Belle Révolte

by Linsey Miller

  I nodded. “We can do this.”

  And even if we couldn’t, someone had to save everyone else.

  “Good.” Aaliz touched Brigitte’s shoulder. “Until next time.”

  “There will be one,” Brigitte said as Aaliz left. She turned to the rest of us. “Let’s go.”

  I divined the guard positions. When they moved, where they walked—I saw it all, and we wove through the building like shadows. It was easy, scrying, when I had nothing to lose, and Yvonne curled one arm around my waist, leading me down the halls as I was lost in visions of the present and pointing where to go. Coline was a star, a beacon behind the walls of this wing. She’d fought.

  She’d bled, the magic her channeling had left in her smeared along the floor and walls.

  I stopped us outside a door where a guard had been standing moments before. Isabelle had brought her paints, and she’d drawn an illusion so real, it made me wince when I looked at it. Gabriel, alive, sprinting down the hall. The guard had taken off after him.

  I opened the door. A teacup shattered on the wall next to my head.

  “You’re welcome.” I ducked, waiting for the next blow. “Madame Royale Nicole du Rand, duchesse de Segance.”

  I picked up the nearest thing to me and hurled it at Coline. She shrieked, arms up and blue ink splattering across her shoulders. A small pot of ink bounced off her arm. “Annette! What was that for?”

  I swallowed. Permanent ink by the looks of the magic stored in the bottle. “You liar!”

  “Like you aren’t?” Coline, blond hair tangled behind her, threw up her ink arms, and flung more ink across the floor. “You had so many lies going, you couldn’t even keep yours straight. Least mine was because my father would’ve killed me and everyone I loved.”

  That was a good reason.

  I slunk more into the room and turned my nose up at her like she always did to food she didn’t like. “I guess, but I’m still angry at you.”

  Coline flinched. “How angry?”

  “Not angry enough to not be happy you’re alive,” I said. “Angry enough I might yell at you, though.”

  “Such syntax,” Coline muttered. She dropped her knees at my feet. “I am very, very sorry I lied to you. Please help me kill my father.”

  I shifted. Pretty sure queens weren’t supposed to bow like this. Ever.

  “We were sort of coming here for your help with that,” I said. “Get up. It’s weird.”

  Coline stared up at me through her lashes, grinning. “Thank you, Madame.”

  “Get up.” I leaned down and kissed her cheek. It was hard to be cold when she was alive, Isabelle was here, and we were all together again.

  Coline kissed mine in return. “I’m glad you’re here, though I was looking forward to saving the day.”

  I stepped aside to help her up, and she caught sight of the others behind me.

  “Brigitte?” she said, the word a choked whisper.

  “Hello again, Madame.” Brigitte reached down and helped Coline to her feet. “Still dramatic, I see.”

  “You’re not dead.” Coline’s chest heaved, and she let out a half sob. Her fingers skimmed the planes of Brigitte’s face and taut muscles in her arms. “You’re not dead at all. I knew it. I knew it. I also feared it, but you’re alive and—”

  Brigitte very gently kissed Coline’s mouth and stopped her rambling. I glanced at Isabelle. She blushed and stared at the ceiling. I cleared my throat.

  Coline pulled away only slightly, eyes half-closed. Brigitte smiled.

  “Right,” Coline said, breathless. “Let’s kill my father.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Emilie

  No soldiers are supporting them, only their apprentices and a few hacks, but Chevalier du Ferrant was trained to take down a dozen soldiers without so much as sweating,” Charles said to the small collection of soldiers and hacks crowded into the infirmary. “And he’ll have Pièrre to heal him even if he does get injured.”

  The older hack Louis laughed, the bitter sound rustling from his tired body. “We probably can’t win, and that’s the hard truth of it, but it’s better than dying in a war we didn’t want with people we have no quarrel with.”

