Warrior Witch: Malediction Trilogy Book Three (7 page)

“
D
oes this spell work
?” I asked her, wishing that I didn’t have to. Wishing that I’d never picked up the grimoire and flipped through the pages. Hating the pragmatic and logical part of myself that had seen the spell and immediately considered how it could be used for my benefit.

The shot of anguish was immediate and fierce. Cécile’s eyes shut, but tears squeezed out of the corners and dripped down her cheek. “Why?”

I let the book slip out of my grasp to fall with a soft thud on the bed behind me. Pulling off my glove with my teeth, I wiped away one tear, then kissed away another before pulling her close so that her head rested under my chin.

The words stuck in my throat, coming out as a slight exhalation of air. “I…”

Her shoulders were shaking, a damp spot growing on the front of my shirt where her face was pressed against it. Was it even worth it, given the grief it would cause her? The grief it would cause me? Closing my eyes, I remembered my argument with Marc deep in the mines. If I backed away from this, I’d be nothing more than a coward and a hypocrite.

“If something happens,” I said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, “it can’t happen to both of us. We broke the curse believing we could make a better world, and if one of us falls, the other must see our dream through to the end, whatever that end might be.”

One ragged breath, and the tears stopped. “You’re planning for me to die.”

“That’s not–” I broke off, tugging at the collar of my shirt in an attempt to relieve the tightness in my throat. “I’m sorry.”

A slender arm wedged between us, and she pushed away. I let her. “Cécile…”

Her blue eyes were bloodshot. Weary. Resigned. She pressed a cold finger to my lips. “No, it’s smart. It’s a good plan. I hate it, but it’s a good plan. We need to function with autonomy, which is hard when we can feel what each other is feeling–” Her voice cracked.

Catching her hand with mine, I held it to my chest. There were things I should’ve said, explanations and justifications. Words to make her understand that in a perfect world, I’d never consider asking her for this. That in a perfect world, she would always come first, and I’d spend every waking moment proving it to her.

But ours was an imperfect world. Flawed and cruel.

“Will it work?” I asked.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “I think it might.”

C
écile worked quickly
, brow furrowed as she rummaged through Anushka’s chest, coming out with a vial filled with dried petals. “
Passiflora
,” she muttered. “Truthfully, I’m not sure the herbs are necessary. The iron I understand, but…” She sniffed the contents. “Might be that they are only to focus the witch on her objective. I just don’t know.”

She wasn’t talking to me, so I didn’t respond, instead going to the window and drawing back the shade. Dusk was settling on Trianon, the sun backlighting the mountains in shades of red and orange. The ship would soon be ready in what remained of the harbor, and in the darkest hour of the night, I’d send my wife and closest friends to kill my brother.

“I need blood, but only a little.”

Pulling back my sleeve, I sliced the back of my arm with magic. Blood dribbled down my wrist, crimson lines in contrast to veins still blackened with the scars of iron rot. As soon as Cécile withdrew the basin, I jerked my sleeve down to cover the mess, turning my gaze back to the window.

Soon, I’d feel nothing.

Cécile murmured an incantation, and I felt the invasive pull on my magic as she drew on it, shaping it to her own purpose. “It’s done,” she said, and I turned back to her.

On the palm of her hand rested three black balls the size of marbles. They fluxed and shifted like globs of oil in water, and Cécile’s fingers curled and twitched as though she desired nothing more than to fling them to the floor. “You’re supposed to eat them,” she said.

“That’s unfortunate. How long will it last?”

“I don’t know.” She bit her lower lip. “The magic doesn’t affect the bond – it affects you. You won’t feel what I’m feeling, because you won’t feel anything at all. You’ll be able to make decisions logically, not because of what may or may not be happening to me.” She held out her hand. “I suppose you should try one while I’m still here.”

I picked up an empty glass and tipped the contents of her palm into it. Setting it aside, I said, “Not yet.”

“Tristan.”

Shaking my head once to silence her, I eased the coat off her shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. Beneath, she wore a boy’s shirt that covered far more than any of her dresses, yet concealed nothing as her body reacted to my touch. The lids of her eyes stayed heavy, but the weariness was washed away by a heat far more to my liking. Catching hold of the laces at her throat, I tugged them loose, her soft exhalation making me ache in a way that bordered on pain.

She caught hold of my hands, lowering them to her hips. “Let me.” Her eyes fixed on mine, holding me in place as she pulled loose my cravat, letting the fabric drift to the floor. She unfastened one button, then the next, her fingers sliding under my shirt to brush against my chest, my stomach, before stopping just above my belt, which she used to pull me closer.

