Dearest

by Alethea Kontis

  He trailed one of his emancipated hands along the outer wall in an effort to keep his balance. The stones were cold and damp and often obscured by random wisps of fog. “You’ve done this every day,” he said somewhat breathlessly.

  “It was necessary,” she said, as if anyone else would have done the same. Friday was truly as rare and precious a person as she seemed.

  “Has it gotten any easier for you? The height, I mean.” Gods knew the rest of their situation had not.

  “It has, a little,” she replied. “I am less afraid, knowing that if I fell, you would save me.”

  He lost himself in her eyes again. Gods, those eyes were incredible. He recalled being angry at her not long ago, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why.

  Tristan slipped again on the next step down, catching himself this time. He growled slightly and tried to resume his concentration.

  After an eternity, they finally reached bottom. The hall beyond the archway to the tower was covered in thick carpet dimly lit by a row of sconces, a few of which had gone out. He was as happy about the carpet as he was for level ground; he wondered if anyone would notice if he removed these blasted boots as well.

  Friday took one of the torches from the wall and gently blew it back to life. “Don’t get too comfortable. We still have to get to the dungeon.” She reached in her pocket, returned the gloves to him, and waited for him to put them on before marching determinedly down the hall.

  Tristan tried to think about his feet instead of his hands. One foot in front of the other. Stay behind Friday. Stick to the shadows. Don’t make eye contact with anyone—Friday had said that the Infidel’s eyes were black and red, certainly not the bright ocean blue of his own. Above all, he must not speak.

  Apart from the servants, they only encountered one person roaming the late-evening halls as they crossed from the wing of the sky tower to the dungeon. That person was the most beautiful woman Tristan had ever seen.

  She glided like a ghost from the hearth-fire stories his brothers used to tell. Her long white-blond hair and whiter flowing gown almost glowed around her as she moved in the dim torchlight. She was a wild doe in the forest, graceful and fleet, with eyes of deep and soulful wisdom. As she neared, Tristan noticed a silver circlet upon her brow.

  The woman stopped before them, leaning down to place a kiss on Friday’s cheek. “Sister dearest.”

  Ah. The legendary Princess Monday. Friday had spoken of her eldest sister’s beauty to the brothers, but since Friday seemed to think everyone she met was beautiful in some way, Tristan had never imagined . . . this.

  As Monday straightened, she scrutinized Tristan’s dark figure. She turned to Friday and arched one angel-feathered brow high. Friday smiled—was she blushing?—and placed a finger over her lips. Monday smiled back, then tilted her head in a small bow to Tristan.

  She knew who he was, then. From that sibling bond that needed no words, Monday knew, and she would keep her peace. Tristan bowed low in return.

  From farther down the hallway they heard the shuffle of feet, and Friday drew in a breath. The shadow of what looked like a short man in a tall hat rounded the corner. “Please . . . ?”

  Monday reached out a pale, slim hand, and caressed her sister’s cheek before moving to intercept the stranger.

  Friday took Tristan’s hand and they fled deeper into the darkness.

  Tristan tried to remember every twist and turn they took from the tower, but by the time he reached the dungeon, he was lost. As they descended, Tristan worried for his sister’s health in this dank, damp hole. It was obvious the dungeon of Arilland was rarely used, which spoke highly of its rulers, but as a result the place was in an unfortunate state of disrepair. The wooden boards of the narrow stair creaked beneath Tristan’s weight, and small creatures—or what he hoped were small creatures—skittered out of sight.

  At long last they reached Elisa. She was slumped on the bare ground behind her prison bars, hands still tied before her. If Mordant had hurt her, he would use these last hours as a man to rain vengeance down upon him. Tristan ran to his sister—and was stopped by a shadow. A very strong shadow with a very sharp knife. The blade bit into Tristan’s neck, forcing him upright.

  Tristan faced his attacker and met the eyes of the man in black. Mordant’s Infidel.

