The other dwarves followed his lead, all except Teddy. He looked up at me for a long moment, considering. At last he said, “I’m happy to say I was wrong about you.”
I took his proffered hand. Though the size of a child’s, it gripped my fingers with surprising strength. I nodded in return and didn’t try to speak. Words were never my forte; they could be twisted and manipulated far too easily.
Teddy smiled at me and winked at Snow as he took his leave.
When they had gone, Cynfael turned to Snow and me, one eyebrow upraised. “This is meant to be a celebratory drink. We won,” he declared, waving his glass of champagne around to emphasize his point. “Yet you two are dampening the mood considerably.” He looked down, swirling the drink into a small maelstrom of golden bubbles. “Perhaps it’s the company.”
I followed his stare to where she still lay sprawled.
Snow’s nose crinkled, and she grabbed my arm. “Come on,” she said.
I let her lead me from the tent, out of the haze of rose petals, liquor, and blood. The air outside was sharp, but I took deep breaths, letting it clear my scattered thoughts. All around us, the carnies were packing. Bit by bit, faster than I could have anticipated, the circus disbanded. Animal cages were hauled onto trucks and into trailers. Vehicles pulled away. Most went without a glance back, probably worried that I would change my mind. Ticket stubs and foil wrappers scattered around in the empty places.
“A sentimental bunch,” Cynfael observed. He stepped in front of us. “I suppose I will take my leave as well.” His breath created a cloud. He smirked. “A kiss before I go, love?”
“You can dream,” Snow trilled.
Cynfael shrugged and took out another smoke. He studied the night sky. “Beautiful night for a fire, eh, Chayse?” Tucking his hands into his pockets, he strutted off, fading into the thick shadows.
A small grin formed. It was a beautiful night—stars and a full moon peeking out from under a thin blanket of cloud. It was a perfect night to burn everything.
I felt the heat building, a slow, warm sensation rising from my stomach. Snow must have felt it, because she let go of my arm. I stood alone before the tent, dark memories swelling and thoughts racing. I wanted to be of free it . . . and of Mother.
A wave of flame burst out of my hands and spilled onto the tent. Acrid smoke filled the air in black, swelling billows. The fire ate through the weathered fabric, turning the red and white stripes into bits of ash.
That’s all that would remain of her—ash.
Heat tore through me. Pain followed. I focused it all on that tent, screaming as the fire clawed up my throat. I had always controlled it; I’d had too. Now I let it go, unleashing the hell that had been eating me alive.
My fire sputtered and stopped. I had nothing left, my rage and anger had burned out.
I stood there, numb, my limbs shaking. Flakes of snow started falling, intermixing with floating ashes, each becoming undistinguishable from the other.
Snow folded herself into my arms. She smelled of smoke and blood. Her hair brushed my cheek and her fingers stroked my face, bringing a wave of new emotions.
I looked down at her. Her cold breath mingled with mine. Icy lips brushed my own in a hesitant, unspoken question.
I gently caught her jaw and brought her lips back to mine. I felt her smile.
“It’s okay, Chayse,” she said, her voice soft. Her hand stroked back my hair, and I found myself wanting to stay here, in this moment. Forever.
But the heat from the fire blazed, and the moment broke. We found ourselves scrambling away from it. A heap of smoldering ash stood in the tent’s place.
Side by side, we stood and watched the flames flare up to greet the falling snow.
Skye Hoffert is a dreamer, who always had her nose in a book and her head in the clouds. She has spent more time in Narnia and Middle Earth than in reality. She makes her home in Canada, with her family of ten. She spends her days writing, painting, and procrastinating.
She blogs at www.inkcalamities.blogspot.com
To Karena, Gabriella and Ariella — I am so blessed to call you my daughters. I love you.
