Dearest (16 page)

Friday would decline his offer, sweetly, and with the reason that they had been instructed to not test the boundaries of the curse any further than they already had. Yet hadn’t the damage been done? Mordant had found them and Elisa now faced execution. Ending up stuck as a swan for the rest of his life seemed trivial in comparison.

Sebastien would spend this last night pining over his love. Philippe would brood. François would read. Christian and the twins would spin the last of their hope and joy into that nettle fiber, futile as their actions might be. But Tristan could not sit idly by. “Nothing you can say will dissuade me.”

“I imagine not.” Friday reached down into the bag she held and removed several dark items of clothing and a pair of black boots. She shoved it all into his hands. “Just put these on first.”

There she went, surprising him again. “What’s this?”

“That assassin of Mordant’s—the one he calls ‘the Infidel’—wears all black, including a mask that covers his face. You’re about his build, if perhaps a little scrawnier, but not enough for anyone who might be awake at this hour to notice.”

Tristan stared at the black bundle. “I . . . I mean, I . . .”

“I’m not sure if he’s under Mordant’s command or the sorceress’s thrall,” Friday continued. “Like Elisa, he doesn’t speak, but that could be choice as easily as geis. Either way, it only adds to his air of deadly intrigue.” She shuddered. “The next time I see him will be all too soon.”

Tristan lifted the top item with fingers that still ached from their brush with the raw nettle mat. It appeared to be a scarf with two holes cut in it. He scowled down at Friday. “Scrawnier?”

Friday stuck her tongue out at him before turning to face the door. “Hurry, or I’m leaving without you.”

Stairs. So many stairs. Tristan couldn’t remember the last time he’d encountered stairs. If this eternal descent didn’t make him miss his wings enough, the inevitable climb back up certainly would. Every step he took in those heavy black boots was jarring. Perhaps he could time the return journey for sunrise. If they reached the bottom by sunrise.

And if Elisa lived that long.

Friday’s squire had remained just outside the Elder Wood door; when Tristan walked out, Conrad had done little more than nod politely. Tristan didn’t know anything about the dark-skinned boy besides his unwavering loyalty to Friday, but Conrad’s show of respect had just earned Tristan’s own. He did not insult the princess by asking how much of her squire’s watchdog presence was also for his brothers’ protection.

He adjusted the scarf on his face again so that he could see better through the holes. The fabric kept riding up the incline of his nose and bunching between his eyes. Did the Infidel have this problem? Surely not; such aggravation would have led to many botched assassinations.

Tristan was less bothered by the mask than he was the gloves. For all its refusal to stay where it was put, the mask felt a bit like the one he wore every day as a swan. The gloves, however, drew his attention to his hands. With his hands encased in leather, he couldn’t stop thinking how strange they were, or how large, or how hot.

Friday caught his arm when he stumbled. “Pay attention to your feet,” she said. “They’re the most important right now.” She removed the gloves from his hands and stuck them inside a pocket of her voluminous patchwork skirt. “You can put these back on when we reach the bottom.”

He trailed one of his emancipated hands along the outer wall in an effort to keep his balance. The stones were cold and damp and often obscured by random wisps of fog. “You’ve done this every day,” he said somewhat breathlessly.

“It was necessary,” she said, as if anyone else would have done the same. Friday was truly as rare and precious a person as she seemed.

“Has it gotten any easier for you? The height, I mean.” Gods knew the rest of their situation had not.

“It has, a little,” she replied. “I am less afraid, knowing that if I fell, you would save me.”

He lost himself in her eyes again. Gods, those eyes were incredible. He recalled being angry at her not long ago, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why.

Tristan slipped again on the next step down, catching himself this time. He growled slightly and tried to resume his concentration.

After an eternity, they finally reached bottom. The hall beyond the archway to the tower was covered in thick carpet dimly lit by a row of sconces, a few of which had gone out. He was as happy about the carpet as he was for level ground; he wondered if anyone would notice if he removed these blasted boots as well.

Friday took one of the torches from the wall and gently blew it back to life. “Don’t get too comfortable. We still have to get to the dungeon.” She reached in her pocket, returned the gloves to him, and waited for him to put them on before marching determinedly down the hall.

