Dearest (27 page)

There was still Gana to be dealt with, however, and the Infidel, who managed to hold back the patchwork tide with naught but his personal agility and two daggers. And Mordant was still hiding somewhere.

“MORDANT!” Philippe screamed for the vile usurper. The brothers scattered in every direction, each with a contingent of Friday’s soldiers.

Velius added his fey magic to Friday’s and Elisa’s. The candles surrounding Gana all flew into the air at once, their flames now glowing a deep blue. They circled around her, trapping her on the altar. And when they attacked, they melted into her, burning her skin.

Gana took one more deep breath of the red light and as she exhaled, she screamed. Her body dissolved into smoke. So, too, did the body of the Infidel. The dark clouds mingled together and fled up through the chimneys and out to the sky.

Velius and Elisa released Friday, who ran down the center of the sanctuary toward the altar. Tristan stood stiffly, wings and body covered in blood from head to toe, and opened his arms to receive her embrace.

Mordant got to her first.

Somehow, the slimy red son of a snake had slithered into the shadows between the statues and hidden there, still as death, waiting for an opportunity. And he’d found it. Friday screamed, kicking and flailing. Tristan lunged forward, ready to take on Mordant with his bare hands. From the opposite side, Philippe closed in as well.

“BACK!” Mordant pressed his dagger into Friday’s throat, deep enough for her to wince. Tristan and Philippe froze. They moved no closer, but they did not move any farther away, either. “Be still, witch.” A drop of blood trickled down Friday’s neck and she obeyed. “Everyone, drop your weapons.”

There was the briefest of hesitations before Velius said, “Do as he asks.”

Swords and daggers and pitchforks clattered to the stone floor. The twins tossed their bones aside. Elisa and Velius raised their empty hands. Tristan’s body ached to overpower Mordant and set Friday free. Across from him, Philippe raised his eyebrows, urging him to do so. Perhaps, if they both moved at exactly the same time, they could overpower Mordant before he had a chance to hurt Friday.

Tristan shook his head and growled, at both his brother and himself. He couldn’t take that chance.

“Step away from each other,” Mordant said. Velius and Elisa complied.

“Tell us what it is you want,” said Christian.

“I want the Green Isles,” said Mordant.

Philippe seethed. “Death first.”

Tristan took a step forward while Philippe had Mordant’s attention, but Mordant spun himself and Friday back to Tristan; the blood from her neck began to stain her shirt above her heart. “I SAID, BACK!”

“Please,” Friday begged without moving.

“I’m sure we can find you a vessel of some sort,” Peter offered. “We could ensure your safe passage off the island if you promise never to return.”

“NO,” said Philippe.

“This is my kingdom!” cried Mordant. “Mine! I fought for it and won!”

“We fought back,” said Rene.

“And you lost,” said Bernard.

“Gaaaaaanaaaaaaa!” Mordant called repeatedly to his mistress, but she did not answer. He called to his gods, but they did not come to his aid. Finally, he began muttering to himself, nonsense words that Tristan couldn’t make out.

He’s lost more than this kingdom,
thought Tristan.
He’s lost his mind.
But his true love was in the arms of this madman. “Just tell us what you want.”

Mordant stared at Tristan; his dark eyes were wild. He pulled Friday’s head back by her hair with one hand, and with the other he stabbed his dagger deep into her belly.

“I want to see you watch her die.”

The company surged forward again, but Mordant replaced his dagger at Friday’s neck. “Come any closer and she dies more quickly. I have decided to grant you both enough time to say your goodbyes.” Mordant smiled. “Let it be said: I was ever a ruler of grace and benevolence.”

Tristan would never have called Mordant “benevolent.” But he had to say something. “Friday . . .” he began, and then remembered that the last word he’d spoken to his brother had been his name.

“Do you love me?” Her voice was a gargled whisper of pain.

Tristan could feel his heart breaking into a thousand pieces. “You know I do.”

“And do you . . .” She seemed to lose her breath. Tristan was worried she’d lost more than that, but she inhaled a bit of the waning red light still emanating from the bones at her feet and some strength seemed to return. “Can you forgive me for what I am?”

Tristan spread his freakishly giant wings wide. “Only if you forgive what I am as well.”

