by Grace Draven
When she finally dropped into slumber, she slept poorly, tossing and turning until she’d cocooned herself in the blankets. She woke several times in a sweat, plagued by nightmares of Jimenin dragging a screaming Cinnia away by her hair or Mercer dying of neglect and mistreatment in a prison cell. The sun hadn’t broken the horizon when she rose from the bed, bleary-eyed and dim from lack of sleep, to wash and dress. The house was quiet as she tiptoed downstairs to light the hearth and set out the pots to make porridge and tea. At dawn she trudged back up the stairs, prayed for guidance, and knocked softly on Cinnia’s door.
It creaked open at her touch. Puzzled, Louvaen pushed it a little wider. “Cinnia? You awake?” The room was dark and freezing. Her heart lurched at the sight of the neatly made bed and open window. The curtains gusted under the draft sweeping the chamber. A snapping sound drew her to Cinnia’s writing desk where a sheet of parchment fluttered beneath the weight of a candlestick. She pulled it out, crushing the edges in her hand. Cinnia’s familiar handwriting scrawled across the paper in loops and curls of black ink.
I’ve left with Gavin for his family estate in the north. I’m not running away. I’m helping Papa. My idea is workable, and I’ll see it through with or without your blessing. If you want to help me, keep the letter with you. It’s ensorcelled and will lead you to Gavin’s home. Give Papa my love.
Louvaen swayed; terrified by Cinnia’s reckless actions, horrified at the idea she had been their catalyst. The last recriminating line of the letter had her breathing in panicked gulps of air.
You should have listened.
CHAPTER TWO
Ballard admired the fact that even with her clothing askew and straw sticking out of her mussed hair like an Unseelie crown, his betrothed was still the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. Her lover Cederic, however, couldn’t boast the same comeliness. The obvious tussle in the stable loft had left him rumpled and sneezing until his eyes ran with tears and his nose with snot. He wiped his face on his sleeve before presenting his arm to Isabeau. She hesitated, her flawless features pinched into an expression of revulsion before she finally placed one hand over his while the other plucked the last few bits of hay from her ruined coif.
Another man might be enraged by this blatant proof of his intended’s faithlessness, but Ballard had earned his reputation as a ruthless warlord lacking both heart and soul. He felt nothing for his Isabeau, or she for him. She was welcome to Cederic and any other lover who caught her fancy—as long as those lovers didn’t try to claim her lands. His parents’ union had been a cool, cordial one of mutual benefit by united lands and increased power. Both had taken lovers during their marriage, but the land had stayed firmly within his family’s control. The union between him and Isabeau would be no different—a contract signed when they were children, a betrothal made, a dowry of a fiefdom with rich farm land, water rights, toll bridges, and an heir to control it all once Ballard died.
The couple passed him where he stood within the shadows of one of the king’s castle walls. They laughed together, Isabeau’s lilting giggles playing harmony to Cederic’s seductive chuckles. Ballard watched them until they disappeared into the crowd milling about the inner bailey. Of all the lovers Isabeau took, none was more dangerous to him than Cederic of Granthing. A clever vassal of lesser power than Ballard but of equal ambition, his lands bordered the other side of Isabeau’s dower properties. Ballard suspected at some point in the near future, he’d have to kill Cederic. He looked forward to that day.
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Ballard liked the gloom of winter, its sickly light and the rattle of sleet against the horn shutters that kept the full blast of freezing wind out of the solar. Clotted in shadows thinned by the low fire in the hearth, the chamber held his secrets and hid his twisted figure. Here in the darkness he could almost forget the curse, the suffering it brought and the guilt that made him willingly bear it. His hands ached, as did his back and shoulders. Ambrose would tease and say age had finally reached him, though both men knew otherwise. The flux coursed through his blood in a poisoned tide, heralding the curse’s rise and the havoc it wreaked on his mind and body.
A set of stinging jabs along his shin and calf yanked him from his musings. A rose vine, so dark a green as to appear black had crept through the space left by a broken shutter slat and crossed the solar to reach his chair. It twined around his leg, sinking thorns like grappling hooks into his breeches. They pierced flesh, anchoring the vine to his inner thigh. Ballard swallowed a groan at the sharp tug of thorns on punctured skin but kept still. He had no wish to add to the scars earned from previous wrestling matches with Isabeau’s malevolent rose.
