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Chapter 78: Memories of the Saint
Hana flinched as the blade in Deanira’s hand pierced the vein in her forearm again, breaking the freshly healed skin to allow fresh blood to pour into the waiting glass cup.
‘How many times has it been already?’ The Viscountess grimaced as the half-witch twisted her arm and then messaged her skin as if encouraging more blood to pour free. Above Deanira’s pale-blonde hair, rays of rainbow-colored sunlight poured through the stained-glass window of the private room in the cathedral.
“This would be easier if you’d eat and drink something,” Deanira murmured. A sigh of annoyance followed as the blood stopped flowing altogether, and shortly after, the wound in her captive’s arm healed. “You’re healing faster now, it seems. How annoying.”
“Why are you doing this?” Hana whispered hoarsely. “You’re not a Witch Hunter.”
Deanira raised a pale eyebrow as she set the small container of blood aside and smirked. “It’s your brother who requires all this blood. He can hardly heal the plague with his own.”
“But I can’t—”
“Your ancestors have cured the Plague before without the use of Saints,” Deanira interjected with a cynical smile. “Your brother has a plan. He wouldn’t have come all this way without one.”
“You mean—he’ll use an artifact.”
Deanira nodded as she lifted the small washbasin from the bedside table to wash Hana’s arm clean. “I see you’re not completely ignorant.”
‘It can’t be the scepter Jericho used in the past.’ Hana gritted her teeth as the pastel colors of sunlight flickered into dull shades of gray. The arm which had been bled twitched beneath the straps that bound the Viscountess to the small bed.
“Hmm. Another seizure,” Deanira observed passively as she set the bowl aside and crossed her arms.
The Viscount ignored her and focused on breathing and trying to relax her body. A familiar, tingling numbness crept up her legs and down her spine. The spasms in her arm quickly moved to her entire body, but Hana didn’t feel the discomfort or pain for long.
***
The smell of sea air greeted Nesta on the other side of her subconscious. She bolted upright in the chair and glanced across the table to where the cold but beautiful Royal Consort studied her with narrowed eyes.
“If you’re that exhausted, you may retire to eat in your room,” Kirsi said sternly.
“What? No-o! No, I’m not tired,” Nesta hastily replied. ‘Why would I fall asleep in the middle of the day?’
The familiarity of the beautiful palace walls, decorated in shells, pearls, paintings, and framed flowers from all over the world, greeted the young girl’s eyes as she scanned the room around them. A wave of relief followed that made her eyes water suddenly. Nesta hastily wiped the tears away as she refocused her attention on the woman with scarlet hair and ice-blue eyes seated at the table across from her.
“You’re behaving strangely,” Kirsi observed before signaling the maid who waited by the dining-room door. “Well, we should eat before my next meeting with the King.”
Nesta smiled and nodded silently, not wanting to irritate the Royal Consort further. She had been living with Kirsi for nearly a year since their escape from fallen Zarus. Nesta wasn’t sure why a woman who had captured the affections of a Witch King Alexios would concern herself with the child of a destroyed enemy nation. Still, she sent endless silent prayers of gratitude to Ramiel all the same.
Every night the Royal Consort would sing her to sleep. Every morning Nesta would wake from yet another nightmare where Kirsi had not saved her in time. Sometimes she even dreamed that she survived on her own and escaped from the witches who tormented her, but none of those dreams ended well.
Despite the Consort’s cold, reserved exterior, she saw to Nesta’s every need without complaint. The first six months were spent coaxing the traumatized, grieving girl to speak, then taking the still closed-off girl on trips to the sea to relax, collect shells, and play amongst the waves. This had progressed to painting, learning to read and write the Strugna language, horse riding, and even sword fighting, which Kirsi had a peculiar passion for.
‘But every time I feel like we’re getting closer, Kirsi pushes me away.’ Nesta swallowed the sigh of frustration building at the back of her throat and watched as the servants brought in their midday meal of lobster and sea salad. ‘It’s like she’s afraid of becoming attached to me—but why?’
