Dearest

by Alethea Kontis

  The port where they had docked lay in ruins. She could make out no single edifice that still stood above the rubble.

  “This is old devastation,” said Mr. Jolicoeur.

  “Mordant did this when he seized the throne,” said Philippe. The armor of his anger had returned in full force.

  “Why would anyone ruin a perfectly good kingdom?” asked Conrad. “Especially if you were the one who wanted to rule it?”

  “Some men prefer to start fresh,” answered Mr. Jolicoeur. “They want to remake their cities and castles to their own tastes.”

  “But nothing was remade here,” said Friday. “Only destroyed.”

  Mr. Jolicoeur nodded. “That speaks to the temperament of the new ruler. One needs manpower to rebuild a fence, let alone a city. If the men have fled out of loyalty to the former king and queen, there is no one left to rebuild.”

  “There is another possibility,” said Conrad.

  Mr. Jolicoeur nodded. “Yes, but I don’t like considering that one.”

  “What?” asked Friday. “What is the other possibility?”

  “That the former citizens of our kingdom are all dead,” said Philippe. “Just like my parents.”

  The idea was deplorable, but the likelihood was all too real. “Then we must hurry,” she said, “before any of the other former citizens of Kassora join them.” She looked at the docks, and then to Mr. Jolicoeur. “Can you lower us down?”

  Mr. Jolicoeur considered the ramshackle structure. “It may fall to pieces at any moment.”

  Friday looked from Conrad to Philippe, who would still not meet her gaze. Velius and Peter would be furious that she had convinced her first mate to let her down ahead of them. “We’re willing to take that chance.”

  “Very well. I will lower you three, but I will send the rest of the troops in by skiff.”

  Friday looped the rope around her waist and Conrad tangled his arm into it as well. “We will head up to the ridge there to see what we can find. Will you please tell my brother and the duke?”

  Mr. Jolicoeur made a fist with his right hand and placed it over his left breast. “Yes, Captain.”

  “You are an amazing person, Mr. Jolicoeur.” Friday made the large man bend down to her so that she could kiss him on the cheek in gratitude. Even beneath his dark skin, she could make out his blush.

  As soon as her feet touched the crumbling dock, she knew where Tristan and his siblings had gone. She could taste their frustration and terror as if it still lingered in the dusty air. Philippe immediately broke into a run, heedless of the rotting wood that fell away beneath his boots. Conrad kept pace with Friday. When the terrain became too rocky, he ran in front of her to show her where she might safely put her feet without turning an ankle.

  When they reached the ruins at the city’s summit, Friday spotted the Fire Temple in the distance. Smoke rose from its many chimneys. Philippe tore down the hill, heedless of the wreckage in his path, and threw himself against the garish, peeling gold-leaf doors. In an instant, Friday was beside him.

  She and Conrad gagged at the smell of new smoke and old death. Before them, a melee ensued. Elisa and the brothers fought with the red-coated guards. The Infidel held Tristan by the wings and looked ready to rip them out. And upon the dais she watched as Mordant’s blade missed Christian before finding François.

  “NO!” Philippe’s cry from the doorway cut through the din. And for a moment, the room was theirs.

  18

  Benevolence

  SHE’D GOTTEN THEIR MESSAGE.

  Tristan’s shoulders were a mass of pain from the Infidel’s rough handling of his wings, and his brain had yet to process the horror he had just witnesses upon the dais, but as soon as his eyes alit on his beautiful beloved, every other thought flew from his mind. She had come. And somehow, she’d found Philippe along the way . . . and magically traversed half the world with him to rescue them. But not all of them.

  It was too late for François.

  At Philippe’s cry, it seemed as if the whole room started screaming all at once. Elisa clawed at the guard who held her, desperately trying to reach François on the dais. Christian and the twins pulled at their own burning shackles while using the red-hot cuffs to fend off several more of Mordant’s men. Tristan ripped himself from the Infidel’s grasp, leaving the assassin with hands full of precious feathers. He spread his wings, despite the pain, and launched himself into the air as best he could. He flew far enough to make the dais, landing squarely on the chest of a now unconscious Gana. The iron cuffs round his wrists went cold once more. The candles in the sanctuary dimmed ever so slightly.

  Mordant took his dagger out of François’s body and slithered into the shadows. They would find him. He could not go far. Right now, Tristan’s main concern was his youngest brother. Careful of his chains, he knelt and took François into his arms, hoping to say one last word to the brother who had kept their spirits up for so long.

  “François,” he wept. But though his baby brother’s soul may have heard the word from the ether, his body would speak no more. A great river of blood flowed from the gaping hole in François’s shirt, over Tristan’s hands, and into the floor. Heedless of the mess, Tristan clasped his brother’s lifeless body to his bare chest. He begged the Winds to escort François to a place of peace, in the arms of the gods he had always loved.

