by E. D. Walker
“Is it that you’re worried the villa is being watched?” she asked Master Llewellyn.
He nodded. “We know it is. We hired a few people off the street to camp out at the villa, coming and going, so hopefully no one will realize it’s empty of all us Lyondi until it’s too late.”
Her nerves fired with apprehension, and she drew her borrowed cloak more tightly around her torso. Ned moved easily in the dark, and she felt an ache watching the back of his head, the fall of his dark hair. But there was not much she could do if the damned foolish boy wouldn’t talk to her.
The streets were dark as the party of knights made their way through the city, but night only meant a rowdier crowd. Master Llewellyn had been right to ask her and Yonca to dress in disguise. As yet another pack of loud, drunken youths staggered past, she knew she wouldn’t have wanted to appear as a woman walking these streets.
Soon enough, the cool, salty tang of the sea and the heavier fish-stink rot of the harbor reached her nose.
Llewellyn matched his pace to the king’s and pointed at a ship to the right. “That one,” he breathed.
King Thomas hurried toward the ship, outpacing all of them. Master Llewellyn swore under his breath and jogged to catch up. The magician took the lead with the king close at his heels as they made their way onto the ship. Violette moved to follow them, but someone caught at her elbow. She jumped in surprise and turned to find Ned beside her. With a nod at Yonca, he drew Violette a little apart from the group shuffling their way toward the ship.
“Ned.” She kept her voice bland.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you these last few days.”
“Weeks. It’s been weeks.” Only two, but still. Violette drew her arm away from him, folding her limbs over her chest. She’d been aching for him to speak to her, but now that he was, she couldn’t help feeling swamped with resentment. “Why are you bothering to speak to me now?”
“We’re about to reunite you with your princess. Might be my last chance.” He gave her a grin, shy and rueful.
She felt her heart softening but shook the feeling off. “I wouldn’t have told anyone,” she whispered. “I won’t tell anyone.”
A muscle jumped in Ned’s jaw. “I think I needed to know that. That’s why I waited.” He gave a small huff of frustration. “But I’ve waited too long, haven’t I?”
At last his gaze fluttered up to meet hers, and it was like a needle sinking into her chest, looping a thread between her heart and his, sewing them together. Sharp, swift. But a completion of some kind. A piece made into a whole.
She wet her lips. “Ned—”
“Treachery! Run. Run, you fools.” Master Llewellyn’s voice erupted in the night. He threw himself off the ship and clattered onto the boards of the dock, holding a bloodied side. King Thomas leapt lightly down after him, glancing upward.
Ned tensed and shoved her behind him as he drew his sword. “Stay hidden,” he hissed.
She tried to catch at his tunic, to pull him back, but he evaded her, rushing toward the ship, toward his king. Several men dropped from the ship to set on Ned and the other Lyondi with swords and daggers. Blades clashed, and Violette’s breath stopped as she tried to keep her eyes on Ned’s form as he danced and parried with his blade, throwing punches and shoving. The other Lyondi knights had joined the fray, but they seemed outnumbered to her.
What am I going to do? Violette blinked, caught up short by the thought. She rubbed her fingers together, as if her magic were a tactile thing, and lifted her arms.
“My lady.” Yonca beckoned to her from under the shadows of another ship’s gangplank. “It’s not safe.”
Violette set her teeth and stepped forward. “No, but I must do something anyway.” She drew closer to the jostling group of fighters. Ned was lost somewhere in the tangled brawl of men. She lifted her hands, flicking through spells in her mind. She opened her mouth—
Someone banded an arm around her chest, pulling her back against a solid form and slapping one hand over her mouth. “None of that now, Lady Violette.” Lord Guillaume’s voice was a low purr in her ear.
A voice cried out in the dark in pain. Violette flinched, trying to pull free.
“Don’t try anything, you little fool. You’re coming with me.” Lord Guillaume gave her a shake. His arms were hurting-tight around her torso, squeezing hard enough to take her breath. The hand he had over her mouth was clammy with sweat and smelled like leather and metal.