“I should be back well before dinner. We can review your reading lessons and then head down to the beach for a bit of Caligo wine,” Kirsi commented as she picked up the still faintly steaming lobster and twisted its body in half.
‘Right. I was learning the language to better communicate with the servants.’ Nesta narrowed her brows as the strange feeling that she had forgotten something important tickled against her stomach. “I’ll do my best to study then.”
A faint smile tugged at Kirsi’s lips, but the Consort remained silent as she focused on popping free the lobster’s claws.
Nesta hastily picked up her own slightly smaller lobster and then struggled for a bit to twist the tail free. She let out a mostly silent squeal once she succeeded, glanced nervously at Kirsi, who appeared not to have heard, then wiped her hand on the nearby napkin before proceeding the snap the tail meat free.
Kirsi wasn’t much of a conversationalist. This, along with the fact that the Royal Consort never visited the King’s chambers at night, had left Nesta puzzled about the truth of their relationship. Over time, she realized that Kirsi was more of an advisor to King Alexios than a romantic bedmate. As a foreigner, the Royal Consort held no power at court without the protection and backing of the King. Yet, Alexios constantly sought Kirsi out to discuss political concerns and foreign threats.
The feeling of hunger clawed against her stomach aggressively as Nesta began dipping the first clumps of meat into the small bowl of buttery sauce that waited beside her plate. So engrossed was she in her work that she barely noticed the man in black robes who entered the room like a shadow and knelt beside the Royal Consort’s seat.
Kirsi set down her bite of lobster and motioned the man closer. He rose, whispered in the Royal Consort’s ears, and left as quietly as he had come.
“Is—everything alright?” Nesta asked quickly, her hunger forgotten.
“It’s nothing. Queen Serenia is just causing problems again,” Kirsi replied with a rueful laugh. “I wonder how the King will react to this latest act of treachery.” The Royal Consort quickly sighed as she lifted her wine glass and waved it towards the young girl. “Never mind about that now. You should be eating.”
Nesta nodded obediently, but her gaze caught on the Royal Consort’s elegant manner of eating with her fork and knife. Impulsively, she picked up her own discarded utensils to mimic Kirsi’s movements of cutting the meat into small bites and then scooping it onto her fork.
The grease on her fingers made the seemingly simple task difficult, and Nesta let out a cry of dismay as the fork slipped free, clattered against the side of her plate, and then fell onto her arm. A small prick of pain preceded a single bead of blood that formed against her skin. That was all it took for Nesta to seize up in panic.
‘No. Not my blood. I can’t—I can’t let them have my blood!’
The suffocating feeling of being trapped washed over her like a cold, smothering wave.
“Nesta.”
She flinched as Kirsi’s scarlet locks fell over her panicked turquoise-blue eyes.
The Royal Consort frowned as she pressed a handkerchief against the small wound, then lifted her ice-blue eyes to meet the frightened child’s gaze. “It’s alright. It’s only a little cut.”
Nesta flushed as Kirsi knelt on the floor and tied the pearl-white handkerchief around her arm. ‘I—overreacted. Why?’
“People who allow themselves to be used as tools have no right to complain of the damage they cause or receive—or the inevitable moment they are thrown away and discarded.”
Nesta blinked beneath the Royal Consort’s cold toned and clenched her trembling hands into fists as she dropped her gaze. “Will you—throw me away?”
Kirsi frowned and rose gracefully to her feet before replying. “I have told you this before. You are not mine to keep or throw away.”
The familiar feeling of abandonment tore Nesta from her chair as the Royal Consort turned to walk away. The frightened girl hastily grabbed the back of Kirsi’s dress and held on as she fought to find her words. “But I—want to stay with you.”
The Royal Consort barely stirred as Nesta tightened her grip, terrified of the strange sensation that at any moment, she might wake up and Kirsi would be gone.