Blood trickled hot to his ankle as the vine finally halted its sinuous climb at his hip. Tipped by a flower as lush and red as royal velvet, the plant arched upward until it hung eye-level with his gaze. There it stopped, swaying gently back and forth. Petals, neither blackened nor withered by the freeze, curled in pristine beauty.
Despite the pain needling his skin from calf to groin, Ballard smiled. “Eager for the flux are we, witch’s pet? Want to see the beast chained?” The hypnotic swaying never altered. “Sorry to disappoint. Roses don’t grow in dungeons.”
The rose struck at him. Ballard jerked away a half second too late, and a curved thorn scored his jaw. He clenched the vine in his fist, ignoring the blood that seeped through his fingers and down the back of his hand as it looped around his wrist and spiked more thorns into his palm. The rose writhed in his grip, petals opening and closing on a hiss. He cupped the flower, admiring its soft caress against his palm and over his claws. The perfumes of rose and death drifted to his nostrils. He gently squeezed, stifling the angry hiss.
A reciprocal pain burst behind his eyes, making them water. He ignored the agony and crushed the rose a little more. How very tempting to strip every petal off the stem and smear each one under his boot. The side of his face throbbed, a twin warning to the pain behind his eyes. Ballard relaxed his grip, but the rose remained where it was, bound to his palm by the nest of black thorns embedded in his skin. He caressed a wet petal with a fingertip. “Whose blood made this so beautiful, Isabeau? Yours or mine?”
The vine wrenched itself free. Ballard gasped and arched in his chair as thorns ripped flesh and cloth, taking bits of both as it slithered along the floor toward the window. The rose, glowing scarlet in the hearth’s sullen light, offered a last hiss before disappearing over the sill.
Ballard followed the crimson trail left in its wake and limped to the window. He opened the shutters in time to watch the rose scuttle down the keep wall to entwine with the web of vines and blooms spread across the tower’s northern face. Even in the dead of winter, the brambles frothed with green leaves and flowers in full, ravenous bloom.
Ballard’s bloodied palm slipped over the ice-sheathed woof of the casement. “Mercy, Isabeau,” he entreated. The plant stirred once more, every blossom turning its face toward the fortress gates and away from him
He looked to the gates and caught sight of a cloaked horseman emerging from the narrow barbican. A pack horse plodded behind him. Both paused, and the rider raised a hand in greeting. Ballard saluted him in return. Hauled back to Ketach Tor by the rising flux, Gavin had returned from his journey to the outside world. All of Ballard’s hopes rested on the day he might see his son depart Ketach Tor forever, finally freed from the prison of his inheritance.
Shadows cast by torches trailed Ballard down the stairs that wound from the keep’s second floor to the great hall. He breathed in the fragrance of the rosemary and sage Magda used to scent the water she sprayed across the rushes. Gavin had finally given up wheedling her to abandon the practice and lay down the woven rugs he’d brought back from his many travels.
Ketach Tor’s formidable cook and housekeeper met Ballard in the kitchen. She held a mortar in one hand and wielded a pestle like a club with the other. “What do you want?” Her gaze traveled over him, pausing at his cheek and hand b
efore moving on to the glistening ribbons of blood that striped his leg and splotched his low boot. She motioned to him to sit at one of the benches near the hearth. “The witch’s familiar come to visit you again?”
Ballard sat with a pained grunt and stretched out his bloodied leg. “Aye, and made sweet love to me.”
“One of these days, someone’s going to hack that blasted weed to bits, and I want to be there to help.” Magda pointed a finger at him. “Stay put. I’m off to get bandages and honey.” She abandoned him for the larder, and he took the time to shuck his boots and carefully peel off his torn breeches.
The wounds left by the thorns added to the mural of scars decorating his thigh and calf--souvenirs from long-ago battles when he’d fought men instead of demonic plants. These he could look upon and not have his stomach twist. The others he bore made him turn away. Wild magic, fueled by hatred hundreds of years old, had carved an illustrated testament of his failures into every part of his body.
