A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2)

by Yolandie Horak

  “Better,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry, she’s making me do it,” he whispered. “Trust no one, Cara. No one.”

  “No one.”

  His voice dropped even lower. “The walls are listening. Always listening. Please try to remember this. Will you try?”

  “Try.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mouse. Please don’t cry.”

  Who was crying?

  Yet, every time he touched her cheeks, he dried his hands on the bed linen.

  Chapter 2

  Pointy drummed his fingers on one knee. A sound came from behind, just a murmur, a ghost. The back of his neck prickled, and his muscles were rigid. So, they had come to watch.

  The director of Mordian Intelligence, a bloody marquis, surveilled like a target. Stuffed into this small, ice cold ground-floor room with Nathaniel and Jeanita, as far as they could possibly have housed them from Carabelle, but still within range of the hidden passages.

  He drowned out the other two, leaned back and raised his hands above his head to knock his knuckles against the wall. He tap-tapped in a radius around him, and, sure enough, the tell-tale hollowness followed each of his movements.

  His temples throbbed, but fine, had he entered a stronghold without warning, he’d also have had himself surveilled.

  Three identical beds with three identical chests at their foot-ends stood against the wall behind him. He’d claimed the one in the middle, while Jeanita was closest to the window—she took up the most space with her herbs and equipment and the ingots of ironite hidden in her baggage—and Nathaniel by the door. Apparently, he wanted to be in the direct vicinity, should Carabelle come to call.

  A visit from Carabelle, however, was improbable at best. Nathaniel had to know that, had to have figured it out. If he hadn’t, Jeanita could tell him. Pointy didn’t want to see the hurt in Nathaniel’s eyes when he learned the truth, especially after Pointy had promised Carabelle he’d see what he could do to carve a future for her and Nathaniel.

  The wrongness of this place was thick enough to throttle. If only Pointy could throttle it. Or the people responsible.

  But that was treason.

  Where was his family? His grandfather had been in control of the Mordian division of Intelligence before the Mantle cut off Aelland from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Even if his grandfather had passed on or retired, a cousin, aunt or uncle would’ve taken over the network. They couldn’t all be gone.

  Yet, no Du Pont had come to see him.

  The wall opposite the beds opened to a bathroom, separated by a slim folding door that did not close all the way. Another door must have led to an adjacent room, but this had been removed and filled in with lighter stone, unmarked by years of dust and damp. Probably to open a passage in the wall.

  How many new passages were there? Were the old ones still in use? Shit, what a way to find out his knowledge of Collinefort was almost useless. His heart gave a small lurch.

  What this space needed was a fireplace, but no. None of that for the baggage that had come with Carabelle.

  Nathaniel’s grey hair stuck out at the back, and a kink caused a wave above his forehead. A glimmer of a younger man with the same face, addicted and shivering, hid in the dark rings under his eyes. A vibrant bouquet of purples, blues, pinks, yellows, and greens splotched the cut on his jaw, but he was otherwise pale, almost colourless.

  At camp, Pointy had told Nathaniel he was going to be a father again. He still had no idea why he’d gone and done that. He’d been so careful about keeping baby number four a secret, even from his family. That his father had found out and told the tale at a family dinner was bad enough, but why couldn’t Pointy keep the truth from Nathaniel, like he kept it from Jeanita and the others?

  What a fool he was. All those precautions to keep his children safe, just to blabber about everything.

  But Pointy was being unkind to himself. He hadn’t told Nathaniel everything by a long shot, and Nathaniel wasn’t one to gossip, not even with Jeanita.

  Focus.

  Nathaniel fastened a new bandage over Jeanita’s round chest. She carried her worry like a spy—a secret only she and her kind knew. To trained eyes, her angst was clear in nails chewed into their beds, red-rimmed and sore-looking. Had she shed weight? Yes, her plump thighs seemed to have lost some shape.

  Still, the pair would make a good sketch. The same worry portrayed in parallel ways. Additionally, sketching would help Pointy calm, but alas. In his hurry to leave Roicester to aid with rot, he’d left his travel-sized art kit at home.