My breath was loud in my ears, quick and ragged, and beyond my control. Her hands drifted back up to my shoulders, pushing my shirt and coat down until they caught on my wrists, binding my arms in place until I was willing to let her go. Which I wasn’t.

Only then did her gaze break from mine, eyes running over me even as her fingers traced feather-light lines of fire down my arms, across my ribs, up my back. She’d touched me before, but it seemed like it had been a thousand years ago. Like I’d been dying of thirst, but hadn’t known it until handed a glass of icy water. She was in my head and in my hands, desire ricocheting back and forth between us. There was nothing like it. There never would be anything like it.

Cécile stood on her tiptoes, the linen of her shirt rough against my skin, her arms wrapping around my neck. Fingers tangling in my hair. She kissed me – barely more than a brush of her lips against mine – but it sent a shudder through me. Pushing my control to the very limits.

Her breath was warm. Sweet. “We don’t have much time.”

Prophetic words.

I let go of control.

It was not slow or sweet or gentle. Seams on clothing strained and tore. Kisses were desperate and edged with teeth. Caresses seared, fingernails scraping across naked skin. I needed to know every inch of her. Every taste. Every sound.

Just in case.

Because it could be the last time I ever held her. Ever kissed her. Ever heard her voice. And whether an hour or a lifetime passed, I needed to be able to close my eyes and have it be her who filled them.

O
ur friends waited
in the council chambers, all four of them staring at the row of perfume bottles Sabine had tracked down. “Will these do?” she asked, eyes running over my face and making me doubt how well I’d fixed my cosmetics.

“As well as anything,” I replied, picking one up. It smelled overpoweringly floral, and I wrinkled my nose. “All that matters is that they break at the right time. The blood must come in contact with their skin.”

“Not a problem.” Vincent hefted one of the perfume bottles and pretended to throw it at Marc’s head. Marc didn’t so much as flinch. “How close do you need to be, Cécile?”

“Closer than I’d like.” I nibbled on my thumbnail, watching Tristan go to the far side of the table. The seeds of magic had disappeared into one of his pockets, but I felt their presence acutely.
When would he take one? What would it do?
“We’ll only get one chance to attack them.” And I wasn’t entirely confident I could take down more than one troll at a time. Roland had to be first, because at least my friends could handle Lessa and the others if they had to. But what if Angoulême’s plans had changed? What if there were more trolls with them than we expected?

“Perhaps we might have a contest to see how many we can hit Lessa with before Cécile finishes her spell,” Victoria suggested, interrupting my thoughts.

Tristan coughed. “As the donor supplying your projectiles, I’m going to veto that plan.”

“Does it need to be you?” Marc asked. “You’re taxed as it is with this dome you’ve created. The last thing we need to be doing is bleeding you dry.”

Tristan sat down at the table and rested his chin on his hands, eyes thoughtful. “When Anushka used the spell on me, it was as though I were bound by my own power. Cécile will be manipulating the magic of whomever’s blood she uses, which suggests the more powerful the donor, the better.”

“But Anaïs was able to stop your father,” I reminded him.

“I know.” He frowned. “But better not to take chances.” And before anyone could argue with him, he pulled a knife out of his boot, pushed up his sleeve, and sliced the blade across his forearm where the earlier laceration had long since faded. Angling the tip of the weapon, he watched expressionless as rivulets of crimson ran down the steel and into one of the bottles.

“That’ll do,” I said after the third bottle was full. “The last thing we need is you fainting and Trianon falling while we’re gone.”

Tristan gave a slight roll of his eyes, but didn’t argue as I tied a handkerchief around his arm. As he fussed with the sleeve of his shirt, I caught Sabine’s attention and held it.
Watch him for me.

She nodded.

Carefully wrapping the bottles in a scarf, I put them in my satchel. “Night is upon us. It’s time we set sail.”

T
he sails
of the ship snapped tight with a gust of wind, the masts creaking, and water slapping against the hull. With each sound, I flinched, certain that Roland stood on the beach under the cover of night, his sharp ears marking our progress, waiting for the right moment to strike. The sailors seemed of a like mind, the tension rolling off them palpable even in the darkness.

“This is as far as we take you,” the captain said, and I curbed the urge to shush him. “You’ll need to row yourselves to shore.” The tiny boat in question hit the water with a splash, and a squeak of fear forced its way out of my throat.

“Thank you,” Marc replied. “But we’ll walk. Please hold your position until we signal.”

