Dearest (26 page)

Even if she had full control of her Fire nature, she wouldn’t have been able to help the situation. The last thing any sailor wanted on his ship was a fire. Instead, Friday concentrated on what Sister Carol had said and found the beauty in the situation. She reached up to the seam where her needle hid and pressed the pad of her thumb against the tip. For the first time in her life, the sharp point pierced the skin.

Friday had not learned runes from Fairy Godmother Joy as Peter had, so she drew the most powerful symbol she knew: a circle. A circle was complete and never-ending. It represented family, a whole greater than the sum of its parts. Friday took the colorful image of the churning earth and water before her into her heart, and from there shared the amazing, impossible image with every person on the ship.

She could almost feel the collective intake of breath at the sight, the gasps of delight and awe. Tears were shed, and each mind wondered how to put it into words so that they might tell their children upon their return. Friday could do nothing about the strange forces at work beneath them, or the overall integrity of her father’s creation, but with her power over emotions she managed to turn a ship of frightened strangers into a ship of confident dreamers in the space of a few heartbeats. This image, this shared experience, would bind them together forever like few other things in life would.

Like her bond with Tristan.

She felt Conrad’s hand reach out and pat her ankle reassuringly. He knew what she was up to; he could probably see the color as she worked her magic. If the passengers of this ship had not been an army before, they were now.

Philippe pulled Friday to him, buried his head in her shoulder, and wept. She hugged him back, so that he knew he was not alone.

Faster and faster the ship flew, until there was nothing below them but calm, blue ocean. They raced the clouds in the sky and won. The wind dried her hair, tangling it mercilessly, and chilled her to the bone. She shut her eyes against the blast. Deep in her soul, she felt the people belowdecks huddle against one another for warmth.

She did not know how much longer the ship meant to fly—safely past the Troll Kingdom at least, she hoped—and so she tried to think warm thoughts. She brought to mind a sunny day in summer in a meadow full of dandelions. She recalled the hardest day of her chores when she worked up a sweat, and the fur-lined gloves Papa had given her last midwinter. What else was warm?

And then she remembered Tristan’s kiss, their last kiss, deep in the dungeons when they had arrived at the end of the curse and there was the very real possibility that he would live no tomorrows as a human. Through their lips they shared what might have been one of Tristan’s final breaths. The memory of it still brought a flush to her body and made her toes curl.

In her arms, Philippe went very still. On the decks beneath her, she could feel the crew sigh.

It occurred to Friday to be embarrassed for sharing such a moment, but all the people who had joined this crew knew exactly what they were in for, and why. If they had any lingering doubts that Friday’s love for Tristan was less than true, those doubts had vanished.

Friday had not always considered herself to be equal among her siblings, but by the time the ship finally came to rest in the harbor, she felt she had finally lived up to the Woodcutter name. Philippe removed himself from her presence immediately. But she was still afraid to let go of the railing.

Beside her, Conrad slowly got to his feet. “Milady?” He held out his hand to her, and she let him help her stand. Before he did anything else, he bowed to her, as low as he might have to any king or queen. “It remains my honor to serve as your squire,” he told her.

“Thank you,” Friday said, for she was not sure what else might be appropriate in this moment. “Mr. Jolicoeur?” Friday asked tentatively.

The large man seemed to be frozen to the wheel. Friday rubbed her hands up his arms, willing his muscles to release. Finally, Mr. Jolicoeur exhaled, relaxed, and let go. “Thank you, my captain.”

“You have steered us well,” said Friday. “I think.” In truth, she had no idea where they were. The three of them made their way to the bow of the ship, helping the crew to unbind themselves from masts and railings along the way.

The port where they had docked lay in ruins. She could make out no single edifice that still stood above the rubble.

“This is old devastation,” said Mr. Jolicoeur.

“Mordant did this when he seized the throne,” said Philippe. The armor of his anger had returned in full force.

“Why would anyone ruin a perfectly good kingdom?” asked Conrad. “Especially if you were the one who wanted to rule it?”

“Some men prefer to start fresh,” answered Mr. Jolicoeur. “They want to remake their cities and castles to their own tastes.”

“But nothing was remade here,” said Friday. “Only destroyed.”