  We all agreed, and one of the soldiers muttered about already sending away those who didn’t want to fight Kalthorne but had no desire to fight Chevalier du Ferrant. We had fifty confident soldiers, a handful of new ones, one half-trained physician’s apprentice, and three hacks. Our odds were not particularly good.

  “How many apprentices and hacks does Pièrre have?” I asked. “And Waleran?”

  Charles’s jaw tensed. “Five hacks total and two apprentices—including Sébastien.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed to him when the others in our group were talking a moment later, and he only nodded. That was unfortunate.

  But Sébastien had always seemed, above all else, afraid of disappointing his family and not living up to his brothers. Relatable.

  Much more unfortunate, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “Can we get close enough to undo their past healings?” I asked. It was not simple but it was quick; it would disorient the ones not used to such tactics. Perhaps we could subdue the hacks and apprentices without killing them.

  Louis shook his head. “Chevaliers are trained to resist that, and Pièrre would recognize the attempt.”

  “But what if we focus on the hacks and apprentices?” I leaned up from the bed I had been sitting on, and Madeline grabbed the back of my shirt. “They’re used to being the most important and always assume they’re being attacked, so what if we don’t? Without hacks or help, they’ll still be good but not as good. They’ll wear down as quickly as we do.”

  Louis shrugged. “True. I’d rather not kill the hacks, though, so we’d have to pull back and keep the wounds nonlethal.”

  “We could divide and conquer.” Charles ran a hand through his hair and tugged at the ends. “Half of us keep the soldiers up, and the other half go after the apprentices and hacks once we’re close enough and they’re distracted.”

  “I’ll take the lead healing the soldiers.” Louis rubbed his forehead. His normally warm black skin was dull, little cuts and cracks marbling his face. “No offense, Charles, but I’ve got years of experience on you.”

  “I can’t take any when it’s true,” Charles said. “If I make a mistake, I would rather it not be on them.”

  Madeline cleared her throat and crossed her arms, nails picking at the dry skin where her channeling had worn away the top layer. “I’ll go with Louis, then. I have training and frankly fear what Physician du Guay will do if he sees me.”

  “Well, we’re divided.” Louis took a deep breath. “Let’s only hope the rest of Demeine doesn’t abandon us.”

  All in all, after Louis and Charles had spoken to everyone who had agreed to help, we were sixty-two strong, and yet I wasn’t sure even that would be enough. It had to be. We had to be.

  And whatever came next, we would be enough for too.

  Charles had discarded his orange coat and pulled on the leather armor of a soldier who had left for home. Louis offered us each a vial of something mint-scented and blue that shot through us like lightning and jerked my body awake. Charles walked with him, talking about ingredients and methods. Madeline fell into step beside me as we searched the camp for supplies.

  There was no armor that fit me. Madeline pursed her lips, rubbing the thin fabric of my worn shirt between her fingers. I held a helmet over her, waited for her to nod, and settled it on her head. The leather crushed her wrapped hair, but the flaps at least covered her ears and main artery. We even stole a pair of boots far sturdier than hers, the calves reinforced to keep the soldier wearing them safe, and I fiddled with the laces till Madeline could fit into them. It took both of us working to lace them up, me kneeling before her to make sure t
hey fit right. I laid my cheek against her knee.

  “Madeline,” I said softly, “are we friends?”

  I wanted to hear her say it, needed to hear her say it. I had heard my mother mutter I love you between caustic comments about my clothes or interests or ever-growing list of failures, and most of my life had been the same—mild disinterest and confusion were the only things I elicited from anyone. Never friendship. Never love.

  Lord, even if it were a lie, I still wanted to hear it.

  Her fingers fell to my forehead as if she thought I had a fever. “Of course.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that because it wasn’t a lie—Madeline was terrible at lying—so I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips to the back of her hand.

  “Please don’t die.” I rose and straightened her helmet. “I want to see what glorious thing you do next with your life.”

  Madeline dug her nails into my arm, not painfully; it was only enough for me to know she was there and not letting go.

