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

by Yolandie Horak

  “I’d better go.” Cara kissed Nathan’s forehead, shrugged into one of Marc’s coats, then went outside. Was her and Sera’s letter still in the pocket of the coat she’d draped over Pointy, or had it fallen out in their rush to get away? She’d look later.

  The Dvarans were caught in a bustle. People carried piles of wood and fish deeper into the camp. They laughed and sang, and some of them wore colourful ribbons in their hair.

  Marc dug in the dirt with his shoe, and blushed when he noticed her. “Morning, my queen.”

  “All this queen business is going to go to my head.”

  Marc raised a shoulder. “True, though.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Holy day. Tonight, the bears will mate.”

  Interesting. “How’s Pointy?”

  “Still asleep. He’ll be pissed as hell to learn he’s missed this meeting, but Nita said to let him rest. Chief-queen’s in her tent.”

  “Thank you.” Cara entered Vendla’s tent. “Good morning, chief-queen.”

  “From what I heard last night, better for some of us than others.”

  Cara’s cheeks warmed.

  “It’s nothing to blush about, Carabelle, though I would remind you these tents have thin walls.”

  Skjold lay by the oven and raised her head to sniff at Cara.

  “Come, sit.” Vendla gestured at a folding chair opposite hers. “Sven will bring our breakfast in a moment.” She waited until Cara was seated before she continued, “Your friend Du Pont has told me everything about you, except your history and your relationship with this spymaster. He said that was your tale to tell, and I’d like to hear this tale once we’ve eaten.”

  If Pointy trusted Vendla, Cara trusted her. Her days of keeping secrets because Celestine had told her to keep them were over. Celestine’s end had freed Cara in ways she’d never imagined she could be.

  Still, a threat remained. Last night’s euphoria meant nothing in the face of Frank’s anger. When he learned Cara had been there when Celestine died, had escaped with Pointy, and was now here, in the Dvaran camp, he’d declare war. Could she allow these people to suffer because of her?

  “Chief-queen—”

  “Call me Vendla.”

  “Vendla,” Cara said. “I appreciate your aid and hospitality, but I feel I must warn you. Frank is dangerous. He’s paranoid and controlling, and I suspect his fanaticism borders on madness. If he learns I’m here, he’ll declare war. I don’t want your people to be hunted and killed because you associated with me.”

  “I am Vendla Ahlström, chief-queen of Dvara. The mighty Skjold chose me as her bond-human. Together, we have resisted the bloody emperor for longer than you’ve been alive. We’ve won every battle and fight still. Do I look afraid to you?”

  At the sound of her name, Skjold rose to her hind paws and grunted.

  Cara studied the tall, intimidating woman and her bond-animal. “No.”

  That level of confidence—fearlessness—to carry herself that way would become Cara’s aspiration.

  “Good,” Vendla said. “Then we’ll start. Every rumour claimed you were drugged into oblivion. How did you escape that?”

  “When I realised they were drugging me, I purged myself. I think I only realised the truth because of my medical training.”

  “Then?”

  “I pretended to keep using it,” Cara said. “And to become addicted.”

  Vendla’s mouth twitched. “I suspect Varda would be most displeased to learn her estimation of you was completely wrong.”

  Sven entered with a small pot of food, two clay bowls, and cutlery.

  “Thank you, Sven. Brew us a pot, won’t you?”

  “Yes, chief-queen.” He left.

  Vendla passed Cara a knife and fork. “Good Dvaran stew. I don’t know when last you ate, but this hunger strike stops now. Understood?”

  Had anyone ever dared say no to this woman? Cara nodded.

  Vendla ladled a spoonful of stew into a bowl and held it out to Cara. “Why haven’t you been eating?”

  Trauma, heightened anxiety. “I was afraid they’d put the drug in my food—they did that before.”

  “And?”

  Did she see everything? “I haven’t been hungry.”

  “From now on, you’ll share at least one meal with me every day, even if you must pretend to be hungry and eat anyway.”

  Cara smiled. “All right.”

