Authors: Lindsey S. Johnson
“Not for this. She didn’t do anything wrong at dinner, she just didn’t speak to anyone. She was upset, but she didn’t yell. Yes, she does have a terrible temper, and she is angry with everyone, especially me. But maybe she’s right. I did leave her behind when I ran.
“She lost everything: her birthright, the mastership, our family. She has enough talent for any three master weavers. She would’ve been Guildmaster before she turned thirty if she — but not now.
“Maybe I am a coward. Maybe Keenan was wrong telling me to run. If I hadn’t, maybe …”
“Maybe you’d all be dead,” Hugh says, and brushes a stray curl from my eyes. “You are very brave, Rhia. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. You don’t know what your staying put might have done. But it doesn’t sound like Aman was willing to leave your family standing. He turned you in to Gantry, and he got the town upset about witchery. And no one ever did find out what happened to Pastor Seaton, although I had the bailiff look into it. She says it looks as if his heart gave out, but no one is certain.
“Aman and Deacon Bertram might have stopped a witch hunt, even with Bishop Gantry coming. But Gantry wanted a witch, and Aman singled out your family. No, you were right to run. I’d’ve run.”
He shakes his head as I shake mine. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. And don’t let Linnet be so hard on you, either. Although, maybe this morning — you shocked all of us. But maybe your sister most of all.” He puts his arm around me, rubs my shoulder, two pats and a rub. “Let’s wait and see how she handles it, then. Maybe you’re right, maybe she’s just still processing. She is young, but she’s not stupid.”
He sits back in his chair and regards me. “Now, let’s work out some new tests for those barriers of yours,” he says, and he starts discussing spells and changes and runes until I am too tired to think any more. When I leave to go back to my chambers, it is very late, and the only thing I can do is crawl into bed. Linnet is already in hers, sleeping, or pretending to. I turn down the lamp and try to do the same.
～
Nine days since Linnet has eaten much of anything, and she grows tired and gaunt. Never a fleshy girl, now her cheekbones seem to stick out like a mask, and she half-faints standing from chairs. I make sure she drinks water at least, but she hardly speaks to anyone and stares listlessly at nothing.
Julianna is at her wit’s end trying to reason with her, and both Connor and Hugh have shouted uselessly at her. I just bring her food and beg her to eat.
She hasn’t done her chores at all today: she nearly fainted when she tried to get out of bed, and didn’t try again.
I bring up a luncheon of broth and sweet carrots freshly peeled. She refuses tea or milk, so a pitcher of cold water sits next to the broth. I didn’t add bread, fearing it would be too much pressure. I lay the tray on the chest in our room, and sit next to her.
“Please, dearest, eat something.” Her face, pale and drawn, faces the window and not me. “Linnet, you must eat something. It’s only broth, it won’t make you sick. It’s chicken broth. You like chicken broth.”
Her eyes stay fixed on the window.
I clench my hands.
“Hugh asked about you today. He’s worried about you. Everyone is.”
She blinks, but otherwise shows no interest. I lay my head next to her still form in despair.
Fighting sobs, I try begging. Again. “Little bird, you have to eat. Please eat. You’ll get so sick if you don’t. I can’t bear to see you like this.” My nose and throat are thick: I can hardly speak.
“I can’t lose you too, Linnet. I’ve lost everyone else. I can’t lose you too. I’m half mad already — I’ll be raving if you die. You’ll join all the other eyes that haunt me and you won’t touch me any more than they will. And I will have failed again. Oh please, Linnet. I can’t bear it.” My words muffle in my fists, wet and staccato with gasping sobs.
I feel a touch on my hair. I start up, and she looks at her hand, a kind of desperation in her eyes. “She didn’t look at me.”
I can barely hear her. Trying to stifle my snuffles, I ask her breathlessly, “Who?”
“Mum. She didn’t look at me. Not even to say goodbye. And Da was so busy trying to look proud. Keenan only looked at you. No one said goodbye to me. And they died, and then it was too late.”
Tears start to trickle down her temple. I reach for her hand and she doesn’t pull away. I grip it, and feel how frail her bones are. It stays limp in my grasp, but she lets me hold it.
“Mum looked at you, I saw it. And Keenan looked to you. I waited for you to save them, but you didn’t. You stood there, staring back at them, and they died. And you never moved. I waited for you to save them.”
“Oh, little bird, I couldn’t, I was —”
“I waited for you to save them, so I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. I let them kill my family, and I didn’t do anything. And I didn’t save you either. And look what they did to you. I just waited, and did nothing.”
