So had said the notes of Saint Katell, whose efforts at healing a grisly stomach wound had been more successful than the others’—though she had, of course, ultimately failed. That had been the attempt that made the saints resolve to never again try such a thing.
Healing, Saint Katell had written, is clearly not a power elementals are allowed. The empirium does not permit it. It is an unnatural act, and to attempt it is to succumb to one’s arrogance and pride.
Well, Rielle herself was an unnatural act. And pride and arrogance didn’t seem like such terrible things if they allowed her to ease the pain of someone she loved.
So she cradled Ludivine’s arm in her hands and slowed her breathing, deepening it, until her limbs flushed warm and calm, and the sound of Ludivine’s own breaths matched hers. A moment later, her unfocused vision had slipped into the realm of the empirium. Ludivine’s bedroom was a soft, golden landscape of slowly shifting light—but Ludivine herself was something else entirely.
Her form was misshapen in this realm. It was recognizably Ludivine, and then became something else, a figure taller and slimmer than Ludivine, with angelic wings spanning jagged from her back, and then it became Ludivine once more. The shift was so rapid that she seemed caught between the two—between girl and angel—and the effect left her looking malformed. The empirium moved rapidly through her body, a frantic wave of white-gold, as if it were a trapped animal trying desperately to escape its cage.
Watching it made Rielle dizzy, her stomach rising. She understood that she was looking at something that should not be—that Ludivine should not be.
But even more ill-fitting in the world than Ludivine herself was the scar of her left arm. Just as Rielle had seen the ragged shell of the Polestal villager’s burned skin, so could she now see the unmoving shell of light encasing Ludivine’s arm. A sickly light, as if seen through a dark veil, and tinged with an angry, alien blue.
A blue that did not belong in this world, Rielle instinctively recognized.
And it was that certainty, that revulsion, that sharpened her mind until it felt as keen and clear as a jewel.
She placed her hands on Ludivine’s arm, and it was as though there were two of her—one Rielle, in the land of the empirium, watching the light that did not belong, and another Rielle, distant and dull, touching Ludivine’s cracked skin.
You don’t belong here, Rielle thought—firmly but without anger, for she did not want to provoke the light or hurt Ludivine. Delicately, she knit her fingers along the dimly lit furrows of Ludivine’s ravaged arm, and she imagined that with each gentle press of her fingers, she was pushing the scar back into the world from which it came. She was warming a hand stiff with winter. She was banishing death and replacing it with life.
As she worked, Ludivine murmured words Rielle didn’t understand—angelic words, judging by their cadence—but she knew they were words of love. Ludivine opened a feeling to her that at first was little more than a distant bloom of warmth, and then, as the night wore on, it became steadier and brighter, until a feeling of such love enveloped Rielle that she felt light-headed and had to beg Ludivine to stop.
Then at last, abruptly, Rielle felt something shift inside her, like the wrench of a strained muscle, and knew it was finished.
She blinked, returning to the human world in which her body sat, damp with sweat. Ludivine was there at once, supporting her with two arms pale and smooth as cream.
You did it, came Ludivine’s voice—strong now, and clearer than it had been in weeks. Oh, darling, you are a marvel.
“Speak to me aloud,” Rielle murmured, pressing her face against Ludivine’s neck. “I’m too tired for mind-talk.”
“Of course,” Ludivine said, and then her arms came around Rielle, and she helped her settle among the pillows. Ludivine stroked her sweaty hair back from her brow until her skin had cooled and her wild heartbeat had slowed, and then she said something so unexpected that the true strangeness of it didn’t immediately settle in Rielle’s mind.
“I always knew you could do it,” she whispered against Rielle’s hair, her voice trembling with emotion. “I knew from the first time I sensed your power, when I was still trapped in the Deep. I knew you would be the one to deliver me.”
A few moments of silence passed while Rielle tiredly sorted through Ludivine’s words.
Unable to make sense of them, she shifted to look up at her. “What do you mean?”
