The Women's War
Page 57
Hands grabbed her, restrained her, pulling her back away from him, murmuring sounds that she couldn’t hear as Delnamal laughed at her. Laughed.
She freed one arm so she could point at him, shouting his name. The impact of the spell knocked him backward but did not erase the glow of sadistic pleasure in his eyes.
“I’ve heard about your nasty spell,” he said. “I thought you might be tempted to use it when you saw my gift, so I’ve been fasting. Just in case.”
She shrieked again in helpless agony as Falcor gathered her into his arms and pressed her head against the mail on his shoulder, trying to shield her vision from the abomination that lay in the dirt where Delnamal had dropped it.
“Till we meet again, Your Royal Highness,” Delnamal said with a mocking bow, then turned to mount his horse. His bulk made him awkward, and he needed a hand up, but he was too pleased with himself to be embarrassed.
“May you have a long and miserable reign,” he said, pivoting his horse and riding away without a backward glance.
Alys’s screams turned into moans, and she collapsed in Falcor’s arms. She caught one more glimpse of Jinnell’s head before one of his men covered it with his cloak.
EPILOGUE
Alone for the first time in she couldn’t guess how many hours, Alys stepped into her bedroom, still fully clothed. Honor had tried to coax her into undressing for bed, but Alys knew her head would touch no pillow tonight.
Her whole body ached, and though she’d long ago wrenched every drop of moisture from her eyes, they burned fiercely as if another round of tears would soon arrive. She paced the room, ignoring the array of teas and calming potions that had been pressed on her by what felt like every inhabitant of Women’s Well. It was good that Corlin had been persuaded to drink, but she had no desire to escape the pain it was her duty as a mother to endure. She would pace the contours of this room until she collapsed.
Passing by her bedside table, she caught sight of her mother’s spell book. She rarely referenced it anymore, although when she did she often found new lessons waiting for her. She could not deny that the lessons were useful, that Brynna’s extraordinary power made her instructions more complex and nuanced than anything Alys could learn from the other abigails. However, the book was heavily weighted toward the elements produced by Aaltah’s Well, and it made only passing references to masculine elements. She had found it much less useful since she’d arrived in Women’s Well, where so much of the magic was new and unknown.
Something about the appearance of the book made her stop walking, made her eyes focus when they’d been mercifully glazed. She picked it up and stared at the cover. The cover that had always before displayed the lurid title of a book of love poems.
Today, it had a new title.
Forgive Me.
Alys stared at the words with uncomprehending eyes. Then she thought of all her mother had told her when they had last spoken on the day of the earthquake. Remembered the sorrow and the apologies and the warnings. Remembered that her mother had been as gifted a seer as she had been a crafter. Remembered that the book had been specifically designed for her own use and not Jinnell’s.
“You knew,” she whispered at the book.
Her mother had claimed not to be able to see the future of those she loved. But that had been just one more of the many lies that had shaped the last months.
Brynna had known this victory was coming—and that it would cost Jinnell’s life.
Enjoying a blissful moment of feeling nothing at all, Alys crossed to the small fire that warmed the chill of the desert night. She threw the book in the flames and watched the pages curl.
To all the feminists—past and present—who have fought for women’s rights. You are my heroes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I have to thank Melissa Marr and Kelley Armstrong and the rest of the gang at the bayou retreat. (You know who you are!) It was at that magical retreat that The Women’s War finally blossomed from an ambitious idea into a true novel-in-progress. Major thanks also to my agent, Miriam Kriss, who has supported me wholeheartedly throughout all the ups and downs of this crazy career path of mine. Her enthusiasm and encouragement have always made it easy for me to be adventurous in my writing and to try new things.
I must always thank my husband, Dan, who is my first reader for all my books. He goes above and beyond the call of duty every time, and my books are always better for his input.
Lastly, a huge thank you to my editor, Anne Groell, who did the unthinkable and asked me to make this already long (for me) book longer—and gave me a blueprint for how to do it! I learned so much in the process of exploring some of the subplots in greater depth, both about the process of writing an epic and about my characters. It was a blast, and I look forward to working together on the next book!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JENNA GLASS wrote her first book—an “autobiography”—when she was in the fifth grade. She began writing in earnest while she was in college, and she proceeded to collect a dizzying array of rejections for the first seventeen novels she completed. Nevertheless, she persisted, and her eighteenth novel became her first commercial sale. Within a few years, she became a full-time writer and has never looked back. She has published more than twenty novels under various names, but The Women’s War marks her first foray into epic fantasy.
jennaglass.com
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