by Jade Kerrion
Nithya set Varian’s head down gently. She flicked a glance at the bell pull outside Varian’s study. Rising to her feet, she backed away from Tristan. “I don’t understand. You’re his best friend. Why are you doing this?”
“Best friend?” Tristan sneered. “It would have been simpler if that was all I was.”
Nithya lunged toward the bell pull. Her fingers had scarcely grasped it when Tristan grabbed her around the waist and pinned her down with his weight. “You’ll get no help. My men have already corralled the household guards.” His breath brushed against her cheek, as violating as an unwanted kiss. “I’d always wondered what kind of woman would eventually snare Varian. I didn’t think it would be you. Didn’t think you’d see anything in him.”
Nithya’s gaze darted to Varian and to the dark puddle of blood forming beneath him.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let him die.” Tristan’s promise sounded like a threat. “He’ll have the privilege of dying as gloriously as he wanted.”
“The Convello can’t be cast. There isn’t enough magic.”
“No, there isn’t. Between my fear-mongering and your well-established reputation for illusions, we handled it beautifully, almost as if we planned it.” He chuckled. “No one’s ever going to believe you’re the innocent party, but it doesn’t matter. You’ll be hailed as a hero for bringing down a tyrant prince.”
“What are you going to do?”
“He’ll cast the spell. Alone.”
“But he’ll die without help.” Nithya’s gaze flicked past Tristan’s shoulder.
“Of course he will. He was going to die anyway, but this time, he’ll die without hope. He’ll perish with the certainty of defeat, of utter futility, crushing his spirit. Varian won’t die a martyr. He’ll be executed as a tyrant. There will be no honor for him, no princely burial. Rainier’s ultimate dream will die with Varian’s failure. Their names—the Delacroix name—will be tarnished and purged from history books.” Tristan laughed. “Fitting, don’t you think?”
A sharp crack of snapping stone yanked Tristan’s attention over his shoulder. The marble pillar slowly toppled toward them.
Tristan rolled to the side, cursing.
Nithya leaped up and sprinted away from him. The illusion of the falling pillar faded.
“Get her!” Tristan shouted, but his voice was lost in the screams piercing the corridors. The sounds of battle bounced off the walls, echoing all around her.
She raced down the corridor, but skidded to a stop when two fae, armed with daggers, stepped around the corner.
One of them sneered. “Look, a delicious treat.”
Her gaze darted, searching for an escape.
The sneering fae grabbed her arm.
Five household guards appeared at the end of the corridor. Their leader’s eyes narrowed as he reached for his weapon.
The fae shoved her aside and bared his teeth in a snarl as he turned to face the guards. Nithya raced away and ducked around the corner.
She did not have to look over her shoulder to know that the five guards frizzled away. The startled, and then angry, voices of the fae chased her. The problem with her spur-of-the-moment illusions was that they vanished when she skipped out of sight.
An arm snaked out of the darkness and tugged her into an alcove behind a tapestry. “Shhh,” Ariel’s voice whispered in her ear.
Her heart pounding, Nithya breathed shallowly. The lamps in the hallway shone upon the two fae as they ran past. She waited until their footsteps thudded into silence before turning to Ariel. “We have to get back to Varian.”
A familiar figure stepped out of the shadows to join Ariel. “Is he all right?”
Nithya looked at Princess Sabine. “I…” She bit her lip and forced the truth out. “I don’t know. Tristan stabbed him with a datura blade. He was unconscious when Tristan put a runic collar on him.”
Ariel glowered. “That means we can’t kill Tristan. He’s the only one who can take that collar off. What does Tristan want?”
“He’s going to force Varian to cast the spell.”
Ariel’s eyes widened. “Varian can’t do it. He called it off. He’s already released all the people who were going to contribute their magic to the Convello.”
“I know, but Tristan’s going to make him do it anyway. Alone.” Nithya shook her head. “We have to get Varian out of the palace.”
“Where is he?”