Like a blow to my stomach, the revelation of her rage. She blames herself as much as me, and now that she knows I was tortured, she blames only herself. It’s too much for one soul to bear. I grip her hand tighter and kiss it, hold it to my cheek.
“You couldn’t have saved any of us, Linnet. You couldn’t have saved me from Gantry. He wanted a person with the Sight for his spell. And Da was unpopular with the guild, or someone would have spoken for him. All you could do was stay safe. That was your part. To stay safe so there was hope. That’s all the hope I had: your safety.
“You aren’t to blame for their deaths. I swear to you, the man that is, we’ll stop him. Julianna and Hugh have a plan, and we’ll stop him. I swear to you.”
She sighs and turns her face to the window. But she lets me hold on to her hand, and she falls asleep later. I try to look on that as a sign.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A
man’s party is in a few days. Linnet is eating better, although I’m worried it’s not enough. She won’t talk to me about it, but she is trying to control her temper more. She’s still sarcastic and angry, but it’s not as pointed in my direction. Most of the time.
We’ve been working with Hugh to create illusion spells for us. They’re getting complex, and I can’t follow all of the theory behind it, although Linnet seems to pick it up pretty quickly. But it’s my power they use to run them. I’m learning how to share it with everyone, in a slow and steady stream.
I’ve noticed that since the new rune, it’s easier for people to just siphon magic from me whenever I touch them. It worries me, but I don’t seem to be able to talk about that, either. I knew I bled magic, but now that it’s been described, I can feel it happening more and more often. Linnet doesn’t even have to touch me.
The weather is, as usual, abysmal — the servants whisper the talk in town is of rationing this winter. The crops are bad. Fishing, however, has been extremely good. I don’t think anyone will starve. But we might get very tired of cod.
Water fills all the dips and smudges of the castle grounds, and everything is a muddy mess. The carpets in the main entry were removed completely, and servants can be found every day scrubbing at steps and flagstones with harsh brushes. All our boots are muddy, and the hems of gowns, too.
Not that we are traveling anywhere off of castle grounds. Julianna hasn’t left the castle since she revealed her pregnancy. Walks around the garden or the castle walls in the rain are the only change we get. Connor is glad; he’s been worried about the outings, and someone recognizing me.
I have to do something, or I’ll go entirely mad. And mending towels doesn’t count. I decide to sneak off to chapel service. I haven’t been in weeks, not since I tried to poison Gantry. But I need to see Orrin, to check on him.
The chapel is half-empty. I sit still in my seat, trying not to stare at Orrin. I am still not to contact him, but no one said I couldn’t look. He looks thinner, and his dark skin seems oddly shiny, as if he’s sweating. His eyes don’t look up from the floor.
When I use the Sight on him, he is murky and swirling, and his magic pulses in muddy hot colors. I can’t sense anything from his mind. It’s as though he’s behind a wall; I barely sense his presence.
Gantry preaches against witches and evil magic. He rants about people turning to the dark, about the country turning to the dark, about lack of leadership. “There are those leading our land onto dark paths, where the Star Lord cannot shine. Do not think to follow them, or your soul will be lost! Only evil awaits such wanderings. Beware such purpose as they have for you. A kind face can hide a dark heart.”
The congregation shuffles in their seats, uncomfortable. His ranting against Julianna and the duchess all but overt. With the kirche in town a longer walk than some servants have time for, there are still some who attend services here. And ranting against evil feels almost normal now. But Bishop Gantry has forgotten Haverston’s larger truth: everyone loves Duchess Marguerite. She has been Haverston’s guiding hand for several decades. Insulting her will not win him any converts.
Gantry stops abruptly, and walks away from the altar. After a moment, the congregation stirs and starts to leave. His sudden exit stirs no comment: we are starting to know the bishop’s tendency toward abruptness.
Orrin stays where he is after Gantry walks out, and I stay in my seat, as well. The people empty out of the chapel, and it grows quiet but for our breathing echoing lightly in the tall room. Orrin hasn’t looked up. Taking a breath, I push to a stand, turn and head for the Star Chambers. I look back over my shoulder, but he doesn’t move.
Brushing back the curtain, I stand inside the first chamber, staring at the stone wall, and listen to the quiet in the chapel, the sound of rain and ocean waves outside. I hear a swish of footsteps coming closer. I close my eyes, and hope.
A body bumps into me from behind, and I spin around. Orrin grips my arms, stares into my eyes. I grab him back.