He jerked when a pile of bandages landed in his lap. Magda set a crock next to him and dropped to her knees for a better look at his injuries. She motioned to one of her maids hovering nearby. “Fill a bowl with hot water and bring towels.”
Ballard held still as she poked and prodded first at his hand and then at the line of torn flesh gouged from calf to groin. He growled when she pressed on a particularly tender spot. “You’re about as gentle as a battering ram with those hands.”
She sniffed. “You complain more than a babe with a wet nappy. Now be quiet and let me work.”
The rustle of robes against the stone floor heralded Ambrose’s arrival. The sorcerer almost danced into the room. Ballard’s eyebrows rose. Gavin’s return trips to Ketach Tor were bittersweet for the remaining denizens of the keep—joy at his safe return, sadness that the flux drew him home. While Ambrose always celebrated Gavin’s homecoming as much as everyone else, he was practically jumping out of his skin with excitement this time. “Gavin’s returned,” he declared in the voice of a man announcing the arrival of a conquering hero.
Ballard spoke through clenched teeth as Magda did her best to excavate his veins out of his leg with a wet cloth. “I saw him from my window.”
“He’s brought someone with him.”
The breath in Ballard’s lungs froze. He didn’t notice when Magda spread a sticky dollop of honey across three of the puncture wounds and covered them with bandages.
She cast a doubtful look at Ambrose. “Has he now?”
Stupid boy! Stunned by the news, Ballard couldn’t wrap his mind around such a foolish action. Whip-smart and cautious, Gavin had never shown a hint of impulsivity, but this—to bring someone with him to Ketach Tor, and during the rise of a flux... “Tell him to get rid of them,” he snarled. “Now.”
“I’m afraid it’s not so easy.” Ambrose spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “He’s brought a woman. She’s waiting in the hall with him.”
This time Magda abandoned her role of nursemaid and stood. “The hall?” She tossed the bandages on the table, and Ambrose took a wary step back. “With no fire and it sleeting outside.” She flapped a hand at her daughter hovering nearby. “Clarimond, get that hearth lit, and bring her to the kitchens to warm up!”
Ballard gaped at her. “Now?” He glanced down at himself, half naked, smeared in honey and wrapped in bandages, his scars and disfigurements on display. “Won’t this be a welcoming sight.”
Magda tossed his breeches and boots at him. “Hide yourself, you daft fool. I’ll physic you later.”
Ambrose helped him stand, fully in Magda’s camp as he nudged Ballard toward the steps leading down to the buttery. “I’ll see to the welcome. Magda will thaw her out. I’ll send Joan with your cloak.” He gleefully rubbed his hands together. “This may be our redemption, dominus.”
Perched on the top step, clutching his clothing, Ballard wondered when he’d lost control of his castle. He scowled at his friend. “Don’t raise your hopes too high. The air is sparking with wild magic. If your idea is right, it should have subsided with her arrival.”
The other man shrugged. “A rescue then. Lost traveler. But a girl alone?” His eyes were bright with a hope Ballard hadn’t witnessed in any of his retainers in centuries. “I’ll see you in a moment.”
The door shut behind him, leaving Ballard in the gloom. His toes curled against the cold stairs as he followed the flicker of rush lights bound in nippers lining the walls. At least they’d exiled him with the ale and wine. He descended into the vaulted chamber and quickly dressed before an audience of stacked barrels, some filled with vintages Gavin had carted home, others with the brew Magda and her girls concocted in the kitchen. His leg and hand ached, and his cheek still sported the deep scratch left by the rose’s curved thorns. Were it any wandering traveler who’d somehow managed to break through Ambrose’s wards and find Ketach Tor, he’d march out to the great hall, uncloaked, bare-shinned and brandishing a sword or crossbow just in case said visitor didn’t understand the words “Get out.” This, however, was different. His son had brought a woman to Ketach Tor—something he’d never done before—and caught Ballard’s household by surprise. For Gavin, he’d endeavor not to be the savage Isabeau once accused him of. He would hide the marks of the curse and not scare their guest into leaping onto the closest horse and bolting for the drawbridge, screaming her head off as she galloped away.