“Outside his study. The palace is in chaos. We’ll get no help from the servants or guards.”
“No,” Sabine said grimly. “I’m sure Tristan has seen to that.” She stepped forward, her hand against the tapestry.
“Wait,” Nithya murmured. She wove a spell and released it with a whisper.
“What just happened?” Ariel asked.
“I made us look like the fae thugs who have taken over the palace.”
Ariel looked at Sabine and then at Nithya. “You still look like you.” She sounded disappointed.
“That’s because you know there’s an illusion. Your eyes can’t override that fact, so your mind sees what you know is the truth.”
“We could just change our appearance with glamour.”
“Glamour leaves a sheen; my illusions don’t.” Nithya peeked out from behind the tapestry to confirm that the way was clear. “Let’s go.”
Nithya’s illusion allowed them to travel, unhindered, to Varian’s study. The screams of terror had transformed into pleas for mercy and sobs of fear. Helpless anger closed around Nithya’s throat. The fae were raping their way through the palace.
They approached the landing outside Varian’s study. The door was open, and fae outlanders clustered around it, but Varian was gone, with only a patch of darkened granite to mark when he had bled and fallen.
Nithya glanced at Sabine, who nodded. The three women slid into the small crowd of fae mercenaries. Nithya peeked around the broad shoulders to see Tristan seated behind the desk, handing sealed envelopes to a waiting messenger. “Take this to all the noble houses in La Condamine. It will inform them that the people’s revolt has taken control of the palace. At the height of the full moon tomorrow, the prince will be publicly sentenced and executed for his crimes against the people.”
Nithya squeezed Sabine’s hand for mutual support and strength.
Tristan continued. “The council members may attempt to storm the palace, but I doubt they will. They believe Varian has turned against them, and even if they’re inspired by misplaced loyalty, I doubt they want their households as devastated as the prince’s. Have you found the princess, yet?”
“No, my lord. Her chambers were empty. We’re searching the rest of the castle now.”
“And the prince’s prisoners?”
“All gone. Apparently, he ordered their release shortly before we attacked the palace?”
“He did?” Tristan straightened, looking surprised. “Astonishing. He’d actually decided not to go through with the Convello.” A sneer twisted his face. “It was probably for that little witch.” A wet, tearing cough racked his body, and several moments passed before he continued. “I want you to find Nithya, too. If she’s already fled the palace, search her store. Bring her here. Varian is going to fight this to the end, but not if she’s my hostage.” His head snapped up and his narrow-eyed gaze searched the faces in front of him.
Nithya forced herself to continue breathing as slowly and evenly as possible.
The suspicion in Tristan’s face relaxed. “She wouldn’t be so bold, or so stupid.”
Wrong on both counts, Nithya thought.
Tristan continued. “Double—triple the guard on Varian, and increase the dose of datura. I want his mind and will utterly subdued.”
An older fae spoke up. “If he’s too drugged, he won’t be able to remember his name, let alone cast any spell. He’s already in poor shape—”
“Not as poor as he will be in by tomorrow night.” Tristan chuckled.
“Push him too hard, too far, and
he’ll die. You won’t be able to make a spectacle of him as you planned.”
Tristan bared his teeth in a cold smile. “He won’t die, not until I permit it. Now, get out of here. Deliver the messages to the nobles. The rest of you will seal the gates and secure the palace. The great courtyard will open an hour before the zenith of the moon tomorrow night to let the gawkers in. They can witness for themselves how a prince dies.”
Sabine grasped both Ariel and Nithya firmly by the elbow and propelled them out of Varian’s study. “Not a word,” she whispered.
Nithya spared a quick glance out of the window. The palace gates, which had stood open for decades, were slowly closing. She and Ariel exchanged worried glances, but Sabine appeared unconcerned as she marched through the palace with the arrogance of a mercenary. The dowager princess walked into the royal wing and toward a closed door.
One of the fae mercenaries stopped her. “We have already checked the royal suite. The princess is not there.”