  The lighter skin that peeked from beneath the black mask marked him as being not of Cymbalese origin. Mordant traded regularly with the Troll King; it would have been nothing for him to acquire a Cymbalese slave for his mistress. And this man was clearly under Gana’s thrall, as was evident from the red ring around his muddy green irises. Gana would have taken his will so that he would do Mordant’s bidding without question. Tristan was not sure what crime deserved such a punishment. Then again, no one deserved to be plagued by Mordant and his witch.

  This man could slit Tristan’s throat without so much as a thought. But if the enemy of his enemy was his friend, then by all rights the Infidel should be his ally. His irises were not fully red; perhaps there was some small spark of the man’s soul that could hear him. The blade dug deeper into his throat.

  “Please,” said Tristan.

  The pressure of the blade did not decrease, but the man stayed his gloved hand.

  “I love her.”

  The Infidel’s eyes slid over Tristan’s shoulder to where Friday stood right behind him, and then back to where Elisa lay silent in her cell.

  “I love them both,” Tristan clarified.

  “Do you remember love?” Friday asked. It was a strange question, but one that caused the blade of the Infidel’s dagger to lift away from Tristan’s neck.

  “We don’t want to release her,” said Tristan. “We just want to help her.”

  At Tristan’s words, the dagger pressed into his neck once more.

  “Friday,” he whispered, “speak again.”

  “We won’t release her,” Friday repeated calmly. “In fact, we’d prefer it if you locked us both in there with her.”

  Tristan’s instincts had been correct: the dagger fell away. He wasn’t sure if it was because the Infidel’s captor was a woman, or because of that magical, lilting quality Friday’s voice possessed—not that it mattered. They had found the key to their survival, and the key to Elisa’s cage. The Infidel unlocked the iron door and let them in.

  Friday fell to her knees beside Elisa’s unconscious form. She looked unharmed, for the most part, though the skin of her wrists was raw. Friday put her hands on the rope that bound her and looked up at the Infidel.

  “Please.”

  The word was magic. The Infidel’s dagger flashed through the air and Elisa’s bonds fell away. Then the cell door slammed shut behind them, and the Infidel disappeared back into the darkness of the dungeon.

  “Nice fellow,” said Tristan.

  “He’s as much a prisoner as your sister,” Friday chided him. “Here, help me wake her.”

  Tristan sat Elisa up while Friday dampened a bit of her skirt and dabbed at Elisa’s bloody wrists.

  Elisa was warm in his arms, and sound asleep—a blessing, and one he felt some guilt at disturbing. “Come on, baby sister. We’re so close. Don’t give up on us now.”

  Reluctantly, Elisa’s lids finally lifted. When she realized where she was, her eyes opened fully, as if she were screaming at them.

  Tristan and Friday both wrapped their arms protectively around her trembling body. “It’s all right,” Tristan whispered. “We’re here to help finish this thing.”

  “Give yourself a moment,” said Friday. “I brought some water and some bread. When you are ready, we’ll begin again, yes?”

  Tentatively, Elisa nodded. She cradled her head on Tristan’s shoulder while Friday sorted the contents of the sacks they’d brought down from the sky tower. Elisa’s trembling stopped after she finished off two sweet rolls and a substantial amount of water. She sat up on her own now and, for all that she’d been through, she looked more alert than she had in days. Perhaps th
at tiny blessing of rest had done her good, after all.

  Tristan offered his sister a third roll, but she declined. She grabbed his hand, though, scrutinizing him in the dim light before smirking at his outfit.

  Tristan tugged the scarf-mask off his head. “It was her idea.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” said Friday. “Besides, you look rather dashing in that getup.”

  Elisa smiled and pointed to Friday, showing that she agreed with the princess.

  Tristan rolled his eyes and threw the mask into a dark corner. “Women.”

  Elisa’s smile grew wider and Tristan’s heart grew lighter.

  Friday tossed Elisa the first loom. “Ready? Let’s do this.”

  They worked deep into the night and beyond. Reinvigorated, Elisa’s fingers flew through the weaving. At some point, Conrad entered the dungeon, and Friday persuaded the Infidel to let him slip the new spools of spun fiber through.

