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

by Yolandie Horak

Cara’s head spun, and her skin prickled. She’d know that voice anywhere. Ashes, ashes, ashes. Vomit pushed up her throat, but she swallowed, swallowed, and inched towards the light.

  In a wheelchair sat Celestine, complete with grandmotherly hair bun, a mother of pearl cameo pin on a floral scarf, and a bag slung over the side of the wheelchair from where balls of yarn and knitting needles poked out. Her profile was visible to Cara, her body turned towards the door. A pistol glinted in her lap, and light flashed from the edge of the dagger she used to trim the nail of her forefinger. She hummed as she worked, as though the weapons meant nothing. Her beige silk skirt gleamed in the light, and her blouse was so white it seemed to have been bleached for the occasion.

  Cara squashed her urge to gasp in air, and held her breath, then raised her free hand to her mouth. She bit down on her knuckles and blinked away the tears threatening to spill.

  Celestine didn’t know she was there, just like her father hadn’t known she’d been in the slatted cupboard all those years before. If she had known, Celestine would’ve ripped open the armoire upon entering. Cara was safe, she just had to be quiet. She could do that. Easy.

  Muffled laughter and a goodbye sounded from outside the room, and Celestine raised her head. She pulled a handful of skirt over the pistol, tucked it in like she’d tucked in Cara as a child. The dagger went between the balls of yarn.

  The door creaked, high and sharp, then a moment of silence followed.

  “Good to see you, Clarity,” a man said in deep baritone. The door shut with a thump. “Want some tea? Dinner should be ready in”—a metal clang—“five minutes. Hmm. Smell that?”

  “I don’t like your nonchalance, Le Roux.” Celestine shook her head. “You must know why I’m here.”

  “Now see here, Clarity.” Le Roux came halfway into view: short and thin, his body mismatched with his deep voice. “That wasn’t my fault, and you know it.”

  “Do I, pet?” Celestine purred. A cat toying with a mouse.

  Le Roux gave a step towards Celestine, who revealed her pistol with a flourish of her skirt.

  “I’d stay right there,” she said.

  He laughed. “Really? You’re no longer cut out for this part of the biz, Clarity. Time to retire. You’re just a frail broad in a chair. You look like my dear old gramma, which is why I offered the tea and everything.” He held up his hands. “But see, this don’t need to get nasty. You’re just doing your job, and I can respect that. Tell the king I get his message. I’m sorry for the, ah, misunderstanding, and it won’t happen again. And maybe he can send someone who’s the least bit intimidating to scare the next unsuspecting agent, eh? We both know you’re not shooting anyone with that dinky thing.”

  “We both know, do we?” Celestine shot him in the foot.

  Cara flinched, while Le Roux went down with a grunt. Was she about to witness a murder? Her insides deflated. She had to move, to get away, but she was stuck. She inched back and one of the hangers squeaked above her. She froze, but neither figure faced her.

  Someone must have heard the gunfire. Someone must be on their way.

  Blood bubbled from Le Roux’s boot, and he pressed down on it with his palm as he slid closer to the armoire. “You’ve proven your point, you old bitch. Get out before I decide to fight back.” He slid closer again, then half-reached for the door.

  Salamander’s spit, did he have a weapon hidden in the armoire? Was he planning to retrieve it?

  His stretched-out hand threw a shadow over Cara’s legs, then his hand dropped. He groaned. “What the hell?”

  “What’s the matter, pet? Feeling a tad out of sorts?” Celestine’s tone held a smile.

  Le Roux panted. “What did you do?”

  “Your tea, of course. Well, not the tea as much as the cup.” Celestine turned halfway to face him, showing her yellow teeth. “I stopped by earlier to coat it in a little something. Nothing much, just a tranquiliser. Within a few minutes, you’ll be unable to move at all. And to make this all interesting, I’ve prepared another surprise. For the last few weeks, I’ve been feeding you my favourite substance.”

  “Ethirin.”

  “Ah, you’ve heard of it. Then you know it has quite a few uses. This time, I used it for its blood-thinning properties. So, your wounds—like that foot—won’t stop bleeding. And don’t worry, it’s been in your system for long enough to be especially effective. I put it in your whiskey, brandy, and rum.”