Prologue
Tiborne, 1145
King Richard Chaloner, the last son of the house of Raven, waited on his deathbed, clutching sweat-drenched sheets in his agony. The scarlet woolen drapes around him were drawn tight against the cold seeping through the castle window and stone floor. A fire raged in the fireplace, its heat stoking the fever ablaze inside his body. Beyond the bed curtains, a pitcher of water waited on the table, yet he had not the strength to reach it. Already he was lost in the fires of hell. Not even a servant shuffled across the floor to check on him. Nor a physician, per the queen’s command. Never had Richard felt so alone and abandoned.
But he had no time to reflect on his wife’s sins, past, present, and sure to come. No . . . heaven help him, he had little enough time left to undo his own errors.
A fit of coughing, dry and painful, stabbed into his ribs until at last he could scarcely breathe. He was drowning with each gulp of air. Drowning with every regret.
Would the margrave ever come? The only nobleman faithful to the House of Raven? A message had been sent three days ago, courtesy of a servant who had never returned.
Tears welled in his burning eyes. His little daughter would be alone now . . .
The curtain stirred, and cool air brushed across Richard’s damp brow. His heart stuttered when the dark form of a man leaned over him, pushing back the drapes to see better. Relief swept away fear when he saw the familiar face of his friend, Henry Atwood.
“You came,” Richard whispered through cracked lips.
Henry’s eyes widened with shock. “Saints! Your Majesty—” His voice trailed off.
“Water,” Richard gasped. “Please.”
Henry bowed and disappeared. He returned with a goblet and slowly poured a few drops of stale liquid into Richard’s mouth. His thirst somewhat slaked, Richard’s voice remained hoarse. “My old friend, I won’t last the night.”
“I came here as soon as I received word from your servant.” Henry’s rough voice was low and anxious. “The physicians say there is nothing that can be done. I do not understand this. A few days ago you were hale enough.”
A ragged sigh escaped Richard. “Poison. By her.” The admission brought a fresh wave of betrayal. He had married his second cousin, certain the act would solidify his throne and provide a mother for his daughter. He never dreamed his wife would have aspirations and plans of her own, including murder.
Henry stiffened as understanding dawned. “Your Majesty, let me find help. Surely there is someone who can heal you, some antidote.”
“Would you ask one of Ava’s false bishops to pray? Or send for the court physician, who wishes to bleed me? There is no one you can trust, Henry. No one.” Despair flooded Richard, and if he’d had any tears left, he would have wept. Would he despair of his marriage to Ava forever, even in the afterworld? Resolve hardened him. He managed to lift his head from the stained pillow. “You must lend your support to my Kara. Ava will never let her reign.”
Henry’s eyes darkened as he answered swiftly, “You know I have always been loyal to you, sire; but if it is as you say, whom should I trust within the court? What other nobles will rally to the princess’s side?”
“The throne—” Richard felt himself fade in and out, like the flicker of a candle against the breeze. He sank into the pillow, using every last ounce of his strength to speak: “It will be lost to Ava if you do not protect my only child. Ava will bring darkness. I have seen it with my own eyes.”
They both knew of what Richard spoke. Despite the feeble protests of the church, the queen’s candle-rimmed scrying pool defiantly remained, tucked behind the castle’s apple orchards. Even now, his skin prickled in remembrance of the dark water, fetid and still, reflecting nothing.
“Our houses were to be joined in marriage between our children. Promise me you and your son
will protect my child . . .” His voice trailing off, he groaned through clenched teeth.
Henry bowed his head for what seemed an eternity before nodding agreement. A rush of air escaped Richard’s lips, his body finally relaxing at Henry’s promise. It was done, and whatever life remained in him now ebbed away. The margrave grabbed Richard’s limp hand, the strength of his grip comforting and solid. “I will do as you ask, and so will Damien. The House of Raven will not fall. I swear it with my life.”
Chapter One
Eight Years Later
Kara Chaloner bent low in the saddle, urging her horse to greater speed. She dared not look behind. Somewhere back there, Marius Dupuis rode a massive destrier whose hooves pounded the ground. Despite Kara’s head start, that horse had eaten up the distance between them. She could not let Dupuis catch her in the old forest.
Shuddering, she murmured encouragement to her mount. If she could just make it to the river cutting through the Tiborne Forest, help should be waiting for her . . . if she got there in time.
