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Special Interlude XII {Part Three}: The Lady of Turnbell

 

With a bit of convincing, Joy relented to Carina’s request to leave her room and get some fresh air, but only after she had been given a bath and a fresh change of clothes with the help of two other housemaids.

“I can’t have you wandering outside your room in such a state—especially if Lady Edith decides to drop by for tea later,” Joy muttered as she offered Carina a tattered old coat that luckily still fit. “Take Susan with you and stay in the backyard.”

Carina nodded as she brushed the damp curls of her hair away from her neck.

“Remember, Maura,” Joy added with one finger raised in warning. “Out of sight means out of trouble.”

‘Trouble for whom?’ Carina wondered as she took the stairs slowly while studying the interior of her new home. ‘At least until I’m ready to make a clean getaway.’

The second floor, where Maura’s room was located, was split down the middle by a twin staircase that led to the floor below, and sunroom, presently occupied by an assortment of wooden and metal toys, dolls and their dresses, and a large reading chair.

‘There are two other children in the house. I suppose these toys belong to them?’

The stairwell led down to a decent size foyer with a large front door. Susan stopped Carina as she headed towards it and turned the girl towards another hallway.

“We’re headed to the backyard, Miss. Best to use the back door.”

‘Right. Out of sight.’ Carina reluctantly allowed the maid to push and prod her in the right direction until Maura finally showed up to lead the way down a narrow hall between a noisy kitchen where a large man angrily chopped up what had once been a chicken while two other maids chattered conspiratorially as they grated carrots or peeled potatoes. On the other side of the hall was a pantry/laundry room where a tearful young maid sniveled and wiped her cheeks as she ironed out a stack of white shirts.

‘How oddly surreal. Perhaps this isn’t a dream or hallucination?’

The Manor’s backyard was filled with flower beds, a relatively well-maintained lawn with a gravel path that led towards a building just out of sight behind the patch of trees connected by clotheslines dangling with fresh laundry.

The “servant’s quarters,” as Maura called it, appeared just as busy as the main house, with men and women, some in shabbier garments than others, headed towards a large grey building easily identified as a stable or barn.

Carina cleared her dry throat and wandered towards the well, half hoping she might be able to lift the chained bucket for a drink but gave up after a few awkward attempts. Susan snorted with apparent disinterest and moved off to check the laundry on the clothesline.

‘Is it really too much of a bother to help a sick kid get something to drink?’

Carian sighed as she turned to lean against the warm stone wall of the well. The weather was pleasant enough. If she weren’t thirsty, hungry, tired, and recovering from her second near death, Carina might have enjoyed being outdoors.

‘Well, anything is better than being trapped in a room where someone recently died.’

Susan appeared to lose interest in keeping tabs on Maura, which served Carina just fine. If the servants cared so little about her, that would provide more opportunities to slip away later when she was better and preferably more physically capable of taking care of herself.

‘But do they ignore me because of my status as a half-blood—or because of Maura’s mother?’

The ghost had been less than helpful in clearing up that particular fact. The only advice she had given Carina was to avoid Lord Josiah at every opportunity, along with Maura’s two half-siblings, the “brutish” Lincoln and “tragedy queen” Sophya. When it came to the topic of Lady Helena, Maura’s mother, the specter had nothing to say.

‘I suppose I can figure out that relationship for myself later.’

Carina glanced over to where Maura had moved on to trampling daffodils in the flower bed. Susan appeared to take no notice as she walked by with a basket full of dry linen. That’s probably for the best. I can only imagine what sort of mess I’d be in if they could see a ghost following me.’

Carina frowned as a buzz and ring resumed between her ears while her knees wobbled unsteadily beneath her. This new body desperately needed proper nourishment, rest, and adequate hydration. She could already feel a cold sweat forming around her collar and running down her neck and chest.

“Are you ready to go back inside, Miss?” Susan asked, carrying another empty basket and apparently taking note of Carina’s complexion.

‘She probably doesn’t want to get in trouble if I fall over and faint,’ Carina reasoned as she pushed away from her resting place.

“Yes, I probably—”

A strange clattering sound came from around the building and grew rapidly louder. It took Carina a moment to realize what she was hearing, having never seen a horse in real life before.

“Oh dear, it looks like the Mistress has returned early today,” Susan murmured distractedly as she set down her basket and quickly moved closer to grab Carina’s hand. “You’ll shift back upstairs to your room quick and quiet like now if you know what’s good for you.”

“Carina!” Maura whispered as she waved a hand through the maid’s chest. “It’s Lady Edith! She’s come back with them.”

Carina glanced from the impatient maid to the grinning ghost and made up her mind quickly. She pretended to stumble while dodging Susan’s hand. The maid hardly had time to react as she also stumbled forward with a sudden “Oh,” after a helpful push from Maura. Carina grabbed a handful of her skirt and sprinted towards the side of the building.

“Mercy me—what—wait Miss!” the maid protested as she spun around and quickly gave chase.

As fast a sprinter as Carina might have been in her previous life, the sickly, feeble body of an eight-year-old was no match for that of an adult. Susan’s feet rapidly closed in behind her. Panting heavily with effort, Carina pumped her numb arms and legs faster as she reached the corner of the building and squeezed between a prickly bush and a cherry tree.

“Carina, duck!” Maura sang playfully somewhere overhead.

Carina followed the specters instructions instinctively and flinched as a branch snapped overhead and slammed into poor Susan’s chest. The ghost cackled while Carina lumbered on, only slowing as she rounded the side of the Manor.

❆❆❆❆❆

Butler Stevens greeted Lady Helena at the front of the Manor with two footmen who moved swiftly to the back of Lady Edith’s carriage where they removed the strapped parcels of recently acquired purchases.

‘The old bat might have a fusty sense of fashion, but I’m hardly in any position to complain since Josiah has yet to cough up the coin to pay the staff and grocery bill again this month.’ Helena rubbed her temple as she turned to Sophya, who had fallen asleep on the carriage ride back. The stiff arm sling which swallowed up the ten-year-old girl’s right arm stood out against the clover green day dress Sophya wore.

“Lincoln, wake your sister up, please,” Helena murmured as Stevens opened the carriage door and offered his hand to assist her down.

“Will the Lady’s guest be joining you for tea, Mistress?”

“Will you, Aunt Edith?” Helena asked as she turned back towards the roomier side of the carriage where the wealthy heiress sat alone, stroking the mercifully silent little yapper in her lap. “It’s the least I can offer you after helping us a ride to church and then into town this morning.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Lady Edith replied drearily as she watched Lincoln coax a sleepy Sophya into getting up from her seat. “I’m well aware that you have your hands full with little Maura being sick again. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. My personal doctor is most excellent when it comes to elusive illness and sickness.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to burden you unnecessarily, Aunt Edith. This is just another one of Maura’s unfortunate fits. She’ll be right as rain in a few days, I expect. She was already past the worst of it this morning,” Helena responded with an almost genuine expression of worry.

‘By now, Joy should have removed the body. Hopefully, it’s buried somewhere discreet and far from the Manor. It wouldn’t do to have Sophya or Lincoln unnecessarily traumatized by the sight of Maura’s corpse. I’ll think of an appropriate excuse to give Aunt Edith later.’

“Do remember to take care of yourself as well, my dear,” Edith murmured pitifully. “You’re looking more than a little worn down these days. No doubt that useless husband of yours is to blame, but you must stay strong and healthy for your children.”

‘If strange women would stop showing up at our doorstep expecting me to pay for my husband’s indiscretions, perhaps I wouldn’t have to suffer through your tedious sermons just to earn the extra cash to pay them off.’

“I will do my best, Aunt Edith. I am most grateful—”

“Goodness!” Edith gasped as her little salt-and-pepper dog jumped from her lap to the carriage door and then scampered down the steps with an ear-splitting racket that barely gave Lincoln the opportunity to move out of the little beast’s path. The nasty little yapper barreled past the startled siblings towards the servants as Edith hastily left her seat and carriage in pursuit. “Dusky! Come here, boy!”

Helena rolled her eyes and patted Sophya’s shoulder comfortingly as the girl stared after the dog with quivering lips. “What is it, Sophya, dear? Were you frightened?”

“Helena!” Edith’s voice rang out clearly with sudden disapproval. “Isn’t that—”

‘Oh, Saints! Please tell me they’re not removing Maura’s body now?’

Helena whipped around, nearly knocking Sophya over in the process, and froze as a pale and trembling, but miraculously upright, Maura wandered towards them with sweat dripping off her curled bangs and nose.

“M-mother!” the half-blood whispered hoarsely. “Can I please—have a cup of—water.” The wretched half-blood’s final plea had barely crossed the girl’s lips when Maura slumped suddenly down onto the gravel road beside the startled, wide-eyed servants.

The still howling dog circled past the unconscious half-blood and proceeded to yap at the empty space beside her.

“Oh!” Edith cried out in dismay before quickly rushing to Maura’s side. “Oh, you poor child!”

‘How?’ Helena blinked as the front door opened. A very late and nervous-looking Joy appeared, grasping her apron.

“Will someone shut that stupid dog up,” Lincoln growled as he turned on the first step towards Helena.

‘But she—She’s supposed to be dead!’

Somewhere beneath the storm of cold dismay and disbelief, Helena registered Sophya’s whimper of pain.

“Mother, please!” Lincoln spoke louder now as he moved back to stand beside them. “You’re hurting her.”

Helena looked down and flinched as she quickly released Sophya’s shoulder. The ten-year-old girl stumbled towards her brother and promptly burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Sophya. Lincoln, will you take your sister inside and get her comfortable. Please.”

Lincoln scowled but then nodded as he took Sophya’s left hand and led her up the steps past the miserable-looking Joy. Helena shot the useless woman a glare before turning to where Aunt Edith was making quite the fuss over a sick half-blood.

“We must send for Doctor Birch at once!” Edith said as she fanned Maura’s face with her hand. “What on earth was she doing wandering around outside in this state?”

“Maura must have snuck out of her room while the servants were busy with their chores,” Helena supplied with a sharp glance in Stevens’ direction. The butler snapped his fingers and waved the rest of the staff inside with the children’s packages before he moved to assist Edith with the unconscious half-blood. Helena watched with cold disinterest as the butler carried her youngest—her most regrettable mistake—back into the Manor.

‘It’s not that I’m heartless,’ Helena thought bitterly as she adjusted the shawl around her arms before following Edith up the steps. ‘How could any mother love a monster who tried to harm their other children?’

 

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Special Interlude XII {Part Two}: Bargaining with a Ghost

 

“Get out! Get out! Get out!!!” Each turbulent repetition of Maura’s shriek howled against Carina’s ears. She curled herself tightly against the wardrobe with hands pressed against her ears, trapped beneath the ghost’s unrelenting fury. “No, no! This was supposed to be mine! My turn to make them suffer! Why! Why are you here?!”

“I-I don’t know!” Carina protested through clenched teeth. “One minute I was about to be cut open, and then—I woke up here.”

Maura stared down at Carina with cold distrust. Carina looked back, equally terrified and fascinated by the girl’s transparent figure that seemed to emanate a certain chilling darkness.

“I don’t care how you got here! That body is mine! Get out!”

“I know—I’m sorry—I’m not sure how this happened—or how to get myself out,” Carina replied. The ghost’s howls had splintered the comforting numb haze of disbelief. At some point, Carina had decided that all of this must be an elaborate dream—the mind’s attempt to escape reality. Not being able to feel any pain had all but solidified this logic.

Whether the ghost was the real Maura or some part of her own subconscious attempting to wake her up—Carina wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to know the answer.

‘But if this was real—’

The illogical bubble of thought quickly shattered as the ghost grabbed Carina’s arm, pulled the girl to her feet, and dragged her forcibly towards the open bedroom window.

“We’re on the second floor,” Maura hissed grimly. “That should be enough.”

“Enough?” Carina balked as the ghost pushed her firmly towards the window. “Wait! Hold on a minute!”

“No! The sooner you’re gone, the sooner I can reclaim my body!”

“You want me to jump?!” The question tumbled out with mixed disbelief and humor.

“You need not do it voluntarily,” Maura growled. “Should I choke you instead?” The ghost raised both hands for good measure, and something about those long, black nails made Carina shudder.

“No! Just wait a moment, please!” Carina glanced from the window ledge beside her to the ghost who blocked any escape. “Look, I get that this is all very upsetting—but is pushing this body through a window to kill me the answer?”

“How else am I supposed to get rid of you?” the ghost retorted unsympathetically.

Carina pushed down a laugh of disbelief and contemplated just what sort of life this child had endured to become this ruthless. “Maybe we should consider other options? Even if falling did dislodge me from your body, the condition it’s in right now, you’d be lucky to get away with only a broken limb. And if you land on your head—well, that sort of result won’t be doing either of us any favors.”

The ghost’s beady black eyes trailed down the body Carina presently occupied as a look of grudging acknowledgment settled onto her spectral face.

“No,” Maura murmured. “Perhaps I should think of a better solution. Maybe poison?”

“Perhaps, but what if the poison ends up killing both of us?” Carina replied conversationally. She took advantage of the ghost’s distracted state to slide away from the window and further along the wall. Dream or not, the solid feeling of a firm barrier at her back provided a welcome sense of security. “Maybe we should think about why I’m here? That might help us sort this out.”

Maura’s perpetual scowl darkened as she stepped soundlessly towards Carina. “I thought you didn’t know?”

“How I got here? I don’t. I was referring to—how you—died?”

Black eyes that had once been blue moved from Carina towards the soiled bed. “Died? No, I—” The specter shook her head. “No! That’s impossible. It’s far too soon—I’m only eight years old now!”

“You were sick,” Carina replied soothingly, choosing to ignore the ghost’s odd phrasing and focus on keeping Maura calm. “I know I’ve only been here for a little while, but even I can tell the people in the house didn’t take very good care of you.”

“Why would they?” the specter replied bitterly. “They all hate me.”

“I’m sorry,” Carina murmured back only to receive another sinister scowl. “But my point is—if you died—can you—repossess your body?”

“So that’s your angle,” Maura’s scowl turned into a cold sneer. “You think you can pull one over on me, body snatcher?”

“No!” Carina raised her hands and slid further along the wall as the angry ghost loomed closer. “Look, I don’t know what happened here, okay? But the woman who came in here earlier, Joy. She said—she said that you were supposed to be dead! She brought in two gravediggers with shovels and everything.”

“And your point?!”

“Just that—I don’t think reclaiming your body will fix the current situation. Please just—think about it for a moment. If you kick me out and you can’t get back in—what happens to your body, then? What happens to both of us?”

“I—don’t know….” Maura froze in place. Her small ghostly hands trembled as they moved restlessly towards her throat. “But I wasn’t supposed to die this way.”

Carina allowed herself a moment to breathe as the ghost appeared to calm down.

Or so she thought.

Faster than she could blink, Maura flew at her with a ferocious howl. Cold nails bit into Carina’s neck as she was thrown down onto the floor. “No! If it’s now, I should still have a chance. I’ve only been dead a few minutes!”

‘Shit! Is this really it? First, I’m having my heart cut out. Now I’m being strangled by a ghost.’

Carina’s vision darkened as she struggled to grasp the specter’s wrist, but despite Maura’s firm grip around Carina’s neck, the specters limbs appeared to be formed of vapor. Once again, the sickening sensation of cold numbness trickled down through her limbs.

‘Why fight it? I was dead just a moment ago. Stealing someone else’s body—and their life. I don’t want that. But I—I don’t want to die. I don’t want to disappear completely!’

A strange sensation tickled within Carina’s chest as a bright light flickered through Maura’s transparent body. A tingle of cold electricity spread through Carina’s arms and hands.

“What?” Maura sputtered as fury turned to confusion. “You—”

Carina blinked as the ghost’s wrists solidified beneath her fingers. She latched on and steadily pried the specter’s grip loose. A trickle of hope slid through Carina’s clenched teeth and spilled down into her lungs as her vision cleared and she growled, “I’m—sorry—”

“No!” Maura’s gaze remained locked on the rays of blue light that seemed to be emanating from beneath Carina. “It can’t be!”

“But I’m not going to die—not without a fight,” Carina finished determinedly. She broke free of Maura’s grip and pushed the ghost away. The mystery light brightened, and then a blast of ice-cold wind spun wildly through the room. Beneath its chilling haze, Carina saw Maura slammed up against the bedroom ceiling, where the specter remained pinned in place by what appeared to be a sheet of ice.

‘What just—happened?’

Maura laughed. The bitter, haunting sound filled the room as Carina crouched beside the wall, massaging her throat while keeping a wary eye on the trapped ghost.

‘Where did all that ice come from?’

Maura panted, screamed furiously, then suddenly fell silent. After a few deep breaths, her black eyes returned to Carina. “You’re right,” the ghost muttered with a dangerous glint, “There is a reason you’re here.”

“There—is?”

“You’ve only been inside my body for a few minutes, and yet you’ve already unlocked my witch blood’s power,” Maura continued with pained disbelief.

“Wait—I’m sorry!” Carina held up a hand as she leaned forward. “Did you say—witch power?”

Maura shook violently against her icy constraints and let out a spiteful snort. “What else would you call this if not magic.”

“But—you can’t mean—Wait, I did that?!”

Maura’s expression turned murderous.

Carina rubbed her neck nervously, once again noting the odd lack of pain, and decided to move the topic forward. “So, you’re saying—that I—no, you—are a witch?”

“Yes,” Maura snarled before closing her eyes and letting out a defeated sigh. “Unfortunately, I did not unlock my powers until later in life, but even then, they were not enough to save me.”

Carina moved her fingers cautiously up her cheek and through her hair towards the knot she had obtained after falling out of bed earlier. Despite the amount of abuse Carina had endured since waking up in this body—she couldn’t recall feeling even a flicker of pain. ‘Is that because I’m dreaming—or because I’m a witch?’

“Wait—later in life?” Carina echoed with a frown.

“I don’t know how you came to be here,” Maura replied bitterly as her head dipped towards the floor, the dark locks of her hair sliding forward to shroud her face. “But I have already died once. Then I returned to the beginning of my wretched life—and lived as I did before—up until this point.”

Carina scoffed quietly, then flinched as Maura’s head snapped up to glare in her direction. “Sorry, I—Well, I’m still not convinced this isn’t just some weird dream.”

‘Though that would only be comforting if my earlier abduction and experience as a forced organ donor were also a dream.’

“So you’re saying—” Carina continued, “—that you died before—and now you’ve died again. And somehow, I wound up in your body?”

Maura appeared to restrain her anger for a moment before offering a reluctant nod. “Yes—I don’t know why I’m already dead—this was supposed to be my second life.”

❆❆❆❆❆

Carina found Maura’s story, which the ghost unfolded with punctuated resentment, all rather unbelievable. In fact, if she weren’t presently inside the unfortunate ghost’s body, Carina would have dismissed the ghost’s account as the bizarre plot of some absurd graphic novel.

“So, after the Queen was murdered—you and the rest of the ladies-in-waiting were framed and then executed. That’s how you died the first time?”

Maura gave a single but undeniable nod of confirmation.

“And then you—”

“I opened my eyes, and I was a baby again, trapped back in this hell hole,” Maura replied with a grimace. “I made up my mind to run away this time. Preferably before the incident with Lord Lennox—not to mention my face being horribly and permanently scarred.” The ghost touched the left side of her face absently, “But then—”

“You got sick,” Carina whispered sympathetically. “That didn’t happen in—before?”

Maura shook her head.

‘That still doesn’t explain what I’m doing here?’ Carina mused as she squirmed uncomfortably in the stiff, itchy nightgown. No sooner had her attention shifted than the ice holding Maura in place faded and then completely disappeared. The ghost scowled as she floated down to the floor but thankfully showed no desire to attack Carina again.