  “Is this enough?” Conrad asked Friday.

  “It will have to be,” she said. “We don’t have much time left.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Refill the lantern and light another torch before you go?” Friday requested. “It’s terribly dark in here.”

  “Tell my brothers we are well,” said Tristan. “Remind them to stay strong.”

  Conrad nodded, did as he was bade, and fled back up the steps.

  It was hypnotic, watching Friday and Elisa work. Tristan filled the quiet chamber with song, thinking that the cadence might lift their spirits—something he never would have done in the presence of his brothers. He did not have Sebastien’s baritone or François’s perfect pitch, but Friday smiled at the silly tavern songs and Elisa smiled at the nursery songs and Tristan felt like the finest virtuoso in all the world.

  Friday stitched up the fifth shirt while Elisa dashed off the sixth, and they were well on to the seventh when Tristan felt the quickening in his blood. He did not need a window to know that daybreak approached.

  Elisa looked up from her loom. She could feel it too.

  Tristan fought the prickling of his skin and crossed the cell in two long strides to pull Friday up into his arms.

  “What are you—?”

  “I want to thank you,” said Tristan. “In case I don’t have the chance later.”

  “Dawn?” she asked. There was sadness in the word, and fear.

  He ignored the question. “Thank you, Friday Woodcutter, magical princess, for saving me and fighting for my family.”

  “But Tristan—”

  He stopped her there. He wanted the last word he remembered to be his name on her lips, so he pulled her to him and kissed her deeply.

  They might not have been in the sky tower, but Tristan needed no meddling fairy magic to feel the bond between them now. Friday tasted of warmth and sugar and spice. She felt like cool breezes and home. He held her tightly—so tightly—dreading the day to come and knowing he could not stop it. But this moment . . . this moment would stay with him forever, and no spell or sorceress would ever take that away.

  Friday welcomed Tristan’s embrace, kissing him back with equal fervor. Her arms came up around either side of his neck and she wound her fingers into his hair. He forced himself to remember that touch as the quills shot up through his skin, as his beak hardened and left her lips, as he fell to the ground in an ungraceful puddle of black material.

  Tristan threw back his long neck and honked a curse to the gods.

  11

  Vengeful Angels

  FRIDAY HAD NEVER FELT so fulfilled as when Tristan kissed her.

  She had never felt so empty as when he disappeared beneath her fingertips.

  There was a prickling under his skin and merely a brush of feathers before the pressure of his embrace vanished. She opened her eyes to the harsh reality of the dim, dank dungeon and freed the swan from his black-cloth prison. Elisa sat before her, back in the scrawny body of mousy Rampion, her head in her hands as she silently wept. Laid out on the ground before her was the last shirt, the seventh, incomplete. They had managed one sleeve, but not the other.

  Tears fell from Friday’s own eyes to join Elisa’s on the muddy ground. Friday cradled the swan in her lap, smoothing its feathers with one hand and holding Elisa with the other. The Infidel reappeared out of the darkness, as if summoned from thin air, and opened the cell door. Friday stuffed the shirts into the sack while he bound Elisa’s wrists again and marched her out of the dungeon. Friday followed close behind, clutching the swan to her breast.

  When they reached the outer doors, Friday released Tristan to join his brothers in the tower. The struggling bird erupted from her arms and lifted himself into the sky without so much as a backward glance.

  There was only a small crowd gathered on the shore off which Mordant’s ship had weighed anchor, and Friday thanked the gods for their favors. She dreaded what was to come; if tragedy were to strike, she was glad there would be few to witness it. Gentle waves crashed over the murmur of the crowd, and a flock of noisy gulls landed on the grassy shore to meet the dawn with them. There was a sharp bark, and the gulls burst into the air again.

  Friday scanned the shoreline and found Ben the Boisterous’s companion. “Michael! What are you doing here?”

  “Ben needed to go outside.”

  Friday stared unyieldingly at the boy until he amended the white lie.

  “I had to see. I wanted to know.”