I heard the rustle of his cloak and a sliver of moonlight peeked through the clouds to illuminate him standing on the railing, one hand held out to me. “Mademoiselle?”

Though we’d agreed no one would use my name lest they draw the attention of the Winter Queen, it still jarred in my ears to be called anything but. Swallowing hard, I took hold and allowed him to pull me up, his steady grip the only thing keeping me from falling into the black waters below. “Ready?”

“For what?” I spluttered.

Marc stepped off the rail.

I gasped, but instead of plunging down, he stood suspended in thin air. I cautiously edged the tip of my boot out, my heart slowing not in the slightest as I felt the firm plank of magic beneath my foot. “I can’t see,” I whispered. “I don’t know where to step.”

“Just follow my lead,” he said, tugging me forward. I took a hesitant step, but spray from the ocean had already coated the magic, and my boots slid on the slick surface. The ship rocked on a wave, and the invisible plank bobbed up and down wildly. I ripped my hand from Marc’s grip and dropped to my stomach, grasping about until my fingers closed over the edges of the magic. Then I pressed my face against it, trying and failing not to think about what it would feel like to plunge into the icy waters below.

“Want me to carry you?” Victoria asked.

“No.” Taking a few measured breaths, I added, “I’m fine.”

The plank took that opportunity to buck like an untrained horse, and I slid to one side, spray soaking into my clothing. Lingering in this position wasn’t doing me any favors.

I crawled forward, keeping a tight grip on the edges and the faint shadows of Marc’s boots directly in front of my nose. I made it perhaps the equivalent of ten paces before magic looped around my waist and flung me over Victoria’s shoulder.

Holding onto the end of her braid with one hand, I clenched my teeth and held my breath as the three of them moved at reckless speed over the open water, inhaling only when I felt Victoria’s boots sink into the deep sand of the beach. She sat me on my feet, but I immediately sank to my haunches, waiting for the world to quit spinning. Acutely aware that the three of them were watching, I asked, “Did you signal the captain?”

“He’s been trying to sail away since we stepped off the ship,” Marc replied. “His signal is that I let him.” The debris covering the beach crunched beneath his boots. “We need to get out of the open. There are only a few hours left until dawn.”

W
e found
the first destroyed village by smell more than anything else. Wood smoke, wet ash, and, worst of all, burned meat.

“He’s not there,” Marc said, catching my arm as I veered off the Ocean Road and up the less trafficked one leading to Nomeny. I knew it was so, because there was a sign at the crossroads, the top of it singed black.

“I need to know,” was all I said, my boots crunching as I strode across the ice – snow that had been melted, then frozen again in a sheet as far as the eye could see. At first the trees were only scorched, but as we drew closer to the village, they became blackened, burned, then nothing more than ash on the ground. And scattered amongst them were bodies, heat and fire having rendered them unrecognizable, but every one of them face down. They’d been fleeing. Running for their lives.

There was nothing left of the village but a faintly glowing pit in the ground. I stumbled toward it, my boots sliding in the grey slush, until I stood on the edge. There was nothing. Nothing but rock that had melted and hardened, still hot hours after the attack. And ash. Dozens of lives reduced to ash.

If the world burns, its blood will be on your hands.

Turning, I made my way back to where my friends stood next to what remained of the tree line. The dawn rose as I reached them, and as it did, my sense of Tristan went flat. I stopped with one foot raised mid-stride.

Victoria bent down, her eyes squinting in the glowing brightness of the sun. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” I said, then stumbled over to a charred trunk and spilled my guts onto the grey ice. I’d known he would use the seed, had known what it would do to him, but the reality was so much worse.

“I made one of Anushka’s potions for Tristan,” I said. “It’s meant to mute our bond, but it works by suppressing his emotions.”

“Why?” Victoria demanded.

“So that if something happens to her, he’ll be able to carry on,” Marc said, then slowly shook his head as though he had more to say on the matter but was choosing not to. “Can you tell if it worked?”

My throat convulsed as I swallowed. “Yes. Maybe a little too well.”

No one spoke, the only sound the wind and the hiss of snowflakes falling into the pit.

And the tread of many feet.

I lifted my head, the trolls already facing back to the Ocean Road, heads cocked as they listened.

“At least a dozen,” Vincent murmured. “Perhaps more.”

We crept back through the blackened trees, magic blocking us from sight but our silence dependent on stealth. Reaching the Ocean Road, we stopped, groups of islanders trudging past us, many of them bearing signs of injury, and all under guard. But not troll guards.

Human.

“Black, white, and red,” Marc muttered as one of the guards passed close to us. “Roland’s new colors?”