‘Still, not going to lower my guard around her any time soon.’

“How did you get sick?” Carina asked after a moment of contemplation.

“I—spoke out of turn,” Maura replied resentfully. “So Josiah had me locked up in the cellar with the turnips and potatoes.”

“Who’s Josiah?”

“You’ll have to call him Lord Josiah,” Maura corrected with a grimace. “And Lord Josiah Turnbell is the Master of Turnbell Manor. He’s the peddler nobleman who married my mother, Lady Helena.”

Carina nodded and thought back to Joy’s gossip and the drawings she had discovered earlier.

“After three days of sleeping in that cellar, I came down with a fever while performing my chores,” Maura continued mournfully. “I told Joy I wasn’t feeling well. She ran to Mother who had me punished for my laziness.”

Carina looked down at the swollen welts in her left hand and clenched her jaw.

“The next morning, I was too dizzy to climb the cellar stairs. When Joy finally arrived to yell at me, she realized how sick I really was. They brought me up to my room, but—then they barely remembered to bring me something to eat or drink.”

“What about medicine or a doctor?”

Maura snorted. “Lord Josiah doesn’t waste good coin on such luxuries for the staff.” The ghost’s eyes clouded over with resentment as she drew in a slow breath. “I’m not a servant, but—I was never a part of their family either.”

‘They wanted you to die?’ Carina shook her head incredulously. ‘Running away might have been the right idea—but at eight years old? In a world with magic and witches? Living on the street might be even more dangerous.’

“Is there anyone who might help you? A distant relative, perhaps?” Carina pressed hopefully.

Maura arched a brow as she floated over to the bed and sat down. The motion was oddly natural, and, despite her supernatural form, Carina could easily picture this room as Maura’s.

“There’s Lady Edith,” Maura answered thoughtfully. “She’s my mother’s aunt. She provides for Mother and the rest of us whenever Josiah’s business endeavors are struggling. Lady Edith has even given him a loan once or twice—not that Josiah has ever bothered to repay her.”

‘It sounds like this aunt is loaded. Probably a good place to start.’

“Would Lady Edith help us?” Carina asked hopefully.

Maura frowned and offered a weak shrug. “She comes by at least once a month. Mother keeps me locked up during those visits. Either because I’m “sick” or—because I’ve “misbehaved.” Edith gives Mother a monthly allowance to see to it we’re all properly dressed, fed, and educated, but—”

‘Somehow, I doubt much of that allowance went to you.’

“So, Lady Edith isn’t aware—of your current living conditions?” Carina asked cautiously.

“Even if she were, Lady Edith wouldn’t intervene,” Maura replied with a sullen tone. “No one wants the responsibility of raising a half-blood child. It’s much easier to give someone money rather than take responsibility for it yourself.”

“I see—” Carina frowned uncertainly. From what Maura had said and the gross mistreatment she had already witnessed from the staff and family—it seemed a bygone conclusion that Maura was a child born from an affair of some kind. “Still, if there’s no one else—”

“Well, perhaps you’ll have more luck with her than I did,” Maura replied with a sniff.

Carina blinked and glanced up at the ghost uncertainly. “Ah—what do you mean?”

“I mean that since you’ve stolen my body, you’re responsible for what happens to it now,” Maura retorted as she rose from the bed. “After all, if you happen to die—there’s nothing to stop me from taking it back the moment it becomes available, is there?”

“I suppose so,” Carina answered warily. “Sure, that makes sense, but—I’m going to need your help to survive here.”

Maura arched a brow. “Help from me? But I’m just a ghost, remember?”

“But you’ve lived this life—this timeline, if you will, already,” Carina pointed out. “How much has changed between them aside from you getting sick and—”

“Dying?” Maura finished cynically. “Well—not much, honestly,” she mused. “Small things here and there, but other than that, it’s been predictable—and not in a good way.”

“That’s interesting,” Carina murmured thoughtfully. “Depending on what you remember, we might be able to use those memories to our advantage.”

Maura narrowed her eyes as she floated across the carpet towards Carina. “How?”

Carina shrugged. “I can’t answer that until I know what sort of future we’re dealing with. Are there any significant events that I should know about ahead of time? Aside from the Queen’s murder—but that happens when you’re seventeen, right?”

Maura nodded, then stared at her in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment before answering. “There’s the death of the First Prince.”

Carina blinked, then let out a slow breath. ‘Right, if there are kings and queens, then obviously there will be princes. Still, getting involved with royalty is probably what led to Maura’s first death.’

“That certainly seems significant. How did the prince die?”

“Prince Tristan? In battle.”

Carina’s eagerness quickly dimmed. “Battle? What kind of battle?”

“A skirmish at the border between Lafeara and Tharyn.”

“A surprise attack?”

“No,” Maura shook her head. “Those pagans raid Lafeara’s borders pretty regularly.”

Carina crossed her arms and sighed. “So then, there’s not much I can do—”

“But I did hear a rumor in the palace that Prince Tristan was ambushed in those mountains.”

“Okay—do you know how?” Carina replied, not holding her breath.

“No,” Maura answered, sounding oddly amused. “But I do know that the prince wasn’t actually dead.”

“Wait—what?” Carina shook her head as she pushed against the wall and rose unsteadily to her feet. “What do you mean?”

“His death was faked,” Maura replied with a shrug. “I know because he turned up at the palace shortly before Queen Eleanora was murdered.”

Resisting the urge to ask why Maura hadn’t led with that bit of information, Carina leaned back against the wall with a sigh. “I suppose that might come in handy later. Anything else?”

Maura snorted. “Knowing the future might be helpful, but training my magic in the meantime would be better for your survival.”

“Right,” Carina looked down at her chest that had stopped glowing like some weird alien movie. “Exactly how do I do that?”

Maura grimaced and shrugged as she looked away. “As I said, I was never quite able to master it.”

Carina shook her head. “Well then, until I figure out how this magic business works, it’s probably best not to rely on it too much.”

“Alright.” Maura turned towards the door as if listening to something in the distance. “But you should be careful when and how you use it.”

“I should—why?”

The ghost turned back to face Carina with a malicious grin. “Because they burn witches in Lafeara.”

Carina exhaled as the sound of footsteps on the steps echoed in her direction. “Of course—they do.”

 

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Special Interlude XII {Part One}: Supposed to be Dead

 

A high-pitched ring filled Carina’s ears as the haze of death slowly receded. As her consciousness surfaced from the well of numbing darkness, she sputtered, half-choking as her heart pounded awake like some frantic, wounded beast trapped inside her chest.

The cold hard operating table beneath her had been replaced by a rough and lumpy surface that prickled oddly against her arms, back, and legs. Carina’s fingers curled weakly around what she guessed to be a blanket of sorts. She focused on the texture and blinked slowly, robotically, as she swallowed down the petrified scream that had followed her since the nightmare beneath the hospital room’s blinding light.

‘Am I—alive?’

An attempt to move her head to the side to further assess her surroundings only sent the dark room spinning. Carina’s stomach sent a sharp ping of warning up her spine that flared briefly behind her eyes before slowly going numb. She focused on breathing. Each faltering, shallow breath became gradually steadier than the last as her heart settled down to a dull, methodic beat.

The shroud of shadows before her eyes slowly solidified into recognizable shapes. A dark curtain hung from the four beams of a rather antiquated bed. The longer Carina stared at the dark blue fabric, the more its tattered and matted appearance came into focus. The bed curtain was lined with blue ruffles that barely clung to their frail stitching; through them, she glimpsed a dark oaken door and walls painted a musky green.

‘Where am I?’

An odd feeling of déjà vu surfaced but then quickly faded away before Carina could grasp its meaning. She attempted to move onto her side, only to send the room spinning like a ship held captive on the waves. This disoriented sense of direction made ‘sitting upright’ far more challenging as she attempted and failed to discern between ‘left,’ ‘right,’ and ‘up.’

Carina’s heart continued to beat its fists against the cage of her chest as she clawed her way to the edge of the bed. There the panting girl bowed head to knees and clung to the side of the prickly quilt as she waited for the walls, ceiling, and floor to stop moving.

When the wooden slats of oak beneath her feet finally steadied, Carina blinked and then frowned at the odd distance from her blurred toes to the floor below. Much about her foreign surroundings sparked several unanswered questions, yet the distance to the floor felt the most wrong.

Her confusion shifted as an acidic and foul odor pushed through the cold haze wrapped around her pounding head. Carina twisted her stiff neck, looked down, and pulled at the sticky white fabric she wore. What appeared to be some sort of old—and rather unwashed—nightgown carried a bitter scent and dried stain. A single sniff was all it took to confirm the smell.

Death, it seemed, was determined to humiliate her in every possible way.

‘I suppose that means I’m still alive—right?’

Carina wrinkled her nose, unclenched her stiff fingers from the soiled nightgown, and then frowned as her vision cleared. A pale right hand with swollen red joints that appeared bruised and untrimmed fingernails lay against her lap. Its accompanying twin was in an equally dirty state, but as Carina turned the pale hand over, she found a wide gash of festering, broken skin inside the swollen palm.

‘It’s—not a burn,’ she registered numbly. Flexing the fingers of her left hand provided none of the expected pain, but this abnormality was soon forgotten as Carina focused on their size.

These were not the hands of a twenty-two-year-old woman.

That undeniable fact was followed quickly by a wave of nausea, and the high-pitched ringing that had woken her earlier returned.

Carina clenched her teeth and jolted upright as a sharp rapping sound came from a corner of the room. The nightmare of her abduction, medical incapacitation, and absolute helplessness on the hospital bed sent her bolting to her feet, but the body that was not hers faltered. Numb limbs crumbled gracelessly to the floor with no thought for self-preservation.

She numbly registered her skull smacking against a carpet as stars danced behind her eyes. The blow silenced the ringing behind her ears and the pounding in her head. Carina blinked slowly as dark tentacles spread throughout the room. The four-poster bed and depressing walls loomed in towards her with a threatening, crushing doom.

Carina flinched, closing her eyes instinctively.

The cold train station appeared behind the curtain of stars. Eight-year-old Carina knelt in the snow, her numb hands clinging to that of a man lying sprawled upon the ground before her. His once smiling lips, encircled by a silver-gray beard, did not stir. His grey eyes stared absently towards the snow that continued to fall around them as guns cracked and bullets pinged against the buildings of the railway station. Carina ignored the blood that stained the snow around them as she continued to call his name, begging him to wake up.

A sharp caw snapped Carina’s eyes opened, and the murky dark room returned. She gagged, flipped over, and emptied her stomach onto the stiff woolen carpet. The scent of vomit—primarily composed of stomach acid—made the wretched girl heave again as a warm breeze filled the room. She turned towards the source and blinked as sunlight pierced the darkness from behind a curtained window.

The crow waited there. Its two beady red eyes bore into Carina with an unnerving glint. The eerie bird cawed, a deafening boom that made Carina flinch away and cover her ears. When she turned back, the window was empty, but the fresh air that blew towards her was all the motivation she needed to move.

She crawled across the floor on stiff arms and legs, then climbed up the wall until she reached the window ledge. From her wavering perch, Carina closed her eyes and drank in the fresh air in deep, gulping breaths.

“Much—better.”

Carina frowned at the odd sound and texture of her voice but quickly refocused on the view before her.

The courtyard was large, with a gravel circle driveway that appeared to come to the front of the building just visible to her left. Overgrown hedges that framed the courtyard swayed beneath the steady summer breeze that carried the scent of flowers and wide open fields. Beyond the hedges, Carina could just make out a distant gate that connected to a dirt road.

‘I must be somewhere in the country then—not a paved road in sight.’

Her protesting limbs soon forced Carina to abandon her awkward perch. She slid slowly back down to the floor and rested for a moment. The glint of sunlight from the window soon pulled her attention to a cracked mirror tucked into the corner of the room. After another failed attempt to stand, Carina returned to the floor, where she spent what little energy she could find massaging her legs and joints until they were no longer numb and stiff. Then, while carefully steadying herself against the wall, Carina slowly made her way towards the mirror.

A strange image awaited her as she looked into the cracked glass. The girl was young, possibly six or seven years of age, which explained her tiny size and small hands. Matted hair, darker than Carina’s, clung to the child’s gaunt cheeks and bony shoulder and collar bone. These were accompanied by dry, cracked lips and dark circles under red eyes, which suggested the child had been sick for quite some time.

Only the ice-blue eyes that stared back at Carina were familiar. She clung to that sense of normality like an anchor before returning to studying the body she had woken up in.

‘But—how?’

A murmur of voices that seemed to come from below pulled her attention from the mirror. Several pairs of feet on distant steps turned Carina towards the door as the conversation between one and three people drew closer.

“I told the Lady of the house. I said, ‘Call a doctor now before it’s too late,’ I did. But did she listen to a word I said?” the woman lamented loudly.

“Shocking,” replied a gruff male voice.

“The family left for church this morning. I suppose it would be too much to expect the Lady and her brats might pray for the poor child’s soul while sucking gold from that rich relative of theirs. Anyway, Lady Helena gave explicit instructions to remove the corpse before they returned.”

“Tsk! Even if she was a half-blood. Letting her die off like that—it isn’t proper,” replied a surly male voice.

The woman snorted. “Mark my words, the Lord of this house will be pleased by the news when he returns. He was never fond of the little trickster.”

“I expect he wouldn’t be. Not many a lord would bother to keep a half-blood under the same roof as their own children.”

“Still, I hear the Lord of this house has more than a few bastards roaming around nearby villages,” added the surly man’s voice.

“It’s hardly my place to speak of the Lord Josiah’s coming and going,” the woman replied, not sounding at all bothered by the topic of conversation. “The Master is off on another one of his business trips presently. Anyway, tis plain as day they remained married out of spite or some form of noble obligation. Those two haven’t shared a bed since the Lady returned from her—misadventure.”

Carina followed this conversation with interest but stepped back instinctively as a key turned in the lock of the bedroom door.

‘Did they keep the door locked because the child was ill or—’

A middle-aged woman soon appeared through the door dressed in a simple gray dress with a white apron tied at the waist. She possessed an unfriendly sort of face graced with the expression one might have after biting into a very bitter lemon. The miserable-looking woman stopped short as she caught sight of Carina and promptly dropped the wicker basket she carried onto the floor.

Carina stared at the pile of wildflowers that spilled free from the basket. There appeared to be rather more than was necessary for a single ‘get-well’ bouquet, and judging by the complete absence of flowers in the room—withered or otherwise—she doubted that was their intended purpose.

The woman continued to stare at Carina with a look of speechless horror. The two men whose voices Carina had heard earlier squeezed into the room with handkerchiefs tied beneath their eyes, covering their mouth and nose.

“What’s this? Have you called us here to bury a living person,” the man with spectacles and a surly voice demanded from behind his companion. “Saint’s mercy—it sure does smell as though someone died here.”

Carina grimaced as she recalled her soiled garment. Not trusting her limbs to move without showing weakness, she studied her trio of visitors with a wary apprehension. Any of them could easily overpower her in her current state—not that being a small child did her any favors. Carina’s eyes narrowed as she noted the rolled sack of burlap over the arm of the man whose beard peeped out from behind his black handkerchief. His companion, the man wearing spectacles, held an old weathered shovel against his side.

‘They came here to bury her,’ Carina realized. She clenched her fists silently and raised her chin to offer them a defiant glare.

“Ah—pardon, Miss,” the bearded gravedigger muttered as he tucked the sack behind his back. “It seems we came to the wrong house.” He nudged his partner and the man with spectacles followed him from the room with a muttered complaint about not getting paid. This left Carina alone with the dumbstruck woman, who appeared somewhere in her fifties or sixties judging from the extensive gray that covered her auburn hair worn up in a tight bun.

“You—” the woman finally sputtered as she took a step forward, crushing the forgotten flowers beneath her feet. “You are—”

“Not dead,” Carina confirmed coldly. The words came out rough and cracked, and a sudden need to drink tickled at the back of her throat. A glance around the room confirmed the absence of even a cup of water. ‘Had they even tried to keep her alive?’

“But you were—” the woman turned and pointed at the bed. “Earlier this morning you were—I-I checked—”

“Water,” Carina croaked out in an attempt to shift the conversation from the topic of death. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I should appear as normal as possible for the time being.’

“What?” the woman stammered, then recoiled as she sniffed. “You-you peed the bed?!”

Oddly enough, this unfortunate accident appeared to aid the woman’s transition from horrified and on guard to simply vexed.

‘Still,’ Carina winced beneath the woman’s accusing glare, ‘I should like to think it was the work of this body’s previous owner—rather than—myself.’

“Water—please!” She repeated. Although faint, the ringing behind her ears had slowly returned, and her limbs were growing numb with fatigue.

“You’re supposed to be dead!” the woman exclaimed angrily, apparently still hung up on that little detail as she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it over her face.

Carina blinked. She had encountered her share of callous adults before, but still, telling a child that she was supposed to be dead? “Sorry to disappoint.”

The woman flinched but quickly composed herself. “Mind your tone, Maura. Well now—I suppose we’ll have to clean this mess up either way. Lady Helena will decide what’s to be done with you when she returns.”

‘So—the child’s name was Maura.’

Somehow just having a name made the previous owner of the body more pitiful. “Can I please—have a glass of water?”

The woman scowled and drew in a slow breath behind her handkerchief. “Being ill is no excuse to ignore your manners, Maura. Address me properly, or you can quench your thirst with what’s left in your piss bucket.”

Shock and anger coiled inside Carina’s stomach as her clenched fists tightened. A grim understanding took hold as she turned her attention from the woman to the mirror and the child’s reflection trapped within it.

‘I’m not sure which of us I should be feeling sorry for at the moment, Maura.’

“Well?” The woman tapped her foot pointedly.

‘Well, what? I said, “please.” What more does this woman want from me?’

“Sorry—I’ve—forgotten how—” Carina mumbled past her dry lips.

“Oh, for Mercy’s sake!” The woman threw up her hands and then quickly covered her nose and mouth. “Say, ‘May I please have a glass of water, Miss Joy’!”

‘Joy…T-that’s her name?’

Carina held back a laugh as she turned towards the woman and offered a neutral smile. “May I please—have a glass of water—Miss Joy.”

“Better,” Joy muttered to herself and then turned to stare at the bed. “So much for my day off.”

‘Yes, I can only imagine what a trial it must be to have to wash a set of linen instead of burying a dead child.’

❆❆❆❆❆

Joy eventually left to find others to assist her with the work of cleaning Maura’s bed. The woman made sure to lock the door on her way out. Through the wooden barrier, Carina could just make out the words, “I was certain she was dead,” as Joy thumped her way down the stairs.

A search of the room around her soon located the piss bucket beneath the shabby bed. Ignoring the lingering dizziness that threatened to unbalance her, Carina pulled it out far enough to confirm that it was suspiciously empty and then left it where it stood.

‘So, they visited her often enough to empty the pot but didn’t leave her a glass of water to drink?’

Carina pressed a hand against her stomach and stared at the pathetic pile of clear vomit on the floor.

‘And it doesn’t look like she had much to eat either. But depending on how sick Maura actually was—’

“You’re supposed to be dead!”

Carina clenched her teeth at the meaning behind Joy’s words and focused her lingering strength on crossing the room to an oak wardrobe against the north wall. The right door hung, off-kilter, from a loose top joint. She opened the closet carefully and stared at the depressingly empty space inside. Three dresses, black, brown, and gray, hung from wooden curtains to the left. A pair of old brown shoes lay beneath them at the bottom beside a tattered brown shoebox.