  Beyond Michael, the Infidel had escorted Elisa to a pair of beached skiffs surrounded by Mordant’s guards. Friday didn’t have time to be much more than brutally honest with her charge. “Michael, things might not go well here this morning. I would rather you not have to carry disturbing memories with you.”

  “You can’t protect us from everything, Friday.”

  “I cannot. But one day, when you have children of your own, you will know why I can’t ever stop trying.” Friday put a hand on his cheek. “Stay safe, little darling. Be strong.”

  “I will.” It wasn’t much of a promise, but Friday didn’t have time for more. She crossed the field to the gathering of her family.

  “I cannot allow Mordant to do this on Arilland soil,” said Rumbold.

  “I will not allow anyone to do this at all,” cried Sunday.

  “That’s our girl,” said Papa and Peter.

  “We are taking her to the ship,” said the red-uniformed commander. “No king has dominion over the sea.”

  The king and the Woodcutters argued, but Mordant’s soldiers stood their ground. The Infidel crossed his arms and remained an imposing shadow. Elisa, shoulders slumped, looked beaten.

  One skiff was filled with kindling and one was empty, save for a set of oars. Friday’s heart skipped a beat. The soldiers might have been taking her to Mordant’s ship, but they had no intention of delivering her. They were going to put Elisa into the skiff filled with wood, tow her out into the water, and then burn her!

  As the rest of the crowd realized the same thing, sadness threatened to overwhelm Friday. She wrinkled her nose to stave off the emotion. She only had one chance to get this right, and she must not waste it.

  “NO!” She waved her arms like a madwoman. “YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” She flung herself at Elisa, embracing the unprepared girl with such vigor that she almost toppled them both. Friday let the momentum swing the sack in her hands forward; it disappeared amongst the wood in the boat. Friday needed to keep up her histrionics in order to cover what she’d just done, so she channeled the one person she knew who could stun everyone to silence: her mother.

  “YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” She pointed to the guards, and then to Sunday and Rumbold. “YOU CAN’T LET THEM DO THIS!”

  Oh, if only her words held the same weight as Mama’s, this nonsense would never need to happen!

  Rumbold, bless him, allowed her to beat on his chest a moment before trapping her hands in his. “I must, sister. I gave my word to Mordant as King, and I cannot go back on that.”

  “BU
T THEY’RE GOING TO KILL HER!” Friday’s dramatic show of emotion was so at odds with her normal behavior that the rest of the crowd looked at her curiously. “YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING!”

  Sunday screwed up her mouth and furrowed her brow. Friday was familiar with that particular expression: Queen Sunday knew exactly what her sister was up to, and she was trying her hardest not to laugh.

  Rumbold, whom Friday could tell had some idea of what was going on but remained unsure of the goal, continued to play along. “I know, Friday, but my hands are tied. Blame me if you must, if it makes it easier for you.”

  He tried to embrace her but she pulled away, wrenching herself from his grasp with fire in her eyes. “You are a fool,” she said to him, and then collapsed in a patchwork heap of sobbing at his feet. Her tears were genuine—she called upon all that fear and sadness she had pushed away earlier and let them take over. She soon felt Sunday’s hand on her back as her queen-sister cradled her in a show of comfort.

  “Are you all right?” It was a valid question.

  “I’m in love with a swan whose sister will die if I mess this up,” Friday whispered in reply. “I’m a mess. And don’t you dare laugh.”

  “You’re making it incredibly difficult,” Sunday said into Friday’s sobs. “I believe you’ve addled my poor husband. I just hope this works.”

  Friday hiccupped. “Me too.”

  Sunday pulled Friday back to her feet. Monday swooped in and took over soothing the slightly-less-dramatic-but-still-overly-emotional sister. Friday leaned into her eldest sister’s skirts. She breathed in Monday’s honey jasmine scent, called upon Monday’s peaceful restraint, and calmed herself. She needed her wits about her now.

  “Enough of this,” said Mordant’s commander.

  “It is well past dawn, sir,” said another soldier.

  Mordant’s commander clicked his heels at Rumbold. “Then we will be on our way.”