  Behind him, Gana began to laugh. Her scaled serpent-bird glided happy circles in the air beside her.

  “He was not the brother I had selected,” she said from the blood-covered floor, “but I will happily consume his essence just the same.”

  Tristan realized that François’s blood was creeping along the bone maze in the floor, pouring down the runnels and decorating the runes there. The entire floor began to glow with a red light, and there was a buzzing in Tristan’s ears.

  Gana inhaled, taking the red light into her body. Tristan made to leap for the sorceress, but the iron shackles burned hot once more, stopping him in his tracks. Tristan seized the opportunity. He tore open François’s shirt and rested his chains against the wound, effectively cauterizing it and stopping the flow of blood. The sorceress saw his ruse and the shackles burned even hotter, blistering his flesh and turning the iron to ash.

  The cockatrice landed on François’s head, smugly curling his tail around a throat that would no longer speak. Tristan raised a ruined arm to knock the animal away, but the cockatrice’s eyes met his and held them. Its eyes seemed almost scaled, like its skin, swirling with reds and golds and subtle blues like the flame of a candle. Tristan managed to pull his eyes away before he became lost in them, but it was already too late. He had almost completely shifted his gaze back to the door before his body turned to stone.

  Tristan’s mind remained intact; he could still hear and smell and see everything around him, but he was helpless to do anything but witness their defeat.

  “Shame on you, pet! I could have used that one too. Well, no matter. There is more than enough blood here to give me sustenance and defeat them all.”

  “Is that so?” Friday strode confidently to the altar, breathing in the same red light. Her hair was wild, a giant halo of messy curls standing up all around her head. Her gray eyes shone almost ice white in the candlelight. The rest of her—her skirt, her skin, her shoes—began to glow as red as the shackles.

  “If you had the first clue as to what you were doing, little one,” Gana said to Friday, “you would know that you can’t fight fire with fire.”

  “That is as may be,” said Friday. “Perhaps I can’t defeat you. But we can certainly fight.” She pointed a finger at the altar. The candlestick to Gana’s left burst into flame, singeing the sleeve of her gown.

  Gana bundled the cloth in her hand and extinguished the fire. “Well met, princess. I will enjoy adding your magic to mine. But first, let’s play.” The sorceress pointed as Friday had done.

  Friday leapt to the left as several candlesticks were enveloped in one great burst. The confl
agration was short lived, however. A gust of wind whistled through the broken windows and toppled the sticks over, guttering the candles.

  “What the . . . ?”

  “Good job, Elisa!” cried Bernard.

  Elisa stepped forward and clasped hands with Friday, and her shackles fell to ashes. Now that the strength of François’s blood had fully permeated the room, it enabled all three magic users in the vicinity. Tristan was so proud of both his sister and Friday in that moment; he only wished that François was still around to witness it. Or that he could take up arms and join them in turning the tide.

  With all the magic in this room, couldn’t someone free him from this stone prison?

  Streaks of fire continued to cross from one side of the room to another. Candles exploded. His brothers fought the guards as best they could while still in chains—theirs had not fallen to pieces as Tristan’s and Elisa’s had. They fought with bones and candlesticks and sometimes their bare hands. Every time they seemed to have a guard pinned down, the Infidel overpowered the brothers, sometimes two at a time. Glass shattered above him, bouncing harmlessly off his skin as it fell.

  From high above the skull-covered altar, two white swans descended from the skies. Tristan mentally cheered their arrival, as he could not do so out loud. Sebastien and Odette went straight for the cockatrice.

  Tristan could not move his head to follow the scuffle, but judging by the hissing squawks and crunch of bones, the swans were winning. When there was nothing but silence, Sebastien and Odette waddled back into view. Heedless of the blood, they curled up next to François, on either side of his head, and rested their beaks lovingly across his neck.

  Tristan blinked. It seemed his petrification was fading with the death of Gana’s beast, but not nearly fast enough.

  The front door burst open again, this time coming off its hinges entirely. Through the entrance poured a sizeable civilian army, led by Duke Velius and Friday’s brother Peter. Every man and woman wore some piece of patchwork clothing, perhaps in tribute to his beloved. They fought with conviction, cutting down their enemies in almost no time at all. It was truly a sight to behold, and Tristan was sorry that he could not be part of it.

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

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

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

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

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

  Mordant got to her first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I want the Green Isles,” said Mordant.

  Philippe seethed. “Death first.”

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

  “Please,” Friday begged without moving.

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

  “NO,” said Philippe.

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

  “We fought back,” said Rene.

  “And you lost,” said Bernard.

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

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

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

  “I want to see you watch her die.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  This time, it was Mordant who doubled over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Well, all but one.

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

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

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

  “Oh, must we ruin it?”

  “He is Lord Death,” said Velius.

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

  “We were a gift?” Friday asked.

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

  “Your wife,” Friday clarified.

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

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

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