Carina ignored the dresses and sank slowly to the floor, where she pulled the box out and lifted the flimsy lid. Some old paper and a blue ribbon lay inside. The pages held the drawings of a child. The first showed a girl hiding under a familiar four-poster bed. A large bird with red eyes filled the rest of the drawing with its black wings. Carina frowned at the memory of the crow that had appeared on the window ledge. Once more, the elusive fog of déjà vu tickled against her mind before slithering away.

With a shake of her head, Carina flipped through the remaining drawings. The second appeared at first glance to be the depiction of a family. A scarecrow-like woman and man stood behind a little girl and boy with red hair, large green eyes, and angry frowns. They were drawn beside what appeared to be a lit fireplace. Carina wasn’t certain, but it looked like the little girl’s dress had caught fire—or perhaps that was just a mistake on the artist’s part. A glance at the corner of the page showed what Carina guessed to be Maura, hiding behind a cushioned chair.

“It’s not exactly a foster home situation—but I’m not sure your position was much better here Maura,” Carina muttered. She wasn’t certain what ‘half-blood’ meant, but the picture of Maura’s unfortunate demise was clear enough to guess. After returning the first drawing to the box, Carina focused on the second, which was much more positive—if not unrealistic. In this picture Maura sat smiling atop a white horse. There was a crown of blue flowers upon her dark hair and—what Carina guessed to be a knight—knelt before Maura in a field of flowers.

‘Well, I suppose every girl is entitled to imagine themself as a princess.’

Carina moved on to the last drawing and stared at it in silence as the wind rustled through the window curtains and stirred small dust bunnies from their hiding places. At first glance, the page held a simple drawing of a snowflake, but the longer Carina stared at the drawing—the more her heart fluttered as the chilling sense of déjà vu crawled across her skin and left goosebumps on her arms and legs.

‘It’s just a snowflake? But—why do I feel like it means something?’

“If only I could ask her.” Carina sighed as she lowered the drawing and then returned it to the box. The ribbon was old and tattered at the ends but clearly of some value to Maura. “What a pitiful life if these were the only treasures she had to hide away.” Carina picked up the lid and placed it carefully on top before tucking the box back inside the closet.

A sharp prick of warning raised the hairs on Carina’s neck even as tiny, cold fingers pierced her shoulder. She hissed and whipped around—only to freeze in place as the image of the child whose body Carina had woken up in stared back at her.

A ghostly Maura opened her small, tiny mouth and let out a banshee’s shriek.

 

✶✶✶✶✶✶✶✶✶✶

Interlude XI: The Chosen of Ramiel

 

“Why does Father not come to see us?” Lilaru whined petulantly as she clung to Griselda’s hand. The pair of identical sisters trailed behind their mother, Lady Davina, as they walked down the golden marble halls of their palace home.

Davina turned, holding her youngest, Nesta, in one arm while her second youngest, Jericho, held her free hand tightly as he coughed into a handkerchief. Davina smiled down at her twin daughters patiently before offering the same answer she always gave, “The Pope has many responsibilities as Ramiel’s appointed.”

“But Mathias, Haskell, and Zoran get to see him every day. Why can’t we?”

“Because Holy Father is training our older brothers to see which of them will be Pope one day,” Griselda answered promptly, earning a nod of approval from their mother.

“Well, why can’t I train to be Pope?” Lilaru whined, her resentment unabated.

“Because you’re a girl,” Jericho muttered sharply as he wiped his lips and tucked the handkerchief into his robe pocket. “Now stop pestering Mother!”

“Jericho,” Davina hushed as she glanced between the trio worriedly, then smiled in relief as the boy’s tutor appeared around the corner of an intersecting hallway ahead of them. The noblemen bowed low as he greeted the holy family. “Lord Padnall, good morning.”

“Greetings, Divine Mother.” The noble responded as he lifted his head and fixed his gaze on Jericho. “I trust you are feeling better today, young Jericho?”

“I am,” Jericho affirmed, though the beads of sweat that glistened against his proud dark locks of hair did not go unnoticed.

“His fever still comes and goes,” Davina explained worriedly. “I only agreed to let Jericho continue his lessons today if he promises not to push himself too hard.”

“I will be sure to keep them brief,” Padnall replied somberly. “But young Jericho’s perseverance is to be commended.”

Lilaru scoffed and crossed her arms. “Why? It’s not like he has a chance at becoming Pope.”

“Lilaru!” Griselda hissed as Jericho’s pale cheeks flushed with anger.

“What? Why would Holy Father pick someone as sick as him over our other brothers—even if he is a boy?”

“Lady Lilaru,” Lord Pandall replied as he placed a comforting hand on his student’s trembling shoulder. “It is Ramiel who chooses the next Pope based on their devotion, humility, and passion. Our god often tests the weak and raises them above the strong to demonstrate his benevolence and love.”

“If that were true, then why does Holy Father not include Jericho in his—” Lilaru cut off as Jericho spun towards her.

“Be Silent!” Jericho snarled, “Why must you prattle on about things that have nothing to do with you?!” The malice and resentment in his words and gaze startled even their mother as Lilaru cowered behind Griselda.

“Lilaru, that is enough!” Davina announced authoritatively, even has her brows furrowed with concern. “I was going to take you out to the market today, but now I think it would be best if you remained behind to copy scriptures instead.”

“Mother!” Lilaru protested frantically.

“Jericho,” Davina turned towards her sickly son with a tender smile. “Go enjoy your lessons. Your sister will apologize to you properly later this afternoon after she’s had a few hours to reflect on her behavior.”

“Yes, Holy Mother,” Jericho replied with a mollified expression. “Ramiel’s blessing upon you all.” He paused and focused his attention on Nesta, who clung to their mother with wide turquoise-blue eyes their family all shared. “Have a good time in the market, little Nesta.”

“Jero!” Nesta responded with a beaming smile that quickly relaxed Jericho’s face as he hid a smile and turned to follow his tutor down a connecting hall.

“Why do I have to apologize for telling the truth!” Lilaru whined as Davina watched her son and Lord Pandall continue towards the classrooms.

“Because what you said was hurtful,” Griselda replied with a huff.

Lilaru turned a reproachful glare towards her twin sister before quickly bursting into tears. “But I wanted to go to the market! I want to eat sweet rolls! We never get to do anything. We don’t get to take lessons or learn to read anything except the Holy Scriptures! How are we ever going to see Father if we can’t even study like Jericho!”

“Holy Father,” Davina corrected but sighed as she lowered Nesta to the floor and knelt in front of her weeping daughter. “The daughters of a Pope do not need to study because the next Divine Heir is always chosen from the Pope’s sons.”

“But—” Lilaru wiped at her damp cheeks, “—the third Saint was a girl! So—Why can’t girls become the next Pope?”

Davina shook her head with a bemused smile as she pulled a white handkerchief from her pocket and dried Lilaru’s cheeks. “Ramiel makes that decision, my daughter. As for the selection of Pope, I believe it is easier for the Cardinals to follow a man of the Saint’s lineage than someone of the weaker sex.”

“How presumptions of the Cardinals to assume the daughters of the Pope are weak,” Griselda interrupted with an annoyed frown.

“How could the daughters of Ramiel be weak?” A soothing voice turned the holy family towards a man dressed in scarlet armor.

“Isaac?” Davina quickly picked up Nesta and stood. “What are you doing inside the inner palace?”

The man’s ice-blue eyes chilled Lilaru as he glanced over her and Griselda, then bowed to Davina before answering. “The Pope asked me to deliver these official missives to his office.”

“Surely he has other servants who can perform such a simple task,” Davina replied tensely.

Isaac’s smile dimmed as he adjusted the rolled scrolls under his arms and straightened as his cold eyes surveyed the empty halls around them. “Well, as there are no other servants about who have the Pope’s trust, I can only fulfill the Pope’s request as ordered, Divine Mother.”

The condescending tone in his voice made Lilaru’s chest constrict in anger. ‘How dare this half-witch speak that way to my mother!’

The witch hunter smiled as he stepped to the side to move past them, only to stop short as Davina held out her arm.

“The inner palace is my domain!” Davina said authoritatively and then held out her hand. “You may deliver those documents to me. Surely the Pope trusts his wife more than a mere hound?”

Isaac stared down at her outstretched hand for a moment as a nerve in his jaw twitched. His ice-blue eyes trailed up Davina’s arm towards the woman’s face. Nesta let out a frightened, ear-splitting shriek as Davina recoiled.

A wave of ice-cold magic enveloped Lilaru as the air turned so frigid it felt as if her lungs would burst. Griselda’s hand tightened around her own as the twin clasped her chest with a startled wheeze.

“How dare you!” Davina’s voice raised in fury as her hand cracked across the witch hunter’s cheek. “How dare you use that foul magic against my children! I will have your head for this, Isaac! No, I will see you burned!”

Davina spun around quickly and grabbed Lilaru’s hand, pulling her daughters rapidly towards the inner safety of their palace. Lilaru opened her mouth to ask about their trip to the marketplace, but a glimpse of her mother’s face revealed an expression that Lilaru had never seen before.

‘Why is Mother afraid of one of Father’s hounds?’

Lilaru glanced back over her shoulder to where Isaac stood in the hallway, his arms crossed over the missives pressed against his chest while his ice-blue eyes bore into them. The expression they held was that of a beast fighting to suppress its rage.

The witch hunter’s gaze shifted towards Lilaru as he offered a slow, strained smile. Lilaru stuck out her tongue in response but quickly whipped her gaze back around while her heart thudded painfully inside her chest with an unfamiliar feeling of dread.

Lilaru opened her eyes and stared at the white sails that rippled above her through the grate of a ship’s deck. She rolled over in her hammock and took in the narrow walls of a ship’s hold. Saul rested beside her on a makeshift bed of crates and bags of grain, his face haggard and eyes closed in exhausted sleep.

“Saul?” Lilaru croaked out, her throat tight and parched. “Griselda?” She turned to search the narrow space of the ship’s lower deck for her older twin sister. “Sedric—” her voice caught as memory stirred like a bolt of lightning behind her eyes. Lilaru coughed and clutched her chest as her lungs seemed to sputter and seize in panic.

Saul jerked suddenly awake and blinked up at her with a mixed expression of surprise, relief, and trepidation. “Lilaru?” He rubbed his neck gingerly as he sat up slowly. “You—you must be thirsty.” Lilaru watched as the water witch found his feet and headed towards a barrel of water set against the opposite wall. “Here, it’s the freshest water we have until we dock.”

“T-thank you,” Lilaru mumbled wearily as she accepted the wooden cup he brought over and quenched her thirst. “Where is Griselda? And where are we going?”

Saul hesitated as he watched her drink, his right hand nervously rubbing the stubble along his chin and neck as he studied her. “We’re roughly a few hours away from Zarus and the Holy City.”

“The Holy C—” The cup trembled in Lilaru’s hand as she stared at her chaotic reflection caught upon its surface.

Griselda stared back with a sad but loving smile as she whispered, “I will protect you.”

The cup toppled from Lilaru’s numb fingers as she gripped the side of the hammock, which rocked unsteadily beneath her. “Where is Griselda?” she whispered, hysteria creeping up the back of her throat. “Why are we going to Jericho?”

Saul caught her shoulders as the hammock almost capsized. “Don’t you remember? Lafearian witches attacked us not far up the Serpentine River,” he explained slowly. “You and Griselda called down Ramiel’s thunder. I found you in the waves after the ship was destroyed, the witches along with it.” He shook his head slowly. “But I—couldn’t find Griselda, Sedric, or Harold. I’m afraid they were all killed by either the witches or Ramiel’s wrath.”

“Liar!” Lilaru snarled as she slapped his hand away. “My sister wouldn’t leave me!”

“I saw her push you from the ship just before Ramiel’s thunder hit the deck,” Saul replied firmly. “If she hadn’t pushed you into the water—you would have died with her.”

Another painful flash of memory stirred behind Lilaru’s blinking eyes. The waves washed over her once more, blurring the image of Griselda as night became day.

“No, no. To invoke such a spell requires sacrifice—we both—” Lilaru sucked in her lower lip and pushed aside the hammock blanket as she swung her legs over the edge. “Griselda can’t leave me behind. We—we have to go to Ventrayna to kill the Witch Kings. We—” her legs buckled before she could even put her full weight on them.

Saul caught her quickly and held onto her arms. “I’m sorry, Lilaru. But your sister is dead. She took those bastards with her and protected you,” he hesitated as Lilaru’s face contorted in grief and anger, “Griselda wanted you to live, Lilaru.”

Lilaru swallowed down a scream of rage as she shook her head furiously. His words rang with unyielding truth matched by the memories she wished more than anything to tear from her mind. “That was not her choice to make.” Her voice cracked with pain and weakness. Lilaru pushed Saul away and leaned against the hammock beam for support. “Nor was it your choice to take me back to Jericho!”

“I’m afraid that I was the one who made that decision,” a woman’s voice replied as Saul turned and quickly bowed his head to their Mistress. Madam Maylea was of average height, with braided white hair tucked behind a veil that hid all but her strange white eyes. They were not the clouded eyes of a blind person but possessed a dim gray hue like the morning light through a windowpane.

‘Ghost eyes,’ Lilaru thought as she always did when peering into the woman’s all-knowing gaze.

“Madam Maylea,” Saul murmured respectfully.

“You should rest, Lilaru,” Maylea said neutrally in a tone that suggested this was not a request. “I will have a meal sent down now that you are awake.”

“Why are we going to Zarus?” Lilaru demanded as Saul obediently lifted and carried her back to the hammock.

“Because I have business with your brother, the Pope, and you need taking care of now that Griselda has gone,” Maylea replied dismissively as she leaned down to pick up the wooden cup that had fallen from Lilaru’s hand and rolled across the floor.

“I don’t need looking after—I still have to return to Ventrayna!”

“If you want to die on a suicidal mission, so be it,” Maylea replied. “But not before you’ve met with your brother.”

“Why?” Lilaru snapped as she sat up in the hammock and shoved Saul’s restraining arm away. “What do you want from my brother?”

Maylea dipped the cup into the barrel of water and carried it over to Lilaru, “What makes you think I want something from the Pope?”

“Well—if not the Pope—then who?” Lilaru grumbled as she accepted the wood cup but didn’t drink. “You always want something.”

Maylea’s ghost eyes squinted as her gaze remained focused on Lilaru. “Perhaps I am interfering in hopes of reuniting what little remains of the Pope’s bloodline.”

The cup in Lilaru’s hand trembled once more as the face of her father, mother, older brothers, Griselda, and Nesta all flashed before her eyes. ‘They’re all dead. The only family I have left now—is Jericho.’

Maylea wrapped her hands around Lilaru’s and steadied the cup. “I know you and your brother have been estranged since—well, there’s no need to get into that—but you must realize that you cannot achieve revenge all on your own, Lilaru. Your brother can help you. He is the Pope and your family.”

“Jericho should have never become Pope,” Lilaru hissed angrily. “Any of us would have been a better choice than that spineless coward!”

Maylea released Lilaru’s hand and grabbed the younger woman’s chin firmly. “Your brother is exactly where he is meant to be.” The woman’s pale white eyes glowed ominously, even as the weight of her words settled into Lilaru’s mind with a sense of inescapable doom. “And now you will return to deliver news of Griselda’s death because that is exactly what you are meant to do.”

Lilaru took in a ragged breath as her body fell numb beneath Maylea’s gaze. “Why? Jericho never cared about us before—why should he be bothered at all that Griselda is—that she’s—” One broken sob after another shook through her as tears poured free. Maylea released her chin and passed the cup of water over to Saul.

“Some fates are unavoidable, my dear,” Maylea murmured soothingly as she embraced Lilaru lightly. “Griselda’s fate was inescapable, but she spent her last moments ensuring your survival. Would you now throw away her courage and self-less love?” The spymaster smoothed the tears from Lilaru’s face and sighed. “I should not have assigned this task to you. Griselda’s death—is my fault.”

“N-no,” Lilaru protested between tears. “Griselda—we both wanted to kill him—for what he did to Nesta.”

“But if I had waited—if I had chosen one of my other girls,” Maylea murmured sorrowfully. “You and Griselda would both be here to hear my good news.”

Lilaru blinked in confusion. “What good news?”

Maylea smiled as she folded Lilaru’s hand around the damp handkerchief. “I found Nesta, your little sister. She is still alive, Lilaru.”

Lilaru stared in dumbfound confusion at the spymaster’s face. “Alive?”

“And hiding inside Lafeara’s palace,” Maylea confirmed. “You may have even seen her during your mission.”

“W-what?” Lilaru’s voice rose incredulously.

“That is why I am taking you to Jericho.” Maylea smiled as she straightened and adjusted her robes. “The Pope will be traveling to Lafeara soon enough for the crown prince’s coronation. It would be for the best if you traveled with him. Rescue Nesta from the den of wolves—before they realize just who they are harboring.”

“Little Nesta—is alive. After all this time….” Lilaru’s voice faded as her eyes stared off into the distance, lost in a memory from another life before cruelty, madness, and anger had twisted her mind into a weapon of malice and grief. “Of course, I will save her. That is what Griselda would do if she were here.”

“You must bring Nesta back to Zarus, no matter who stands in your way,” Maylea murmured as her pale white eyes glowed once more.

Lilaru smiled as her turquoise-blue eyes remained focused on a vision only she could see. “Yes,” she murmured calmly. “No matter who stands in our way.”

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Interlude X: The Corruption of Power

 

After four days of strenuous training with Isleen, it was a man’s scream that jerked Tristan awake from the exhausting depths of sleep. He opened his eyes blearily, the shadowy dream of a moonlit path on Fogtooth mountain clinging to him like the nightly sweat of the desert.

Then another ear-splitting shriek of pain rippled through the palace, followed by a dim flare of light beneath the crack of Tristan’s door and a resounding crash.

Tristan ripped the sheets away and sat up. The moonlight faded as the door before him solidified, accompanied by the distant pounding of feet. The bastard prince grabbed his sword from the bedside chair as he lunged towards the door, barefoot and dressed only in his sleeping trousers. He almost collided with a servant in the hallway as he rushed out. The frightened man bobbed his shaved head quickly in apology and scampered off as Tristan dismissed him and continued towards the railings that overlooked the marble floor of the first floor below.

Servants flittered up and down, moving gradually away from the front of the palace. All of them tensed and whispered as another agonizing scream echoed through the hall. With muttered words that might have been prayers or curses, the slaves turned and vanished into the unlit corridors.

‘They’re running away,’ Tristan realized, baffled. Even through the distorted chords of pain, Tristan recognized Farrell’s voice in the distant sob that followed. ‘Why aren’t they rushing to help their Master?’

The bastard prince leapt over the balcony, cushioning his fall with a wave of fire magic that startled those who lingered by the walls. The palace men and women quivered as they bowed and retreated from him. ‘They reek of fear.’ Tristan snorted in disbelief as he sprinted down the hall, his mind still struggling to make sense of the chaos that had woken him from his sleep.

‘Why is Farrell screaming? Did something happen at Aurelia’s palace?’

He skidded to a halt as a wave of flames engulfed the palace walls in the entry foyer before him.

“Farrell!” Isleen’s desperate cry followed the potent magic as it rolled back like a tide pulled towards its source. “Farrell, stop—you have to let me—”

A second wave of flames billowed out like a storm and muffled Farrell’s strangled voice, grunting like an animal in pain. Tristan hesitated, but only long enough to allow the surge of magic to retreat before he sprinted around the corner.

Isleen lowered the arm she had used to shield her face before returning to Farrell’s side. The prince consort was on his hands and knees, panting with effort. Dried blood flowed from his ears, nostril, and the corner of his mouth that sagged open with an inhuman cry of pain.