More screams and grunts of pain. And bodies lay unmoving on the dirty wood of the dock. Splashes of blood glinted in the moonlight.
That could be Ned…Her gut churned, her throat burning with bile. Something rippled in her gut, and she gasped with the pain of it, like a broken dam letting the flood waters through. Sweat dotted her temples, and pain spiked in her head. She gritted her teeth. Hold on. Hold on.
Suddenly, the docks were not so dim. Blue spellfire danced around her hands now.
Lord Guillaume swore behind her. He lowered the hand over her mouth and fumbled about his belt, trying to grab a weapon perhaps.
Violette closed her eyes. She didn’t know a spell for this, but she didn’t need to. As soon as she formed the thought, the magic swirled to take the shape of it, like water pouring itself to fill a glass that wasn’t even there.
“Off.” She barked the word out, her voice reverberating off the ships and the docks. Lord Guillaume flew back and collided hard with a building behind them.
The fighting froze, warriors on both sides staring at her in surprise. The spellfire dancing over her hands pulsed a bright blue, casting strange shadows on the men’s faces as they gaped at her.
Using their momentary shock, she rolled the spellfire between her hands like a snowball and threw it at them. “Down.” The magic knew what to do. When the blue spellball hit the ground, it caused a ripple through the air, a concussive force that made the air crack.
Everyone fell to the ground, friend and foe alike, except for her. King Thomas’s men were smart enough to stay down. Lord Guillaume’s were less clever. As men began to shake her spell off and stir, she smiled, feeling giddy, feeling manic. Her head still hurt, but the wild swirl of her magic dampened the pain. “I said down.” She pressed with her hands, and the air rippled with her power. Men flattened to the ground, groaning and writhing as if she held each man down in truth.
Violette hurried through the crowd. Sweat poured down the sides of her face, and she licked the salt of it off her lip. Down, stay down. It was a constant litany in the back of her mind. She looked for Yonca but couldn’t find the other woman.
“Up.” She tapped one man she recognized for a Lyondi and felt the reverberation as her magic snapped back up at her. It was like a slap that left her head throbbing, but she moved onto the next Lyondi in the pile. “Up.” And again. “Up, up, up.” Over and over until her vision swam.
Where was Llewellyn? The king? Ned?
“Someone grab that damned witch!” Lord Guillaume bellowed.
A hand shot out, grabbing her ankle and pulling her off balance.
“No!” Pain exploded behind her eyes, and she pinched them closed and gritted her teeth. A booming snap sounded through the night, and she opened her eyes to see the wood of the dock cracking in jagged lines radiating away from her feet. Her magic whirled through her like a windstorm, like a tidal wave.
A sharp gash of pain flared along her head, and she fell to her knees, whimpering, hugging her hands tight to her belly. But the magic still whooshed and burned around her. Men tried to crawl away, but the ground rocked beneath them. Lord Guillaume lolled on the ground not far from her, his eyes vague, his head bloody. Spellfire danced around her body like living flame, curling around her hair, twining up her arms. “Stop.” Her voice broke. “Stop.”
But the riot inside her would not be quelled. The wood of the dock cracked again, and some of the men screamed as they listed to the side, dangling over the ocean below.
> Gentle fingertips curled under Violette’s chin, and she looked up into Yonca’s face, the glow of the spell light casting flickering shadows there. “Peace, child.” She tapped Violette’s head gently with her thumb.
Quiet. Darkness. As sudden as a candle blowing out. The black oblivion of sleep curled its arms around Violette and pulled her close. She knew no more.
Chapter Sixteen
Violette woke alone in a dark room stretched out on a plain pallet. A black bug scurried across her hand. She bit back a shriek and recoiled, leaping to her feet. As her head rushed dizzily, she regretted moving so fast, and she leaned hard against the wall.
“It’s all right, child.”
Yonca stood in the doorway of the room. Soft voices murmured from somewhere else in the building, but they were too quiet to make out words. Violette scraped at her gritty eyes with the palms of her hands. Her heart was still hammering. “What happened?”