Inside her tunic a scroll chafed against her skin, a reminder of why she must escape. Only Father Matthias knew of the scroll, yet the regent had somehow managed to discover Kara’s plan.
Kara’s horse, a brown palfrey, suddenly pricked its ears and picked up speed, flying sure-footed over the forest floor, churning loam in its wake. The horse had made a valiant effort, but the regent’s marshal rode the superior mount, and he was slowly gaining. Ahead, the peak of Mount Avastaire loomed so near and yet so far.
A fortnight ago, Father Mathias told Kara he had arranged for her message to be delivered to a trusted courier at the base of Mount Avastaire. But when Father Matthias didn’t attend mass on the set date to pick up the sealed scroll, Kara knew she had no option but to flee the castle with the message herself.
“Princess, stop!” The rage in that hoarse voice sent a frisson of panic rippling through her. Dupuis would make her pay dearly for this escape.
She tried to shake away the fear, watching for obstacles ahead, aiming for the mountain with the Tiborne River curving along its base. Let the men be there, ready.
Her hands clutched the reins so hard, there was scarcely any feeling left in her fingers. The hood covering her hair fell away, and wind whipped against her cheeks. In the light of early morning she caught a glimpse of the Tiborne River. If she gained enough distance she might evade Marius and find the promised rebels.
The ground changed from rotting leaves and pine needles to a downslope with jagged outcroppings of rock scattered among the trees. Her horse swerved, leaping over small obstacles, narrowly missing outstretched branches on either side. Just ahead a fallen log, grey with age, blocked the path opening into a clearing.
She prepared for the jump, certain she could make it. Then the horse stumbled, its head dropped low, and Kara’s tight hold on the reins jerked her forward onto its neck. She was scrabbling to regain her balance when the beast leapt to clear the log—and sometime during the confusion she lost both stirrups and reins.
The world tilted as she fell.
Stunned, Kara lay on the ground, the air stolen from her lungs. Move, her mind cried, but her limbs would not obey. Desperately she scanned the forest for her horse, hoping to call it and grab the reins, but that hope vanished. The animal had bolted, probably back toward the castle.
When she was able to lift her head above the fallen log, another sight chilled her to the bone. The marshal must have seen her riderless horse, for he had dismounted and now stalked in her direction with a dagger in hand.
How could she hope to defeat such a foe?
She had only a knife. Her fingers shook as she freed it from her belt.
“I told you to stop, Princess.” His shout was guttural. Frustrated. He didn’t yet know where she was.
She focused on taking even breaths. In and out, in and out, fighting off her rising terror. “I don’t answer to you, Marshal,” she whispered to bolster her own courage then rolled over, gripping the knife and keeping low to the ground. The fallen log blocked her view of him, providing some cover. She could creep into the brush, avoiding the clearing where her back would present the perfect target for his knife if she did decide to run.
How far was he? Perhaps fewer than twenty yards away and closing in. She half crawled, half slithered on her belly to the nearest tree, small rocks scraping her palms and knees. Once behind the trunk, she sat up and scanned her surroundings for the best escape route.
Bitter anger swept through her. Father Matthias had been right to warn her. The throne was to be hers on her eighteenth birthday, only a month away. And with her coronation, her stepmother’s power as regent would end.
“I’ve made a promise to the regent”—The marshal’s deep voice carried through the still forest—“and I aim to make good on it. Your heart in exchange for an estate to call my own. No matter where you run, girl, I will find you.”
With the very heart he coveted nearly in her throat, Kara peered around the tree—a grave mistake.
The light was too dim to clearly see his face, but it didn’t matter. He had caught her movement; she felt murderous intent roll off him in waves. No amount of pleading on her part would change his mind, and she could never outrun him.
With a flash of his blade, Marius Dupuis broke into a run.