Something flickered across Ludivine’s face—too fleeting and small for Rielle to pinpoint. Then Ludivine bent low to kiss her brow.
“Audric’s coming,” she said. “I sent for him once you’d recovered yourself a bit.”
She directed Rielle’s attention toward the door, and Rielle could not find it in herself to be irritated with Ludivine for taking hold of her mind so firmly, for forcing her away from their conversation. Because, in the next moment, Evyline was knocking on the door to announce Audric’s arrival, and then Audric himself was hurrying toward the bed, his weary face alight with a smile that cleared Rielle’s thoughts of everything but the desire to touch him, to ground herself against the warmth of his body. She opened her arms to him and welcomed him into Ludivine’s bed, greedily accepting his kisses and his words of praise, listening to Ludivine recount to him her accomplishment, until, very soon, Ludivine’s strange mention of deliverance had disappeared from her mind—a discarded, distant memory.
• • •
The next day, they all gathered for supper in Queen Genoveve’s private dining hall—for, of course, Merovec was family. The queen’s nephew and Ludivine’s brother.
But from the moment Rielle stepped into the hall, she was made all too aware that this meal was about more than simply enjoying time with family.
It was about loyalty.
The room had been draped in the colors of House Sauvillier—navy-blue carpets bordered with silver flowers, a tablecloth of silver-spangled russet, tapestries of snowy northern scenes. Sauvillier colors in Baingarde were not themselves so outrageous, not since Bastien had married Genoveve. But they had never been displayed quite so obviously and at the exclusion of all others.
A quick glance around the room showed Rielle that any trace of House Courverie colors—emerald, gold, plum—had vanished from the space, as if they had never existed.
She found Audric sitting at his mother’s side. Her stomach clenched to see Queen Genoveve’s mute, gaunt form. Several times over the last few days, she had asked Audric if she could pay the queen a visit, and each time he had suggested she wait until his mother wasn’t resting, or until she was feeling a little better, or until her black mood had brightened.
Rielle suspected the truth behind his deflections. Queen Genoveve did not want to see her, and Audric was trying to spare her feelings. A theory supported by how the queen’s eyes, across the dining hall, landed on Rielle’s face with a subdued, unimpressed sort of hatred, as if she had spotted a bug whose existence had long nettled her.
Rielle looked away, focusing instead on Audric. To anyone else, the tension in his body might not have been noticeable. He was in conversation with one of Merovec’s advisers, and he looked entirely interested in what the woman was saying.
But then his eyes met hers, and with that one glance, she understood several things at once. That he, too, had noticed the room’s colors. That the pleasantness on his face as he spoke with the adviser was entirely fabricated. And that he would be proceeding with caution through this evening—and hoped Rielle would as well.
A wave of nerves passed through Rielle’s body. Evyline’s ominous words from the day before returned to her: I very much dislike the things I have heard about stirrings in the north.
But if there were truly anything to worry about, Audric’s spies would have uncovered it. Ludivine would have been able to read it in Merovec’s mind. Whatever rumors Evyline had heard, then, were merely that—gos
sip that could be dismissed. And Evyline herself tended to worry about anything and everything.
So Rielle put Audric’s worried gaze out of her mind and went to Ludivine, who sat beside Merovec with her newly healed left arm hooked through his.
“Lord Sauvillier,” Rielle said warmly, settling in the seat beside Ludivine. “I do hope you and your party enjoyed a restful night.”
“Indeed we did, Rielle.” Then Merovec smiled. “And, please, call me Merovec. As I’m certain I’ve requested of you before, years ago.”
His voice teased her, and his long-lashed blue eyes held a merry light—but then Ludivine sent her a quiet warning.
Step carefully around him tonight, she said, the feeling of her thoughts slightly harried.
Rielle tensed. Why should I? What is he thinking?
I can’t see it clearly. But I see enough to fear him.
But I healed you, said Rielle. Why can’t you read him?