  “You remind me of my daughter, Ylva. The war took her from me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. She was a pebble but could have been a mountain. The day I lost Ylva, I also lost my homeland, my husband and other children. My people. Only those of us here survived. I didn’t eat. Our gothi, Olaf, told me if I starved myself the emperor won. I’d be one less Dvaran for him to kill. The same applies to you. If you starve yourself, Carabelle of Mordoux, your brother wins. If you plan on giving him that satisfaction, you can leave now. That is one choice. The other is to fight. If you choose that, you’ll stay and eat, and you won’t face the coming storm alone.”

  Vendla was right. Cara would never be a mouse again, never be invisible again. Frank would learn there was more to his little sister than he’d always believed. She took a bite.

  “Good.”

  They ate in silence. Cara couldn’t finish the food.

  Sven returned with two cups and a steaming pot. He poured them each a cup of brown liquid, darker than tea, then added a bit of milk.

  “Coffee,” Vendla said. “Dvarans love this stuff almost as much as ale.”

  Cara accepted the cup from Sven and breathed in the warm, earthy-yet-nutty scent. Something akin to burning caramel also lingered in her nostrils. Intriguing. Under the Mantle, the import of coffee had become impossible, so she’d never tried it before. She took a sip, swished it around her mouth. That earthy, warm scent translated seamlessly to taste. More robust than tea, sweeter, with an almost smoky after-taste.

  Vendla’s eyes twinkled. “And?”

  She took another sip, this time savouring it. “I love it.”

  “Du Pont spat it all over the floor.”

  Cara laughed.

  Sven took away their empty bowls.

  Vendla shifted. “Tell me about this spymaster.”

  Cara rubbed her legs. Where to begin? “Celestine was the housekeeper at my father’s estate. Her brother, Henri Chastain, was the butler.”

  “Is he here, too?”

  “No, he died a few months ago.” Both of them, dead. She’d felt at least a bit of remorse for Chastain. Would anybody mourn Celestine? Cara drummed her fingers on her knee. “Anyway. She raised me. Us. But we weren’t raised together. Our mother died after I was born, and Celestine took me away. Told my father I’d died with my mother.”

  “You have a sister. The queen of Aelland.”

  Cara nodded. “Seraphine.”

  “And where does she fit into the family line?”

  The words twisted on Cara’s tongue. Pointy trusted Vendla, and she seemed earnest. Something about the way she spoke, blunt as she was, was familiar. Caring, like Magnus. He’d been a steady presence in Cara’s life—a Monolith. Could Vendla offer her something similar while Magnus was so far away?

  Whatever happened next, one thing was certain. No more lies. That part of Cara’s life was over.

  “Sera and I are sisters,” she said, “but we’re not related by blood. Officially, we’re twins. In my heart, we’re twins, too. My father had made a deal with King Victor, he’d promised if the baby was a girl, he’d marry her to the king’s oldest son. I was born with dark hair, and Celestine saw her opportunity. That is, if she hadn’t planned to steal me all along. The plan was to take me away, raise me as she wanted, plant the ideas in my head she wanted planted, and prepare me to be a puppet queen on a throne that would truly be hers.

  “When my father learned my mother and the baby had both died, he adopted an orphan, so he’d still have a daughter to marry to the
crown prince. Apparently, he’s an Intelligence agent, and his mission was to infiltrate the palace, but I don’t know much concerning him. Then, when the king met Sera for the first time, we were sixteen. He decided then he’d marry her himself. They were wed two years later.”

  “So. This sister of yours is a commoner, and the Aellish, who are so concerned with titles and bloodlines, have no idea.” Vendla shook her head. “What a tale.”

  “Sera’s a good queen,” Cara said.

  “If she’s anything like you, I don’t doubt it.”

  “I’m not a queen.”

  “Not yet,” Vendla said.

  Cara’s pulse thrummed. She’d been right—Pointy had allied with Vendla on behalf of the non-existent queen of Mordoux. Hearing him, Marc, and Amber go on about it was one thing, but from Vendla’s mouth, the words were more definite. Final.

  Possibilities called her with seductive whispers, but could she try them? Could she rule?

  Yes, she was angry with Frank. He’d betrayed her, and he’d changed into a creature she didn’t recognise. To take his place at the head of Mordoux would mean his death. Whatever he’d done, he’d been a victim just like her. Did he deserve to die for that?