“Lord Tristan Merodes said to examine every room thrice over,” Princess Sabine said. “I’ll do it.”
She opened the door and strode into the suite. Nithya and Ariel hurried after her, and the princess shut the door, locking it. “This way.” She ducked behind the heavy velvet curtains and ran her hand along the wooden window frame.
Something clicked, and a vertical crack appeared along a small section of the wall. The princess pressed along the crack; the wall swung apart slowly. “Quickly, get in.”
The wall closed behind them, sealing them in oppressive darkness until Sabine conjured a glowing orb on her palm. “Follow me.”
“What is this place?” Ariel asked the dowager princess.
“Lover’s Lane,” Sabine said. “For generations, the Delacroix princes have used this secret corridor to visit their mistresses.”
“Where does it lead?” Nithya asked.
“A respectable home in the merchant district, owned by an off-shoot of the Delacroix family. It’s currently unoccupied, since Varian does not have a mistress.”
Nithya blew out her breath. Thank the thirteen witches. The dowager princess did not know that she had become Varian’s lover. “Why are we leaving? We have to get Varian out.”
“We can’t do it; not through brute force, not even through trickery.” Sabine turned to Nithya. “Whatever his condition, Varian can and will fight, but he may not if your life is at stake. Our first priority is to get you to safety, before we come up with a plan to counter Tristan.”
“Wait,” Ariel said. She murmured an enchantment and pressed it against the door. “If someone comes through after us, we’ll know.”
The narrow tunnel was dusty, but not so much that it was impassably creepy. Sabine’s warning that, in many cases, they were in the castle walls, kept their footsteps quiet. The tunnel sloped down sharply in some parts. “We’re now underground,” Sabine whispered. “Passing under the castle gates.”
“There’s light ahead,” Ariel said sharply. “What do we do? There’s no place to hide.”
“Stay behind me.” Nithya wove an illusion. A three-headed dog, globules of saliva hanging from its oversized fangs, charged down the corridor.
Ariel gave Nithya an arch look. “Really?”
“What?” Nithya shrugged.
“A touch overdone.”
“Your little rat—”
“Dog. Munchkin’s a dog.”
“—wouldn’t have posed much of a threat, would she?”
A woman’s voice shrieked in terror.
Ariel prodded Nithya. “Hurry, before whoever she is dies of a heart attack.”
The three women hurried around the corner, and the glowing orb on Sabine’s hand cast light on a terrified female fae in a fur-lined cloak.
Sabine held Ariel and Nithya back. “I know her. I’ll handle this.” She stepped forward. “What are you doing here?”
“Call off the monster, please.” The woman’s voice shook as she shot a pleading glance at what would have appeared to her to be three male fae.
“Why were you going to the palace?” Sabine asked.
“It’s not—” The woman screamed as the dog, directed by the subtle flick of Nithya’s wrist, lunged. “No, please…don’t let it…I was going to warn the Princess Sabine.”
“Warn her about what?”
“My son. He’s amassed an army of mercenaries. They’re planning to attack the castle.”
“Your warning is too late,” Sabine said. “Nithya, remove the illusions.”
Nithya brushed the illusions away.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Sabine!” She leaped to her feet and threw her arms around the princess. “You’re all right.”
“Yes, but Varian’s not.”
“Tristan has him?” The woman wrung her hands. “What are we going to do?”
Sabine did not respond to the question. Nithya did not think she knew the answer. Instead, Sabine turned to Nithya and Ariel. Her voice calm, she clung to trained courtesy as to a bulwark against the storm. “May I present the Lady Isobel Merodes. She is Tristan’s mother.”
Nithya looked at Lady Isobel, who looked stricken—utterly devastated—that she had not arrived in time to save Sabine and Varian. Her grief and guilt seemed extreme, even for the mother of a traitor. Nithya drew a deep breath as random facts pieced into indisputable truth. “Tristan is Varian’s brother, isn’t he?”