  “You couldn’t take me without drugging me? You didn’t even try.” Le Roux reached for the armoire again with trembling fingers.

  Celestine shot him in the knee.

  He groaned and curled into a ball, so only his lower half was visible through the slit. The bullet must have shattered his kneecap and likely damaged a major blood vessel, judging from how much blood pooled. Or maybe Celestine’s blood-thinner had something to do with that.

  On the stove, the contents of the pot bubbled, and the lid rattled. Water psshed as droplets dripped to the metal parts of the burner, and the distinct smell of burning food slipped through Cara’s pinched nose, along with the sulphurous reek of gunfire.

  She clamped her nostrils harder.

  Celestine cackled. “Let me tell you a secret.” She leaned closer to Le Roux, tipped so far forward in her chair that it seemed she’d tumble out at any moment. “The frail old granny look is a part of my persona.” She reached down the other side of the chair with her free hand, and a quiet click sounded as the brakes clipped fast over the chair’s wheels.

  Cara’s knuckles smarted under the pressure of her teeth, and a small mental voice informed her Malak would have questions if she bit out a chunk of her own flesh. Slowly, Cara replaced her hand with the bundled-up sleeve of one of the hanging coats. The sourness of Le Roux’s sweat residue fizzed on her tongue, entered her oesophagus each time she swallowed back spit, but at least her frantic breathing was muffled.

  Sharp pains ran relays between her temples, and her vision blurred. Invisible, invisible, invisible.

  Celestine dug into the yarn bag for the dagger, then stood. “The chair’s a decoy, you see. So that people will believe I’m stuck in it and underestimate me, just like you’ve done.” She kicked Le Roux in his injured knee and extracted a cry from him. “Truth is, I’m much stronger than I look. Faster. I may be old, but I’m in peak physical condition. But as I said, it’s a secret. Keep it for me, my pet.”

  “Crafty.” Le Roux rolled to his other side, farther away from the armoire, and fully visible to Cara once again. Celestine circled him, and he reached out to grab her calf. His movements were weak, fingers shaky.

  Celestine shot his hand.

  Three gunshots and still no guards? Cara shut her eyes. Celestine didn’t do anything without a plan. She’d have had the nearest rooms and halls cleared so she could hurt this man in peace. Hurt? Creator, she was going to kill him. Maybe she already had, by giving him that blood-thinner. He’d lost so much blood already, and the spurting wouldn’t stop if the blood couldn’t thicken and form bindings. Cara’s muscles tightened further. And to think she’d feared her father her entire life, while she’d grown up in the house of the true killer. She shivered.

  “By now you know nobody’s coming.” Celestine kicked him again, then raised the dagger as he whimpered on the ground. “Pretty weapon, this. Perfectly weighted. Not to my hand, mind, but to my old friend Voltaire’s. See the initials here?” She pointed to the hilt. “DP? Du Pont. Fun, don’t you think?”

  Du Pont? What was that about?

  “You’re a witch.” Le Roux was covered in blood from his attempts to stop the flow from various wounds, but his face was pale, his eyes large. He had to know he was going to die.

  “Eh. I’ve been called worse.” Celestine jerked her upper body downwards in an arc and stabbed him in the side of his neck.

  Le Roux went still within seconds.

  She yanked free the dagger and stabbed him again. A spray of red splattered the floor, the table, th
e open novel. Celestine’s pale clothes were covered in it, as was the wheelchair, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

  Cara closed her eyes and concentrated on the bubbling from the stove—the soup or stew boiled over furiously—instead of the sickening squelch and pop, squelch and pop of the dagger going into and coming out of the body. She covered her eyes with her forearm, still pinching her nostrils together against the musty smell of the closet and spoilt dinner.

  Celestine was really in Collinefort. Just as dangerous as Pointy had said. Maybe even more so, if she fought by her own set of rules.

  Cara couldn’t breathe. She had to, or she’d faint, but she couldn’t. Every inch of her was painfully taut, trembling, but she was stuck in this hell until Celestine left. Time stretched paper-thin. When would Malak come to tend the fire? What would happen if she arrived and found Cara gone?

  Eventually, the low grating of rolling wheels sounded, followed by the click of an opening passageway.

  Cara dared a peek.