“Farrell!” Tristan rushed towards his trembling guardian. Anger and panic rippled through the bastard prince’s gut as he set down his sword and reached for the prince consort’s shoulders.

“No!” Isleen shoved Tristan off balance onto the floor with the same force she used in the arena. “Don’t touch him! He—”

Her brother’s scream cut off Isleen’s warning as the crown prince’s body surged with magic that erupted in another inferno of flames. The torment of Farrell’s cry raked through Tristan’s body, mind, and soul, inflicting more damage than the prince consort’s chaotic flames ever could.

“What is going on?” Tristan shouted desperately the moment the room had cleared of the torrential fire. “Is it poison?”

“No,” Isleen replied, her voice breaking and distraught as she supported Farrell, who turned, clutching his stomach, then vomited blood onto the floor. “Brother, you have to let me help you. Please!”

‘Isleen is afraid,’ Tristan realized as his eyes danced between two powerful pure bloods that he had anticipated fighting only two days from now. ‘I still don’t know if I can beat either of them. And now Farrell is like this. What is going on? What is Isleen afraid of?’

Farrell’s ebony eyes were glazed and rimmed with pain as he raised a trembling hand towards the bastard prince. Tristan caught the clammy palm, ignoring the vomit and blood streaked across it as he focused on the prince consort’s painful struggle to speak.

“Pellis—Worms—” Farrell choked off as his face contorted, then he ripped his hands from Tristan and Isleen to grab his head with a shriek of pain.

Tristan watched in numb disbelief as his guardian injected a blast of heat directly into his skull.

“No!” Isleen yanked Farrell’s hands away from his head and pushed him back on the floor beside Tristan. “Tristan, hold him down!”

Tristan blinked uncomprehendingly but followed Isleen’s desperate instructions as the pure blood straddled her brother and placed her palms against his chest. The golden-red hue of her magic bathed Farrell’s body in a blanket of flames. The prince consort thrashed beneath Tristan’s grip as more blood flowed from the screaming man’s ears onto the floor.

“There are pellis sandworms inside his—inside him,” Isleen whispered hoarsely as she continued to channel her magic up Farrell’s neck and into his head. The magic pulsed behind her brother’s eyes and flowed through his ears, gasping mouth, and nose. “Pellis worms attack the brain,” Isleen continued, her words and gaze focused on her brother, but filled with uncertainty and fear. “They are impossibly small and resistant to anything but pure-blood fire. But even then—”

Farrell bucked with a savage scream that nearly knocked his sister onto the floor.

“What do we do?” Tristan asked, his stomach turning at the thought of some invading, invisible worm eating away at his friend’s mind. “How do we remove them?”

“They are weak to extreme heat and cold. I can burn them away,” Isleen answered as she lifted her hands from Farrell’s chest and pressed them against her brother’s cheeks just above his ears. “I just don’t know—if it will be enough.”

Tristan exhaled sharply as another storm of Farrell’s flames engulfed them both. He refocused on Isleen’s face as the tears on her cheeks dried away beneath the chaotic magic. “Does-does he have to be conscious for this?” As much as Tristan loathed the idea of attacking his guardian, he would happily knock out the crown prince if it would ease his misery—at least for a short while.

Isleen’s midnight black eyes flew towards Tristan a moment before her otherwise composed face crumpled into an expression of hopeless agony. “That is the curse of the pellis sandworm. By the time the victim falls unconscious—it is already too late.”

Tristan swallowed back an angry protest as Isleen sucked in a ragged breath and focused on Farrell’s face, which she held in her hands. Tristan watched her channel wave after wave of pure magic into her brother’s skull. He stared at the dry blood smeared across the floor, pooled around Farrell’s ears, and wondered what desert horror lurked within its crimson surface.

Minutes stretched into hours, and still, Farrell remained conscious, thrashing, screaming, begging Isleen to save him one minute—then kill him and end his torment the next. Isleen grew paler as her magic reserve’s drained at an increasing rate.

Eventually, Farrell stopped fighting against Tristan’s grip, but his eyes remained open, their gaze locked on something beyond his sister’s haggard figure. Tristan didn’t ask what Farrell’s sudden stillness meant—he didn’t want to hear the answer written upon Isleen’s face.

The bastard prince looked away from the siblings as rage and frustration welled up inside him. As he drew in a shaky breath, Tristan caught sight of a servant lingering in the corner of the palace and turned towards them. “You there—fetch some Caligo wine! And some Tears of the Sun while you’re at it.”

The servant boy squeaked in terror but managed what might have been a nod of acknowledgment before he scampered off. Tristan didn’t have time to worry about whether the servant would return because the palace doors flew open as Duke Tyrrell stormed inside, followed by a woman dressed as a High Priestess of Kritanta.

“Father!” Isleen cried out. Relief and exhaustion quivered through her words as her shoulders slumped. “I’ve removed most of the pellis—but I don’t—there could still be more.”

Tyrrell nodded as he reached past Tristan to cover Isleen’s hands with his own. “Show me,” he commanded, his voice steady and unshaken despite the danger both of his children faced.

“Isleen has used up too much of her magic,” Tristan protested. Isleen herself had warned him repeatedly on the dangers of a witch completely draining their magic. ‘She could die if she pushes herself any further!’

“Step aside, your Highness.” The High Priestess’s commanding voice and gentle touch on Tristan’s shoulder turned him towards her. The bastard prince nodded silently. He watched in tense confusion as the High Priestess moved behind Isleen and Farrell, placing her hands on Isleen’s back.

A surge of white-gold magic flowed from the High Priestess into Isleen, giving the pure-blood strength to continue her fight to save Farrell. Tristan’s jaw slackened as he stared at the color of the Priestess’s magic, the same color as the Phoenix flame the bastard prince had inherited from his mother.

As if sensing his gaze, the High Priestess opened her amber eyes, turned towards Tristan, and bowed her head—as if in acknowledgment.

Farrell’s head suddenly lurched up from the marble floor with a strangled cry. His body shook, even under Isleen’s weight, as Tyrrell grabbed his son’s shoulders.

“Farrell! Farrell, can you hear me?” The Duke shouted as Isleen scampered off her brother’s chest.

“Turn-turn him over, Father. He can’t breathe!”

Tristan edged closer as the Duke and Isleen rolled Farrell onto his side. The prince consort vomited up clumps of dried blood mixed with whatever dinner he had eaten before drawing in a ragged breath of air.

“Oh, thank, Kritanta!” Isleen whispered as she dropped her forehead against her brother’s shoulder.

“The Prince Consort needs rest,” the High Priestess murmured as she drew back from the huddled family.

“Not before I get answers!” the Duke retorted furiously. “Farrell, who did this to you?”

Farrell’s swollen eyes flickered about the room in confusion before he whispered a hoarse reply, “Where is—Marco?”

“What?” Tyrrell’s voice cracked with irritation as he edged around Farrell’s body to look directly at his son. “Farrell, I need you to focus. Who did this to you? Was it the princess? The Empress?”

“Father!” Isleen protested.

The servant Tristan had sent away for wine returned and hastily bowed to the Duke before he set the bottles upon the floor beside his Master. Farrell grabbed the Caligo wine and ripped the cork away with his teeth before he dumped most of the liquid across his neck and cheek as he struggled to sit and drink in the same motion.

“Farrell!” The Duke snatched the bottle of wine and hurled it across the room, where it crashed against a chair. Then he grabbed his son’s face and repeated firmly, “Who put those pellis sandworms in your head?”

Farrell snorted and laughed before his voice, more broken and tormented than the screams that had woken Tristan from his sleep, replied in a mocking tone, “You already know—Father.”

The Duke’s hands fell away from his son’s face as Farrell rolled over, pushing Isleen aside as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

Isleen stood up quickly beside him and took her brother’s arm. “Farrell—”

The prince consort shoved her away, nearly falling over in the process, as his reddened, swollen eyes glared into her with a burning accusation. “Am I still—exaggerating, Sister? Now that pellis worms have eaten my brain. Perhaps I am crazy for thinking my wife—your dear friend—wants to kill me?”

Guilt and painful comprehension flickered across Isleen’s crumpling expression as her eyes dropped from her swaying brother to the floor.

“I will inform the Emperor,” Duke Tyrrell announced grimly. “I will ensure this matter is investigated and—”

“You will do nothing!” Farrell roared and swayed. The High Priestess caught prince consort around the waist as his knees buckled. Still clinging to consciousness out of sheer will, Farrell raised his deadened gaze to the silent Duke. “You will all do nothing—as you have always done—I will get—my revenge.”

The High Priestess sagged under the prince consort’s weight as Farrell’s slumped against her, his bloody cheek trailing dried blood down her waist. Tristan stepped forward quickly and relieved the Priestess of her burden. He ignored the stench of blood, sweat, and vomit as he hefted Farrell’s tall body awkwardly in his arms and carried his guardian upstairs towards his room.

The servants scampered away before him as Tristan moved blindly towards the steps. Anger burned at his core, but for once, the dragon remained oddly calm.

When none of the servants dared approach to open their Master’s bedroom door, Tristan kicked his way in. The force of his blow ripped the door from its hinges as the desert palm wood splintered against the opposite wall, knocking over a statue of Kritanta that stood before a window.

The crash shook Tristan from his anger, and he drew in a deep breath to steady himself. The fury he felt was not Kritanta’s magic or the dragon’s greed for chaos; this was his own anger burning away at him.

‘Aurelia may be my half-sister, but if she truly did this to Farrell—she is a monster.’

‘So are you!’ his conscience hissed back.

‘So is this entire bloody family!’

Tristan carried Farrell over to the neatly made bed and eased the crown prince down upon the silk sheets. He looked up with mixed relief and uncertainty as the High Priestess appeared, followed by a few servants who carried in bowls of water and stacks of cloth.

“They are afraid of the pellis sandworm,” the High Priestess observed as the servants quickly set the items down and then fled. “If even one worm entered their body, they would perish. Do not blame them, Prince. They are mortal.”

“Aren’t we all?” Tristan growled as he watched the Priestess removed her outer robe, fold it, and lay it upon Farrell’s neat and tidy desk.

“Some more than others,” the Priestess replied with what might have been an amused smile. “Will you assist me in bathing the prince consort? He would rest more comfortably in a clean pair of clothes.”

Tristan blinked but nodded at her request.

“Then please,” the Priestess gestured towards Farrell’s unconscious figure.

With effort and meticulous care, Tristan stripped Farrell from his filthy, singed, and tattered garments. Once the prince consort was relieved of his clothes, the High Priestess and Tristan washed him down with scented oil and water.

As they continued this tedious task, Tristan felt the Priestess’s gaze settle upon him more than once. The memory of her flames, which so closely resembled his mother’s, burned through him, but Tristan held his tongue.

The High Priests and Priestess who served Kritanta also served the Emperor. Despite every blessing they had given him, Tristan held little trust in Arius—or Kritanta.

“You have come a long way in your training,” the Priestess observed quietly as she withdrew to allow Tristan to redress his unconscious friend. “The Emperor will be pleased.”

Tristan grunted in response. He little cared for Arius’s approval and held even less hope that he would one day control the dragon that lurked inside him. Tristan’s reason for living lay solely in finding out the reason behind his mother’s death and avenging her.

“Kritanta will also be pleased.”

The bastard prince tensed, then slid Farrell’s arm through the thin cotton sleeve of his shirt.

“While I am here, I have a message for you from the Goddess of Death.”

Tristan glanced back at the High Priestess with wary annoyance. “What makes you think I need a Priestess to deliver a message from Kritanta?”

“If you would prefer to speak to her directly, you know what is required, Consort.”

Tristan clenched his jaw as a wave of nausea washed over him. He had not reached out to Kritanta since his oath. The memory of their pact only filled him with a rush of disgust and fear. While he had recovered from his Ascension in Ventrayna, the High Priest of Kritanta’s temple had filled Tristan in on all that was required from Kritanta’s consort.

The idea that god and goddess slept with their consorts was not altogether unheard of, but it was not physical lust or desire Tristan had seen in Kritanta’s eyes. The look they had held when the goddess had stared at his new body was far more—carnivorous.

“Of course, the Goddess will likely hold off on demanding your—obedience in this matter until you have returned her frozen heart,” the Priest informed him comfortingly.

Tristan’s hand tightened around the prince consort’s wrists for a moment before he pulled the sheets over his friend’s unconscious figure. “Will he be alright?”

The Priestess’s expression softened as she regarded Farrell’s pale face. “It is hard to say. It would depend on how much time elapsed from the moment the worms entered his body to when Isleen began her care.”

Tristan clenched his eyes shut for a moment, then moved to drag a chair from beside Farrell’s closet over to the bed. He sat down and studied the High Priestess silently as he crossed his bare feet. “What does Kritanta want?”

A flicker of something Tristan recognized all too easily crossed the Priestess’s face. He had glimpsed that expression upon Dowager Octavia’s face one too many times. The look of someone who thought they could control him to gain more power.

“Kritanta is eager for you to return to Lafeara,” the Priestess informed him calmly. “Viktor has awoken from his slumber.”

“Viktor?” Tristan tilted his head, recalling the name from a book in Farrell’s library. “The dead god?”

“Not exactly dead and not exactly living,” the Priestess replied with a cryptic smile. “But his active presence can only mean one thing.”

“And what is that?” Tristan arched a brow, not at all interested in playing games.

“An Isbrand heir has returned to Lafeara,” the Priestess replied with a glimmer of longing.

“What does that have to do with me?” Tristan returned dismissively.

The Priestess’s brow twitched with evident irritation at his disrespectful tone. “You have sworn to find and return Kritanta’s heart. Who better to hide the heart of a god than the remnants of his immortal ice witch coven?”

Tristan nodded slowly, even as his thoughts turned to Nero and the Witch Star.

‘So it wasn’t Mother’s necklace. Then again, I suppose it doesn’t make sense for a jewel to be the heart of a god. Perhaps I only wanted to believe there was some deeper reason for her death.’

The bastard prince sighed and crossed his tired arms across his bare torso. “So, who and where is this Isbrand heir?”

The High Priestess smiled as she turned to retrieve her robe from Farrell’s desk. “The Isbrand witch has hidden herself quite cleverly amongst the nobles inside Lafeara’s palace.”

“Herself?” Tristan blinked as Maura’s pale, distraught face, illuminated by the strange blue light from her chest, surfaced in his memories.

“A half-blood by the name of Lady Maura,” the Priestess replied, confirming his fears. “Others have become aware of her presence, so you will need to act quickly to secure Viktor’s heart.”

‘Viktor’s heart?’ Tristan lowered his gaze as the Priestess turned to face him. He ran a hand through his disheveled curls as his mind rapidly connected the information she had given him.

‘A dead god. Viktor’s heart. Kritanta took her second heart from him. Viktor was the god of ice—Maura is an ice witch. Shit.’

“Be wary when you face her,” the Priestess advised. “The Isbrand witch is more formidable than she appears.”

“What do you mean?” Tristan asked as he raised his gaze.

“Only that you must tread carefully,” the Priestess replied with a note of obvious concern. “Our Goddess may have blessed you, but the Isbrand witch possesses the beating heart of a god. Should she learn to wield its powers fully—” a flicker of something that might have been fear trembled in the woman’s voice as her eyes narrowed, “—the danger and risk that stands between you and your goal will be greater, and we may face a more terrible power than that of the Isbrand witch.”

“Speak plainly,” Tristan growled as he leaned towards the Priestess. “What terrible power?”

With a flourish of her arms, the Priestess pulled on her robes and smoothed out the scarlet silk fabric of Kritanta’s sacred order. “An ungodly power that would instantly topple this kingdom your father paid so much to build,” she replied with a note of foreboding. “The awakening of a Saint.”

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Interlude IX: A Glimmer of Opportunity

 

“Farrell will be alright,” Isleen repeated reassuringly as she moved to the center of the practice ring with her spear. “Just—give him space for the next few days until the whole thing passes over.”

“Give him space?” Tristan queried as he trailed behind her.

Isleen grimaced as she twirled her spear from palm to palm, igniting her fire magic that quickly spiraled around the staff to form wings at the head of the spear.

‘Wings like a hawk—or phoenix,’ Tristan observed as he drew his long sword from its sheath and dropped the scabbard on a stone step at the edge of the ring.

“Farrell can get a bit—testy—around this time of the month,” Isleen explained as he moved to join her in the arena.

“Can you blame him?” Tristan replied with an incredulous look. The bastard prince balanced the blade in his right hand against the witch steel vambrace tied securely to his left forearm and waited for her to make the first move. “Or do all pure-bloods allow their parents to trap them in a torturous marriage?”

Isleen kicked the base of her spear and caught the shaft firmly in her right hand as her midnight blue eyes narrowed at him. “Your prior engagement to Eleanora was arranged similarly.”

“Eleanora and I never hated each other,” Tristan pointed out as he deflected the first thrust of Isleen’s spear. The witch steel sword rippled as Tristan bathed it in crimson flames and paced cautiously around Isleen in a half-circle.

“But you certainly didn’t love each other,” Isleen countered casually.

Tristan hesitated beneath her words, then stepped back as Isleen arched her spear and jabbed at his left. He moved to deflect the attack only to watch the spear blur away as the pretty pure blood spun her weapon around her shoulders with deceptive grace before landing a powerful attack against his hastily raised block.

“We got engaged as kids,” Tristan grunted as he shook off the sting of her blow. “I didn’t exactly have a say in the matter of our engagement or its annullement.”

“Well,” Isleen returned with an arched brow. “Given King Henri had you pronounced dead—it was hardly a promise the Emperor needed to fulfill.”

“Do I look like a dead person to you?” Tristan growled as he backed away from the reach of her spear, then lunged forward beneath her offensive swing, aiming for the protective breastplate she wore.

Isleen merely smiled as she spun, with the same agile movements of her brother, dancing past his blade as she wrapped both arms around her spear and brought the flat head of the shaft down hard on Tristan’s exposed back. The blow and forward momentum knocked the bastard price off-balance, but Tristan turned his fall into a roll and quickly regained his footing. He turned just in time to deflect the spearhead that came remarkably close to shaving his throat.

“Not dead yet, at least,” Isleen replied with a dangerous smile and then drew back to give him a moment to recover.

“And here I thought you and your brother had both stopped holding back,” Tristan muttered, taking advantage of the pause to catch his breath. “Or have I not improved enough?”

“You were always a natural with a sword,” Isleen replied with a shrug. “But as Farrell has surely taught you—”

“Any pure-blood worth their flame has trained their body into a lethal weapon,” Tristan recited with a dismissive gesture. “Then why craft something like witch steel?”

Isleen smiled. “Because unlike certain individuals blessed by Kritanta with nearly unlimited reserves of magic—coven witches and even pure-bloods have to ration our power, which makes pairing them with weapons useful for any long-drawn-out battles.”

“Then why is Farrell so against them?”

“Farrell is—arrogant. He views weapons as a limitation rather than a tool to extend one’s ability,” Isleen answered with a shrug. “But then Farrell has always been regarded as a prodigy since he was a child. His ability to manipulate the power of his flame to enhance his physical body while not overextending his magic reserves, combined with tactics to take down his opponent quickly, have made him a formidable opponent in the arena.”

“But in a battle against a thousand soldiers?” Tristan pressed curiously.

“Ah, that is what our coven witch soldiers are for,” Isleen replied as she hefted her spear and shifted into a stance. “But if your Highness lost your weapon in the heat of battle, what then?”

“You pick up another one,” Tristan replied as he quickened his pace, eyes peeled for an opening.

“And how many usable weapons did you leave behind when you scorched Wolfthorn Forest?”