“I took you in because it is in my nature to help those too weak to help themselves,” Kirsi answered quietly without turning. “But you and I are fated to resent each other. The longer you remain by my side, the more unavoidable my destruction will be.”
‘What?’
“I won’t hurt you! I would never hurt you!” Nesta blurted out as she rushed forward to hug the Royal Consort’s waist.
Kirsi’s cold hands gently took the girl’s arms and pulled firmly away. “It’s my fault for not sending you away as soon as you were safe.”
Nesta blinked as her heart fell into her stomach. Tears burned against her eyes once more as the Royal Consort finally turned to face her directly.
“I am not one to hide from destiny, but you—belong with your family.”
“My—family?”
“Queen Serenia has reached out to your brother, Pope Jericho, and informed him of your current living arrangement.”
‘Jericho? Is my brother still alive? He’s now Pope?!’
Nesta watched numbly as Kirsi raised a hand towards her cheek, only to pull away at the last second.
‘Why? I owe you my life. I owe you everything! Why do you refuse to love me?’
“A young girl like you belongs with her family,” Kirsi continued with a note of determination before she stepped away and returned to her seat. “As much as I detest them.”
Nesta was so overwhelmed and confused by this sudden shift and unexpected revelation that she almost missed the Royal Consort’s last words.
In hindsight, she regretted hearing them at all.
***
The feeling of listlessness, as if she were no longer bound to mortal form, filled Hana with a sudden sense of dread and panic as she struggled to open her eyes.
A familiar, large room opened up before her. The walls painted with golden tree branches where white wolves and black crows chased stags, foxes, and rabbits. A thrum of voices crashed against Hana’s ears as her body moved forward of its own accord. She glanced over in confusion at the large glittering gold staff with a crown of rubies, then frowned at the man’s hand and arm that held it.
“King Mammon!” A voice that was not her own boomed from her lips as the scene before her sharpened into focus. “How good of you to finally see reason.”
“Reason?” The frail-looking king, in his glittering white crown, glared past the line of knights armed with spears. Beside the king, a woman stood, hugging a teenage boy against her protectively. “Your negotiation was but a farce to gain entrance and use that abomination against us.” King Mammon’s ice-blue eyes narrowed in at the staff Hana held. “No matter. We are ready to abide by the terms of our surrender as agreed.”
“I am delighted to hear it.” Hana frowned at her strange voice, which was distinctly male. “Marquess Hargreve, have the drinks been prepared?”
“They have, Saint Amon The nobleman stepped forward dressed in armor and a white tabard streaked with blood. He signaled to a servant behind them, who stepped forward nervously with a tray bearing four cups of dark liquid.
“As I’m sure you know, the Aconitum will weaken your powers for a limited period of time,” Amon replied grimly as the knights parted to let the servant through. “After you drink, we will begin the proceedings of abdication. Once Duke Havadur has been crown King, you and your family will be—” the voice paused as Hana’s gaze focused on the four prepared cups and three members of the royal family before her. “But where is Princess Kirsi?”
Queen Evadne clasped the shoulder of her eldest, Prince Perseus, to stop him from turning towards the Saint, while King Mammon stepped forward to take the first cup and then passed it to his wife.
“We lost sight of the Princess during your rebellion, Saint Amon,” Mammon stated darkly. “The traitors at your side are in a far better position to know where she is now.”
Hana’s lips curled with malice as her grip tightened on the holy staff in her hand. “That was not the agreement we made.”
“My daughter is barely eight years old,” Queen Evadne protested weakly, grimacing as she lowered the now empty cup. “She is no threat to you.”
Amon snickered darkly and then turned to Marquess Hargreve. “Find her.”
“Your Eminence,” Hargreve lowered his head respectfully. “It has been a week since she was last seen. It is likely the Princess has already escaped the Palace by now.”
“If she could escape, they would have fled with her! Search everywhere!”
