Freddie and Gael exchanged a look, and then Freddie said in a tight, sad voice, "I'm sorry, Etain. I know those words are inadequate, and I would never ask your forgiveness, but my heart belongs to someone else."
Etain could move fast when she wanted, something Gael always forgot until he saw her do it. He was rarely the victim of her speed, however, and so it came as a shock when she slapped him, nails raking, blood dripping down his cheek like tears. "You're supposed to love me," she said bitterly, crying, sounding so plaintive and sad it hurt.
Gael cupped her shoulders and leaned in to kiss her forehead softly, then stepped back. He started to say he was sorry again, but didn't. Turning, he left the greenhouse, Freddie close behind him. The rain had picked up again, stinging as it struck the scratches on his cheek. "That could have gone better," he said tiredly.
"It could have gone worse," Freddie said. "Why do you think I took the shears away? But do not think it is over, Gael. That was only round one. First blood. She was never going to start the discussion, but she'll pursue it until she gains a conclusion that satisfies her."
"She won't get it," Gael said flatly. "I love Noire. As much as I loved both of you—I just—I couldn't. Not the way I love him. And I'm sorry."
Freddie hugged him and kissed his cheek. "It's okay. I am hardly in a position to judge. We'll always be family; we do not need to be lovers, too. Give it time enough, and we'll make amends with Etain. Surely as gods we will all ... well, I hope things will be easier, though I guess that is a foolish hope. Come on, let us leave her alone. I could use a cup of tea, and we both need dry clothes. Oak, maybe I'll actually find a way to heat my own bath water. I am dying for a proper hot bath."
Gael laughed as Freddie led him away, her arm flung over his shoulder, familiar and comforting. "I'll help you with your bath water, Freddie. But then I definitely want that cup of tea."
"Sounds like a plan," Freddie said, then added with a sigh, "And perhaps by then we will be ready for round two. Or maybe she'll avoid us until the ceremony. The coward's way, but on top of everything else we are facing, I am willing to take it for now."
"We'll see," Gael replied, and he tried to think only of baths and tea and not all that could happen in five days.
Noire finished tying his hair back as he stepped into the sitting room, but his greeting froze on his lips when he realized that Gael was not in the room. Well, that was odd, but perhaps he had been called away for something. Strange he had not at least ...
But even as he thought it, Noire saw the note on the table, propped against his teacup. Crossing the room, he picked it up and unfolded it, then read:
Kitten, went to settle a problem in the east wing. Enjoy breakfast, then meet me in the great hall at a quarter past. Love, Gael.
Smiling, curious, but content to wait, Noire obediently sat down to eat breakfast. Without anyone to talk to, however, it went quickly. Having nothing else to do, he made his way to the great hall early.
Were they going into the city? That didn't seem likely; it was too much of a risk. Perhaps it pertained to the ceremony. That seemed the likeliest.
Reaching the great hall, Noire wandered aimlessly around, admiring the paintings that remained, looking sadly at what was left of those that had been ruined. It would take months, if not years, to restore the palace—likely years, since the Triad would put the palace as their very last priority while they worked to restore Verde. But at least when people returned to the capital it could be cleaned up.
He ended up at the main doors, which gaped open because ruin had made it impossible to properly close them. Noire glanced outside and was surprised to see that the drawbridge was down. Since the last major outbreak the week before, Etain had ordered the drawbridge to remain up with guards posted on the chance survivors approached the palace seeking sanctuary.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and Noire turned eagerly, but before he could react to the fact it was Ivan, not Gael, a piercing scream split the air. Noire whipped back around and saw a cluster of people at the far end of the drawbridge. The scream came again, and Noire didn't wait, just shifted as he bolted through the door, across the pavilion, and over the drawbridge.
He saw the woman in the middle of a cluster of several men—eight? Ten? More? Noire didn't bother to count them, didn't have time to, just threw himself at the nearest creature—a tiger. Noire snarled as he hit it, sinking his jaws into its rump before he was thrown off.
Rolling as he hit the ground, Noire regained his feet in time to dodge the tiger as it pounced him, throwing himself at it. He screamed as it nipped his leg, but avoided a full on bite. He threw himself on top of it, got his jaws around the back of its neck, and locked down.