The forest path, though familiar, seemed rife with danger. Damien Atwood and six of his men approached a certain clearing a few miles south of the regent’s castle. A fortnight ago, a courier pigeon had fluttered into Valhane Castle’s keep, bearing an urgent plea from Father Matthias, a minister serving near Raven Castle:
Come at once. A document of the greatest importance must be delivered to King Victor of Vallhane. Meet near the Tiborne River at the base of Mount Avastaire.
Damien could only guess at the contents of this document. But if it might deal a political blow to the regent who had destroyed his life and the lives of so many others, it was worth considerable risk. His squad had ridden out the following morning.
Dawn was just breaking. The rising sun illuminated the craggy peaks towering to the west, Mount Avastaire looming nearest, framed by mounting clouds. A storm was building, the air sweet and tangy before a rain. He heard the fierce cry of a hawk circling high above and the rush of the river which lay just out of sight, hidden by trees and brush. Still no sign of Father Matthias’s messenger.
Then a deep voice shouted, raising the hair on the back of his neck.
“Did you hear that?” Scarborough twisted in his saddle just long enough to peer at Damien. “Sounded near. The regent’s men, after us?”
“Or after our messenger.” His pulse thrummed. His horse tensed, ears pricked forward, muscles ready for flight.
Scarborough paused, but the sound did not repeat. “We may be too late.”
“Or we may not.” Damien waited no longer. He urged his horse forward, signaling for his men to fan out and remain hidden within the thick brush. If at all possible he would save Father Matthias’s messenger, but he would not unnecessarily send his men into harm’s way.
His horse, Juniper, who had accompanied Damien on countless adventures, understood the need for stealth. Nostrils flaring, the great beast skirted the edges of the clearing, avoiding the wide swath of exposed ground.
A shrill scream pierced the stillness, ending with a broken sob. A lynx? No, most certainly a woman. Damien clenched his teeth, but the cry had provided direction. He, James, and Scarborough slipped from their horses, carrying their weapons, while his other men remained mounted with arrows nocked and swords drawn.
There—motion among the trees and brush—a man far too intent on a figure at his feet to take full notice of his surroundings. It was Dupuis, the regent’s marshal.
Damien raised his longbow, nocked an arrow, and shot without hesitation. The arrow thudded against a leather-padded jerkin, glancing off the man’s shoulder. But he cried out in pain, and the knife dropped from his hand.
Damien sent
another arrow flying; this one hit a branch and went astray, but he had already nocked a third arrow and left cover. The big man scuttled to the far side of a tree, dragging the struggling woman with him, using her body as a shield. Damien dared not shoot in such bad light. But James and Scarborough shot from different angles, and at least one quarrel took effect. Dupuis howled, dropped the girl, and took off running into a thicket of young trees.
Damien sprinted after him, unable to fire his longbow in the heavy brush. He heard a horse snort and thudding hooves. When the animal briefly flashed into view, its rider was kicking hard, and the great beast was at a full gallop. But at least one arrow had taken effect despite the heavy brush and bad lighting. Damien glimpsed crimson on the man’s upper arm before the horse again vanished into the trees, heading toward Raven Castle.
“You missed, lad,” Scarborough said from somewhere behind him.
James growled in reply. “We all did.”
“I hit him once.”
“Prove it!”
Damien ignored them, turning his attention to the young woman who now struggled to rise. Her plain gown and cloak suggested a servant’s rank. Could this be Father Matthias’s messenger? She was dazed, disheveled, with dark hair hanging over her pale, dirty face. She seemed more waif than woman.
He hurried to her side. “Are you injured?”
She shook her head, turning away to scan the landscape, looking for something. “My horse . . . it ran off.”
“If it is near, my men will find it,” he said.
Ignoring his proffered hand, she used the tree as a prop and stood up, brushing dirt and twigs from her gown and cloak, then raised the cloak’s hood to cover her hair and hide most of her face. When she cast one last glance in the direction the coward had fled, Damien noticed her bleeding knuckles and scraped palms—she likely had more bruises he couldn’t see. As if she had not just survived a life-or-death struggle, she plucked a knife from the ground and slid it into a sheath at her belt.
Five Poisoned Apples Page 9