crown.
Due to either madness or folly, however, Francois the Fourteenth chose instead to drug and imprison me, while Director Du Pont was held prisoner in the same castle and grievously tortured by the Director of Intelligence in Mordoux, Celestine Chastain, codename Clarity.
I am relieved to announce we have both escaped. However, for fear of both my life and Director Du Pont’s, we have gone into hiding.
I also fear for Mordoux. Who is this cruel king parading as my beloved brother? What will become of our Mordoux if he continues to rule?
These circumstances have caused me great despair, greater still than the ache of betrayal by a loved one. I shall continue to consider all that has happened, and labour without end to assist my beloved homeland, of which I have seen far too little.
To Francois the Fourteenth, my brother and king, a gift.
Since his majesty was so desperate to own my strain-bearing hair, I now offer it. This braid will go without struggle into captivity, is already silent and needs no drug, and will adorn the arm of any noble who might crave a token of alliance in exchange of funds. Alas, it will not breed strain-bearing babies, but perhaps no princess of the blood should be used as little more than breeding stock.
In case your majesty still craves more of me, I have also included a mouse as the final part of this gift. I am no mouse. Perhaps your majesty will now learn this truth.
Yours in freedom,
Carabelle Mordene Lenoir, crown princess of Mordoux.
Varda scratched her neck. Cara had certainly held nothing back.
/>
Frank’s face turned white, then red, then a shade of wine. He clutched his chest and breathed through his mouth, fast and loud, and spittle arched in the air. He crushed the letter in his fist, then slammed open the door and thundered down the hall.
Malak scurried after him, eyes unusually bright.
Varda looked sidelong at Nita. “Did you know about this?”
“Of course not.” She rubbed her arms, the ghost of a smile pulling at her lips.
She didn’t know, of course not, but her hands had probably handled the scissors. Varda almost laughed. What had she gotten herself into?
“Well, I’d better see if he’s all right.” Varda entered the castle.
About twenty paces in, her personal belongings were stacked against a wall. Blizzard sat guard, something close to disapproval in his expression. He whined and looked away when she met his gaze, then stalked out into the night.
The message was clear. She wasn’t welcome at the Mating, not after what she’d done. Would she ever be welcome among her people again? She couldn’t lose hope now; the gods themselves had set her path.
Varda sighed. “Looks like I’ll be moving back into my old room on my own, then.”
“I’ll help you,” Nita said.
“Thank you.”
Chapter 45
Nathan couldn’t get enough of Cara’s new look. She toyed with the ends of her chin-length hair as they returned to the Dvaran camp, her expression far-off.
Later that night, he’d dig his hands into her hair, make her moan his name again. His blood sang. He found his thoughts spiralling around the memories of her body pressed to his, that moment when they became a single being, and when they jumped over the edge into euphoria. A different kind of high. Better.
Addicted.
He swallowed. This wasn’t good. He should have told her, should have let her decide if she still wanted him once she knew everything. He’d been selfish, he’d put his need ahead of hers, but she’d wanted it as much as he had. Eventually.
She’d wanted to stop, and he should have stopped.
Pointy had looked at him strangely all day. Had he heard Cara’s moans, or had Nita told him about the whiskey? Whatever it was he knew, Pointy’s reverence towards Cara had soared, but he’d been less glib than usual, even with her.
If Cara had noticed, she didn’t let it show.
She met Nathan’s gaze and grinned. “You’re staring.”
“Have you seen yourself? Of course, I’m staring,” Nathan said.
She ran a hand over her nape, and into her hair. “I can’t stop touching it.”
“I can’t wait to begin touching it.”
She blushed—glorious. Later, her face would be the same shade of red, but for a different reason.
“Are you sure you like it?” she asked.
“I’ve never wanted you more, love. It suits you.”
Pointy rolled closer from behind. “My queen, I apologise for the intrusion, but I must ask if you’d allow me to borrow Nathaniel for a while once we reach camp.”
She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Of course, Pointy. You’ve been trying to hide your pain all day. Is it bad?”
“My queen sees right through me.” Pointy awkwardly pushed his ponytail over his shoulder. “Nathaniel has to change the bandages.”
Marc could change the bandages. Nathan’s pulse sped. Pointy knew. He knew, and he was going to speak his mind about it as soon as they had a moment alone.
Nathan should have told Cara. How would she react when she learned what he had done?
How would she react about it, after he’d slept with her?
Ashes, what if she’d be angry that he’d expected her to be honest with him, when he’d kept something so big from her? Considering how many people lied to her regularly, how many had lied to her in the past—she wasn’t going to forgive this easily.
He needed a drink.
Cara took Pointy’s ponytail and gave it a twist. “Like this?”
Pointy closed his eyes. “You have no idea how I’ve wanted to do that all day.”
She laughed. “As someone who has her own set of compulsions and has been forced to keep it all in and pretend to be addicted to ethirin, I completely understand.”
Nathan’s stomach rolled over. She had to mention the ethirin, didn’t she? A cursed word on her tongue, the most enticing thing she’d yet said. A different need rode on the back of his pulse. What would it be like to combine Cara’s body and another high? Two highs at once. What would it—
Creator, no. He couldn’t keep obsessing about this. He had to let it go, for Cara.