The tiger screamed in agony and tried to throw him off, but the combination of teeth and claw made it impossible. When the tiger had been dealt with, Noire rejoined the fray alongside Ivan, battling wolves, coyotes, a hawk, a lion, and another bear. By the time the chaos stopped, he was covered in blood, sweat, and dirt.
He growled at Ivan, who frowned. "Where is the woman—"
Another scream, by that point familiar, drew them further down the road and into the city itself. They turned a corner just in time to see a pack of wolves trying to attack the woman who had barricaded herself in a shop all the way at the end of the street.
How had she gone so far so fast? Or perhaps the initial fight had lasted longer than he realized.
Ivan swore and ran toward them. Noire got ahead of him, threw himself into the wolves and began to bite and claw with a vengeance. He was panting heavily when the second battle finally stopped. He sat back on his haunches and wiped blood from his paws and face, grimacing at the taste, but needing to be ready for whatever came next.
"What in the Fires is going on around here?" Ivan groused. Hefting his sword, he walked toward the shop where the woman had barricaded herself. Rapping on the door—or what remained of it, anyway—he called, "Milady! All is well, your assailants have been taken care of. If you'll come with us, we'll take you to the palace where you'll be safe."
He peered through the gaping hole in the door, frowning. "There's no one in there," he said eventually, turning around to face Noire.
Growling, Noire nudged at the various boards and pieces of furniture blocking the shattered front window. Ivan moved to help him, and when they had a gap big enough Noire leapt neatly through it. He prowled the room, but could find no sign that anyone had been there just moments ago—every smell was stale, old. He also could not see how she'd gotten out; someone had nailed boards over the back door, blocking off the stockroom, and the boards had not been moved.
It was as though the woman had been a figment.
Going back through the whole, he shifted and said, "I don't know what's going on. We both saw her, we both heard her—where is she? There was no way she could have gotten out without removing everything she used to block the door.
"I see," Ivan said, voice flat. "Let me ... " He trailed off, eyes going wide as something in the sky caught his eye. Noire whipped around even as Ivan said, "That's the palace!"
They ran back the way they had come, taking the turn in the road as quickly as possible, heading back toward the palace—and stopped short when they realize it was the drawbridge that was burning.
Noire started running again, but had to stop well back because of the intensity of the flames. "What's going on?" he asked. "How is that possible?"
It didn't take long for enough of the drawbridge to burn to cause it to fall down into the moat in huge pieces. Water splashed up, and steam billowed to join the lingering smoke. "I don't understand," Noire said.
Sheathing his sword, Ivan reached into a pouch at his waist and extracted a piece of paper. "Did you get a note, by chance?"
"A what?" Noire asked, staring blankly for a moment, and then looking back at the empty space where the drawbridge had just been. "What's going on?"
Ivan grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn. "Noire, did you get a note from someone telling you to meet in the great hall?"
"Oh, no ... " Noire whispered, dread making him cold. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his note from Gael, handing it to Ivan in silence.
Ivan read it, then balled it and his own and threw them aside. "Fire and ash! It is one of the oldest tricks in the game and I fell for it! Fires scorch that soulless whore!"
Noire blinked, stared at him. "Ivan, what is going on? Clearly you know more than me.
"I—scorch it, I should have forced it, but I let it go! Fire and ash!"
"Ivan!"
Getting a hold of himself with some effort, Ivan drew a deep breath and then finally said, "A few days ago, I posed my own theory on who could be behind the poisonings. It seemed to me that it would take someone of incredible power, someone who is also implicitly trusted and never questioned. Someone we all overlooked because it was too impossible to even consider. Ailill insisted I was wrong and I let it go because I did not want to be at odds when he could fall victim himself at any time."
Fear began to coil with the dread running cold in his veins. "You can't mean ..."
"I do mean it," Ivan said flatly. "Who else could poison the Beasts so easily? Who else could move about without ever being noticed or suspected? Who else might possibly need them out of the way, but not dead?"