Tristan’s step faltered, and Isleen was quick to take advantage of his hesitation. The pure blood’s spear halted as Tristan caught it in his fist. Black flames channeled from his hand down the weapon, engulfing Isleen’s orange flames as she attempted to yank her spear free. One look at the black and red flames spiraling towards her was all it took for Isleen to let go.

“Looks to me like you just lost your weapon,” Tristan observed tensely.

“I warned you not to do that,” Isleen hissed as she took a cautious step back. “Manipulating another witch’s fire can do permanent damage to them. Perhaps we should return to Meditation for the rest of the day.”

Tristan stared at the spear, another weapon forged of witch steel, and felt the shaft weaken and bend beneath his grasp. He dropped the still burning weapon onto the sand-covered floor and focused on reining in the dragon that raged within, eager for a fight.

“You’re still too easily provoked,” Isleen observed with a troubled look as she watched him. “Perhaps you’re not ready.”

“Ready for what?” Tristan countered as the black flames along his arms shifted back towards a more scarlet hue.

“The covens are holding a Tri-Tournament in about a week,” Isleen answered as she folded her arms, her expression still displeased. “It’s a rare opportunity for advancement, and only pure-bloods are allowed to compete.”

“Sounds like a lot of fun,” Tristan replied sarcastically. “But what’s it got to do with me?”

“The Emperor has already put out an announcement that you will enter in this year’s Tri-Tournament.”

Tristan might have laughed if he hadn’t felt a sliver of suspicion at the start of this conversation. “Of course, he did. That doesn’t mean I’ll go.”

“The winner will be appointed as General of the sixth brigade,” Isleen continued, ignoring his rebellious comment as usual. “The position was previously held by a member of Duke Zenaku’s Coven. All the other covens will send their best pure-bloods to compete and win the position for one of their own. The Duke’s second eldest son, Lord Mekhi, will also be entering the competition.”

“Your old fiancé,” Tristan replied pointedly.

“The Emperor wants you to claim that position and demonstrate your power and ability before the three covens.”

Tristan had no response for that other than, “Why?”

“Because the Emperor wants to make you his successor,” Isleen answered with a hint of exasperation.

Tristan shrugged. “Again, why?”

“You’re not stupid, Tristan, so don’t pretend to be,” Isleen countered as she stepped towards him, her fists flickering with flames.

“Are we continuing?” Tristan asked, then got his answer as Isleen sent a bolt of fire hurtling towards him. Tristan dodged the magic but felt a bit of its heat as it cracked against the volcanic floor, where it blazed angrily for some time before slowly flickering out. The bastard prince scoffed but moved to the edge of the arena to set aside his sword, preferring to fight her on equal terms.

“Duke Zenaku still hasn’t thrown his support behind Princess Aurelia, but he also hasn’t shown any inclination to support you. Duke Tyrell and the Emperor have both publicly shifted their support behind your name,” Isleen explained with forced calm as he returned to face her. “As I’m sure Farrell has already explained to you, Duke Zenon is expected to support Aurelia as the Empress’s nephew. Winning all three dukes would be ideal, but first, you have to earn Zenaku’s support and respect.”

“And winning this Tri-tournament will do that?” Tristan responded doubtfully. He dodged another bolt of fire only to drop and roll beneath another wave of flame that rushed towards him. “Even though I’d be taking the position of general from his son?”

‘And after the Emperor canceled your engagement to Mekhi so he could pair us together?’

“What makes you think Zenaku would prefer me over Aurelia?” Tristan pressed incredulously. “If anything, the Zenaku family has cause to resent me.”

“It’s not the first time Mekhi has suffered a humiliating defeat,” Isleen returned with a shrug as flames danced around her outstretched hand. “And Duke Zenaku is a devoted follower of Kritanta. Convince him you have her blessing. That you will lead the covens to greater glory and power, and he will follow you as he did your father.”

“You mean, follow in Arius’s footsteps to defeat the church and dominate all the other kingdoms—including Lafeara?”

Isleen sighed impatiently. “Your Highness should refocus on your future here in Ventrayna rather than your past in Lafeara. Now, attack!”

“Speaking of the past,” Tristan murmured as he tested her defenses with a few quick jabs. “You don’t seem to hold a lot of sympathy for your ex-fiancé.” He sidestepped and blocked a swing from her spear, then lunged and ducked as she reversed her swing towards his head. “One might—think you took advantage of my return—to cancel the engagement.”

Isleen knocked his attack aside and offered him a condescending stare. “Unlike certain individuals, I prefer not to live in the past. If the Emperor and my father decide to cancel one engagement in order to arrange a more favorable match, who am I to complain?”

“Perhaps the possibility of being a Crown Princess and even Empress someday helped you agree to a new engagement so quickly,” Tristan observed sourly.

“My father raised me to be ambitious,” she responded with a shrug, then caught his attack, pivoted beneath Tristan’s arm, and flipped him over her shoulder. “Perhaps—I have enough ambition for us both.”

“I have no interest in fighting for a title or throne,” Tristan growled as he rolled away and got back to his feet.

“Hmm. Well, I suppose the title of Kritanta’s Consort is more than enough power for a person as humble as yourself,” Isleen responded with an edge of sarcasm.

Tristan’s body tensed as the oath he had shared with Kritanta flashed before his eyes. Through the red that filled his vision, he saw the whip of flame sprout from Isleen’s hand and shoot towards him. The burning molten tail wrapped around his arm and yanked Tristan towards his instructor.

But Tristan moved faster than Isleen had expected, propelled by a burst of fire through the soles of his feet—a trick he’d picked up from Farrell. With his left vambrace trapped in her whip, Tristan blocked her raised knee with his right before spinning his weight and elbow into Isleen’s abdomen. The pure blood doubled over with a grunt. Tristan moved his grip from Isleen’s whip to her arm and flipped the pure blood over his shoulder.

Before Tristan could celebrate this momentary upset, Isleen grabbed the belt at his back and trapped her knees on both sides of his face. The arena spun, and a moment later, the bastard prince found himself on his back once more, with Isleen’s burning hand wrapped around his throat as she straddled him.

“Better,” Isleen commented dryly as her grip relaxed. “But you should stick to using the sword for the tournament. You have too many openings without it.”

“What?” Tristan protested as the pure blood removed her hand and stood gracefully. “Honestly?”

Isleen sighed and offered Tristan the look of disapproval Farrell so often gave him. “If you weren’t who you were, I’d have knocked you out of this arena ages ago.”

Tristan scoffed as he climbed to his feet. “Are you being serious—or are you just upset because of something I said?”

An aura of amber flame that was only a few shades darker than his mother’s phoenix flame enveloped Isleen from head to toe. Tristan stared, mesmerized, as the same golden hue swirled behind the pure blood’s midnight blue eyes as she stared at him.

“Believe me when I say that I am still holding back,” Isleen replied coldly, then turned on her heel to walk up the steps of the arena.

Tristan held back a frustrated growl as he clenched his fists and turned to stare at the spear left behind in the arena. The indents left by the bastard prince’s fingers along the spear’s shaft stared back at him.

‘You’re not the only one holding back!’

Tristan closed his eyes, sighed, then jogged quickly to the edge of the arena, where he picked up his sword and scabbard, then ran up the stairs after Isleen.

“Wait!” Tristan called as he caught up to his instructor at the back gate. “About the tournament.”

Isleen, no longer glowing in auspicious flames of magic, rolled her shoulders back in an apparent attempt to calm herself before she turned around to face him. “What about the tournament?”

“Who would I be competing with?” Tristan asked as he stopped a few paces away from her.

Isleen crossed her arms and shrugged. “The first round will be open to any pure-blood. At the end of the round, the last ten witches standing will advance to a second round where they will face each other one on one until there are only five.”

“Okay,” Tristan nodded, thinking back to the competitions held by the knights each year as part of the Holy Day celebrations.

“One of the top five spots is reserved for her Highness, Princess Aurelia, who has already declared she will be joining the Tri-tournament to win the army for her mother’s coven.”

“Wait—Aurelia wants to be a general?” Tristan asked, momentarily confused.

Isleen rolled her eyes and furrowed her brows as she stared at him. “No—she’s there to make sure that if you get into the top five, you suffer a crushing defeat at her hand in front of the entire Ventrayna witch nation. Also, as long as Aurelia wins, her coven can choose someone else to act as general.”

“Ahh—”

“There is some concern—” Isleen hesitated, “—that Aurelia may take advantage of the competition to seriously harm or—”

“Kill me?” Tristan supplied when she trailed off.

Isleen sighed and shook her head. “I don’t believe Aurelia would take such a risk. The blowback from the Emperor—even if she is his only other child.” Isleen shivered for a moment. “The rest of the covens would view it as a cowardly act, to maim you before you’ve even had a chance to show your full potential—only the Empress would be that desperate.”

“So, Aurelia’s more likely to challenge and kill me after I show off my skill in the tournament?” Tristan queried uncertainly.

“No—” Isleen dragged a hand across her mouth and sighed, “—I don’t know. Either way, if you face her—don’t for a second think she’s going to hold back.”

“Right, I understand,” Tristan answered with a rueful smile. “Though I’m also starting to think not participating might be in my best interest.”

Isleen appeared to agree with this sentiment, but then she took a step towards him and focused her gaze on his. “I would agree, but—if you can make it into the top five—the Emperor has agreed to lift your house arrest.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up a moment before he laughed at the obvious bait he was being offered.

“And if you happen to win—” Isleen continued, picking up on his cynicism quickly “—you would have an army to escort you back to Lafeara to settle whatever lingering business you have there—should you wish to return.”

Tristan brushed a hand through his damp curls and stared up at the palace structure that loomed over them. “If it means earning my freedom—” he sighed, “—yeah, why the hell not?”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Isleen replied with a wry smile. “Unfortunately, training you to prepare for the tournament now falls to me since Farrell is otherwise engaged.”

“Yeah,” Tristan grunted as he moved past her to open the gate. “Funny how the timing on all this worked out.”

“You sound as paranoid as Farrell,” Isleen observed, but her troubled expression remained as Tristan opened the gate and motioned for her to enter first.

 

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Interlude VIII: Tears of the Sun

 

The desert was never more deceptively peaceful than in the early twilight hours when the scorching sun lingered just beyond an illusively distant horizon. Tristan’s lungs were burning. Then again, the fire witch’s entire body felt flooded with heat and pain as each stride forward sank his boots inches below into the treacherous sand that engulfed each foot, sometimes up to his ankles.

The protective scarf Tristan wore around his head, mouth, and nose grated against his dry lips and cheeks with each panting breath. Ahead of him, he could just make out Farrell’s gracefully running figure. The prince consort’s strides gave off tiny bursts of flame that outlined his path across the dim, shadowy landscape of endless dunes.

‘How does he do that?’ Tristan growled inwardly as he pushed his tired legs and arms to their breaking point. The pure blood ignored his screaming muscles, which threatened to collapse with each quivering breath. He knew better than to stop, even for a moment’s rest. The burning sphere bleeding its way across the blue horizon like a ribbon of silk offered far worse torment for all who dared make its formidable domaine their native home.

The dark ridge of Skreigh, the desert capital, came into view, and Tristan felt a surge of relief ripple through his protesting joints as he picked up the pace out of sheer desperation to collapse somewhere with shade. He attempted to channel the magic at his core into his exhausted muscles. This new meditation trick that Farrell had taught him over the last few weeks offered some relief, but Tristan’s focus and control were as shoddy as his footing running through sand.

A glance over his shoulder showed cracked footprints of melted glass reflected across the scarlet sand. Not wanting another lecture on the wasteful use of magic during an event meant to challenge him physically, Tristan slowed the flow of magic from his core down to a steady trickle, just enough to keep his numb legs moving.

Despite the dry heat, the rope of twisted cloth wrapped around the bastard prince’s forehead had long since become drenched in sweat. His throat burned for water or wine; Tristan had long since adapted to using the two interchangeably.

Ventrayna Fire Witches drank water laced with a unique herb called Tears of the Sun to fortify their muscles and organs. As Tristan had already learned, fire magic was destructive by nature. Coven Fire Witches did not often live past the age of forty due to the physical ramifications wielding fire magic inflicted on their bodies.

Tears of the Sun was a plant native to the Ventrayna Desert that could only be found near active and sometimes even dormant volcanoes. The blooms were carefully guarded and harvested by the covens and used in large supplies as a daily nourishing drink for the coven witches who made up the majority of the Ventrayna army.

For pure-bloods like Farrell, Ventrayna’s famous Caligo wine was preferred over Tears of the Sun. The exotic wine was rumored to be brewed from desert grapes fermented with fire scorpion eggs. Because pure-bloods were already physically evolved to withstand the vigorous strain of using fire magic, they did not require the same nutritious herbal intake as their weaker brethren.

But Caligo wine, reserved for pure-bloods and the members of the royal family, had its own benefits. It could be burned as fuel during meditation to replenish the flames of a Fire Witch’s magic and could even temporarily increase the potency of that witch’s power.

Tristan’s breathing came out in ragged bursts as he began his descent down the sloping dune towards the volcanic walls of Skreigh. Two shadow guards appeared beside the bastard prince as he stumbled and slid the last four feet. They assisted the pure blood to his feet and kept him steady until Tristan reached the brittle surface of the border wall he happily collapsed against.

“You made it,” Farrell called out as he jogged over and tossed a flask of the special herbal water to one of the shadow guards. “Here, this will get you back on your feet.”

Tristan accepted the opened flask and greedily swallowed down the spicy-sweet nectar of Tears of the Sun. When the flask was empty, he focused on another meditation technique that Farrell had taught him, controlling the flow of magic throughout his body and using it to channel the rejuvenating herbs to his exhausted limbs and tired lungs.

“Not bad for two weeks of training,” Farrell said by way of a compliment as he assessed Tristan’s recovery speed. “That’s good enough,” the prince consort announced as he stepped forward to grab Tristan’s arm. “Up you go. Time to head back.”

The shadow guards offered the princes robes to cover their sweat-layered garments. Tristan found the extra layer suffocating but didn’t complain when one of the shadow guards offered him another flash of nourishing water to quench his still burning throat and lungs.

In the prince consort’s palace, breakfast consisted of a feast of various fruits, eggs, and raw meat. Most of the ingredients were hunted and harvested from the desert wildlife, while others were imported by way of the Emperor’s tax on the Strugna, Lafeara, and even Tharyn.

Tristan knew that the Emperor sent his Ambassador to each nation once every three years to collect these taxes. The terms for peace between Ventrayna and its vassal kingdoms often included substituting gold for other resources lacking within the witch nation. Resources that were delivered annually, quarterly, and even monthly through the desert’s highly controlled merchant roads.

These tax-reducing gifts consisted of crops, metal ores, silks, and other unique goods not found or cultivated within the desert’s harsh climate.

One such delivery was being inspected and accounted for outside Skreigh’s main gate. Tristan stumbled as he recognized the burned emblem of Lafeara’s three devouring wolves on the merchant’s caravan wagons.

“Looks like another delivery of wheat,” Farrell commented as he observed Tristan’s distracted stare. “That’s a good sign. If trades are still open, that means your half-brother and Lord Haemish were able to reach a successful negotiation.”

“Honor and Glory, Altius Ingis.” The captain in charge of the gate greeted them somberly while his subordinates hastily shoved the traveling merchants aside to make way for Farrell and Tristan to enter.

Tristan was grateful for the bothersome mantel that obscured his face as he walked past the huddled group of merchants. The last thing he wanted was to be recognized. He could only imagine what the Dowager or Nicholas would do if they learned he was alive and in Ventrayna.

‘Or Eleanora, for that matter.’

Tristan had become familiar with most of the gate guards on morning patrol thanks to the grueling daily routine enforced by Farrell and his sister, Lady Isleen. One of the guards waited for them beside the gate stables with the prince’s horses. Tristan nodded his thanks and mounted the bay mare tiredly before he turned to follow Farrell through the streets back towards the prince consort’s palace.

Upon their return, the palace servants quickly rinsed the princes off with sponged water and perfumed oil. Afterward, the princes ate a silent breakfast together before proceeding towards the palace’s outer grounds, where a training area, built of volcanic rock, had been fashioned to resist fire magic training.

Tristan removed his fresh tunic and shirt and stretched his arms as he wandered towards the center of the arena. There the bastard prince assumed his usual post in the painted gold circle that resembled a burning sun outlined by a scorpion.

“Go ahead and start. Let’s see how far you can get on your own,” Farrell encouraged as he lingered by the edge of the arena to read a message brought over by one of his servants.

Tristan grunted and sat down upon the warm surface. He crossed his legs and interlaced his fingers across his abdomen. His physically fatigued state made shutting out the incessant hunger and impatience of the dragon within him challenging but learning to control this monster born from Kritanta’s magic was the point of all this training.

By exhausting him physically first, Farrell could better teach Tristan how to focus his mind and core on subduing Kritanta’s chaotic magic during stressful situations. At the same time, Farrell was also teaching Tristan to identify and control the different types of fire magic he had inherited from both his parents, along with the power the Goddess of Death had granted him.

When Kritanta purified the aconitum from his body, the magic Tristan inherited from Catalina and Arius had steadily emerged. But learning to imbue his natural-born affinity with Kritanta’s overwhelming power was challenging, even for one as gifted as Tristan.

Far too often, the dragon seemed to swallow up Tristan’s magic—and when that happened, the dragon took control.

Tristan had seen enough of its chaotic destruction to understand why Arius had insisted on this relentless training to strengthen his control. Still, he didn’t appreciate being threatened or placed under strict house arrest aside from his morning physical training with Farrell.

He drew in a steady breath and focused on the three flames that burned at his core. One flame was that of white gold, pure, stable, yet resistant to his touch. The second flame was a twisted black pillar of fire that reminded Tristan of the dark aura that surrounded the Goddess of Death. Kritanta’s magic was potent, overwhelming, and far too addicting.

‘And yet somehow I must merge it with my own magic to gain control.’

Tristan focused on the golden flame as he tried to dispel his fear of failure. So far, the only method that allowed him to connect to the power he had inherited from his mother was drawing upon his memories of Catalina.

It took time and patience for his mind to uncover the painful memories of his childhood. While some pictures were less troubling than others, like the memory of Catalina smiling down at him as she carried Tristan through the palace gardens or scenes of Catalina practicing her swordsmanship in the knight’s compound with General Durante. But each recollection of his mother’s happy face inevitably pulled Tristan back to the one memory of Catalina he could never forget—no matter how hard he tried.

The bastard prince flinched as the vision of the sunken, dry flesh of a woman’s corpse surfaced behind his eyes. A child’s scream echoed through his ears, and he sighed in frustration as the white-gold flame slid away from his consciousness.

“You’re trying too hard,” Farrell cautioned as he sat behind Tristan and placed the palms of his hands against the bastard prince’s shoulder blades. “Your connection to the Phoenix’s flame is too weak to grasp it now. Focus on your father’s flame.”

Tristan’s mouth twisted, but he relented to his instructor’s suggestion and focused on the red flame that danced closest to Kritanta’s pillar of malice.

“Good,” Farrell encouraged. “Different magic reacts to different emotions. You have a lot of pent-up anger in you, which makes Arius’s magic the easiest to connect with and control.”

Tristan snorted. “You haven’t seen me angry.”

“Not exactly volunteering for that experience,” Farrell quipped back calmly. “Now, let’s focus on meditating. Use Arius’s flame to burn and refuel your body.”

Tristan closed his eyes and focused on channeling the red flame from his core towards his stomach. The feast he had just gorged down moments ago rapidly vanished along with the beneficial properties of the Tears of the Sun. This purified fuel now channeled throughout his body until each tired, aching joint and stiff muscle from his morning workout faded away along with any lingering exhaustion.

“Well done,” Farrell praised as he withdrew his hands from Tristan’s back. “Now for round two.”