“Prince Rainier was in love with Isobel long before he met me,” Princess Sabine delivered the truth in calm, measured tones as the four women sat in a cozy kitchen. The tunnel from the palace had led into the cellar of a safe house outfitted with every possible physical comfort. The four women found refuge in the kitchen, and Nithya prepared cups of herbal tea to give all of them something to wrap their trembling fingers around.
Sabine continued quietly. “When it was time for him to marry, his parents decided that Isobel, who was not of noble birth, was not good enough for the Delacroix family. He selected and married someone suitable—me—but he never gave her up.” Sabine gave Isobel a surprisingly affectionate and kind glance. “When she conceived his child, he arranged for her to marry Pietr Merodes, a minor lord.”
“And the child was Tristan.”
Isobel nodded, taking up the tale. “Pietr was indifferent on his good days and vicious on his worst. No one knew of Tristan’s real father—except Rainier, Pietr, and I—but Pietr hated caring for the prince’s cast-off. He was cruel to Tristan, and Rainier finally executed him for it. When Rainier suggested that Tristan be raised in the palace as a companion for Varian, who was born a few months after Tristan, I agreed.” Isobel drew a deep breath. “Sabine found out, of course. I never really understood how.”
“Female intuition, I suppose,” Sabine said. “I was furious for months. Rainier had gotten both of us pregnant around the same time. I never expected him to be faithful, but it seemed that careful was beyond his capabilities. He threw Isobel and Tristan into my unwilling company, but Varian thrived in Tristan’s friendship. I realized that my selfishness would have deprived my son of his best friend.
“Over time, Isobel and I became friends. It was hard to resent her when my situation was the better of the two. We were both trapped in loveless marriages, but at least Rainier was kind, and I respected him, even if I didn’t love him.”
Nithya frowned. “But none of this explains why Tristan would turn against Varian.”
“Tristan found out.” Isobel wrung her hands together. “A year ago, his cough worsened, so I asked Rainier for medicine for him. Tristan wanted to know where his medicine was coming from. I refused to tell him, but he uncovered the truth.” Isobel squeezed her eyes shut. “He went to Rainier, and demanded to know why the prince had given up love for duty. The realization that he could have been the heir apparent, but was now only the impoverished son of a former lord enraged him.”
Nithya tapped her fingers on the kitchen table. And then, Prince Rainier died. “Would Tristan have had access t
o the prince’s medications?”
The three fae stared at her, their mouths dropping open with shock. Realization dawned slowly in their eyes. “Yes,” Sabine said. “And Tristan had access to Varian’s too…”
Chapter 16
Varian jerked awake with a start. The cold struck him first, so enveloping, so encompassing that he could scarcely breathe. Icy air froze his throat and chest, taking the edge off the raw pain in his lungs.
The relief did not last. The anesthetizing effect of the cold faded as he breathed out.
Take one more breath.
And another.
When he was convinced he had the breathing down, other sensations intruded. Thick ropes around his wrists looped through the rafter beams, suspending him in the air. He had also been stripped to the waist. Cold prickled his skin, but not enough to offset the burning pain in his side. A glance down revealed a crude crimson-stained bandage wrapped around his waist.
Memories tumbled in a confused rush. Nithya. Tristan. Outlanders.
And then what?
How could mere outlanders have overwhelmed him?
Tristan?
No, it couldn’t be. The snippets of sight and sound, the fragmented impressions of Tristan’s face close to his, of Tristan’s voice twisted by a mocking tone, had to be wrong.
Not Tristan.
Varian looked up at the rope over his head and hurled out a spell.
Pain, blinding and absolute, crushed him. It turned his world black and squeezed his throat so tightly that he could not scream. He could not breathe.
For several moments, he was not even certain he was still alive.
Sensation returned slowly. The cold was welcome. It told him he was not dead. The burning, aching muscles in his shoulders and arms confirmed he could still feel.
His thoughts coalesced much more slowly, reforming from the ruins of his shredded mind. A runic collar. His magic had backfired, and would continue to backfire until whoever had put the collar on him removed it.