  “Du Pont, if you don’t stop drumming, and tapping, and grinding your teeth, I’m going to send Nathan out and service you.” Jeanita glared at him. “We’re all worried, but worry quietly, if you don’t mind.”

  Pointy snorted. “Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep, apothecary.”

  Nathaniel’s bed creaked as he plopped down and turned his back on them. “Look, I’m not in the mood for this back and forth, all right? If you want me to leave so you can finally go at it, just tell me. Otherwise, shut up. I’m going to sleep.”

  Finally, was it? Pointy almost laughed. Of all the sexual partners he’d ever enjoyed, Jeanita happened to be his favourite. She understood better than anyone else that quick physical release was an essential combatant for stress and need not go hand in hand with a deep emotional attachment.

  Some people managed to find sexual partners who were also their soulmates—Jeanita had experienced that with Claude—but Pointy didn’t want that. He wanted sex, then to remain single after the event.

  What he had with Jeanita was the love of friendship—with the utmost respect despite the secrets he kept from her—but if she ever took another permanent partner, Pointy wouldn’t stand in her way. And the time for her to find a permanent partner was upon them, someone to help her forget about Claude. Claude’s whole family, in fact.

  She was right, though. It had been months since he’d last had sex, and it was beginning to show. This grinding of teeth was ruining his perfect smile. Back at camp, they’d been exhausted and injured. After what he’d seen those emperor-loving swine do to Carabelle, the surgery on Clarke, his subsequent death—there hadn’t been much time to dissect the events that had brought them here. Time to do a breathing exercise.

  He breathed out through his mouth, rolled his neck, breathed in through his nose. So. What did he know? Francois the Fourteenth was alive, as suspected. He’d built himself a nice little empire here, in a stronghold that, by all rights, belonged to Pointy’s family.

  He breathed out through his mouth, shook out his shoulders, breathed in through his nose. Francois looked like the man with whom Pointy had shared a loose acquaintance in Aelland, but something about him felt off. Forced. He’d always had a bit of a temper to him, a dark persona hidden under bright smiles, but that could be said of most royal sons. The people of the resistance appeared oblivious to this wrongness, therefore, it must have developed out here, so gradually that they hadn’t noticed. Troubling, when one considered with whom Francois had arrived.

  He breathed out, breathed in, and his pulse increased. If only Pointy had known Francois better back then. If only he’d wormed himself into his inner circle. Out, in. But Celestine had been in control of the royal children, and he’d had his own missions.

  Out, in; out, in. Creator, what fools they’d been to trust the old spider. His eyes pulsed with strain, and white flashed in his vision. You’re supposed to calm, idiot.

  Again. Exhale, neck, inhale. So. Francois was different. Why was this fact so important? Nobody remained the same when handed a crown and a group of followers. His confidence was good, and by all accounts, the people agreed he was a decent leader. Most of them didn’t care for his choices in women, but that was subjective.

  Exhale, shoulders, inhale. Subjective or not, this Malak creature made Pointy itch. The way she carried herself, the way she spoke—she’d had Intelligence training. He wouldn’t be much of a directo
r if he couldn’t recognise one of his own, after all. Question was, who the hell had trained her?

  He stretched his arms above his head. Which brought him back to his family. No Du Pont would’ve trained Malak, but she wasn’t the only strange agent strutting around Collinefort. Pointy had met a few members of Intelligence, but he might as well have conversed with steam for all they gave him. Of course, he’d just arrived. They’d need the go-ahead from the person in charge before they’d trust any outsider, Du Pont or not.

  Out, in; out, in; out-in-out-in. His ears thrummed with the tempo of his pulse. Salamander’s spit, why did he bother with this? He already knew the answer to the riddle. Dead, dead, they were all dead, and that old vixen was in control of the network. Had she not been, he’d have seen a Du Pont by now. They’d have questioned him about Aelland, about what they’d seen on their journey, and above all, about Carabelle.