Tristan tried to think about his feet instead of his hands.
One foot in front of the other. Stay behind Friday. Stick to the shadows. Don’t make eye contact with anyone
—Friday had said that the Infidel’s eyes were black and red, certainly not the bright ocean blue of his own. Above all, he must not speak.

Apart from the servants, they only encountered one person roaming the late-evening halls as they crossed from the wing of the sky tower to the dungeon. That person was the most beautiful woman Tristan had ever seen.

She glided like a ghost from the hearth-fire stories his brothers used to tell. Her long white-blond hair and whiter flowing gown almost glowed around her as she moved in the dim torchlight. She was a wild doe in the forest, graceful and fleet, with eyes of deep and soulful wisdom. As she neared, Tristan noticed a silver circlet upon her brow.

The woman stopped before them, leaning down to place a kiss on Friday’s cheek. “Sister dearest.”

Ah. The legendary Princess Monday. Friday had spoken of her eldest sister’s beauty to the brothers, but since Friday seemed to think everyone she met was beautiful in some way, Tristan had never imagined . . . this.

As Monday straightened, she scrutinized Tristan’s dark figure. She turned to Friday and arched one angel-feathered brow high. Friday smiled—was she blushing?—and placed a finger over her lips. Monday smiled back, then tilted her head in a small bow to Tristan.

She knew who he was, then. From that sibling bond that needed no words, Monday knew, and she would keep her peace. Tristan bowed low in return.

From farther down the hallway they heard the shuffle of feet, and Friday drew in a breath. The shadow of what looked like a short man in a tall hat rounded the corner. “Please . . . ?”

Monday reached out a pale, slim hand, and caressed her sister’s cheek before moving to intercept the stranger.

Friday took Tristan’s hand and they fled deeper into the darkness.

Tristan tried to remember every twist and turn they took from the tower, but by the time he reached the dungeon, he was lost. As they descended, Tristan worried for his sister’s health in this dank, damp hole. It was obvious the dungeon of Arilland was rarely used, which spoke highly of its rulers, but as a result the place was in an unfortunate state of disrepair. The wooden boards of the narrow stair creaked beneath Tristan’s weight, and small creatures—or what he hoped were small creatures—skittered out of sight.

At long last they reached Elisa. She was slumped on the bare ground behind her prison bars, hands still tied before her. If Mordant had hurt her, he would use these last hours as a man to rain vengeance down upon him. Tristan ran to his sister—and was stopped by a shadow. A very strong shadow with a very sharp knife. The blade bit into Tristan’s neck, forcing him upright.

Tristan faced his attacker and met the eyes of the man in black. Mordant’s Infidel.

The lighter skin that peeked from beneath the black mask marked him as being not of Cymbalese origin. Mordant traded regularly with the Troll King; it would have been nothing for him to acquire a Cymbalese slave for his mistress. And this man was clearly under Gana’s thrall, as was evident from the red ring around his muddy green irises. Gana would have taken his will so that he would do Mordant’s bidding without question. Tristan was not sure what crime deserved such a punishment. Then again, no one deserved to be plagued by Mordant and his witch.

This man could slit Tristan’s throat without so much as a thought. But if the enemy of his enemy was his friend, then by all rights the Infidel should be his ally. His irises were not fully red; perhaps there was some small spark of the man’s soul that could hear him. The blade dug deeper into his throat.

“Please,” said Tristan.

The pressure of the blade did not decrease, but the man stayed his gloved hand.

“I love her.”

The Infidel’s eyes slid over Tristan’s shoulder to where Friday stood right behind him, and then back to where Elisa lay silent in her cell.

“I love them both,” Tristan clarified.

“Do you remember love?” Friday asked. It was a strange question, but one that caused the blade of the Infidel’s dagger to lift away from Tristan’s neck.

“We don’t want to release her,” said Tristan. “We just want to help her.”

At Tristan’s words, the dagger pressed into his neck once more.

“Friday,” he whispered, “speak again.”

“We won’t release her,” Friday repeated calmly. “In fact, we’d prefer it if you locked us both in there with her.”

Tristan’s instincts had been correct: the dagger fell away. He wasn’t sure if it was because the Infidel’s captor was a woman, or because of that magical, lilting quality Friday’s voice possessed—not that it mattered. They had found the key to their survival, and the key to Elisa’s cage. The Infidel unlocked the iron door and let them in.