Once they reached the camp, Cara left them in front of Pointy’s tent, and went to Vendla’s.
“Help me onto the table,” Pointy said.
Nathan half-hoisted Pointy up, then took a pair of gloves from the pile Nita had left there for surgery.
Pointy fumbled with his trousers. The bandages and broken fingers impaired him more than he’d ever admit, but his expression was so fierce that Nathan didn’t dare help.
After a few minutes, Pointy managed to loosen the button at his waist, and pushed down the trousers to bunch around his ankles.
Nathan loosened the bandage at Pointy’s thigh. The dagger wound was swollen and inflamed. The discharge was milky, a strange shade of yellowish-white. Since it had opened twice, and who knew what Celestine had done to it, this would leave an ugly scar.
“So.” Pointy’s face was so pale he seemed a wraith. “Here we are again. A man and his best friend, a brother by all standards, who chooses to walk a path so dark and dangerous it may take his life.”
Nathan’s hands hovered above the wound. “I made a mistake.”
“A mistake, is it? It just danced into your hands? Into your cottage? It just happened into your reach? Do you think I’m an idiot? You swore you’d never do it again, Nathaniel.” Pointy smiled. “What a fool was I to believe you.”
Nathan sighed. “Pointy, I’m so—”
“Don’t you dare.” Pointy slashed the air with his hand. “Do not dare lie like that to my face. You’re not sorry. If you were sorry, it wouldn’t have happened again. Nine years, Nathaniel. Nine bloody years. And all it took to be forgotten was one incident.”
Nathan’s throat sizzled. “One? Have you been around the last few months? This was more than one incident! I’ve killed again, nearly died at that outpost, watched the woman I love make out with another man, and you were dead and gone. I couldn’t cope! I couldn’t cope with everything that had been happening.”
“That is the hollowest of all the excuses you’ve ever used on me. We have all lived the same tragedies. I was bloody shackled to a table and tortured, Nathaniel, so maybe you’re not the only one dealing with seven sorts of shit.
“Yet, I don’t see any of the rest of us pouring substances down our throats. You have no right to come in here and tell me you couldn’t help it because life is hard. That’s bullshit.” Pointy crossed his arms and took a breath. “If you won’t listen to me, I’m telling Carabelle. Let her judgment purge you of this sickness.”
“Pointy, please. Let me be the one to tell her.”
“Let you?” Pointy closed his eyes. His nostrils flared, and he quaked rather than shook, violent enough to seem a seizure. “You’re not the one who walked into that room, Nathaniel. You’re not the one.” A tear clung to his eyelashes for a moment, then dripped down his cheek. “You were so pale, lips almost blue, smiling as though possessed. Your arm tied down, the needle still hanging from your skin. I couldn’t think anything other than a pulse, a pulse, a pulse.
“It was barely there. You walked the edge of death and all because I hadn’t stopped you. I should have had you committed. I should have insisted to stay in your house. I should have bloody told Magnus, but I left it too late because you begged me to let you tell him. He’s right to hate me. You were going to die because of me.
“You want to know why I moved to Lendley? You want to kn
ow the truth? I was scared out of my boiling mind that you’d slip into the old habit again, and nobody would be there to find you. So I bloody upped and left, and my organisation suffered because of it. Had I been in Roicester, I might have found the queen earlier, but you were my most important priority.
“So, you’ll excuse me if I have no regard whatsoever for what you reckon I should or should not let you do. I’m telling the queen, you idiot, and letting her deal with you because you are still one of the most important aspects of my life, a higher priority even than the work I’ve been doing here. You’re my best friend, Nathaniel. My brother. But right now, I hate you.”
Nathan’s vision blurred. It would be so much easier if all Pointy had said wasn’t true. If he wasn’t the villain in this tale. “I hate me, too.”
“The worst is that you’re doing this to her, too. And on a scale much larger than you’d ever hurt me or the apothecary.” Pointy clenched his jaw. “You’re using my queen as a replacement addiction. Hasn’t she lived enough bloody heartache? Do you have so little regard for her, that you’d screw—”
“I know, Pointy.” Nathan retreated a few steps.
Ashes, what had he done? He’d taken her virginity because he’d needed a body to make him feel better. Worse, to annoy her brother. This was a greater sin than killing a stranger in the name of self-defence. This was the premeditated torture of the love of his life, in addition to his inner circle.
He should’ve romanced her. Made it special for her. Not a quick tumble in a tent, with strangers all around to listen. He shouldn’t have lied to her.
Nathan banged his hands to the floor. “I know, all right? I know how much this will hurt her. And I’m so—”
“No.” Pointy sneered. “I refuse to hear you say that word. You’ll have to prove it to me.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Not buying a bottle of whiskey is a good place to start,” Pointy said.
“It won’t happen again, I swear.”
“Oh goodie, he swears.”
“I really am sorry. It won’t happen again, for the rest of my life.”
A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2) Page 35