  “Hold on to that thought.” She wrapped her arms around me, far too tight for comfort, and didn’t let go till her hands started to shake. “I’m going to boss you around so much when we’re physicians.”

  “You may try.” I hugged her back. “Let’s go.”

  Charles fell back in step with us. “Physicians and hacks always stay out of the fight near the back, so we’ll have to circle around and hope they don’t notice.”

  We stilled and let the others walk past us.

  “I was supposed to be your hack anyway, wasn’t I? Anyone else would have forced you to use one.” I nudged his shoulder with mine and lingered. “At least now it’s for a good cause.”

  He let out a short laugh through closed lips and nudged me back. “I’m not a good cause?”

  “No, you’re a good person, but even the best people need help sometimes.” I couldn’t save everyone—it was noble arrogance to think I could or should even try when I had done so much damage already—but I could be a shield. I touched his hand. “Don’t panic about me wearing down. Don’t get distracted. You’re sweet to worry about everyone, but you can’t now. It’s fine.”

  “It is not,” he said softly, taking my hand and holding me back even as the last group of soldiers walked ahead. “They don’t know you’re here and might think I left. If we don’t have numbers, we should at least have the element of surprise.” He blinked at me, autumn eyes wide, and leaned his forehead against mine. “I thought you hated sweet things.”

  “I’ll make an exception.”

  “Please don’t die.” He kissed the tip of my nose and squeezed my hand. “We haven’t finished our clinic competition yet.”

  Shouts echoed over the hill before us. Charles pulled me toward our right, toward the river separating Segance from Kalthorne. From the tree line, we could see the vast field of knee-high grass and trampled paths. We had a clear view of the fight, and there were more on Chevalier Waleran du Ferrant and Physician Pièrre du Guay’s side than we had thought. A handful of soldiers protected them and blocked ours from getting near. Waleran sat atop a broad horse, his spear a golden needle against the bright blue sky. Already two of our soldiers lay unconscious in the dirt. The bitter tug of channeled noonday arts hung in the air.

  Waleran wore alchemical armor, magic stored in the polished metal, so he could use it without wearing down. Behind him a good few paces stood Physician Pièrre du Guay, his red coat a stain on the horizon and the apprentices. Sébastien—orange coat replaced by the scarlet of a fully-fledged physician—looked as if he might be sick. Charles and I slunk as near as we dared.

  “Sébastien might know I’m here,” Charles said as we crouched in the tall grass. “He knows my magic quite well.”

  Thank the Lord for his narrow-mindedness.

  “He doesn’t know mine.” My ears were full of heartbeats—rabbit-fast panicked ones and the slow, steady thump of unadulterated confidence that had to be Pièrre—and it took me longer than normal to find the hacks in the cacophony. “Which one first?”

  “The one channeling for Sébastien,” Charles said. He didn’t question if I could do it, didn’t explain what we would need to do. “We make it appear as if he fainted, use the time as they check that to get the others out of the way, and it removes Sébastien from play for a little while.”

  We were in the midst of a mess and yet his simple trust sustained me.

  “Understood.”

  I gathered magic and held it in my chest, waiting for Charles to channel his magic through me, and his shoulder leaned against mine. The magic slipped between us like a breath, low and soft, and for a moment, I feared Charles was holding back until a jolt shook through my arm, my chest, and into the magic I had gathered. I channeled all into the ground and got lost in the feet of the grass, more power than a person would channel alone coursing through me. I jumped from minuscule cell to minuscule cell, riding the lightning of the living things between us and the hacks. None of the power was lost like it would have been if I channeled through the air.

  “Oh,” Charles breathed next to me. “That’s why you always channeled down.”

  “I probably should have explained this,” I said.

  “Explain after.” He shifted the magic, directing it up into the hack working for Sébastien. His body lit up in my magical sight, nerves constellations in a bloody sky, and Charles threw the hack’s response system off balance.