“Orrin,” I say, “I hoped you would talk to me.”
“I need,” he rasps, then stops, panting.
“I’m trying to figure out a way to get you out of here,” I say. “Hugh is working with the cardinal to figure out the — the —” and I can’t say it, silence closing off my throat. “Connor swears we’ll just take you if we have to, but they’re afraid the bishop will be able to find you.”
His hands are hot: I can feel the burn of them through my sleeves. His face is hot, too, and his eyes look feverish. The spell is drawing too much power through him. Bishop Gantry is drawing too much power through him. He leans his head down and rests his forehead on mine, his body trembling.
“Please, I need … I need you to kill me,” he whispers.
I gasp and start to pull back.
He grips me harder, stares in my eyes. “Please. Please just do it. I can’t — I can’t —” and the spell closes his throat, too. We stare at each other in mute mutual horror and enforced silence. Finally I force my voice to work.
“I swear we’ll get you out. Somehow — somehow we’ll get you free of this. I don’t — I don’t know — I don’t want you to die.”
“Dorei,” he cries out, “I need you —”
“Orrin Beaudreau!” A roar in the chapel. Gantry.
Orrin puts his hand over my mouth and pushes me back into the dark corner of the chamber. He stares into my eyes, his own a message: be quiet. He twitches himself through the curtain and steps out into the chapel, silent.
“What are you doing in there? Come with me this instant!”
I stand huddled in the corner, shaking, listening to their footsteps, to Gantry’s angry harangue. I wait until I hear only silence outside the chamber. I wait longer, my whole body itching and aching and trembling. When I creep out, the chapel is empty. I look up at the statue of Dorei and make a sign of supplication. Please. Please help me. I have to find Connor.
The corridors are mostly quiet, with servants bustling about their duties here and there. No one comments on my face or stops me. I try to look as normal as I can but my face is frozen, and tears leak down my cheeks.
I send out magic in searching tendrils, hoping Connor is nearby. Flashes of minds, bits of vision pour through me, and I run blindly up stairs, down the hall, pulled by a faint feel of his mind. My weak lungs ache and strain, and black edges creep around everything. I thump into Connor’s chamber door, feel him beyond, pound on it, gasping.
He yanks the door open and I fall forward into him. Grabbing me, he stumbles back. “What are you doing? What is it?”
I shake my head, try to form words, but mostly I can’t.
“What happened?” he asks, pulling me into his room and shutting the door.
I bend over, coughing, my hands on my knees. He tries to help me up, but I lean back against the door, wheezing.
“Is it Julianna? Did something happen to her?”
I shake my head. “Orrin,” I gasp. “He said, he said he wants,” but I don’t know how to say it. I pull in more air, force my body to accept it, to calm down.
“You spoke to Orrin?” Connor asks, angry.
“He came to me. I mean, I was, he, we spoke to each other.”
Connor starts to shake his head.
“I told him we were trying to find a way around the spell, that we’d just take him if we had to, that you —”
“Dammit, Rhia. I told you not to speak to him. It’s too dangerous. We don’t know if he’s compelled to tell Gantry —”
I shove off of the wall and then shove Connor, my hands against his chest. “He asked me to kill him,” I spit, furious. “He begged me, Connor. He wants to die. Whatever else is going on, he is desperate, and we have to help him. We have to — we can’t just leave him there!”
Connor closes his eyes, bowing his head. After a moment he rubs his forehead and nods. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’ll — I’ll work out a way to get him out of the castle.”
I suck in a breath I hadn’t realized I needed. “Tonight?”
He rubs his hand over his face. “Maybe. I’ll have to contact some people, and I have to wait for a chance to get to him, or create one. He’s almost always with Gantry now. We’ll have to figure out a way …”
“But you’ll do it?”
“Yes.” He looks at me, and I wipe my sleeve across my face. “Come on, come sit down.” He puts his arm out, guides me to the couch across from the windows. Sitting next to me, he pats his pockets for a handkerchief, hands one to me with a little smile. My breath comes in little hiccoughing sobs. His hand settles on my back, rubbing small circles.
Gray light filters in through the windows and curtains, and I hear the steady, unending sound of the rain. The warmth from his hand seeps into my muscles and I feel them ease, feel the bands around my chest give so I can breathe a little better. I rest my head on my knees. Relief and panic and sour anger roil in my stomach still.
“You should kill Gantry,” I say to my knees.
His hand leaves my back, and I feel him tense, hear his frustrated growl. “I can’t just do that. I have to have just cause, it has to be sanctioned by the law.”