Friday’s face remained pinched and serious. Suddenly, something occurred to Tristan. “I wish I could take your pain,” he said to her.

“You can’t,” she whimpered. That same thought had occurred to her, but she wasn’t able to convince her heart to complete such a task. This was why she’d sought his forgiveness. And he’d made a joke! Gods, he was a fool.

“I love you,” he said, this time without embellishment. “And I forgive you.”

A tear slipped down her cheek as she inhaled another deep breath of the red light and slowly reached up to touch the hand with which Mordant held the dagger at her neck. “Forgive me,” Tristan heard her whisper again.

This time, it was Mordant who doubled over.

Friday spun out of his grasp and threw herself into Tristan’s arms. The dagger dropped to the ground. Slowly, Mordant followed. “What have you done?” he gasped.

“It was you who sentenced yourself,” said Velius. “You have died by your own hand.”

But Mordant was dying too slowly for Philippe. Tristan’s almost-twin picked his sword up off the floor, stepped forward, and stabbed Mordant directly in his heart.

Friday trembled in Tristan’s arms. The pale skin beneath her torn shirt was unmarred, with not so much as a drop of blood or bruise to show that Mordant had touched her at all. Just as she had taken Tristan’s nearly fatal wound from him when they’d first met, she’d returned to Mordant the wound he’d given her. It was a power Friday had only been able to access when her gifts had been amplified by someone else’s magic.

Tristan’s breath caught in his throat as he swallowed a sob. François would be proud to know that his death had saved Friday’s life. Tristan tilted his head heavenward. Somewhere above them, with any luck, François knew.

Somewhere below them, Mordant drew his final breath on a bone-covered floor. All of them stood silent, patiently waiting for the usurper to die.

Well, all but one.

Applause broke out from behind the altar. From the shadows stepped a young, pale-skinned man with shoulder-length black hair and long, flowing black robes.

“Bravo!” the man cried, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. “Bravo! That was wonderful.” He strode up to Tristan and Friday and looked them over from head to toe. “I must say, you two are the most fabulous gift I’ve ever received.” He took them both by the cheeks and kissed their foreheads.

“Who are you?” Tristan couldn’t help but ask.

“Oh, must we ruin it?”

“He is Lord Death,” said Velius.

Lord Death stuck his tongue out at the duke. “You always were a spoilsport.”

“We were a gift?” Friday asked.

“From my wife!” Lord Death boasted. “She’s a trickster, that one.” He turned to Peter. “You remind me of her, a little.”

“Your wife,” Friday clarified.

“Of course!” He clapped his hands together again. “You know her better as Fate.”

Friday’s head settled back down on Tristan’s chest in defeat.

“I’d like to have some words with your wife,” said Tristan.

“Wouldn’t we all?” said Lord Death. “Now, where were we?”

“You were explaining about gifts,” prompted Bernard.

“Yes, thank you. Don’t you see? Oh, it’s a beautiful thing.” Lord Death stepped back slightly to admire them as if they were a framed portrait. “An Angel of Feathers and an Angel of Fire.”

At the mention of angels, two figures manifested out of the red light and smoke beside Lord Death. One was a man with wings of feathers. The other was a woman with wings of fire.

“You”—Lord Death pointed to the lifeless body of Mordant—“have been a naughty little boy.”

From Mordant’s body rose a shade with the same silhouette as the man lying prone at its feet. “You and your cohorts have trapped many a good soul in this edifice.” Lord Death shook his finger at the cowering shade. “Tsk-tsk. And
you!
”

Lord Death moved to the altar, where a translucent image of François hovered above his body. “You are a hero, sir, and your legend will be spoken of for years to come.” He bowed low to François.

“No.”

They all turned to Philippe, who still stood over Mordant’s soulless corpse. “It should be me,” said Philippe. “Take me instead.”

Lord Death shook his head. “That’s not how it works, my brave warrior.”

But Philippe would not be dissuaded. Leave it to his bullheaded brother to be the one to not back down from a god. “Oh no?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Ask your wife.”

Lord Death’s brow furrowed. A moment later it smoothed, and the god smiled from ear to ear. “Well played, sir.” With a snap of his fingers, Philippe collapsed.

“No!” Friday tore herself from Tristan’s embrace and fell to her knees at Philippe’s side. Elisa did the same, crying out his name over and over again.