  The dissociation that came with shock drained away gradually, and the peace she’d felt earlier turned crimson. She wasn’t free. Not yet.

  The sensation of those keys in her hand—the soggy way Celestine’s eyeball had given way beneath Cara’s fist. Celestine’s face turned into Frank’s, and bile rose in Cara’s throat.

  She swallowed. “I’m unsure about ruling, but whatever I become next, I don’t want to be their invisible princess.”

  “Invisible?”

  Cara fiddled with the hem of her coat. “I was raised in fear. They told me my father would kill me if he found me, then he’d kill them and Sera. I found out recently that my mother had died in childbirth, but before then, I’d been told my father had killed her. That he’d killed my brother and Celestine. I was so afraid of him, of what he’d do to us. Celestine said I was walking proof of his crimes, of the fact that Sera’s a commoner parading as a noble, and my father would murder us all before he’d let anyone investigate my mother’s death. My hair was a portable prison, a death sentence to everyone around me.”

  Vendla looked down at her, and though her expression did not shift, a softness entered her gaze. “I can help you, Carabelle of Mordoux.” She guided up Cara’s chin with a forefinger. “Trust in me. I see you—you’re not invisible. No, you’re a dragon. It’s time you breathe fire. It’s time you fly.”

  A dragon? Cara was no longer a mouse, but a dragon was a reach. Yet, a scaled creature had raged inside her the past night. Had Vendla noticed?

  “Mark this moment, dragonling. One day, when I’ve been proven right a thousand times, I’ll remind you of the first time you doubted me. Now, tell me everything.”

  Cara complied.

  ***

  Vendla did not wear emotions openly. Yet, as Cara talked, she studied her, and subtle micro movements became apparent.

  Outrage manifested in eyebrows that twitched. Compassion in mouth corners that flicked up, or in crow’s feet deepening. When Cara was too overwhelmed to speak, strength passed from Vendla in a slight nod.

  Cara was hoarse by the end of it. Her palms were covered in sweat, fingertips trembling again.

  Vendla stared at a quietly snoring Skjold. She was motionless. A statue.

  She sighed and rubbed her face. “A long time ago, we received a message from the gods. Basically, I would make a choice that would save or destroy my people. The choices sounded straightforward, obvious. But there was a catch: no matter what I chose, I would lose Varda.

  “One choice was to come to Mordoux, and ally with the Mordian royal. And here we are.

  “Since I knew Varda and I would be parted for good by the end of it, I thought if I at least arranged a marriage for her, she’d— Well. She’ll end up with Francois, for good or ill.

  “There was only one Mordian royal when I decided on this path. I followed Francois here thinking he wasn’t so bad. Young, but all right. As I stayed, I lost respect for him. His word isn’t always true. Yes, he fed us. Yes, we have a haven here. But while his nobles plot to be rid of us, he does not uphold his end of the bargain.

  “Now I learn he plans to rule Mordoux, Aelland, and Dvara, then claim the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. I didn’t resist the emperor for all these years to give my kingdom to another tyrant. I was convinced I’d chosen wrong.

  “But then there’s you, Carabelle of Mordoux. You are what the gods predicted. You are the one I should ally with. The true monarch of Mordoux. But you’re not ready to be queen. Not yet, but everything Du Pont claimed about you is right. You could be. There is more to you than even you like to admit.

  “So, what would it take for you to admit it? You’re a healer, and Mordoux is sick. Ehrdia is sick. If no one else could save the people, would you? Would you rise? Would you fly?”

  Cara picked underneath her nails. No, she’d never wanted the crown, but look what had been handed down to Mordoux. To Ehrdia. Their last hope was a king on the verge of a mental breakdown. A psychopath who would hurt and use anyone close to him, even his sister and the woman he claimed to love.

  Maybe Frank wasn’t the last hope.

  The scaled beast stirred inside her again. A dragon, just like Vendla had said. It reared its head and shot out bursts of flame.

  Cara’s soul burned.