“You’d kill Orrin if you had to.” I shoot upright, accusing.
“If I had to kill Orrin, there’d be repercussions for that, too. I would only do that if he were immediately endangering everyone.”
“Gantry is endangering everyone!”
“I don’t have any proof of that,” he snaps. “I of all people cannot take the law into my own hands and play with it like a toy. I must obey the letter and spirit of the law, and the law says I don’t get to just murder people because I don’t trust them.”
“What does that mean, you of all people?” I ask. “You keep saying that, and I don’t see how —”
“Because of who I am, Rhiannon! My father, my brother.”
I just throw my hands up in the air. “Who is your father?” I shout.
“Was. My father was the Duke of Torrence.”
My mouth stays open, but no sounds emerge.
He nods, his mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. “I see you didn’t know.” His eyes close, and he sighs heavily. “I apologize for adopting you as a cousin without making that clear.”
I feel my head wagging, my mouth open, try to control both. “Then, then Duke Valcourt, the exile …”
“Is my brother Stephen. He and I … are not close.”
I shut my jaw with a snap. The former Duke Valcourt of Torrence was exiled four years ago after he tried to stage a coup. He nearly killed Prince Alexander. The king and prince personally escorted Stephen’s routed army to the border of Kantir, leaving them without supplies in the mountains in winter. Not many survived.
Duke Valcourt did, and vowed revenge, they say. Revenge for that, and for his father.
The king’s brother. Gerald, Duke of Torrence. Executed for treason.
Connor, nephew of a king. Son of a traitor. Brother of a traitor.
Oh.
That explains some things. I stare at my hands. “Wait, but Valcourt’s half-brother is the Duke of Lussier —”
“I don’t use that title,” he says. “I relinquished that title back to the crown, along with the ducal lands of Torrence. And I took an older family name, fitzWellan, instead of Valcourt.”
He relinquished a duchy. He relinquished two duchies. I don’t know what to think about that.
“Stephen was always ambitious. And bitter. So bitter after Father was executed. He changed his coat of arms to battle axes, did you know?”
Fifteen years ago, King Peter had his brother executed by battle axe at Torrence castle. Gerald had tried to raise an army in Fanthas to take the Talarian throne from his brother. That was his third failed attempt. King Peter was furious, and murderous, it turns out. But then he required public mourning for six months after. The apprentices wove in black for what seemed like ages, I remember. I was very young, but I remember that.
“I didn’t know,” I say, about the axes. About all of it. The windows reflect in his eyes, until his lashes sweep down and he looks over at me. I never noticed the light brown flecks in his irises before. I lean forward, to comfort him, to say something, but then catch a waft of my own fear sweat from my clothes, and I lean back again, look away.
“I don’t talk about my family much.”
“I noticed. I’m sorry about your brother.” I hesitate, put my hand over his on the couch. A thrill runs through me that is not magic.
He looks at our hands, turns his over and grasps mine. Gently pulling, he draws me into his side. I rest my head on his linen-clad shoulder and he puts his arm firmly around me. I close my eyes at this human contact, feel my stomach muscles clench. I try not to think about that thrill.
My left sleeve is pushed up past my elbow, baring pink and white runes along my arm. Connor picks up my arm in his left hand, pulling tighter around me, against his chest. He begins to trace the runes slowly with a fingertip, his chin in my hair.
I shiver again, and my heart beats strangely. Gently I pull my arm back, and he stops the tracing. But he does not let go. I feel very aware of my tongue.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he says, his voice soft near my ear. “I was the forgotten son of a traitor when Julianna found me. We were about thirteen. My father was dead a year, and I was sent to live with Stephen in Torrence. My mother had died by then, too. I fell ill with a fever, and the king was feeling remorse about Father, so we were allowed to return to Corat.
“I was feverish and delirious, and had managed to get lost in the castle halls. Julianna found me, and even then her magic was strong. She Healed me as best she could, and took me to Alexander and demanded I be tended to by the royal Healers. She was the one who made King Peter reverse the attainder against Stephen and me.”
“I thought that was her father, the old duke.”
Connor snorts. “No. He was busy … elsewhere. Julianna and Hugh were the ones who took me on as a cause. One of their many causes.” He snorts again.
“No wonder you are so loyal to them.”
“Like a pet, you mean?” His voice grows harsh, weary.
“Like a champion,” I counter. “Like a friend.”
“I’m not a champion,” he says. “But you might be.”