Tristan scoffed as he rose and stretched. Round two consisted of hand-to-hand combat with magic. Tristan had never been particularly fond of fighting without a weapon, but as Farrell was quick to remind him, “Weapons are just tools to control, limit, and focus a witch’s magic. Any pure-blood worth their flame can fight without a physical weapon because they’ve trained their body to become a lethal tool of destruction.”

Tristan took his position and ignited the magic pooled within his fists. Red flames burned over his clenched knuckles and spread up his forearm as he shifted into a sparing stance from his training days with General Durante.

Farrell eyed his posture with an expression that suggested he found it lacking. Still, the prince consort remained silent as he brushed his braided hair over his shoulder and ignited his fists and feet in flames with the movements of a graceful dancer.

Tristan’s eyes narrowed in recognition as Farrell burst towards him with blinding speed. Rather than allow himself to be pushed back, the bastard prince sidestepped his opponent’s attack and blocked Farrell’s burning fist with his left forearm. Tristan quickly swung his right fist towards his opponent’s exposed abdomen.

The prince consort’s right knee blocked Tristan’s blow. Then Farrell’s left foot landed firmly against Tristan’s chest, shoving the bastard prince backward as the prince consort backflipped and landed gracefully a few feet away.

They continued this dance of fire, occasionally landing blows, though Farrell’s successful strikes outnumbered Tristan’s easily. The desert sun lulled overhead, casting shadows from the volcanic archways across the black practice ring where the smell of sulfur, fire, and sweat mingled together with the fragrance of the Tears of the Sun that bloomed around the ring.

It was an unassuming flower, despite its name, and easily mistaken for a common weed except for the unmistakable reaction it had to a Fire Witch’s touch. If kept in the dark, the white blooms would remain closed, but once taken into the light or touched by a fire witch’s hand, the flowers would bloom with a radiant golden color that gave the plant its name and reminded Tristan of his mother’s flame.

‘Only no matter how much I bask in the desert sun or burn with witch magic—I cannot get it to bloom.’

The soft ring of a bell stopped Farrell’s burning fist as it descended towards Tristan’s unprotected face. The prince consort had knocked the bastard prince onto his back with a treacherous kick the moment Tristan’s mind wandered from his opponent.

“You got distracted again—but you’re improving,” Farrell observed with a grin as he rocked back off Tristan’s hips to stand and offer his defeated brother-in-law a hand up.

“Then why does it feel like you’re the one getting better at knocking me on my ass?” Tristan grumbled as he clasped Farrell’s still burning hand and allowed himself to be hoisted upright.

“As you get better, I have to get tougher on you,” Farrell replied with a playful pat to Tristan’s damp curls. “Consider it a compliment that I have to work harder to knock you on your ass.”

“Ah—Thanks. Didn’t you just take advantage of me being distracted earlier?”

“Yes, but only because you left me such an obvious opening.”

Tristan offered his guardian a doubtful stare as he brushed himself off. “Did we finish early?”

Farrell shook his head as he glanced up the stone steps to where a servant stood by the bell that had interrupted their sparring match.

“Not really, but if you want another round before Isleen gets here—”

“I’m good!” Tristan raised his hands and extinguished his flames.

Farrell snorted and jogged up the steps ahead of the bastard prince to take another message brought by the servant. Tristan watched the prince consort’s usually jovial face darken in an instant before his fist ignited and the note burned to ash.

“Is something wrong?” Tristan asked as he paused on the step below his guardian.

“Ah-ha!” Farrell laughed dryly as he turned to offer Tristan a cynical grin. “No, no, I just forgot how quickly time flies.” He brushed the ash from the note onto his trousers and motioned for the servant to bring over towels for them to dry off. “Your sister has summoned me over tonight for dinner.”

Tristan raised a brow at that. “Aurelia?”

“And for the next three nights as well,” Farrell continued before rubbing his face savagely. “Isleen will have to take over your morning training as I will likely not be in any shape to give you a proper workout.”

“Why?” Tristan pressed quizzically. “You’re my guardian, not Isleen.”

“As touching as it is to hear you say that—” Farrell muttered with a rueful smile before he tossed the towel over his shoulder, “—this regards my royal duty as prince consort to produce an heir.”

Tristan fell silent as he watched Farrell turn to continue up the steps towards the prince consort’s palace.

“And all that that implies,” Farrell added with a dismissive hand gesture that did not mask the heavy note of bitter resentment which coated his words.

 

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Epilogue {Part Two}: A Crown of Sorrow

 

“Duchess!”

Carina exhaled slowly and turned as the three Bastiallano knights jogged up behind her. The General, a man who had insulted the Church and the Royal family by wearing his helmet inside the cathedral, bowed respectfully. His subordinates mimicked their commanders’ motions silently.

“It is my responsibility to safeguard your person, your Grace,” the General explained as he straightened. “To do that, I must remain at your side.”

“You are bold,” Carina observed with a pointed look at his helmet. “You would make demands of your Duchess without a proper introduction and with your face covered?” She scoffed and turned around. “I am headed to the west chapel room where Lady Hana is preparing for her ennoblement. You may escort me there.”

“Yes, your Grace,” the General responded as he strode up beside her and offered his arm.

“I can walk that far without assistance,” Carina retorted with a sharp glare at his helmet.

Their muffled footsteps proceeded through the hall as the choir sang once more, signifying the beginning of Lord Marco’s ennoblement.

‘Thankfully, Nicholas insisted on Eleanora escorting Marco for this ceremony since they are cousins.’ Carina smiled as she brushed her fingers over the small swords on her dress that were roughly the length of her palm. As much as she would have liked to spectate Marco’s ceremony, having never witnessed an ennoblement ceremony before, aside from her own just now, Carina had a more important task to fulfill.

A nervous but excited smile crossed her face as the Duchess’s pace quickened and the marked chapel door came into view. Before Carina could raise her hand to knock, a familiar voice that did not belong to Lady Hana rang through the closed door.

“You will regret this decision, Lady Hana!” Lady Isabella snarled furiously. “You and that half-blood betrayed my daughter’s trust and favor. The idea that you would turn on Eleanora now, all because some half-blood got lucky, just goes to prove what I’ve known all along. You were using Eleanora! I will never forgive—”

Carina shoved the door open and glared at Eleanora’s mother, who had Hana pinned down in a chair against the wall. “You are distressing my friend, Lady Isabella,” Carina said coldly as she entered. “I believe it’s high time you left. Your nephew is being made into a Viscount as we speak.”

Hana’s turquoise blue eyes flew towards Carina with a welcoming smile. The blonde woman took in a quick breath and then offered Isabella a cold smile. “I owe you nothing, Isabella. I am grateful to Eleanora for her friendship and kindness. And while I hope to remain friends in the future, I do not belong to her.”

“You—” Isabella hissed, then withdrew her hands from the arms of the chair as she stepped back with a repulsed expression. “How quickly you forget what you were when my daughter found you! With that attitude, it would be better if you had nothing more to do with Eleanora in the future.”

“If that is Eleanora’s wish, then I will respect it,” Hana replied as she crossed her arms. “I certainly have no desire to see you ever again in the future, Lady Isabella.”

“Slut!”

“Lady Isabella,” Carina interrupted as her gloved hands tightened into fists. “I believe you must have misheard me. Leave now!”

Isabella whipped around to face Carina. The noblewoman’s amber eyes, which very much resembled Eleanora’s, ran over the Duchess’s dress, the circlet of swords she wore, and the General who stood in the doorway behind her. “Oh, how far you have risen, Maura. Do you really think a title, some pretty clothes, and a new name will do anything to hide your status as a half-blood?”

Carina placed a hand against her stomach as she threw back her head and laughed. Isabella started in surprise.

“I admit,” Carina said quietly as she moved closer, “that I did not expect such discrimination from a half-witch like yourself, Lady Isabella.” The Duchess smiled as she relished the look of uncertainty that crossed Isabella’s face. “But since you brought it up, I would like to take a moment to correct your misunderstanding.” Carina paused as she traced one of the swords below her throat. “I don’t give a damn about my heritage.”

Isabella scowled and clenched her jaw stubbornly before making a reply, “That—”

“I was not finished,” Carina cut in sharply. “You should know that the more each and every one of you try to hold me back with such pathetic insults, the more I want to rise and bury you all in my success. I am no longer Maura, the unfortunate half-blood of an abysmal noble family, which no one can recall. I am Lady Kirsi Valda, Duchess of Bastiallano, Lady Protector of the Royal Family and the Kingdom of Lafeara.”

Isabella flinched as Carina closed the distance between them and leaned towards the noblewoman’s ears. “In case you and Eleanora haven’t noticed, the more you try to knock me down, the further I rise above you. So please, tell her Highness for me that if she does not wish to see me rise further still, the both of you should be careful not to become my enemy.”

“You!” Isabella’s strangled reply was quickly followed by a hand flying towards the Duchess’s face.

Carina caught the noblewoman’s wrist and squeezed as the cold veins of her magic bit into Isabella’s skin and forced the crown princess’s mother to her knees with a startled cry of pain.

“That was my last warning to both of you,” Carina murmured with a glimmer of disgust as she released the noblewoman’s hand. “The next person who assaults either myself or one of my people in the future will suffer the consequences ten-fold.”

Isabella’s glare was broken by sobs of pain as she cradled her wrist, now discolored in a purple-black hue that stretched across her limp white hand.

“General,” Carina turned towards the knight who had entered the room behind her but silently remained by the door. “Have Lady Isabella escorted outside the cathedral and leave two of my knights by the door. Lady Isabella Kensington is not permitted entry until after the ceremony has concluded.”

“Understood, your Grace,” the knight commander replied as he bowed his head. He signaled the two knights, who quickly entered the room, grabbed Isabella’s arms, and dragged the injured woman outside.

“By what authority!” Isabella screamed in pain and fury. “How dare you!”

“If you have a problem with my order, take it up with the Crown Prince,” Carina replied with a cold smile. “But before you complain, remember what secrets Lady Hana and myself are privy to from our service to your daughter, Crown Princess Eleanora.”

“You—vile—treacherous—”

Lady Isabella’s insults were cut off as one of the knights roughly covered her mouth, and the General shut the door in her face.

Carina laughed mirthlessly as she listened to Isabella being dragged away. Then she quickly shook her head and turned towards Hana. “Are you alright? Did she hurt you?”

“No,” Hana replied as she stood and eagerly took one of Carina’s hands. “No, I am just fine. But I’m grateful that you came. I would not have been as brave without you by my side.”

Carina squeezed the older girl’s fingers in relief but then stepped back to examine Hana’s ensemble.

It was a simple grey and white dress made of the finest silk from the Holy Maiden Boutique. Pearls fell like raindrops across the glistening material that formed a high neckline beneath Hana’s golden locks, which hung a bit loosely beneath the regal crown of pearls adorned by ornamental white flowers.

Carina brushed back the loose strands of hair and contemplated a quick touch-up when a knock at the door pulled her attention away as the General opened it to reveal a nun.

“Your Grace. Viscount Marco’s ceremony has just concluded. It is Lady Hana’s turn now.”

“Yes, thank you. We are on our way,” Carina replied as Hana turned towards the mirror and smoothed out her hair. “General, you may follow if you must but at a discreet distance for the ceremony.”

“Our knights are still guarding the aisle for your escort,” the Commander replied, unfazed. “I will escort you to the main doors and then meet you out the side door once the ceremony is over.”

Carina nodded, satisfied, though a bit uncomfortable with the thought of a constant personal bodyguard. ‘Why is it that the more power I acquire, the less freedom I retain?’

“I am ready, Duchess Kirsi,” Hana murmured, her voice low and shaking with apparent nerves.

“I will be right beside you every step of the way,” Carina assured her as she took the older girl’s arm and wrapped it around her own, mimicking the position the Dowager had used to escort her. “It will be over before you know it.”

Hana nodded as Carina led her out of the small chapel room. “I know—it’s just—a lot of people.”

“Think of them as lifeless statues,” Carina suggested as she rubbed Hana’s cold hand between her gloved fingers.

“What if I forget the words of the oath?”

“You are making your oath to me,” Carina reminded her with a smile. “As long as you speak confidently and with honesty, I will accept your oath no matter how riddled with mistakes it may be.”

Hana snorted at that and shot Carina a reproachful look that quickly transformed into a grateful smile. “Thank you, Duchess.”

“Please,” Carina grimaced and let out a sigh. “No titles when it is just the two of us.”

“Then—Kirsi?” Hana murmured with a note of hopefulness.

“That—” Carina hesitated as she glanced from Hana towards the doors of the inner sanctorium. “Yes, that will be fine, though the name will take some getting used to.”

‘From Maura to Kirsi?’ Carina sighed and straightened her spine, giving Hana a moment to prepare herself as the page at the doors waited for her signal to announce their arrival. ‘I wish I could just go by my old name. Sometimes it feels like Carina doesn’t even matter anymore.’

‘You will always be Carina to me,’ Viktor’s soothing words flowed from the bracelet at her wrist.

Carina blinked and smiled. ‘Thank you.’

“Your Grace,” the page prompted nervously.

“Are you ready?” Carina asked Hana with an eager smile.

“Yes,” was the trembling girl’s tense reply.

Carina’s smile widened, but she composed herself before nodding to the page.

The doors opened before them as the choir sang out once more in jubilation.

“Announcing her Grace, Duchess Kirsi Valda of Bastiallano and her Ladyship, Lady Hana!”

❆❆❆❆❆

Dowager Octavia smiled as her half-brother slid up silently beside her. Below her balcony view of the ceremony, the audience of nobles remained focused on Kirsi, who stood beside Crown Prince Nicholas to receive Hana’s Oath of Loyalty.

“Are you satisfied?” Octavia asked smugly.

“Until I saw her bring the crown princess’s mother to her knees, I thought you had made a grave error,” the General replied in a low voice. “The magic is the same, but somehow she doesn’t feel like the Kirsi we knew.”

“Yes, Kirsi hinted that there was a complication in her rebirth due to Arachne’s meddling,” Octavia replied with a shrug. “I don’t understand it, but I have seen the effects myself. Sometimes Kirsi seems like a different person entirely.”

“Do you think that can be used to our advantage?”

Octavia scoffed and remained silent for a while as her new granddaughter placed the silver medallion around Hana’s neck. “Whatever piece of Kirsi’s soul she may be, I believe Maura will be easier to control than Kirsi.”

“But would either of them be willing to make such a sacrifice?”

Octavia smiled, a chilling, cold vision that resembled the predator her family had long taken as their sigil in memory of the Isbrand Kings. “Kirsi had no weakness because she did not allow herself to become attached to anyone or anything, but Maura—” she nodded to where the Duchess raised Nicholas’s sword to tap Hana’s shoulders. Kirsi’s arms wavered beneath the weight of the blade as she carefully removed it from Hana’s right shoulder and then announced her new title as Viscountess of Somerset, a province of Bastiallano. “This Maura has a tangible weakness that we can use to persuade her to our cause.”

“Ah!” the General chuckled. “Your favorite kind of blackmail, Sister.” He stepped back as the Duchess and Viscountess both curtsied to the crown prince and crown princess. Eleanora’s face twisted with marked unhappiness as the Prime Minister escorted the Duchess and Viscountess once more towards the altar’s side door. “But are you truly prepared to sacrifice Kirsi?”

Octavia’s smile faltered for a moment before her expression hardened. “To save Viktor and the last of our coven, I would sacrifice everything—even you, Brother.”

The General nodded and bowed deeply to the Queen Regent. “That is why the last of the ice witches have placed their trust in you, my Queen.”

“Return to your task and keep that helmet on until Kirsi has returned to the Duchy. It would not do for the Pope to learn you are here.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

❆❆❆❆❆

Carina let out a sigh of relief and laughed to see the same emotion written clearly across Hana’s pale face. “You performed perfectly!”

“I need some air,” the new Viscountess mumbled as she clutched her chest. “I could feel—all of them staring—Oh—I think I might—”

“Please don’t be sick,” Carina replied hurriedly as she glanced about for the knight commander who had promised to wait for them here. ‘So much for protection, but I’m not going to wait for him.’ “There should be an alcove with a window we can use this way.”

Hana nodded and stumbled in the direction Carina pointed towards as she leaned on the Duchess’s arm.

“You really don’t like crowds,” Carina joked lightly as she rubbed the older girl’s back.

A door from the inner sanctorium opened, and they both jumped slightly as Percy stepped out into the hall.

“Duchess,” Percy greeted with a half bow. “I wanted to—”

“I’m sorry,” Carina replied as Hana clutched her stomach with a painful gag. “Lady Hana isn’t feeling well. We were headed to the—”

Percy nodded and slid an arm around Hana’s waist while he placed two fingers lightly against her temple and then below the bridge of her nose. The Viscountess’s eyes fluttered in surprise, but her pained expression relaxed with evident relief.

“What did you—” Carina stepped back as Percy lifted Hana into his arms and turned towards her.

“Is there a private room or a window where she can rest? This is just a temporary remedy,” the Earl explained.

“There is a balcony window up ahead,” Carina replied and hurriedly led the way.

The alcove window overlooked the small back garden of flowers and outer walls of the cathedral grounds that separated it from the rest of the capital. Hana thanked the Earl as he placed her on the circular bench and then closed her eyes as she leaned back and focused on breathing in the fresh air.

“She should be alright in a few moments,” Percy said as he moved to stand beside Carina in the archway. “And I suppose I should also add, congratulations, Duchess.” He bowed, and this time drew her hand to his lips.

“Your Grace.”

Carina turned in surprise to find the missing General standing behind them in the hall.

“Ah, your new watchdog,” Percy muttered with a hint of irritation as he released Carina’s hand.

“Ah, the esteemed Earl Hawthorne,” the General greeted in a less than friendly tone.

“I thought you preferred to avoid public ceremonies and the capital, Commander,” Percy queried with a hint of mockery. “Perhaps you should remove your helmet and get some fresh air yourself?”

Carina frowned. She couldn’t tell if the knight was staring at her or the Earl behind his concealing helmet. “You said you would be waiting for me after the ceremony, Commander. If this is the extent of your reliability—”

“Forgive me, Duchess,” the General interrupted as he dropped to one knee. “The Dowager wanted to have a word with me regarding your security, and I failed to return to the appointed place in time. I will accept whatever punishment you would bestow for my tardiness.”

“I—” Taken aback at his sudden submissiveness, Carina exhaled and looked away. “Never mind. There is no need for punishment. We will both need time to adjust to our—current arrangement.”

“Thank you, your Grace.”

Percy scoffed and brushed past the knight as he stepped out into the hallway. “Is it so easy to beg for forgiveness, Commander?”

“I find that acknowledging one’s mistake is the first step to correcting bad behavior, my Lord.”

Carina shook her head at the continued exchange of hostilities between them. ‘Was there some sort of power struggle between Bastiallano and Hawthorne in the past that I am unaware of?’

While the Hawthornes were known for their political power, as a member of the House of Lords and leaders of their own coven, the Bastiallano Duchy was respected for their military forces, which were on parallel with those of Lord Commander General Stryker, who controlled the only other Duchy in Lafeara.

“Will you be returning to Iris Palace after the ceremony?” Percy asked as he ignored the still kneeling knight and refocused on Carina. “Or are you headed to your new Duchy?”

“The Duchy,” Carina replied promptly. “Once Hana is feeling better.” She glanced back through the archway towards the Viscountess who was gazing out into the garden with a distant expression.

“Then, perhaps I might visit you there,” Percy suggested hesitantly. “That is—I hope your new duties won’t prevent you from continuing your involvement with the orphanage at Turnbell Manor.”