King Mammon’s eyes narrowed as the Marquess hurried from the ballroom, signaling to several of the knights waiting at attention to follow him. “You have me, my wife, and our son and heir. Why would you be so concerned over one little girl?”
“You know the answer well enough,” Amon snarled as he lifted the staff and moved closer. “Seeing as you saw fit to name her Kirsi.”
“It is the hereditary name of the first Isbrand Queen,” Evadne protested, her hands tightening around her son’s shoulders as Hana lifted a second cup from the tray and passed it to the Prince.
Prince Perseus glared at the cup and then at Hana. Loathing, hatred, and disgust flared within his pale blue eyes as he stared up at the Saint who towered above him.
“Drink it, Perseus,” Mammon commanded stiffly. “It will make little difference now.”
Perseus’s scowl crumpled as he glanced from the drink to Amon’s staff, then accepted the cup and downed the liquid with blue flower petals slowly. He coughed immediately upon finishing and grabbed his throat as he forced the poison down.
“Well done, your Highness,” Amon said with a faint snigger and then stepped back to let Mammon take one of the last two drinks himself.
“Once I sign the papers of abdication—you will release us—and the rest of the Coven?” Mammon pressed as he glared at the Saint with wary uncertainty.
“You will all be free to go your own way before the ink has even dried,” Amon replied with a confident grin. “Hopefully, we will find the missing Princess before then.”
Evadne glanced at her husband and held back a protest as Mammon chose his drink. The King stared at the blue petals floating upon the surface, then glanced at the nobles gathered behind the safety of the knights and their spears.
“You have painted us as tyrants simply because you fear and envy our power,” Mammon spat as he met the gaze of the counselors who had all betrayed him. “Let us see how history records your actions and the consequences that will follow.”
“History is written by the victor, Mammon,” Amon replied with a dismissive shrug. “It’s a given that these men will be recorded as heroes who liberated Lafeara from witches.”
“Not for long,” Mammon growled. The King tipped the drink down his throat and tossed the empty cup at Hana’s chest. “The truth of your deception will not remain hidden forever, Saint.”
“Ahh, how true.” Amon smiled as he lifted the Staff of Obedience, then slammed it down into the ballroom floor. The marble surface split apart beneath the blinding, crackling, divine power of Ramiel. “Then let us write history together, King Mammon.”
Hana felt her heart seize in terror as the knights stepped forward to drag the royal family apart. Her hand released the staff, which remained upright, held in place by the shards of the broken floor. A moment later, she was holding a dagger that rippled with black lightning and hummed with repulsive, black magic.
‘No!’
The blade sank into the Queen’s chest first. Evadne sputtered out a startled gasp of pain as Amon pulled the dagger free, then turned her pale blue eyes towards the King before dropping to the floor.
“Mother!” Perseus screamed, and the Saint turned towards him.
‘No. Please—Stop!’
Unable to control the body, she was trapped in or even look away; Hana watched the life flow from the boy’s eyes as Amon’s blade opened his throat. He couldn’t be older than seventeen.
“This blade ensures that the victim’s soul is never reborn,” Amon commented with a cold smile. “I look forward to testing it on Princess Kirsi.”
King Mammon struggled against the arms of the knights who fought to restrain him. A scarlet frost coated the King’s cheeks and throat as angry tears fell from his burning gaze. “Monster!”
Amon smiled and shook his head. “How could I be a monster, your Majesty? I’m simply collecting the trash and taking it out as my God commands me.”
“Your god?!” Mammon’s lips parted to reveal a grim and bloody smile. “You’re no different than us. How long until they come for you next, Saint!”
“I am not a witch,” Amon countered with evident disgust. “And do not compare my God to the weak immortal you serve.” He lifted the pale crown from Mammon’s head and snorted as he tossed it to one of the knights close by. Then the Saint stepped closer, seized Mammon’s neck, and leaned in to whisper, “Where I come from, the only good witch is a dead witch. So, try to die with a little bit of dignity.”