  Celestine was back in her chair. She wiped a stray strand of hair from her face, then disappeared into the black of the tunnels. She must’ve cleaned the blood from the chair’s wheels, otherwise twin tracks of red would’ve marked her passage. She must not want anyone to know she’d killed Le Roux. Of course, she wouldn’t want that known. Throw in the dagger, and she was framing Pointy.

  Cara would add that to her ever-growing list of concerns once she was safe.

  She counted to a hundred, then slipped out of the armoire. There was no sign of the dagger amid the carnage, and she didn’t have time to turn the place upside down in search of it. Besides, Celestine would know Pointy was too smart to leave a murder weapon at the scene of the crime. The dagger was no longer in the room.

  Cara took care not to step in blood—everything was covered in it—and opened the door to the passages with weak fingers. Her gorge rose, but she swallowed the bitterness, and kept her nostrils pinched against the smells in the room.

  The tunnels had quieted somewhat, though more sounds than usual bounced around in the dark. Still, the cold, pitch-black was almost comforting after what she’d witnessed, and she relaxed as she closed the door to the murder scene. Cara tiptoed away, lightheaded and shaky. Once she reached the intersection that would take her up, she pulled off her shoes in case she’d trod in blood and missed it, then went onward on the balls of her feet. Not far now.

  The passages on the second floor were quieter than those below, but the scurrying people still haunted her. Inside her suite, she leaned against the painting of Marceline, breathing and counting until she could focus.

  What would have happened if Celestine had found her? She’d likely be dead, or in a different prison altogether. Was this what Frank fought against? Or was this what Frank fought for?

  He’d said it that first night—Cara would trust no one. Not even her brother.

  Besides Celestine, Cara had almost been caught. Not only caught—she’d injured two people. If Intelligence in Collinefort was anything like Intelligence in Aelland, they’d increase the guard in the passages, and be on high alert for intruders. Especially once they learned of the murder that had taken place.

  What other choice did she have but to avoid the tunnels until this mess blew over?

  Ashes. Stranded once again.

  Still, all was not lost. She now knew something nobody else knew: Celestine pretended to be helpless, but was lethal. Useful knowledge. If she ever came face to face with Celestine, all she could do was run.

  But please let that not happen.

  Chapter 17

  Sera peered into Laroche’s empty suite. Where would he be this early? She shut the door with a sigh and took the hall to her own quarters.

  The hallways were covered in dust, and the sheen of the tiles had been dulled in the areas where fewer feet stepped. The state of the vases had gone from poor to dire. Dead flowers and leaves were brittle, and what hadn’t crumbled away had become sharpened stakes.

  Ahead in the corridor, heels clack-clacked and booted feet thudded, louder and louder until Laura and a pair of Green guards rounded a corner. Laura’s eyes widened, and her straight, black hair hung down her shoulders like a curtain. She barely ever went anywhere without her neat hair bun. The guards were both paler than usual, their gazes flicking up and down the hall, towards the windows, and in the direction from where they’d come. Both held their hands on their holstered weapons, muscles tense.

  Was Richard dead? Sera’s heartbeat sped, and she hurried closer to Laura.

  “My queen, something terrible has happened.” Her voice was hoarse, and she licked over her lips repeatedly.

  “Richard?” Sera asked.

  Laura’s mouth went slack. “Oh, no, not him. Not yet.” She shook her head. “It’s Kida.”

  Sera’s knees trembled. “What?”

  “I’m sorry, my queen, but someone killed her in the night. Declan— I mean, Thatcher found her this morning. There’s a note.”

  A spasm rippled through Sera’s lungs, forcing every ounce of air out of her. No. Not this. Not her dear little companion.

  Laura hooked her arm through Sera’s. “I’m so sorry, my queen. You don’t have to see—”

  “Take me to her.”

  Laura nodded and guided Sera to her suite, a guard on either side of them.

  The guards went in first, searched the room, then waited outside the door.

  Sera hesitated. “Where?”

  “On the other side of the bed.” Laura placed her hand on Sera’s.

  “Show me.”

  The pool of blood around Kida was twice as big as her body. Her fur was slick with it, crimson chunks shone like oil in the light. The wound at her small throat gaped like a second mouth, a silent yawn before the final slumber.