Yonca folded her arms, her voice impassive. “King Thomas and his men retreated, taking us with them. We’re hiding near the docks. They don’t dare return to their own villa now that Lord Guillaume is hunting them.”
Violette stood and sorted through her disordered memories of the night before. “What did you do to me?”
Yonca shrugged. “A simple sleep spell. Your powers were out of control. But a witch’s powers sleep when she does.”
Violette sank to the ground and hugged her knees to her chest. It felt as if there were a million concerns, a million questions buzzing around her head like angry bees. She took a slow breath in, trying to calm the tumult. One thing at a time. One worry at a time. “What do we know about Princess Aliénor?”
Yonca’s face crimped with dismay. She squatted next to her and brushed her hand over Violette’s hair. “Guillaume has Princess Aliénor. Lady Noémi is with her, we think. The meeting at the ship was a trap laid by Guillaume.”
Violette rubbed her aching forehead, feeling quite a bit like she’d imbibed too much wine at dinner. Her palms came away gritty with dirt. Perhaps she’d been magic-drunk, and this dull headache was the price? “What happened to Ned? Is he all right?”
Yonca squeezed her shoulder. “He was injured, my lady.”
“Badly?”
“I don’t know.”
King Thomas appeared in the doorway. “Ah, Lady Violette, good. You’re awake. Ned…” He flinched and shook his head. “Ned’s been asking for you.”
Violette was already rushing for the doorway. “Where is he? What’s wrong?”
King Thomas gestured for her to follow. They were in a rundown villa even worse than the king’s last abode. This one had water stains on the walls. Broken ceiling tiles littered the ground, and the water fountain at the center of the open patio was overgrown, its water murky and brown, smelling of musk.
She and King Thomas passed a large bedroom where injured knights lay on pallets being tended by a strange person she didn’t recognize.
“Who is that?” she murmured.
“A healer. Llewellyn was injured in the fighting, and we had to bring someone in.”
The healer had skin of a deep, cool brown and thick hair braided back after the Tiochene fashion. They were slim and wore a baggy tunic and tucked pants that seemed to indicate they were a ves, one who followed the Tiochene tradition of gender neutrality.
A healer. And Ned was injured. Violette’s breath caught somewhere in her chest like a snarl of dread. But surely a ves wouldn’t judge Ned for the way he chose to live, wouldn’t betray his secret?
Violette shot a worried look at King Thomas, but his face remained impassive. He opened the door and ushered her into Ned’s room.
Ned pushed onto one elbow at their entrance, his eyes anxious. “My lady, are you all right?”
She could only laugh, even as tears stung her eyes at how pale Ned looked. “Silly boy, how can you ask me that when you’re the one tucked up in bed?”
“Now that’s what I’ve been telling him.” King Thomas’s voice rumbled with a laugh, and surely he wouldn’t sound like that if he’d just discovered Ned’s secret. Surely? “Don’t overdo it now, lad.” King Thomas gently urged Violette into the room with a hand on her back then closed the door behind himself.
Ned grinned at his king’s retreating back fit to split his face in two.
Violette strode across the room and plopped herself down at his side. He had more pillows than the other knights had had and a mattress instead of a pallet on the floor. Ned fairly wriggled with nervous energy as he leaned toward her. “King Thomas knows. About me.”
“Oh, Ned. I’m glad. I think. I mean, he doesn’t seem mad or anything.” Violette caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “What happened?”
“I came to after the fight and the healer was working on me. We were alone in the room and…well, you see where my injuries are.” Ned drew a finger down the line of his chest. He wore a loose tunic stained a little with blood across his torso. “I asked if the healer meant to tell anyone what they’d seen. They said no, it was against their oaths to do anything like that. And anyway, what did it matter what I had under my shirt? If I feel myself a boy, then who’s to contradict what I know in my heart?” He gave a light, happy laugh. “I do like some of the attitudes these Tiochene have.”