“That was a charity for the Crown Princess,” Carina reminded him pointedly as she turned to meet the Earl’s winter-grey eyes. “But—I would like to see that those children are given the best opportunity that money can buy. A safe place to recover and work towards their future.”

Percy smiled. “On that, we agree. And Miss Ivy will be relieved to hear of it. She still lacks confidence in her ability to lead as Matron.”

Carina shook her head but smiled in understanding. “Then I will have to encourage her. In any case, I would like to seek her advice on the restructuring of the old manor in a few days—after I’ve had a chance to survey my new Duchy.”

“The entirety of the Duchy could take weeks to explore,” the General replied as he rose and lifted both hands towards his helmet. “Pardon my interruption, your Grace, but I would like to correct another previous error.”

Carina watched as the General pulled the helmet free and then shook out his silvery-white hair. Beneath short bangs matted against a handsome, timeless face, ice-blue eyes met hers before the knight bowed. “I wish to greet you properly this time, your Grace. I am Lord Isaac Valda, Commander of the Bastiallano Armies.”

“Valda?” Carina echoed in surprise.

“An honorary name,” Percy corrected with a smug look of disdain. “He is a half-blood like you, Duchess. But his sister, the Dowager, recognized him as family and brought him into the Duchy as its new Commander when she took her inheritance back from King Henri.” The Earl crossed his arms as he stepped towards the knight. “However, the title of Commander rightfully belongs to the Duke or Duchess, does it not General?”

“It was a title and position I was temporarily graced with while my sister served as Queen and then Regent,” Isaac replied with a humble bow. “I am content to see it go to our new Duchess who was chosen by my sister’s own hand.”

‘Are you really though?’ Carina couldn’t help but wonder. There was something in the General’s manner that made her feel uneasy. Or perhaps she was simply shocked to learn that the Dowager would accept a half-blood as family and grant him such a lofty position. ‘Well, it would certainly explain the rumors that Octavia has a fondness for half-bloods.’

“I thank you for your service, Commander—General Isaac, but—” Carina tilted her head quizzically, “—why did you insist on wearing your helmet inside the cathedral?”

General Isaac offered a bemused smile before he pulled the helmet firmly back on. “Because there are certain people who would cause trouble for the Duchy if they knew I was still alive, your Grace. I received permission from the previous Duchess to wear a helmet in public no matter the occasion to prevent such an occurrence.”

‘People who would cause trouble for the Duchy of Bastiallano and the Dowager?’ Carina’s confusion and curiosity rose further still.

Percy appeared a bit perplexed by the General’s words but grunted and said nothing in return.

“Thank you for explaining,” Carina replied as she turned back towards Hana, who appeared to have recovered sufficiently enough to join them. “But perhaps such misunderstandings should be cleared up to avoid offending the Church or Royal family in the future.”

Isaac rested his hand casually on the hilt of his sword before replying, “Some pasts are harder to outrun than others, your Grace.”

Carina nodded, distracted by Hana’s hand upon her arm but determined to get to the bottom of whatever secret her General was hiding.

“I am feeling better if you would like to leave now, Duchess,” Hana murmured with an apologetic smile.

“Yes, alright,” Carina smiled back as she pressed the back of her hand to Hana’s forehead gently. “We’ll stop in the capital to pick up a quick snack to settle your stomach, then head to the Duchy.”

“Then I shall wish your Grace a safe journey home,” Percy said as he stepped back and offered a bow. “And I look forward to your visit to Hawthorne.”

Carina glanced towards him warily. Although her anger towards the Earl had abated, she was still conscious of Percy’s ambition and concerned about the movements of the Covens he now controlled.

‘If Percy continues towards his goal to overthrow Nicholas, will I have to fight him head-on as Duchess of Bastiallano?’

General Isaac gave the Earl a silent look before he turned and led the way back through the hall where four other knights from the Duchy arrived to escort them.

As the uniformed knights in black and silver fell in step around them, Carina felt a chill of unease settle into her stomach.

‘If the Isbrand King wanted the Hargreve family eradicated, then wouldn’t the Dowager and Kirsi share the same goal and desire? Will my oath to Nicholas be enough to stop them?’ The gloved fingers of her free hand tightened around one of the small swords which adorned her dress. ‘I have already seen how easy it is for Kirsi to stand back and watch others die. I need to be careful when and how often I allow her to take control. This is my life, not hers.’

As the cathedral’s main doors approached, Carina glanced towards Hana’s bright turquoise-blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and hopeful smile. ‘These people are important to me. I won’t let anyone, not even Kirsi, place them in jeopardy.’

“So you are choosing them over me?” Kirsi’s voice whispered disapprovingly in the back of Carina’s mind.

‘Yes.’

“Even though you and I are the same person?”

‘We want different things and have different methods for obtaining them,’ Carina replied grimly.

“You are just as prepared to kill as I am,” Kirsi challenged. “What is so different about us?”

‘Then let me ask you this, if I die, will I be reborn—or will it be you?’ Carina demanded sharply.

Silence was her only answer, and it confirmed something Carina already feared.

‘Then if this is the only second chance I will get, I will continue to live it my way—not yours.’

“I am not your enemy, Carina.”

‘But are you my ally? Can I completely trust you?’

“Trust is a weakness. The only way to survive in this hellish world—is to remove any weakness that can be used against you.” A wave of cold rippled through Carina’s left arm and made Hana shiver. “She is a weakness, and so is the other one you are so eager to protect.”

‘You and I have different ideas of what weakness is.’

“Fair enough,” Kirsi whispered as her presence withdrew. “But it would be better if you embraced your Frozen heart instead of allowing the people around you to weaken it.”

‘Says the person who trusts the Dowager,’ Carina returned with a wry grin.

“I never said I trusted Octavia, but she and her family swore an Oath of Allegiance to me a long time ago. They also have a deep respect for the Isbrand Kings and their descendants,” Kirsi replied confidently. “Anyway, should they betray us, I will be able to defeat them all easily.”

‘You mean you will kill them all?’

“What better punishment could there be for such a betrayal?”

Carina sighed and felt Hana’s worried stare as the knights cleared a path down the stairs through the departing nobles.

“They are staring again,” Hana whispered.

“Let them stare,” Carina replied firmly and squeezed Hana’s tense hand. “We will show them what two powerful and independent noblewomen can do for the future of Lafeara.”

Hana nodded and smiled as she turned to look at Carina. “I look forward to serving you, my Duchess, and seeing all the good, kind, and generous deeds you will do for the common people.”

Carina laughed as Hana’s encouragement brightened her spirit. They made their way down the cathedral steps to where two carriages adorned with the sigil of Bastiallano’s white wolf waited for them. “I will ride with Viscountess Hana in the second carriage,” she informed General Isaac as he stepped forward to take her hand.

“Very well, your Grace. I will inform the Queen Regent,” he replied formally.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t ride with her?” Hana whispered nervously as Carina steered her towards the second carriage. “The Dowager is your grandmother now.”

‘It’s Kirsi that Octavia is fond of, not me.’

“It will be fine. I can visit the Queen Regent at Iris Palace whenever I want in the future,” Carina replied dismissively. She stopped as a knight opened the carriage door, her attention focused on the tiny fluttering wings of a blue butterfly that flew down suddenly to land on the ornamental white flowers that adorned Hana’s hair.

“What is it?” Hana asked as she glanced from the open carriage door to Carina.

“Nothing, I just remembered something—” Carina murmured with a secretive smile as the butterfly flew off to find real flowers.

Hana raised a brow as she followed Carina inside the carriage. “More secrets?” the Viscountess murmured as she settled into the cushioned seat across from the Duchess and sighed. “I suppose I will have to try harder to earn your trust.”

‘Trust?’ Carina frowned as she turned to stare out the carriage’s glass window at the crowd of commoners who had come to spectate the ceremony through the cathedral’s iron gates. ‘I still don’t understand your relationship with Kirsi.’ She tapped her finger absently against the medallion at her chest as the knight shut the carriage door. ‘But still, even then, I trust you. I threw myself into a den of wolves to break you free. Now that I have the Duchy and Frost’s growing empire to ensure our safety, I can focus on the outbreak of plague that will arrive after the Coronation. I can also protect those children Tristan rescued and save thousands more by taking down Marquess Borghese.’

Carina’s fingers clenched around the medallion as her many goals suddenly merged in a straight line before her.

‘Perhaps I can do what I set out to do. Perhaps I can still change the future without becoming Queen and throwing this world into further chaos.’

The crack of a whip proceeded their forward momentum as the two carriages pulled towards the opening gates and pranced down the capital’s streets.

A thousand faces blurred outside her windows as commoners and nobles alike turned to stare after the regal carriage and its procession of knights. A group of children ran after them and waved with eager smiles at Carina through her window. She waved back before closing the curtains, trying to ease the growing tension in her chest.

It wasn’t that Carina felt greedy for power. She had taken on the position of an attendant to get close to Hana. Then she had killed Ambassador Haemish to prevent him from harming Hana, as he had done in the past timeline when he tried to take her away by force.

But there was still the mystery surrounding Eleanora’s death, along with the poisoning of Consort Rosamund’s unborn child to deal with. If Carina was going to spare Lafeara’s unwitting citizens from Nicholas’s tyrannical rule and the wrath of the Emperor’s war that would surely follow if Eleanora died once more in this timeline, then she needed to fill in the gaps of Maura’s memories.

‘And there is also the assassination attempt that happens during the Royal Hunt, which is quickly approaching.’

Carina jumped as Hana’s hand touched hers before the Viscountess moved across the carriage to sit beside Carina and wrap her arm around the Duchess’s shoulder.

“You will be a wonderful Duchess, Kirsi,” Hana murmured encouragingly. “And whatever fates the gods may bring, I will be on your side to help you until the very end.”

“Even if that fate should force me to act against Eleanora?” Carina pressed curiously.

Hana’s gaze faltered as her expression grew grim. “Eleanora is guided by her ambition, desires, and fears,” she replied. “You did all you could to help her, and she still turned on you—”

“Eleanora was jealous,” Carina countered with a soft laugh. “She thought I was stealing you away from her.”

“And you have—in a way.” Hana smiled sadly. “But Eleanora chose her ambition over me a long time ago. Even in the beginning, I was only a distraction to help her forget Tristan. It—took me a while to accept that reality and let go.”

“Well, you are free now and a Viscountess with powerful friends,” Carina replied in a theatrical voice, attempting to lighten the mood.

Hana snorted and nodded, but her eyes remained veiled behind a layer of sadness. “Whatever the future holds for us, I will treasure each day that I have left with you.”

Carina smiled as she lowered her head to lean against Hana’s shoulder. “Whatever troubles or enemies the future holds, the one they should be afraid of is me.”

 

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Epilogue {Part One}: An Oath of Allegiance

 

The bells of Lafeara’s great cathedral peeled out in long, vibrating knells of celebration that echoed up into the towering rafters of its arched mosaic ceiling. Tall glass panes depicting kings, saints, and popes covered the esteemed guests seated behind the scarlet-roped gallery in the light of the divine.

Whether in the side aisles or the center pews, every seat was filled with noblemen and noblewomen from Lafeara’s highest families. Each family sat segregated by either sex or position. Typically, the married women and the children were seated behind the men and the elderly, signified by each noble family’s hierarchy.

The lower nobles gathered in less luxurious seats beyond these roped galleries of glittery silks, jewels, and feathers. They did not complain but gazed upon their betters with envy and humility, for had they been commoners, they would have been left to stand in the heat outside the cathedral’s walls.

Beaumont gazed over the amassed swarm of spectators speculatively. His fingers grazed lazily over the strap that kept his dragon longsword attached firmly to his back. A restless unease stirred beneath the polished armor chest plate and the golden emblem of the three devouring wolves that adorned it. A sensation, not of dread, but more anticipation—as if the knight captain had long waited for this moment and now welcomed its arrival.

‘Strange, but then, who could have predicted that a half-blood would one day be appointed as Duchess of Bastiallano.’ His violet eyes drifted over to Nicholas, who stood before his throne conversing quietly with Bishop Murdock.

The Bishop had been less than pleased with Nicholas’s request that Murdock offer a blessing to each of the nobles receiving an ennoblement promotion today. Murdock had looked downright flustered when the crown prince informed him that the Dowager had named one of these nobles as heir to the Duchy of Bastiallano.

The shaken Bishop had quietly agreed. Whatever his motives, they were now masked behind an expression of benevolent grace and dignity that Beaumont did not trust.

Nicholas nodded to something the Bishop said and moved back towards the knight captain to take his seat.

The Prime Minister appeared through a side door and signaled the conductor as he moved up the steps towards Nicholas.

“They are ready,” Attwood whispered as he bowed beside Nicholas’s shoulder.

The Crown Prince nodded and rubbed his hands together as he glanced at both of the two empty seats beside him. “Then let’s begin.”

Attwood bowed his head and turned again to the conductor, to whom he gave an affirming nod. The choir of young boys and girls rose to their feet, and soon the cathedral was filled with heavenly music that eased the soul and danced upon the specks of daylight which glimmered across a purple carpet leading to the back of the cathedral.

The cathedral doors creaked open. An escort of knights dressed not in the usual purple colors of Lafeara’s royalty but of silver and black entered and formed a uniformed line along the aisle from the cathedral doors to the altar steps where Bishop Murdock waited.

‘These must be knights from the Duchy of Bastiallano,’ Beaumont realized as he assessed their cold, superior expressions. The knights ignored the nobles and barely blinked in Nicholas’s direction before they each turned in sequence to stand guard along the aisle. When the final pair had taken their place beside the altar steps, the knights all turned together with precise uniformed movement and bowed their heads in recognition as their commanding officer appeared.

A murmur rippled among the crowds as the General of Bastiallano’s forces strode down the carpet in full armor. A red sash was draped across his silver and black colors. Still, even more shocking and eye-catching was the General’s blatant disregard for the nobles present along with Lafeara’s monarch by failing to remove his helmet inside the cathedral.

Beaumont’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at the piece of armor that shielded this man’s face from view. Not only was wearing a helmet, hat, or even the hood of a cloak inside the church considered blasphemous but hiding one’s face before a monarch was a public gesture of disrespect that was just shy of being called treasonous.

‘Why take such a risk to hide your face?’ Beaumont shifted his stance uneasily as the General strolled towards the Bishop and the crown prince with the casual air of one who feared neither reprimand nor punishment.

Nicholas leaned forward curiously to study the knight. His left eye twitched in annoyance while his expression conveyed interest and perhaps even a hint of desire. The power the Dowager held over the other nobles of Lafeara came from her position as the owner of Bastiallano and its military forces. Like Lady Maura, Octavia had also been adopted by the previous Duchess, who has served as a General before King Henri’s coronation.

The knights of Bastiallano were notorious for their unreserved loyalty to their Duke or Duchess. They only involved themselves with the monarchy and other noble houses when their Master answered Lafeara’s king’s call to fulfill the oath given by each Duke and Duchess that received their title.

The General reached the first step and tapped a closed, gloved fist against his chest where the symbol of a single white wolf was barely distinguishable against the silver armor’s surface. He bowed his head, the gesture stiff and even reluctant before he turned sharply and positioned himself at the base of the steps, completely ignoring the Bishop who stared at him with silent fury.

“Your Majesty?” Attwood whispered as he glanced from Bastiallano’s Commander to the outraged Bishop.

“Let it be,” Nicholas murmured with a dismissive wave of his fingers. “You cannot blame a dog for its owner’s arrogance.”

A stir at the back of the cathedral proceeded the page’s clear voice that cried out above the din, “Announcing her Majesty, Queen Regent Octavia, Ruler of Lafeara and Duchess of Bastiallano. Announcing her Ladyship, Lady Kirsi Valda of Bastiallano.”

Like a tidal wave, the mesmerized nobles turned. Among them, Beaumont noted Viscount Rykard of Gilwren, who clutched his cane with trembling hands as the two women crossed the threshold and entered the sanctorium.

The Dowager was dressed in the royal purple and gold colors of Lafeara. Across the Regent’s chest, a sash of silver and black glistened in the sunlight. Upon Octavia’s snow-white hair, her monarch’s crown had been replaced with a circlet of diamonds that sparkled and blinded all who beheld her.

Holding the Queen Regent’s arm, Lady Maura—now Lady Kirsi—walked with grace and confidence as if the hundreds of nobles that gazed upon her, baring every color of human emotion from awe to resentment, did not exist before her ice-blue eyes. Lady Kirsi’s gown was the color of the clearest blue sky, laced in silver and adorned by a dozen tiny black swords carved from onyx stone. Her ash-brown hair was tied up in silver and black ribbons with a smaller circlet of silver swords that nestled upon her crown and forehead.

Row by row, the nobles rose to curtsey and bow before their Queen Regent. Halfway through the wooden pews of lower nobility, a young woman with scarlet red hair stepped suddenly towards the aisle and called out Maura’s name furiously. Instantly, one of the Bastiallano knights drew his sword and turned upon her.

Beaumont tensed as the redhead stumbled back away from the blade, shielded by the young nobleman beside her, who raised his hands placatingly and cried out in alarm as the knight’s sword pierced his hand.

The Dowager and her adopted granddaughter stopped and turned to stare at the offender and the wounded noble. Beaumont watched as a curious smile crept over Maura’s face. Her ice-blue eyes matched the Dowager’s expression of disgust with a bit of added loathing.

“Remove them,” Octavia commanded coldly and then continued forward. Four Bastiallano knights stepped forward to escort the young woman and the injured nobleman out of the cathedral. A senior noblewoman hastily followed after them as the cathedral doors shut with a thud behind all three.

“That redhead,” Nicholas whispered towards Attwood, who stood beside him. “Was that Lady Maura’s sister?”

“I believe it must be, your Majesty,” Attwood replied. “What a foolish child. Thankfully, the Queen Regent handled it quickly—and without too much violence.”

The Dowager and Lady Maura continued through the rows of lower nobles and on past the gallery of higher noble families that each rose in turn to give their greeting. Octavia cast a smug smile in the direction of Viscount Rykard, while Lady Kirsi ignored his presence altogether. The future Duchess’s gaze remained fixated on Bishop Murdock as a glimmer of uncertainty tightened her pastel pink lips.

Nicholas rose from his chair and extended his arms to welcome them. Lady Kirsi blinked and curtsied beside Octavia as the crown prince approached.

“Rise, Lady Kirsi,” Nicholas commanded with a welcoming smile and a wave of his hand.

Beaumont turned his attention to Bishop Murdock, who glanced between the Dowager and Lady Kirsi with an expression of dawning comprehension. Beaumont well understood his belated enlightenment.

Though the women bore little resemblance to one another, their eyes held not only the same cold ice-blue color but an equally imposing presence of power. ‘This is the first time Bishop Murdock and Lady Maura have met, but no Bishop of Zarus would fail to understand the implications of those blue eyes combined with Maura’s new name and position.’

“Bishop?” Nicholas turned towards the holy man with an inquiring brow but stern gaze.

Murdock swallowed and offered a hesitant head bow before he turned towards the stewards who brought forward the prepared medallions of office, two silver and one of gold, each attached to a golden chain.

Beaumont kept his eyes trained on the Pope’s representative while Nicholas turned to face the two women before him and intoned the first words which began the ennoblement ceremony. “Lady Kirsi Valda, you have proven yourself worthy of noble prestige, responsibility, and authority. With the recommendation of our Queen Regent and the support of the House of Lords, you will now receive the office of Lady Protector, Duchess of Bastiallano.”

Lady Kirsi folded her hands across her chest and bowed her head before the Crown Prince.

Beaumont remained focused on Murdock, his muscles clenching as the Bishop pulled a clear bottle from within his robes and hastily sprinkled it upon the golden medallion, which sat between two silver medallions. The Knight Captain knew without asking what the contents of that bottle were.