  Sera fell to her knees, and tears welled in her eyes, but didn’t spill over her lids. Suppress it, damn you. You’re a queen.

  Laura held her shoulders. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  A note on Kida’s head twitched as the air around it stirred. Red droplets darkened the edges, but the area around the script remained white, crisp. Had the killer soaked the paper before writing the note? The words were written in a strong hand. Alas, Seraphine, I found the cat before I could find you. Next time.

  “Call my father,” Sera said.

  “I can’t find him, my queen. I don’t know where he is.”

  If Kida had been sleeping in Laroche’s room, and Laroche was missing on the morning she was killed… Shit, was he in danger? “Then—”

  The door opened to admit Magnus. His head hung forward, the circles under his eyes so dark it seemed his sockets were hollow. “Majesty, please excuse the intrusion, but I have news.”

  Not this, too. Please, not this, too.

  “I’m sorry to inform you the crown prince has passed away. He was dead when we arrived, about ten minutes ago.” Magnus’s voice was a phantom. “But that’s not all. When we arrived at the prince’s suite, we found the grand duke there, tied to a chair. He’s been injected, the same way as the prince had been.”

  Sera froze. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

  Laura took her hand and squeezed. “The grand duke has rot?”

  “Yes,” Magnus said.

  “I’ll have him moved to his suite and inform the king.” Laura squeezed her hand again then left.

  Magnus came to Sera slowly, his cane trembling in his grip. “I’m sorry.”

  “Everyone keeps saying that.” She swallowed, then motioned behind her. “Kida is dead.”

  Magnus pulled her into his arms. He leaned on her heavily, and rubbed her back. “There, there, my girl. At least the world will be a safer place if your father dies.”

  Sera shut her eyes and laughed. “Actually, Magnus, it turns out my father is a hero.”

  “What?”

  She led him to a chair, locked the door to her suite, then told him everything.

  ***

  An hour
later, Seraphine stood on the balcony with Victor, both clad in black. George grabbed the microphone from Victor’s hand and announced that the crown prince was dead.

  Sera didn’t have it in her to care that George had made such a public display of power.

  She should have left with Laroche the day before, when he’d asked her to go.

  Now, he was going to die. With George as king, they all would.

  Chapter 18

  The caravan was cramped. Not that it could really be called a caravan, not in the traditional sense of the word anyway.

  The vehicle ran on spoked wheels and was covered with canvas. The interior, where Nathan, Nita, Ghedi, Greg, and the soldiers sat, was square, with sturdy wooden storage units that doubled as benches in precise lines. The long, flat water tank was fastened to the bottom of the vehicle, the heating mechanism between the front wheels, and brass pipes ran along the tank to the wheels.

  A small compartment to the front housed the steering mechanism, but it was completely unlike the steering in the automotives in Aelland. The soldiers took turns to drive the vehicle through the night. They stopped once every two or so hours so the passengers could stretch their legs and perform their bodily functions, but they ate and slept in transit.

  Travel cakes and jerky had become stale in Nathan’s mouth. Twice, they had halted near water sources to refill the tank. Those stops had lasted about three hours, blessed motionlessness that never seemed long enough before they boarded and set out again.

  Travelling this way was much quicker than going by foot or on horseback, and the caravans were suited to the landscape. They possibly even travelled faster than the average automotive or train. Two days and they were on the outskirts of Mordoux, close to the border with the Larasian Confederate. Hundreds of kilometres from their origin.

  Desolator technology, adapted for steam, stolen by the Mordians.

  The pulse of the land sounded in the echoes of cannon fire. Smoke rose on the horizon, sometimes white, sometimes grey, sometimes in billowing black plumes. Always smoke.

  The ground was pock-marked here, scarred by cannon shells, stomping feet, and hastily dug graves. But not everyone had a grave. Bones or bloated bodies decayed and stank all around, attracting carrion beasts and miasmas of flies. Some bodies had sunk into mud, only to be uncovered in the tracks left by vehicles. Rats scurried everywhere, too bold to flee. This was their land, their playground—a broken, blood-soaked landscape that would never be given time to recover. And this wasn’t yet no-man’s land; the area of land between the Salamane army and the resistance.