Ludivine hesitated, the feeling of her frustration rising in Rielle’s mind like the heat of a blooming fire, and she understood at once.
It’s Corien, isn’t it? she said, a tiny shiver seizing her from her toes up to the blush of her neck. He’s hiding Merovec from you.
One of the castle servants rang the soft dinner bell; others brought in food from the kitchens.
I wonder, said Ludivine, her thoughts bitter and sharp, if someday you might be able to use your power to make my mind stronger than his.
And with her words came such a feeling of desire, with hatred right on its heels, that for a moment Rielle lost her breath.
I would never try such a thing, she said. I would never risk your mind. Risking your body was more than enough.
But what a thought it was, the idea of being able to strengthen Ludivine’s mental abilities to the point where Corien would no longer be able to touch her, even with all his might.
Rielle wasn’t sure if this was a thought that pleased her—or terrified her.
A servant set a plate of food before her. She found Audric’s curious eyes across the table, forcing a smile for him, and then, after a few quiet moments of eating and low conversation, Merovec began to speak.
“I’ve heard such interesting talk in the last few days,” he said mildly over the rim of his cup. “News travels quickly even from Mazabat, it seems.”
Rielle faltered only slightly as she raised her spoon to her lips.
“What sort of talk is that?” Ludivine’s voice teased. “You’ve always been such a gossip.”
Merovec’s answering smile did not meet his eyes. “Perhaps that’s true. But this time, it has served me well. Word has reached my ears, Rielle, of your adventures in Mazabat.”
Her fist clenched around her spoon. She fought to keep her voice pleasant. “Adventures?”
“Oh, my apologies.” Merovec set down his glass and looked at her. “I meant your cold-blooded murder of thirteen Obex soldiers.”
Any lingering conversation vanished, a terrible silence enveloping the room. One of the queen’s advisers cleared her throat.
Rielle glanced at Audric. He had not said a word, but his dark gaze was intent upon her.
I must answer him myself, Rielle thought to Ludivine. Allowing either of you to speak for me will weaken me, in his eyes.
Beneath the table, Ludivine gently squeezed her hand. Her brow remained furrowed, her gaze distant as she stared at the table. Corien, Rielle assumed, was still interfering with her mind.
Rielle raised her chin slightly. “It wasn’t cold-blooded murder, Lord Sauvillier. They attacked me, and I punished them for it.”
He had not missed her deliberate use of his formal title. She had to swallow a smile at the flicker of irritation on his face.
“I killed them in defense of myself,” she continued, “and of Tal, and of the abducted child Zuka. It was, in fact, in defense of everyone who now lives. The Obex intended to keep Saint Tokazi’s staff from me. Without it, without all seven of the saints’ castings, I will not be able to repair the falling Gate.”
Merovec sat back in his seat, holding his drink loosely in one hand. “Ah yes. The falling Gate. The structure of which you yourself worsened, Lady Rielle, according to my friend in Borsvall.”
“And what friend is this?” came Audric’s low voice.
“King Ilmaire told me much in his recent letter. He is eager for us all to be friends, in the face of whatever darkness looms on the horizon. I don’t much want to be friends with a spineless man who can’t command the respect of his own country, but my options are limited these days.” He looked calmly at Audric. “Once, my lord prince, I would have considered you a friend. Isn’t it funny how things can so quickly change?”
Queen Genoveve let out a soft trill of laughter. Her fingers, resting on the table, twitched as if she had been struck on the ribs.
Audric went dangerously still.
“We’ve discussed this, Merovec,” said Ludivine, coming out of whatever half trance she’d been in. “There is no ill feeling between myself and Rielle, or myself and Audric—or between myself and my aunt the queen, in fact. You would do well to remember that, and to remember that you are a guest here.”
Merovec lifted Ludivine’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “Your spirit is far too generous, little sister.”
“If you have something you would like to say, Merovec,” said Audric, his voice even and cool in a way Rielle recognized from their most awful arguments, “then, please, say it. We’re all family here, after all.”