Violette reached out to cup his cheek. “I’ve thought the same thing myself. But what else happened? That can’t be the end.”
He squirmed in his blankets. “No, no. See, the whole thing got me thinking. If I’m in service, I’m bound to be injured again, and I can’t always count on the fact that Llewellyn will be around to treat me, to protect me. It’s only a matter of time until my king finds out. Somehow. So…I decided to tell him.” Ned worried at a corner of the blanket in remembered anxiety. “That might be the most frightened I’ve ever been. Sitting here, telling my liege the story of my life. My choices.” But then Ned’s face brightened again, and when he looked up at her, the happiness she saw was enough to light the whole world with. “He said he didn’t care. Said that as far as he was concerned, I was his loyal Squire Ned. He said he owed me his life, and nothing I could say would change his trust in me.” Ned cleared his throat and dashed a stray tear away with his thumb.
“This is why you follow him. I see that now.” Violette cradled his face in her hands and swabbed the rest of his tears away with her fingertips. But more came, and finally Ned broke and cried on her shoulder, holding her tight as he released years’ worth of fear and tension.
After he’d had his cry and calmed down, they sat together on the bed, and he put his head in her lap. She traced her fingers through his hair, pleased at how silky and fine it was sliding through her fingers. “How were you injured, Ned?”
He let out a low groan that told her he was beginning to feel more like himself. “I was stupid. Got knifed in the dark by some Jerdic coward.”
She flinched and restrained an urge to peel Ned’s tunic back so she could check the severity of his wound herself.
He continued, “The king was outnumbered, set on by four men at once, and I waded into the fray. Me and Llewellyn. Those bastards were throwing themselves at my lord, aiming for his back, his head. I think Guillaume wants my king dead.”
“Lord Guillaume must know about the marriage. Don’t you think?”
“Seems likely.”
She traced a bruise on Ned’s cheek, half-hidden by the dirt. “How is it if the king was so heavily set upon that you and Llewellyn are injured but King Thomas is not?”
Ned shrugged. “Llewellyn took one thrust meant for King Thomas in his gut. I took a slash across my chest that was meant for him.”
“Ned!”
“What?”
“You threw yourself at a murderer’s blade?”
He frowned as if puzzled by the question. “Of course. He’s my king. My liege. I’m his squire. What else should I do?”
Take care of yourself. He sounded all right, but he was so very pale. Also, the fact he was lying still
in her lap and not darting about the place told her he felt worse than he was letting on. She’d seen a whole army cut down before her eyes. The thought of Ned on a battlefield made her feel like someone had poured ice water into her heart. She needed Ned to keep himself safe, and serving his beloved King Thomas would keep him anything but that.
You can keep him safe. She felt her magic purring in her gut, a bit like a cat who hears a favorite treat being prepared. Put Ned to sleep, sneak him out of the house, get him on the road somewhere far, far away from the problems of Jerdun and Lyond. They both had reason to like the culture in the South, so why not stay?
She felt that possibility coiled inside her like a trap ready to spring. Tempting, so tempting to walk away from these problems.
But Ned would never forgive her if she kidnapped him. And she’d never forgive herself for abandoning the princess, abandoning Noémi while they were prisoners of Lord Guillaume. She rubbed the fingers of one hand together, feeling the tingle of magic gather. She had power. She could be useful. What kind of person was she if she walked away now instead of staying to help?
Ned had drifted off while she played with his hair. Well and good. He needed rest to heal. She gently eased him off her leg and set his head on one of the many pillows he had. She ran her knuckles over the smoothness of his cheek then pushed to her feet and sidled out the door to let him sleep awhile in peace.
Violette wandered into the chamber with the wounded. Most of the men seemed walking wounded, with Ned the worst injured out of the lot. But her stomach sank as she glanced all around and didn’t see Llewellyn anywhere. Finally, she asked one of the knights, and he directed her down another hall.
She found Llewellyn’s chamber. It was the cleanest of the rooms she’d seen and looked as if an effort had been made to find fresher sheets and linens than the others had.