‘Holy Water.’

“I, Lady Kirsi Valda, do hereby pledge my loyalty to the Hargrave family and to their descendants with my heart and body, life and property until I breathe my last breath and perish from this earth.” Lady Kirsi’s voice rang out in calm serenity as she recited the Oath of Allegiance. “I swear to fulfill the oaths of my predecessors, to rise in defense of my King and country, against all enemies, foreign and Lafearian. To all who would oppose, threaten, or undermine Crown Prince Nicholas’s rule, I shall be the blade called upon to separate their souls from this world. This is my pledge, this is my oath, and may the Saints strike me down should I fail to uphold it.”

Beaumont casually reached up to unbuckle the strap on his sword. The prime minister noticed the knight captain’s movements despite his best efforts to be discreet. Attwood’s eyes widened in alarm.

“I, Crown Prince Nicholas, future King and Ruler of Lafeara, hereby accept the oath of Lady Kirsi Valda,” Nicholas intoned graciously. The crown prince turned with a smile stretched across his face and reached for the medallion that Bishop Murdock carried over.

The sharp sting of magic ripped through the air, and Murdock tumbled.

The medallion fell from the holy man’s hands, as did the vial of Holy Water from the sleeves of his robes. Nicholas hurriedly steadied the Bishop, who practically barreled into the crown prince.

Beaumont’s gaze flew to the gallery where Earl Percy Hawthorne’s winter gray eyes bore into the Bishop with the look of a killer. The Knight Captain removed the hand from his blade and focused on Nicholas. The Crown Prince stared at the bottle of Holy Water and then at the Bishop he held. He released the man and picked up the medallion, running the golden chains of the necklace over his bare hand as he glanced towards Octavia and Lady Kirsi.

The Dowager removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and held out a gloved hand to her grandson. The Bishop, Maura, and Beaumont watched as the Queen Regent brushed over the chain and medallion before offering it back to Nicholas with a permissive nod.

‘It seems, as always, the Dowager came prepared,’ Beaumont realized as a slow breath slithered through his tense lips.

“And so—” Nicholas held the necklace aloft for the nobles to see, “—it is with great respect and expectation that I name Lady Kirsi Valda, Duchess of Bastiallano, and successor to all the responsibilities, power, privilege, and wealth such an office entails.” The crown prince slid the necklace with the greatest of care around Lady Kirsi’s circlet of swords and then arranged the chain against the shoulders of her dress.

The Duchess bowed her head and then knelt upon the steps as Nicholas drew his sword. For a brief moment, Beaumont thought he noticed the Commander of the Bastiallano knights shift tensely in their direction. The crown prince tapped the blade against the chains upon Kirsi’s shoulder and then sheathed his sword once more.

“Arise, Duchess Kirsi,” Nicholas commanded.

The Dowager offered her hand to the new Duchess, and Lady Kirsi stood to meet the eyes of her sworn sovereign.

Nicholas met her gaze, smiled, and inclined his head ever so slightly in a gesture of respect that sent a ripple of surprise through the nobles who watched the ceremony reach its conclusion.

Bishop Murdock trembled as he moved to stand over the bottle of Holy Water he had dropped, obscuring it from view beneath his robes. His efforts proved pointless as the crown prince turned and cast a warning look at the holy man before returning to his throned seat.

“I’m amazed you didn’t take his head off,” Nicholas whispered to Beaumont as he glanced over his shoulder.

“Is that your way of granting me permission?” Beaumont grumbled with an arched brow as he watched Lady Kirsi curtsy to the Queen Regent before following the Prime Minister towards the side door.

Dowager Octavia sent a sharp look to Bastiallano’s General. The man signaled two other knights to follow him as they hurried after their disappearing Duchess.

“Not yet,” Nicholas muttered quietly as he adjusted his garments and focused on the opening cathedral doors.

“Presenting her Highness, Crown Princess Eleanora and his Lordship, Lord Marco Emerson,” the page informed the room of waiting nobles.

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Chapter 105: An Alliance of Covens

 

The carriage swayed as it began its ascent over another sloping hill in Lafeara’s countryside. Lavinia brushed the silk curtain back to admire the lush green and gold horizon of crops that kept this kingdom well feed, complacent, and lazy.

Her stomach churned with anxiety at the thought of Marco. Leaving her youngest behind in the care of Eleanora’s father had not been an easy decision, even if it was a safer one for Marco. She wiped away a tear as she opened the small musical box in her lap. It played an old folk song of the desert nomads. The music box had once belonged to Marco, but he no longer had any use for it like so many things from his childhood. Now the box held only memories for Lavinia to remember her sweet boy, along with a braided lock of Marco’s hair that Lavinia had cut from behind his ear that morning.

Marco had grumbled. His goodbye had been brief and cold, but Lavinia could see the struggle behind his eyes after leaving the chair to give her a farewell hug before he left to begin preparations for his ennoblement.

Lavinia held the braided lock and blinked back tears as her lips hardened into a firm line. Marco would be safe, at least for a while. Now was the time to focus on the return journey to Ventrayna and her revenge.

The death of Lord Haemish was sure to create waves among the three Dukes. Emperor Arius himself would likely be outraged and suspicious of Lavinia’s cover story regarding Haemish’s “poor health from their travels.”

‘But even if Arius suspects the story is a sham, the Emperor’s own Death Curse will prove me innocent,’ Lavinia thought smugly. ‘The last assassin appears to have perished out of sight as well, so nothing remains to link either myself or Eleanora to his death.’

Fate, she reasoned, had finally chosen to smile upon this patient daughter of Zenon.

‘My strongest ally in Ventrayna is still Prince Farrell. He has already put himself at risk to protect my son and makes no efforts to conceal his hatred of Duke Zenaku. But even if the two of us work together, it may not be enough.’

Her fingers tightened around Marco’s black hair as the music box’s lullaby emitted its last metallic note. The carriage rocked forward slightly as they reached the top of the hill and began a steady descent. ‘Neither the Emperor nor Empress will risk losing Zenaku’s support. Arius owes too much to the Covens to punish one of his Duke’s for raping a half-witch. And the Empress and Princess Aurelia have already been cornered thanks to the bastard prince’s return.’

Lavinia’s honey-brown eyes narrowed even as her lips relaxed into a smile. ‘As I recall, Prince Farrell and Prince Tristan were on friendly terms during the bastard’s last visit—and Farrell has no desire to remain as Aurelia’s Consort. Maybe—I just might have a third option after all.’

Lavinia glanced towards the curtain of her carriage door as soldiers raised their voices in alarm, and the transport slowed. ‘Strange, we have miles to go still before any planned stop.’

“General Garold,” Lavinia called out sharply as she moved the curtain aside. “Is there a problem?”

“Ambassador,” the general greeted her gruffly as he pulled his mount up beside her carriage door. “It seems the Earl of Hawthorne has prepared a tent and sent you an invitation. His party is just ahead.” He gestured in a direction Lavinia could not see.

“The Earl of Hawthorne?” Lavinia frowned, then snorted dismissively. “It must be a serious matter if he’s waited to accost me on my way out.”

“Should I decline his request?” Garold asked cautiously.

Lavinia considered her limited memory of the Earl, who appeared to have fallen ill shortly after the Royal Ball. “No, the Hawthorne name is not one easily ignored or slighted. Prepare me a horse and a small escort. I will give him a chance to state his business.”

“I will do so at once, Ambassador.”

❆❆❆❆❆

Percy was not surprised when a small attachment broke off from Ventrayna’s two-thousand army escort and headed towards the tent his man had planted within sight of the road the new Ambassador would take on her return journey. Still, he was pleased that Lady Lavinia recognized the effort he had put into arranging this meeting away from the prying eyes of Lafeara’s royalty and court.

‘But will she be as receptive as Haemish? That much remains unclear.’

The Earl’s winter-grey eyes squinted painfully as he coughed dryly against the fur line of his cloak. After the cough passed, Percy scowled as he reached for the cup of herbal medicinal tea that Serilda had placed on the table beside his chair.

The Marchioness appeared through the tent flaps behind him. She had taken on almost a motherly air as she firmly took the reins of mentoring his recovery. Even now, Serilda folded her arms and tapped her fingers as she watched the Earl drink down the entire gruesome tasting tonic.

“The morning air is cold,” Serilda admonished as she took the empty cup from his fingers. “It would be best if you waited for your guest inside the tent.”

“Your concern is unnecessary. I am already feeling much better—” a cough immediately betrayed his nonchalant claim.

“Never mind,” Serilda muttered as she raised a hand to survey the group of riders headed their way. “Just promise me that you’ll rest properly when we return to Hawthorne.”

Percy grunted noncommittedly.

“It seems the new Ambassador is on her way.”

“As anticipated.”

“And she’s bringing two hundred troops with her.”

“That little,” Percy scoffed. “We are to be allies, not foes, Seri. Put your worries aside.”

“Lavinia is not Haemish,” the Marchioness observed coldly. “Surely her allegiance is to her cousin, Empress Alexandria.”

“Who I am trying to broker an alliance with.”

“I don’t understand why,” Serilda muttered unhappily. “Why save Tristan if you were just going to join hands with his stepmother?”

“Ventrayna’s greatest strength is its populace’s blind allegiance to Emperor Arius,” Percy replied patiently. “I am trying to undermine that allegiance. That is why I saved Tristan.”

“Weaken Ventrayna from within—that way, they’ll be too distracted with their own political turmoil to focus on a shift in power in Lafeara.”

“Exactly,” Percy coughed out and cleared his throat. “The Emperor has already done the work of alienating Lafeara from the Church. Now we must do our part to push Ventrayna further away.”

“But—wouldn’t it be simpler to throw our support behind Tristan then?”

Percy smiled mockingly as he watched the new Ambassador steadily climb the hill on her horse. “When we take power in Lafeara, it wouldn’t hurt to be in the Emperor’s good graces by helping him thwart a rebellion.”

Serilda scoffed and nodded her understanding, but her gaze upon their rapidly approaching guest remained doubtful. “And you believe Lavinia can help us with that?”

“She is what we have to work with,” Percy replied adamantly. His winter-grey eyes narrowed as he recalled the night of the previous Ambassador’s death. Maura’s involvement, their subsequent fight, and the surprising way Lavinia and Nicholas had worked together to cover up the Ambassador’s murder as a natural death.

‘If I didn’t know what destiny awaited her, I would think the gods were on Maura’s side.’

Percy’s expression turned grim as the Ambassador’s entourage split into two ranks that rode around the tent and circled him in dust. Serilda hissed and waved her hand sharply, creating a wind barrier around them to keep the offending debris away from the Earl’s sensitive throat.

The riders slowed to a halt as they arranged themselves in ranks around the tent. Ambassador Lavinia dismounted and waved the lingering dust aside as she strode towards them, pausing a few feet from Serilda’s barrier with an inquisitive brow. “Am I invited in?”

“Seri, lower it,” Percy murmured. The Marchioness complied and stepped back as Lavinia approached and dipped her head politely to Percy.

“Earl of Hawthorne, it would seem you have something important to discuss with me before my return.”

Percy nodded and gestured to the empty chair that faced the table where he sat. “I won’t delay your progress more than necessary, Ambassador—” he flicked his fingers over the signet ring, subtly channeling the air around them to keep their discussion from outside ears, “—I wish you to convey an offer to the Empress on my behalf.”

“The Empress?” Lavinia took the seat gracefully and smiled. “And what message would you have me convey to my cousin.”

“An offer of friendship from the House of Hawthorne to the Empress and her daughter, Princess Aurelia,” Percy replied.

Lavinia’s smile widened as she pulled off her riding gloves with slow jerking motions. “And what use would the Empress have for an alliance with one of Lafeara’s forgotten air covens? For that matter, what use does a Lafearian noble have for an Empress under house arrest, Earl of Hawthorne?” She leaned back in her seat to study him with an almost pitying expression. “Forgive my bluntness, but I fail to see what either of you could provide the other—in your current positions.”

Percy smiled and nodded at her subtle innuendo. “Power and position is something that naturally transitions from one person to another over time. You yourself arrived at Lafeara as merely the wife and companion of Ventrayna’s Ambassador; now you are Ventrayna’s Ambassador.”

“Temporarily,” Lavinia replied with the ghost of a smile. “The role of Ambassador is something chosen by monarchs, Kings and Emperors. I doubt Emperor Arius will find the widow of his deceased subject a worthy long-term replacement.”

“Still, I’m sure you’d agree that the role of Ambassador is limited in power,” Percy returned with a friendly smile. “A more beneficial transition of power would be that of a monarch—”

“Which monarch?” Lavinia interrupted sharply with a raised brow.

Percy maintained his amiable expression as he interlaced his fingers together, fighting back the cough that tickled at the back of his throat. “What would the Ambassador say—if a Witch King ruled Lafeara?”

Lavinia’s surprise was subtle as her honey-brown eyes danced over his face for a moment before she turned to regard Serilda behind him. Then the Ambassador drew in a shallow breath and sighed. “Why does it feel as if my efforts to ensure peace between our countries will come to naught.”

“The alliance between Lafeara and Ventrayna need not be sacrificed so easily,” Percy replied reassuringly.

“Does the Earl honestly think the Emperor will allow the air covens of Lafeara to rule this kingdom?” Lavinia replied with a hint of levity.

Percy shrugged. “The Covens of Lafeara are certainly prepared to face his wrath should he disagree, but—” The Earl cough against his sleeve and quickly cleared his throat “—neither of us would gain anything from an open war between our kingdoms.”

“While that is true, Arius has Kritanta’s blessing, and—as rumor would have it—so does his bastard son,” Lavinia replied.

“Tristan won’t stand to see Lafeara invaded—”

“Even if that means removing the usurper who took his brother’s throne?”

“A throne which never belonged to Tristan or any of the Havardur kings.”

“Or the Hawthornes,” Lavinia countered with a hint of cynicism. “And you do realize the current crown princess of Lafeara is my niece.”

“Eleanora is my cousin as well,” Percy reminded her calmly. “I will ensure that no harm comes to her as part of this coup—but even you must have seen the cracks in their political marriage.”

Lavinia drew in another slow breath and then closed her eyes as she rubbed the frown between her brows. “You made this offer to Haemish?”

“I did, on the way over from the border,” Percy replied without hesitation.

Lavinia glanced from the Earl to the Marchioness. “And all the Covens are behind the Earl’s lofty ambition?”

“The Covens will go to war for their Witch King,” Serilda replied with a sidelong look at Percy, “—and his Isbrand Queen.”

Percy coughed and scowled faintly at his cousin. The Ambassador’s brows shot up, and she blinked in surprise.

“I see,” Lavinia murmured as she smoothed out the gloves in her lap. “The return of the Isbrand bloodline—who would have thought it possible?”

“The Isbrand line fell when we allowed the gods to pit us against each other,” Percy commented grimly. “By weakening ourselves and fighting over titles, crowns, and land, we only made it easier for the Saint and her offspring to rise in power against all witches.”

The Ambassador studied him silently for a moment, then folded her hands over her gloves as she posed her question. “Then is your intention to make Lafeara a witch kingdom and ally with Ventrayna against the Pope and his Witch Hunters?”

“Yes,” Percy answered confidently. “And I have no doubt Strugna would willingly join our cause. They certainly suffered far too much to forgive the Church who unleashed a plague that nearly wiped out their entire royal witch bloodline.”

Lavinia raised a brow as the Earl coughed against his arm again. “There are some who say it was Arachne who punished her own coven for joining in the Emperor’s war.”

“Even without Strugna,” Serilda interrupted. “We have our own blessed Witch King. Surely two witch kingdoms are better than one against the last Pope.”

“And what of the prophecy which claims a new Saint will appear when the Divine Heir breathes his last?” Lavinia inquired quietly.

“Saint Harmonia was the only saint to live long enough to conceive an heir leave behind a bloodline legacy,” Percy responded in a practical tone. “But even when the previous Saints were slain, Ramiel did not immediately summon a new Saint.”

“And if all goes according to plan, we can avert any war or bloodshed that would draw Ramiel’s ire,” Serilda added.

Lavinia glanced between them and scoffed. “You Lafearian witches and your arrogance,” the Ambassador rose from her seat and shook off her gloves before pulling them on once more. “I understand your offer to the Empress. You will support Aurelia’s right to inherit her father’s throne, and the air covens will join Ventrayna’s efforts to destroy the Pope and his Witch army. So long as both current and future Empress pledge a continued alliance between our kingdoms and recognize you as Lafeara’s Witch King. Is that about right?”

“Whichever Monarch you choose to deliver my message to,” Percy replied with a curious smile. “Know that I will take Lafeara and make my Isbrand bride its Queen.” He stood up slowly and shook off his fur cloak to reveal the black garments he had worn to Haemish funeral. “Veles has blessed my ascension and given me this task. If I must kill an Emperor to see this done—so be it.”

The Ambassador met his gaze with a determined expression in her warm honey-brown eyes. “I believe your Grace is correct,” Lavinia replied evenly as she pulled on the last glove. “Sometimes a change in monarchy is necessary for the survival of a coven or even a kingdom.” She lowered her hands and offered him a genuine smile. “But we both know you have no intention of allowing Empress Alexandria or Aurelia to take Ventrayna’s throne.”

Percy narrowed his eyes and assessed Lavinia with a startled appreciation. “So you would support the bastard, Prince Tristan?”

“I have my reasons,” Lavinia returned with a firm nod. “Though I will need to assess his ability to lead our Coven’s first.”

“So much for the limited power of an Ambassador,” Percy observed with an appreciative smile.

“So much for the oath of peace from the Hawthorne bloodline.” Lavinia’s expression grew somber as she dipped into a low curtsey. “I wish your Grace and your Isbrand bride a successful coronation.” The Ambassador’s honey-brown eyes flashed amber as she fixed him with a firm stare. “I will hold you to your promise to protect Eleanora from harm—along with my son.”

Percy extended his signet ring towards her and offered a sincere smile of his own. “You have my word, Ambassador Lavinia Zenon.”

Lavinia accepted Percy’s hand and kissed the ring upon it lightly. “Long live the Isbrand Queen and King.”

Percy felt his chest tighten for a moment as a cough caught in the back of his throat and faded. Lavinia rose, nodded politely to Serilda, and turned her back to them both as she returned to her troops.

The Earl watched the parade of horses travel back down the slope towards the waiting Ventrayna army that would carry the Ambassador and his ambitions across the border to Ventrayna. A sense of certainty filled his stomach as Percy rubbed numb fingers over the empty ache in his chest.

“Well done, cousin,” Serilda whispered. “Let us hope that Lady Lavinia will prove to be reliable.”

“The Ambassador will do what is best for herself and her son, Marco,” Percy replied with a satisfied smirk.

“I shall be sure to make Marco’s acquaintance and see that he becomes our friend then,” Serilda replied with a confident smile as she turned and entered the tent.

Percy remained where he stood and extended his hand to stare at the signet ring upon it. “Long live the Isbrand Queen,” he whispered.

The wind rushed by the tent as a cloud of sentinel crows rose from the branches above him to carry the Earl’s command to every cluster of coven witches hidden within Lafeara.

Percy turned and stopped as his gaze settled upon a single large crow with glowing red eyes that watched him from the branch of the great oak.

“There is no saving that which cannot be saved. Destiny is beyond the reach of any mortal, even one blessed by the gods,” Veles’s voice rippled across the short distance between them, its texture raspy and oddly strained.

“You lied to me,” Percy whispered back through clenched teeth. “What point is there to making Maura our Queen if you will only sacrifice her to a dead god?”

“There is much you have yet to grasp of what it means to be a mortal—and what it is—to be a God!”