Noire shook his head, tears stinging his eyes at just the thought of such a deep betrayal. "But the Faerie Queen ... Etain ... she is the beauty and the joy, the very heart of all of us. She would never hurt the Beasts, or any of her children. She would never wish harm on us. She wouldn't. She couldn't."
But suddenly he was very much afraid. Ivan was right—she could poison the Beasts easily. Etain was good at mixing things; she had been the one to create the tincture from the purity blossoms that relieved Gael's pain. "But why?"
"I don't know," Ivan said, "but can you think of anyone else?"
"No," Noire said. "I know it's not Gael or Freddie." A sudden, horrible thought occurred to him. "Do you think this could be because of Gael and Freddie? That Gael loves me and Freddie loves Verenne? But—that's ridiculous, right? Nobody would massacre so many people over that."
Ivan sighed as he stared at the palace. "On the contrary, I know a man who convinced a country to sacrifice a thousand people, all because he was in love with Zhar Ptitsa and could not overcome the guilt of his death."
Noire stared at him. "What?"
"I'll tell you the whole story sometimes, but trust me: if one man can live nine centuries and kill a thousand people in the name of love, then one would-be goddess can kill in the name of scorned love."
"That ... I can't believe that," Noire said, eyes stinging. "She's supposed to love us, all of us, no matter what. She's the Faerie Queen! She created us, she cares for us. She wouldn't kill thousands over something like that. She might kill me ... oh, Goddess." He covered his face with his hands as he recalled Gael's nightmares.
"Noire, look out!"
Jerking at the words, Noire looked at Ivan and then whipped around, barely in time to avoid the wolf that came at him—
And screamed in agony as its jaws closed around part of his hand. He fell back, hand streaming blood where two fingers had been bitten off. "Run!" he screamed, pressing his bloody hand against his chest as they fled the wolves—or tried to.
Ivan waited until the turn in the road, then whipped around and threw a dagger, taking out one of the six wolves chasing them. He drew his sword and faced the others.
Noire tried to shift, tried to help, but it just sent him to his knees with dizziness.
"Noire!" Ivan cried, then said in a soft, resigned tone, "Fire and ash."
Looking up, Noire saw more beasts had come out—more than he could count. Too many. Ivan could not take the wolves by himself, and Noire was too weak to shift and could not fight as he was.
"Fires burn you all!" Ivan bellowed, startling the looming, raged beasts into freezing. He hefted his sword and balled his other hand into a fist at his side and bellowed up at the sky, "Scorch you, Raz! Maybe you can't interfere, but I did enough for you! Protect your own, or I swear in my next life I will pluck every last one of your scorching feathers and shove them up your ass!"
For a moment, Noire swore he heard someone laugh.
Then the world burst into flame. All he could see was fire: orange, red, blue, green, and pure white flames danced around him, filling the world, stealing his breath ... but not harming him.
Before he could figure out how to ask what was happening, the fire was gone. So too the beasts.
"Thank you," Ivan said, and Noire once again heard faint laughter. Ivan sheathed his sword and walked over to him. "How is your hand?" he asked as he knelt.
"Um—" Noire stopped, realizing it didn't hurt. He gave a shaky laugh. "Is—is it stupid I'm afraid to look? It doesn't hurt anymore, but it doesn't feel right. I don't—"
Ivan rested a hand against his cheek. "Shh. You have every right to be upset. I have seen men with lesser injuries handle it worse. Keep your eyes closed, or keep them on me, and let me look at your hand.
Noire nodded and closed his eyes, knowing he was being a coward, but not caring. The brief glimpse he'd gotten before, the horrible pain of it… "How bad is it?" he asked when Ivan finally let go of his hand. He forced his eyes open.
"It's been cauterized," Ivan said. "Zhar Ptitsa did what he could for you; that is why you feel no pain. It will heal well. I am sorry; if I had seen them sooner—"
"The only one to blame is the wolf," Noire said tightly, then looked down at his hand before he thought better of the impulse.
Gone. He was staring right at the stumps where his third and fourth fingers used to be and still he could not entirely believe it; he half expected them to return at some point.
He sucked in air and then looked away, just focusing on his breathing until he no longer felt like screaming. "What do we do now?" he asked and let Ivan help him to his feet.