  The hack’s heartbeat raced, the pressure of the blood in his veins dropped, and he plummeted to the ground. The art he had been channeling with Sébastien faded away.

  I withdrew the magic we had channeled into the roots of the grass, so Sébastien wouldn’t sense it. Charles’s magic tested the other hacks.

  “Wait,” he whispered, watching them kneel to pick up the one who had fainted. “Until they’re holding him up.”

  If they were all touching, we could channel the magic through them and remove three from the field at once.

  We needed all of the advantages we could get.

  The soldiers fighting with us were no match for Waleran. Madeline burned with power, healing our soldiers as Waleran’s magic tore them down. She bled herself to replenish the blood a soldier had lost, channeling magic so it broke down her vein and built the veins up in them; the healing arts that Henry XII had twisted for his own means. She saved his life and urged her own body to replace the blood it had lost. The five soldiers who had sided with Waleran were dead. Pièrre and Sébastien hadn’t healed them at all.

  “Now,” Charles said. “Do it now.”

  I looked away from Madeline and channeled for Charles. The magic slipped between the hacks, settling in the little gaps between their nerves, and between the two of us, it took nearly nothing to nudge the hacks’ bodies toward sleep. They collapsed, tangled together and snoring. Sébastien whipped his head to us.

  Charles shuddered, and I took the lead, channeling my own magic into Sébastien. From so far away, he should have been able to resist it, to alter his body alchemistry so that it countered what I did, but all he did was stare, wide-eyed, at Charles and me. He didn’t try to fight the tug of sleep at all. He stumbled, not down but certainly out.

  “Thank you,” Charles whispered. He stood slightly, balanced on his toes, and took my arm. “We need to get closer if we want to get the rest.”

  A crossbow bolt tore through the grass next to us. Charles fell back, taking me with him. A burn, gathering noonday arts, so much magic the air around it shifted, stole my breath, and Charles lurched to his feet. Across the field, Waleran’s apprentice, who was protecting Pièrre, readied another bolt and gathered more magic to attack Charles. He pushed past Sébastien.

  All at once, the magic I had left in Sébastien vanished. He knocked the apprentice’s hand aside and twisted his fingers as if making a surgical cut with the noonday arts. A bruise bloomed along the appren
tice’s neck. He clutched his throat and gagged.

  A shout echoed across the field, and Waleran lashed out, transforming the tip of his spear into the thin point of a needle. The noonday arts swimming in the metal burned, and he whipped the spear upward. The sliver sheared from the spear and flew toward Sébastien.

  He touched his chest, impaled, and opened his mouth once. His heart stopped. Twice. The alchemistry of his body stilled. He looked at us, mouthed run, and fell.

  Charles howled. He gathered more magic than his body could handle, skin blistering as the power channeled out of him, and tried to heal Sébastien’s corpse. When it didn’t work, he threw himself forward.

  “Charles!” I grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Charles, no. He will kill you.”

  Magic gathered behind me. I twisted, hands tight around Charles. Waleran was staring at us, his horse still in the middle of the soldiers around him, and he shifted his gaze to Madeline. She was kneeling far from the fighting and healing a soldier whose head had been dented in by a blow.

  “Stop him,” I told Charles and pointed at Pièrre. “We haven’t so much as nicked Waleran. I’m sorry about Sébastien, but we have to stop them now. The two of them alone could level a Kalthorne town and get us mixed up in a political mess we might not recover from. Stop Pièrre.”

  Charles nodded.

  I sprinted to Madeline. The magic I gathered wasn’t much but it was noticeable, held in my left hand like a stone. The rest I channeled through my feet and into the ground. I slipped, shoes slick with blood, and raised my left hand.

  Waleran cut his spear up and redirected the magic as if it were nothing.

  I had never studied the fighting arts, had never been interested in that branch of the noonday magic I so loved, but I knew an artist had to gather and channel it, and Waleran had no more hacks or apprentices left to channel for him. Even if he wore out, Pièrre would still heal him. No attacks I could think of would work.