Mr. Jolicoeur nodded. “That speaks to the temperament of the new ruler. One needs manpower to rebuild a fence, let alone a city. If the men have fled out of loyalty to the former king and queen, there is no one left to rebuild.”

“There is another possibility,” said Conrad.

Mr. Jolicoeur nodded. “Yes, but I don’t like considering that one.”

“What?” asked Friday. “What is the other possibility?”

“That the former citizens of our kingdom are all dead,” said Philippe. “Just like my parents.”

The idea was deplorable, but the likelihood was all too real. “Then we must hurry,” she said, “before any of the other former citizens of Kassora join them.” She looked at the docks, and then to Mr. Jolicoeur. “Can you lower us down?”

Mr. Jolicoeur considered the ramshackle structure. “It may fall to pieces at any moment.”

Friday looked from Conrad to Philippe, who would still not meet her gaze. Velius and Peter would be furious that she had convinced her first mate to let her down ahead of them. “We’re willing to take that chance.”

“Very well. I will lower you three, but I will send the rest of the troops in by skiff.”

Friday looped the rope around her waist and Conrad tangled his arm into it as well. “We will head up to the ridge there to see what we can find. Will you please tell my brother and the duke?”

Mr. Jolicoeur made a fist with his right hand and placed it over his left breast. “Yes, Captain.”

“You are an amazing person, Mr. Jolicoeur.” Friday made the large man bend down to her so that she could kiss him on the cheek in gratitude. Even beneath his dark skin, she could make out his blush.

As soon as her feet touched the crumbling dock, she knew where Tristan and his siblings had gone. She could taste their frustration and terror as if it still lingered in the dusty air. Philippe immediately broke into a run, heedless of the rotting wood that fell away beneath his boots. Conrad kept pace with Friday. When the terrain became too rocky, he ran in front of her to show her where she might safely put her feet without turning an ankle.

When they reached the ruins at the city’s summit, Friday spotted the Fire Temple in the distance. Smoke rose from its many chimneys. Philippe tore down the hill, heedless of the wreckage in his path, and threw himself against the garish, peeling gold-leaf doors. In an instant, Friday was beside him.

She and Conrad gagged at the smell of new smoke and old death. Before them, a melee ensued. Elisa and the brothers fought with the red-coated guards. The Infidel held Tristan by the wings and looked ready to rip them out. And upon the dais she watched as Mordant’s blade missed Christian before finding François.

“NO!” Philippe’s cry from the doorway cut through the din. And for a moment, the room was theirs.

18

S
HE’D GOTTEN THEIR MESSAGE.

Tristan’s shoulders were a mass of pain from the Infidel’s rough handling of his wings, and his brain had yet to process the horror he had just witnesses upon the dais, but as soon as his eyes alit on his beautiful beloved, every other thought flew from his mind. She had come. And somehow, she’d found Philippe along the way . . . and magically traversed half the world with him to rescue them. But not all of them.

It was too late for François.

At Philippe’s cry, it seemed as if the whole room started screaming all at once. Elisa clawed at the guard who held her, desperately trying to reach François on the dais. Christian and the twins pulled at their own burning shackles while using the red-hot cuffs to fend off several more of Mordant’s men. Tristan ripped himself from the Infidel’s grasp, leaving the assassin with hands full of precious feathers. He spread his wings, despite the pain, and launched himself into the air as best he could. He flew far enough to make the dais, landing squarely on the chest of a now unconscious Gana. The iron cuffs round his wrists went cold once more. The candles in the sanctuary dimmed ever so slightly.

Mordant took his dagger out of François’s body and slithered into the shadows. They would find him. He could not go far. Right now, Tristan’s main concern was his youngest brother. Careful of his chains, he knelt and took François into his arms, hoping to say one last word to the brother who had kept their spirits up for so long.

“François,” he wept. But though his baby brother’s soul may have heard the word from the ether, his body would speak no more. A great river of blood flowed from the gaping hole in François’s shirt, over Tristan’s hands, and into the floor. Heedless of the mess, Tristan clasped his brother’s lifeless body to his bare chest. He begged the Winds to escort François to a place of peace, in the arms of the gods he had always loved.