“How is this possible?” I asked, turning to spit in the snow, the taste of vomit still sour on my tongue. “How could he have recruited so many in so little time?”

“He didn’t,” Marc replied. “This plan has been years in the making.”

There was nothing else to do but follow them.

W
e took
the hour’s walk to the village of Colombey as an opportunity to discover information, the four of us ranging up and down in pairs to listen to the guards and prisoners. But we learned little other than that the islanders had been roused from their hamlets and told they’d either swear fealty to the rightful ruler of the Isle or find themselves on the sharp end of a sword. Most had capitulated. Some had not. Those who had not hadn’t survived long.

The village had a thousand times its usual population, many milling about aimlessly, while others sat in the mud, their eyes distant. The armed men bullied townsfolk, farmers, and fishermen into a ragged line leading into the tavern. Men and women. Children, some so young they had to be carried by a parent or older sibling. The only people I saw none of were the elderly and infirm, and a sickening suspicion filled my gut that it was because Lessa had already ordered them killed.

They shoved a woman holding a child wrapped in blankets toward the line, but she resisted, asking, “Who is he? And why does he need the oaths of children barely old enough to speak? My boy’s sick – he can’t be out in the cold like this.”

“He’s Prince Roland de Montigny,” one of the men replied, hand drifting to the blade strapped to his waist. “Heir to the throne and soon to be King of the Isle of Light.”

“What of the Regent?” She looked bewildered, and I wanted to warn her, to tell her to be silent. “The Isle has no King.”

“It does now,” the man replied. “And His Highness has been wont to take off the heads of those who say otherwise, so best you keep those pretty lips of yours sealed unless it’s to swear allegiance to him. As for your boy…” He ran a finger down the edge of his sword. “He swears or he dies, so he’d best muster up his strength while you wait.”

The woman paled and pulled the blanket-wrapped form closer. Then she stepped into line.

There were too many people for us to risk going closer, the chances of one of them stumbling through Marc’s illusion growing by the second.

“It’s too bright! Shut the door!” Roland’s voice cut through the noise of the crowd, and I instinctively edged closer to Marc. “Can you see him?” I whispered. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s taking their oaths.” Marc drew me backwards, and we retreated into the barn where the twins waited.

“No sign of Lessa, but Roland is inside with two of Angoulême’s lackeys,” he told them. “Roland, it would seem, has developed an intense dislike for the sun.”

“And here I thought I’d never find common ground with the boy,” Vincent replied, rubbing at one eye. “No doubt Lessa has the place warded, and even if she doesn’t, we get that close and one of them is going to sense our power.”

“Agreed.” Marc rested his elbows on the door of a stall, eyes on the horse within, though I doubted he was giving it much thought. “They’ll have to come out eventually, though it will likely be after dark. We’ll ambush them then.”

“When they’re expecting it.” The words were out of my mouth before the thought was fully formed. “They might think Tristan won’t attack his brother, but they aren’t fools. They’ll have taken precautions, and they know he’ll be more likely to make his move when Roland isn’t surrounded by innocents.”

Taking a moment to organize my thoughts, I sat on a bale of hay. “It’s the core of their strategy: they’re building an army of humans not because they’re a threat to Tristan, but because he won’t harm them. They’re forming a human shield.”

“What do you propose?” Marc asked. “
Our
entire strategy is predicated on us catching him unaware, which is impossible with them closeted inside that building.”

“What about through the window?” Victoria asked. “A quick burst of magic and–”

“He’s flanked by the other trolls and the line of sight isn’t good,” Marc said, shaking his head. “You’d have to be only a few paces away to have a clear shot, and he’d sense the magic. None of us can get close enough, and if we take out the entire building, there’ll be countless human casualties.”

I coughed once, and waited.

Three sets of silver eyes turned on me. “No,” Marc said. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” I asked. “He’s letting the humans right up close to him. What better chance do I have to cut him off from his magic?”

“Probably none,” Marc said.

“Well then?”

“Cutting him off from his power is only half the battle,” he replied. “Unfortunately for you and for us, he doesn’t need magic to rip out your throat. Which is exactly what he’ll do if you walk in, curtsey, and then throw a perfume bottle full of blood at his face.”

“I wasn’t planning to get that close,” I muttered. “I’ve a good arm.”

“And what about the other two? Three, if Lessa is close by, which we should assume she is. Is your aim good enough to take out all of them?”

“You three can take out those two, and if Lessa is there, I won’t act.”

“But you will come out oath-sworn to Roland, which is problematic,” Marc said. “It’s a bad plan.”