Queen Genoveve rose from her chair and drifted to a side table, where a silver platter of frosted pastries awaited the dessert course. Rielle knew she should have been paying attention to the conversation at the table, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from Genoveve’s pronounced cheekbones, the birdlike, wide-eyed way she nibbled her cake, what a startlingly slim figure she cut against the candlelit tapestries.
“Family.” Merovec laughed a little. “You know, the broken engagement itself wouldn’t have angered me. Well, that’s a lie. It would have infuriated me, no matter the circumstances. But to betray my little sister for a monster of a woman is a crime I cannot forgive, my lord prince.”
“Merovec,” Ludivine snapped. “That’s quite enough.”
The tension radiating from Audric’s body moved down the table like a storm across the sky. “You will not speak of Lady Rielle like that. Not in my presence, and not in hers.”
“I will speak of her exactly as she deserves,” Merovec replied, his voice as mild as if they were discussing the merits of one horse compared to another. “Here is a woman who cannot be trusted, whose power we do not understand. She attacked the Archon during her trials. She killed thirteen in Mazabat and injured even more than that. She hurt God knows how many poor souls in Kirvaya—news of which has perhaps not yet made the long journey west. Her interference at the Gate caused disasters that killed countless more, I’m sure. Deaths we’ll never know about, in quiet corners of the world.
“Oh, yes,” he added at the expression on Audric’s face. “I know everything that you know, my lord prince. My spies are many, and they are thorough. And yet, after everything she has done, here she is, given a place of honor at your table. In our capital. In our temples.”
Merovec leaned forward, elbows on the table, the ghost of a smile on his mouth. “And then, of course, she has a place of honor in your bed as well. Tell me, Audric, when she turns on us, will you have the strength to kill her as she sleeps?” Merovec sat back, making a soft tch of disgust. “I don’t think you do. I think you’ll let us all die if it means you can keep on fucking her.”
Then, three terrible things:
Audric pushed himself back from the table, a blazing look of fury on his face.
Merovec rose as well, his smile a taunt. Ludivine shot to her feet just after him, gripping his arm. She snapped at b
oth of them to sit down and get ahold of themselves, lest they distress the queen.
And the queen…
Rielle, so distracted that Merovec’s words had barely skimmed the surface of her mind, watched Genoveve move swiftly out of the hall, into the corridor outside.
Some instinct, cold and dire, told her to follow. She pushed back from the table, ignoring Audric as he called after her, and followed Genoveve’s pale, thin form down the shadowed hallway. The queen walked faster and faster, her gray gown rustling, and looked once over her shoulder.
“Get away!” she cried, gesturing frantically. “Don’t touch me! You’ll kill me, you’ll burn me!”
She began to run, and Rielle followed, afraid to get too close but unwilling to let her out of her sight. With a small sob, the queen clamped her hands over her ears and used her shoulder to knock open a door that stood ajar. She raced inside, and Rielle ran after her, into a small sitting room. She heard Ludivine cry out behind her, and running footsteps she recognized as Audric’s.
And then, too quickly for Rielle to grab her arm, or even cry out her name, Queen Genoveve crashed through the glass doors of the sitting room terrace, propelled through them as if by some inhuman force. She sobbed, her voice cracking open, “They won’t stop! They won’t stop!” She pounded on her temples with her bleeding fists, and then, reaching for the stars above as if beyond their bright cage lay an escape, she flung herself over the terrace railing and into the night.
• • •
The world slowed and narrowed, existing only in a few searing points—Merovec racing across the terrace, his once-smug face now a wreck of horror. Ludivine catching Rielle by the arms, saying words she could not hear, not from the numb hollow place into which she had fallen. The queen’s advisers, the queensguard, Rielle’s own guard, all hurrying through the rooms and onto the terrace and downstairs, shouting orders.
Audric, staring at the shattered doors with a horrible dullness spreading across his face, as if he had been dealt a fatal blow.
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