Behind him, Gana began to laugh. Her scaled serpent-bird glided happy circles in the air beside her.

“He was not the brother I had selected,” she said from the blood-covered floor, “but I will happily consume his essence just the same.”

Tristan realized that François’s blood was creeping along the bone maze in the floor, pouring down the runnels and decorating the runes there. The entire floor began to glow with a red light, and there was a buzzing in Tristan’s ears.

Gana inhaled, taking the red light into her body. Tristan made to leap for the sorceress, but the iron shackles burned hot once more, stopping him in his tracks. Tristan seized the opportunity. He tore open François’s shirt and rested his chains against the wound, effectively cauterizing it and stopping the flow of blood. The sorceress saw his ruse and the shackles burned even hotter, blistering his flesh and turning the iron to ash.

The cockatrice landed on François’s head, smugly curling his tail around a throat that would no longer speak. Tristan raised a ruined arm to knock the animal away, but the cockatrice’s eyes met his and held them. Its eyes seemed almost scaled, like its skin, swirling with reds and golds and subtle blues like the flame of a candle. Tristan managed to pull his eyes away before he became lost in them, but it was already too late. He had almost completely shifted his gaze back to the door before his body turned to stone.

Tristan’s mind remained intact; he could still hear and smell and see everything around him, but he was helpless to do anything but witness their defeat.

“Shame on you, pet! I could have used that one too. Well, no matter. There is more than enough blood here to give me sustenance and defeat them all.”

“Is that so?” Friday strode confidently to the altar, breathing in the same red light. Her hair was wild, a giant halo of messy curls standing up all around her head. Her gray eyes shone almost ice white in the candlelight. The rest of her—her skirt, her skin, her shoes—began to glow as red as the shackles.

“If you had the first clue as to what you were doing, little one,” Gana said to Friday, “you would know that you can’t fight fire with fire.”

“That is as may be,” said Friday. “Perhaps I can’t defeat you. But we can certainly fight.” She pointed a finger at the altar. The candlestick to Gana’s left burst into flame, singeing the sleeve of her gown.

Gana bundled the cloth in her hand and extinguished the fire. “Well met, princess. I will enjoy adding your magic to mine. But first, let’s play.” The sorceress pointed as Friday had done.

Friday leapt to the left as several candlesticks were enveloped in one great burst. The conflagration was short lived, however. A gust of wind whistled through the broken windows and toppled the sticks over, guttering the candles.

“What the . . . ?”

“Good job, Elisa!” cried Bernard.

Elisa stepped forward and clasped hands with Friday, and her shackles fell to ashes. Now that the strength of François’s blood had fully permeated the room, it enabled all
three
magic users in the vicinity. Tristan was so proud of both his sister and Friday in that moment; he only wished that François was still around to witness it. Or that he could take up arms and join them in turning the tide.

With all the magic in this room, couldn’t someone free him from this stone prison?

Streaks of fire continued to cross from one side of the room to another. Candles exploded. His brothers fought the guards as best they could while still in chains—theirs had not fallen to pieces as Tristan’s and Elisa’s had. They fought with bones and candlesticks and sometimes their bare hands. Every time they seemed to have a guard pinned down, the Infidel overpowered the brothers, sometimes two at a time. Glass shattered above him, bouncing harmlessly off his skin as it fell.

From high above the skull-covered altar, two white swans descended from the skies. Tristan mentally cheered their arrival, as he could not do so out loud. Sebastien and Odette went straight for the cockatrice.

Tristan could not move his head to follow the scuffle, but judging by the hissing squawks and crunch of bones, the swans were winning. When there was nothing but silence, Sebastien and Odette waddled back into view. Heedless of the blood, they curled up next to François, on either side of his head, and rested their beaks lovingly across his neck.

Tristan blinked. It seemed his petrification was fading with the death of Gana’s beast, but not nearly fast enough.

The front door burst open again, this time coming off its hinges entirely. Through the entrance poured a sizeable civilian army, led by Duke Velius and Friday’s brother Peter. Every man and woman wore some piece of patchwork clothing, perhaps in tribute to his beloved. They fought with conviction, cutting down their enemies in almost no time at all. It was truly a sight to behold, and Tristan was sorry that he could not be part of it.