  They didn’t care, because they already knew. The few questions Francois had asked them at the outpost were all cosmetic. He’d made contact only to seem interested and hadn’t spoken to Pointy since. He’d seen Jeanita, certainly, to tell her to keep working on the cure for rot. Both Pointy and Jeanita knew Francois had only called her to get her away from Carabelle.

  Perhaps to get Malak alone with Carabelle—a thought that sent up millions of flares in Pointy’s mind. Where was Carabelle? They’d had not a glimpse of her, despite the people’s excitement.

  This was all his fault. He’d taken her away from the relative safety she’d have had in Roicester, and he’d left his family and his children. For what? The promise of a haven in the Valley of a Thousand Hills? He’d essentially hand delivered Carabelle to Francois, and by extension, Celestine Chastain.

  He closed his eyes and held his palms together in front of his face. He drummed his fingers and rolled his neck. This was no problem. If the network had been turned, he’d build his own network. He was a Du Pont, and Collinefort Intelligence might not trust him, but the people still would. They trusted the history between the royal house and the Du Ponts.

  Pointy shook out his shoulders and repeated the breathing. The people of Collinefort might not be trained operatives, but he was Jacques Du Pont and he could train a rat to fly. He could build an army of people whose hearts would beat as his did, for Carabelle of Mordoux. He’d find out where she was, find a way to extract her, and get the hell out of Collinefort.

  If his suspicions proved to be true, and his family was all dead, his life was in danger. Whatever he did next, he’d be careful.

  He wouldn’t leave his children fatherless. Textbook-student Tatienne would find a way to continue if he should pass, but rebellious Madeleine needed someone to keep her in check. And Lucien…he couldn’t lose another parent. Had his son spoken since he’d left? Was the boy coping?

  No use fretting about what he couldn’t change when there was a mountain of problems for him to attend to here.

  He’d tell Jeanita to campaign even harder to win over Varda. Once the maiden-heir had been convinced she should ally with Jeanita, a way to Francois would open. If he couldn’t be saved, a small army of Dvarans and bears would be most helpful in escaping the fort’s unseen dangers.

  But what could an entire army do when faced with one old woman?

  Shit. What if he couldn’t get to Carabelle? What if the old spider reached her first? Spun her deadly web? What if—

  No.

  Celestine would never hurt Carabelle, not after the effort to shape her invisible woman.

  Carabelle, however, had changed. Little as she believed it. Whatever Celestine tried to do, Carabelle would face the old bitch and make it to the other side stronger, more capable.

  Pointy smiled. Let them see her brilliance and fall.

  He’d come to Collinefort with a queen, and with the Creator as his witness, he’d leave with one.

  Chapter 3

  Cara was without weight or substance.

  Malak was there in the morning. She made a doll of Cara, a figure to be shaped and posed in front of a mirror. Fragments of her day went missing. Lunch? Something bitter but too sweet, medicinal—she had to hold on to that word—and everything dissolved like honey in hot water.

  The wrongness of it all plagued her, repeated itself in her soul. Someone was doing something to her without her permission.

  But who, and what were they doing?

  The blankets snared her, cut off her blood. Or maybe her mind was the prison. The images and nightmares remained vivid, deadly. She was mostly trapped in the valley, or with Frank. ‘Trust no one,’ he’d say, then feed her something tart.

  She woke screaming, but her lips were sealed. The sound was on the inside, and it echoed, echoed, echoed, until a thousand screaming Caras deafened her.

  Why didn’t she feel anything? She’d once felt so much.

  Her body understood what her mind couldn’t. Tears made dark dots on her pillow, and she panted for air, gulped down water. Moments of understanding came with water—it was in the food. She couldn’t eat the food.

  Sometimes, she imagined noises in the walls. Whispers. They came with a draft—the draft in this room left her cold as ice—always on the same side.

  Malak came back and posed Cara in front of the mirror again. She spoke without end, when all Cara wanted was to drown in the scream.

  Pretty hair, pretty face, pretty dresses. Floral and pink and lace.

  “Grey,” Cara said.

  “What’s that, my lamb?”