  Could healing and ruling mean the same thing? Her dream was to be a physician, but what if a queen was a physician on a larger scale? What if the symptoms looked a little different, but were still symptoms? Could she learn which remedy eased which ache?

  Why not? Here she was, dressed in grey. Physicians-grey. Maybe she’d never be a physician, but she could be something else. Something new.

  For everyone she loved, she’d become a flaming beacon. The opposite of invisible. She would rise, and she would fly.

  When she was queen, she’d make the rules. Frank didn’t have to die. She could put him somewhere safe and help him navigate his internal war. Make him comfortable.

  Sera had said it a million times, and so had Pointy and Nita—Cara could be a queen. She just had to graduate first.

  Good thing she had a willing tutor. “I’m still an apprentice. I’ll need help—a mentor.”

  A smile bloomed on Vendla’s face to transform her into a younger woman. “You’ll have one, Carabelle of Mordoux. Me.”

  Chapter 43

  Pointy awoke on a table. For a moment, he was back in Celestine’s place, but when he strained against his shackles, his hands shot up. Free—Carabelle saved him.

  His feet throbbed, and his fingers screamed under the bandages. He had only one eye, the other was swollen shut. Would he ever hold a pencil in the same way? A scalpel? Slag and shit, he’d never look at knitting needles in the same way.

  At least he was whole. At least he’d see his kids again, his family. He might be injured, but he hadn’t failed his queen. For now, that was enough.

  Groaning, he sat upright. The tent teetered then stilled, and his vision focused. The wheelchair was out of reach.

  “Marcell?” he called.

  No answer.

  Of course not. Now that the queen was within Marcell’s range, he’d be too preoccupied to help his ailing uncle.

  No matter. Pointy shifted on the table—they could have put a blanket underneath him, so it wasn’t as hard—and moved his legs over the edge. His feet were thickly padded by the bandages. Hopefully.

  Pointy slid onto the ground and swallowed a grunt. Sparks flared in his vision. Ashes, that hurt.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jeanita rushed over with the wheelchair. “You’re supposed to rest.”

  He grinned. “I missed you, too, apothecary.”

  She checked his wounds. “You let this one fester.” She applied an antiseptic ointment to the dagger wound in hi
s thigh.

  “The stitches came undone twice.”

  “You should know better.” She finished her work, helped him dress in fresh clothes, then hesitated.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Look, Pointy. Some things happened while you were away.” She sat on the table and dangled her feet. “I don’t know if I should tell you now or later.”

  The hair on his nape and arms rose—she wasn’t one to count words. If this concerned Jeanita so much, it was big. “You always tell me now, apothecary. Later can end in disaster.”

  She nodded. “I haven’t told anyone else about this, especially not Cara, but I walked in on Nathan with a bottle of whiskey yesterday.”

  Pointy’s heart shattered, and a whine rose in his ears. The fight went out of him. Not this, not again. Not after all he’d just survived. Not when the queen was in love with the damn idiot.

  Nathaniel had promised. How many oaths had he sworn? How many years had it taken to rebuild that trust?

  And all for what?

  He bit his tongue. “Why?”

  “He’s been strange. I think he’s a bit traumatised by that fight we had with the emperor’s soldiers, when Cara was assaulted. He shot someone that night. Killed the guy. I told him he’d missed, that I’d fired the killing shot, but maybe he knows I lied to save him that guilt.” Jeanita shuddered. “Then, at that outpost, a patient we’d treated died in the infirmary. Nathan didn’t take that well. I think the attack on the outpost made all of it even worse.”

  Pointy blinked away tears. “How much damage will he do this time? How long will it take to get him clean?”

  “I don’t know. It was the last thing I’d imagined I’d find when I walked into that cottage.” Jeanita took a deep breath. “Look, it’s kind of my fault. I noticed him slipping away, but he talked over it each time, and I thought he’d be all right. I thought he was just worried about you and Cara. But I’ve been preoccupied lately, and maybe I didn’t look as hard as I should have.”

  “This preoccupation of yours—it’s strong and red-headed?”

  She turned her face to the floor. “I think I’m in love with her.”

  Well, that was news. Great news. Too much time had passed since Claude—three full years. Jeanita deserved to be loved. “I’m happy for you.”