Friday fell to her knees beside Elisa’s unconscious form. She looked unharmed, for the most part, though the skin of her wrists was raw. Friday put her hands on the rope that bound her and looked up at the Infidel.

“Please.”

The word was magic. The Infidel’s dagger flashed through the air and Elisa’s bonds fell away. Then the cell door slammed shut behind them, and the Infidel disappeared back into the darkness of the dungeon.

“Nice fellow,” said Tristan.

“He’s as much a prisoner as your sister,” Friday chided him. “Here, help me wake her.”

Tristan sat Elisa up while Friday dampened a bit of her skirt and dabbed at Elisa’s bloody wrists.

Elisa was warm in his arms, and sound asleep—a blessing, and one he felt some guilt at disturbing. “Come on, baby sister. We’re so close. Don’t give up on us now.”

Reluctantly, Elisa’s lids finally lifted. When she realized where she was, her eyes opened fully, as if she were screaming at them.

Tristan and Friday both wrapped their arms protectively around her trembling body. “It’s all right,” Tristan whispered. “We’re here to help finish this thing.”

“Give yourself a moment,” said Friday. “I brought some water and some bread. When you are ready, we’ll begin again, yes?”

Tentatively, Elisa nodded. She cradled her head on Tristan’s shoulder while Friday sorted the contents of the sacks they’d brought down from the sky tower. Elisa’s trembling stopped after she finished off two sweet rolls and a substantial amount of water. She sat up on her own now and, for all that she’d been through, she looked more alert than she had in days. Perhaps that tiny blessing of rest had done her good, after all.

Tristan offered his sister a third roll, but she declined. She grabbed his hand, though, scrutinizing him in the dim light before smirking at his outfit.

Tristan tugged the scarf-mask off his head. “It was her idea.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” said Friday. “Besides, you look rather dashing in that getup.”

Elisa smiled and pointed to Friday, showing that she agreed with the princess.

Tristan rolled his eyes and threw the mask into a dark corner. “Women.”

Elisa’s smile grew wider and Tristan’s heart grew lighter.

Friday tossed Elisa the first loom. “Ready? Let’s do this.”

They worked deep into the night and beyond. Reinvigorated, Elisa’s fingers flew through the weaving. At some point, Conrad entered the dungeon, and Friday persuaded the Infidel to let him slip the new spools of spun fiber through.

“Is this enough?” Conrad asked Friday.

“It will have to be,” she said. “We don’t have much time left.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Refill the lantern and light another torch before you go?” Friday requested. “It’s terribly dark in here.”

“Tell my brothers we are well,” said Tristan. “Remind them to stay strong.”

Conrad nodded, did as he was bade, and fled back up the steps.

It was hypnotic, watching Friday and Elisa work. Tristan filled the quiet chamber with song, thinking that the cadence might lift their spirits—something he never would have done in the presence of his brothers. He did not have Sebastien’s baritone or François’s perfect pitch, but Friday smiled at the silly tavern songs and Elisa smiled at the nursery songs and Tristan felt like the finest virtuoso in all the world.

Friday stitched up the fifth shirt while Elisa dashed off the sixth, and they were well on to the seventh when Tristan felt the quickening in his blood. He did not need a window to know that daybreak approached.

Elisa looked up from her loom. She could feel it too.

Tristan fought the prickling of his skin and crossed the cell in two long strides to pull Friday up into his arms.

“What are you—?”

“I want to thank you,” said Tristan. “In case I don’t have the chance later.”

“Dawn?” she asked. There was sadness in the word, and fear.

He ignored the question. “Thank you, Friday Woodcutter, magical princess, for saving me and fighting for my family.”

“But Tristan—”

He stopped her there. He wanted the last word he remembered to be his name on her lips, so he pulled her to him and kissed her deeply.

They might not have been in the sky tower, but Tristan needed no meddling fairy magic to feel the bond between them now. Friday tasted of warmth and sugar and spice. She felt like cool breezes and home. He held her tightly—so tightly—dreading the day to come and knowing he could not stop it. But this moment . . . this moment would stay with him forever, and no spell or sorceress would ever take that away.