  “I like grey.” She frowned. Did she? Yes, she’d once loved grey. She’d wanted nothing more than to wear grey every day, to become a physician.

  Princesses couldn’t be physicians.

  “Then I’ll find you something grey.” Malak kissed the side of Cara’s head. “I’ll find whatever you want, my lamb.”

  Frank arrived.

  He offered Cara food she didn’t want, but Frank said eat, and she ate. At least the food no longer had that strange taste, and her tea contained less honey.

  The wrongness was amplified in Frank’s presence.

  He wore a smile—Frank had been born with a smile—but something not-Frank lurked beneath his skin. The way his eyes jerked around the room when he thought nobody was looking. The beads of sweat on his forehead. The trembling fingertips.

  He’s like Chastain. She frowned. Where had that idea come from?

  Wherever it originated, the idea was true. Frank had also been raised by Celestine, and the same ingrained paranoia would live in his heart. He’d been alone with her for so long. Who could say how that had changed him?

  Frank took a bottle from Malak, and poured sticky, brown liquid into a spoon. “Here you go, Mouse.”

  Cara swallowed the stuff. That disgusting medicinal taste that had soured her food now flooded her mouth, her throat.

  Brown liquid, brown bottle. Nita liked brown bottles because they kept out light and protected her remedies, and—

  Wait. They were drugging her.

  “I won’t come tomorrow, Mouse.” Frank caressed her hair. “But don’t worry, Malak will take care of you, all right?”

  “All right.” Cara sounded like a stranger, a machine.

  “Now get some rest.”

  Cara nodded.

  She sank back against the pillow and closed her eyes but fought to stay awake. No sleep until her stomach was empty. She had to stay awake. Had to expel the drug.

  The door shut, and when Cara peeked out from under her lashes, she was alone.

  She struggled to balance on feet so heavy it seemed weights grew out of her heels. The room twirled around her in a sickening dance, and she didn’t know the steps, but kept going. Cold stones, gold and grey chairs, a table out of nowhere, and ouch, she kicked her big toe against the table’s leg. Ashes, that throbbed, but she anchored herself in the pain, used it as a guiding leash.

  A wall came closer and she grabbed it, steadied herself, then shuffled into the bathroom, where she stuck her fingers down her throat a
nd vomited. Cara slid to the floor, cool beneath her fiery skin, and heaved for air. Once she’d regained enough strength, she gorged herself on water from the sink, then vomited again.

  Traces of fuzziness remained, but were diluted with every new gulp of air.

  Frank was doing this to her. Frank, whom she loved and trusted with her whole heart, was feeding her a drug in such quantities that it left her comatose. When he told her to do something, her body obeyed, even when she didn’t want to.

  Cara grasped at every memory since the moment Frank and his people had found her and her friends in that valley.

  The sedative he’d given her at the outpost had been different, less invasive. This new concoction sucked her dry.

  To what end? What did he gain from this, except total control of her?

  But that was the answer, wasn’t it? He wanted her pliable for Celestine, so when she came out of the shadows, Cara wouldn’t resist her. He’d even said it—she was afraid Cara wouldn’t listen, and she was making him do it.

  Ashes, Celestine had claimed Frank. She was coming for Cara.

  Out. She needed out.

  She tried the door, but it was locked. She opened the shutters and looked down into the courtyard. Too high. Even if she managed to make a rope, everyone in the keep would see her.

  Stranded, alone.

  Marceline’s reflection smiled back from the mirror. Perhaps not totally alone, though Marceline was eerie company.

  Cara’s knees wobbled, so she shuffled back to bed. What was she going to do?

  She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.

  Come what may, she wouldn’t use that drug again, but they’d force it on her if she outright refused. They’d added it to her food and tea before, which proved they weren’t afraid of giving her no other option than to ingest the stuff.

  She pursed her lips. So what? She’d pretended to be Carl for so long that she wasn’t bad at fooling people into believing what they wanted to believe. If she pretended to take their drug, they might accept it, and wouldn’t feel the need to put it in her food again.