Joan met him at the top of the stairs with his cloak. She bowed. “They’ve returned to the hall, dominus. Waiting for you.”
She followed him out as he tossed the cloak over his shoulders and pulled the hood deep to cast his face in shadow. Magda and Clarimond were nowhere to be seen, and he eyed a kettle hanging over the hearth’s flames. It whistled angrily as water bubbled and spilled onto embers that spat and hissed in steamy protest. The sound of footsteps running toward the kitchen made him tense. He rested his hand on the dagger at his belt and lowered it just as quickly when Ambrose entered, this time as breathless and giddy as any maiden at her first court presentation.
Ballard scowled at him. “What’s wrong with you?”
“My gods, Ballard.” His hands fluttered, sketching tracers of blue luminescence. “This girl—there are no words.”
Ballard’s lips twitched. “That bad, eh? I always wondered what might catch his eye. With his handsome face, he could choose any wench. Should I be disappointed?”
Ambrose grinned. “Come look.”
He followed Ambrose into the great hall where a small crowd made up of Gavin, his mysterious guest, a wide-eyed Magda and equally stunned Clarimond and Joan gathered by the now lit hearth. Gavin and the woman had their backs to them but turned at their approach. Ballard halted in his tracks.
Bundled in an evergreen cloak with her hands gloved in rabbit fur mittens, the girl who faced him might well have inspired not only songs and works of art, but battles between empires for her hand in marriage. Even his long-dead wife, renowned for her beauty in her time, couldn’t touch this fair creature. Her hair, bound up in a simple ribbon, reflected summer light and hearth fire.
Every person, even the loveliest, sported some feature flaw—a chin a little too weak, eyes too wide-spaced, a nose slightly crooked. Not this one. Skin as fine and delicate as porcelain, a straight nose and large brown eyes shadowed by eyelashes thick and dark, graced a face that must have left Gavin staggering the first time he’d seen her. Ballard couldn’t make out her form in the concealing cloak but suspected her body matched her face in its perfection. It was as if the gods had decided to bless one human with all their physical glory, and this was the result of their endeavor. It had taken him centuries to do it, but his son had brought home the most beautiful woman in the world.
Gavin led her forward. “Father, I wish to introduce Cinnia Hallis of Monteblanco, Fairhaven Province.”
She offered him a pensive smile before dropping into a deep curtsy. When she rose, she stretched out a hand to him. “I’m honored to meet you, Lord de Sauveterr
e,” she said, voice lyrical and sweet. “Your son has told me much about you and your home.”
“Has he?” A bubble of bitter laughter swelled in his throat. Beauty at its most sublime resided at Ketach Tor now, alongside hideousness at its most wretched. The irony nearly choked him. He didn’t take her hand but let his cloak fall back to reveal his hands. She inhaled sharply and shrank back. Gavin captured her fingers in his grasp and scowled at his father.
Ballard shrugged. Beautiful Cinnia Hallis might be, but if Gavin had any mind to keep her here for more than an hour or two, she’d have to grow a spine and deal with his appearance. He’d wear the cloak but had no intention of hiding in the buttery the length of her stay so he didn’t offend her delicate sensibilities. “How long are you staying, Mistress Hallis?”
“Father, a word please. Ambrose as well.” Gavin kissed the back of Cinnia’s hand before pushing her gently toward Magda. “Go to the kitchens with Magda, my love. You’ve had a long journey. She’ll take care of you.”
Magda placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Come with me, my girl. Let’s get you fed. Men forget these things until their own bellies are gnawing at their backbones.” She ushered Cinnia out of the hall with Clarimond and Joan following behind them.
Ballard crossed his arms and eyed his son. “Exactly how much did you tell her? She almost leapt out of her skin when she saw my hands.”
“I told her as much as I could without breaking the curse’s strictures.” Gavin cocked an eyebrow. “You can’t deny you’re still a startling sight.”
Ballard conceded the point. “Who is de Sauveterre?”