Tristan heard a raspy cough. Behind him on the altar, a very pale François gingerly lifted himself out of a pool of drying blood. “What happened?”

“Your brother won a duel with a god, François,” said Lord Death. “And now we must bid him
adieu
.”

Humbly, Philippe’s shade rose from the body on the ground. One by one, Philippe’s shade met the eyes of everyone in that room. When he looked at Friday, she closed her eyes and put a hand to her lips. When his gaze fell to Christian, Philippe dropped to one ghostly knee and bowed his head in a pledge of fealty to the new ruler of Kassora. The rest of the room bowed with him.

Tristan could not keep his tears from falling, nor did he want to. Philippe’s form wavered until he blinked them away. Christian nodded with a hand on his heart, unable to force his insubstantial brother to rise. The Angel of Feathers took care of that for him, placing a gentle hand on Philippe’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure I remember the last time I saw anything so touching,” said Lord Death. “But, as brilliant as this has been, I’m afraid it’s time to go.”

“Thank you,” said Tristan. He wasn’t quite sure which part of his involvement he was thanking the god for, but it seemed the right thing to do.

Lord Death winked. “This isn’t forever, my friend. We shall meet again.”

Despite the overwhelming sadness of the occasion, Tristan caught himself smiling. “Undoubtedly.”

It was the answer Philippe would have given.

“And you,” Lord Death snapped back over his shoulder at Mordant’s slimy shade.

The Angel of Fire looked entirely too pleased. The tall, preternaturally beautiful woman strode majestically to the shade and lifted him up by his throat. Mordant wriggled and writhed in her gasp. She tossed her hair—sparks snapped in the air—and gave a low, knowing chortle that Tristan hoped he would never hear again.

With a wave of her free hand, every image of submissive fire-winged angels that had been painted inside the sanctuary charred black and smoldered.

“All wrong,” said Lord Death. “We look forward to showing you what the Angels of Fire are really capable of.” With that, the Angels of Feathers and Fire disappeared again, along with their charges.

A very large man in a patchwork shirt scooped Philippe’s body up into his very large arms. No one made a move to touch Mordant. “We should be going,” said the man.

“Thank you, Mr. Jolicoeur,” said Friday. She bowed to the god. “And thank you, My Lord.”

“I assure you, the pleasure was all mine.” Lord Death reached up and pinched both their cheeks. “Wonderful!” he said, and then vanished into thin air.

Christian was the first one who dared speak. “Well, that was—”

“Wait!” yelled a voice, and in a snap, Lord Death had reappeared. “You really should leave now. I’ll be taking all the souls in this building to the other side with me, and there won’t be much left afterward.”

“Yes, sir!” said Christian. With a salute, Lord Death disappeared once more. The floor began to shake, and what glass remained in the windows began to crack.

“I don’t need to be told twice,” said Peter. “Let’s get out of here.”

The swans were the first to flee. Velius stayed behind to make sure everyone had evacuated the Fire Temple before leaving himself. The second after he crossed the threshold, the gold plating aged to rust and the walls toppled in on themselves.

The remaining heirs of Kassora looked on in silence as the last building left standing in their kingdom was crumbled to dust by the hand of a god.

19

I
N THE END,
it was Friday who gave Tristan his first flying lesson. She placed Mr. Humbug’s brass ball into his cupped hands and bade him whisper the name of the port city Velius had told them. From there they would take the King’s Road to Arilland, assuming it had returned once Saturday’s magical ocean had fled. Mr. Jolicoeur had decided to remain with the ship. He assured Friday that he would see it safely into the hands of a good owner: his former captain, the Pirate Queen Thursday Woodcutter.

Christian, Elisa, François, and the twins remained on the Green Isles, though not in Kassora. Mr. Jolicoeur had sailed them to another island in the chain, and then another, until they discovered a group of former Kassorans who had run from Mordant’s forces and survived in hiding. When they told the people there of Mordant’s defeat and his sorceress’s exile, the people bowed to Christian and recognized him as King of the Green Isles.

Friday gave Christian her flag, so that the white swan upon the colorful background might stand for peace, unity, and remembrance. He vowed that his people would remain in hiding no more, encouraging men, women, and children to spread the stories far and wide so that they knew it was safe to come home.