***
Bram listened to Jean-Pierre and Ameena laughing together in the kitchen and frowned. Ameena had come back in to bring him a sandwich, but she hadn’t spoken to him, just set the plate on his lap and walked out again. He was aware that he’d upset her, which hadn’t been his intention. Making himself appealing to women had never been a problem before, but Ameena was so foreign from anything he had experienced before that he felt constantly wrong-footed. He’d meant to compliment her, but he truly didn’t understand why she hid her beauty with all that heavy black make-up and her figure with that revolting black jumper. With a sigh, he shifted with discomfort. He’d eaten a little, but the pain searing across his shoulders when he moved made his appetite desert him and he was too tired to eat more. Bram closed his eyes and listened to them chatting, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. Worrying about Ameena’s feelings for him should be the last thing he was fretting about. The fact that she was laughing and sounding perfectly at ease with Jean-Pierre, however, only made him all the more frustrated, which was ridiculous, but undeniable.
The mattress dipped and he opened his eyes to find Ameena sitting beside him. She lifted the sandwich to his mouth and he took a bite, watching her all the while.
“One smart-arse remark and I’m gone, got it?” she warned him, her grey eyes glinting a challenge.
He nodded and said nothing, and Jean-Pierre came in carrying one of the chairs from the kitchen. He put it down at the foot of the mattress. “Tell me about Claudette,” he said, sitting down. “How come we all believed she was away studying?”
Bram shrugged, immediately wishing he hadn’t as pain seared across his shoulders and down his arm. “Corin would have bespelled you all,” he said, wondering what they’d make of the prince when they’d been so deeply impressed with his little bit of magic. “He’s very powerful.”
Jean-Pierre frowned, clearly deeply unhappy with this revelation. “And she agreed to this?” he demanded, sitting up straighter and looking indignant.
Bram opened his mouth to reply and then hesitated. He had dropped Corin in it enough times over the years to know he would not be pleased if Jean-Pierre discovered his manner of taking Claudette to the Fae Lands. He had made a big enough mess of this mission already without stirring up trouble for the future. “I don’t think she was exactly happy about it,” he said, choosing his words with care and knowing full well he was walking a tightrope. “But at the time, there was no other option. It is often dangerous for humans to have knowledge of us, to know of our lands, and she would have wanted you to be safe.”
Jean-Pierre snorted, clearly unimpressed. “So Corin, he’s a prince?” he asked, one sceptical eyebrow raised.
Bram bristled a little, not liking the lack of respect. “Yes, he will be King of Alfheim one day soon, but if he wins this war, he will also be King of Solastire.”
“What’s that?” Ameena asked, holding the sandwich up for him again.
They waited while he chewed and swallowed. “The Light Fae’s land,” he replied, more pleased than he cared to admit to see that wondrous look back in her eyes.
“And the Light Fae are what?” she asked, clearly still puzzled. “They’re not elves?”
“Fairies,” Bram mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich.
He looked at Ameena, who had made a strangled noise and she cleared her throat. “Hold on a moment,” she said, holding up one hand. “So you’re an elf and your people are at war with faeries?” She bit her lip but a giggle escaped nonetheless.
Bram frowned; her grey eyes were alight with merriment and he looked up to see Jean-Pierre was also trying not to laugh. Claudette had warned him that humans had a slightly different opinion of what faeries and creatures of the sort were like, but it rankled all the same.
“Um, so, do they have wings?” Jean-Pierre asked, apparently trying to keep a straight face, and failing miserably.
“And little acorn hats!” Ameena screeched, unable to contain herself a moment longer. Jean-Pierre caught Ameena’s eyes and the two of them howled with laughter.
“Laugh it up!” Bram said, his tone dark and wishing he had strength enough to knock their blasted heads together. “But bearing in mind, they killed five of my men and gave me this.” He jerked his head in the direction of his wound. “I would think you might speak of them with a little more respect.”
Their laughter stopped all at once and Ameena sighed. “Sorry,” she said, actually looking genuine in her remorse, which mollified him a little. “It’s just there are faeries on the wallpaper in my old bedroom. They’ve dresses made out of petals and acorn hats, and they have wings.” She shrugged, giving him a sheepish grin. “That’s how we think of faeries, and as for elves ... well, I’m sorry, but you guys work for Santa.”
Bram muttered something obscene under his breath and tried to hold on to his temper.
“Let us get one thing straight,” he said, dangerously close to being really bloody angry. “The silly tales you have heard as children bear no relation to reality. All of the Fae races are dangerous to humans, we have ways and powers which you would find hard to understand. You trust no one unless I tell you it is safe to do so.”
Ameena caught her breath, clearly a little startled by his outburst. “And how do we know we can trust you?” she demanded, retreating into defiance, which seemed to be her normal response when she was rattled.
“You don’t,” he snapped, patience all used up. “But if you would like to continue breathing, you will do as I say and do it without question.” Bram knew well enough he was pushing his luck with Ameena. It was fairly obvious she did not like being told what to do.
Ameena pursed her lips but said nothing for a moment, just glared back at him. After a moment, though, the anger left her eyes and she sighed. “I do trust you,” she said, her voice quiet. She looked up at him, then, and Bram was struck by the rather vulnerable look in her eyes. “But that’s always my problem, you see, trusting the wrong guy.”
He wondered who it was who had torn her heart up so thoroughly, but she held the last corner of the sandwich up, her mouth quirking into a rather wry smile. He opened his mouth and she popped it in, accidentally brushing his lips with her fingers. He held her gaze and knew that the contact had sent shivers running down her spine as she blushed and looked away from him. He’d have rather liked to feel smug about that, only, it had done the same thing to him, too.
“What’s he like?” Jean-Pierre’s voice cut through any awkwardness and Bram looked over at him.
“Corin?” Bram smiled. Corin had been his hero as a child, and in truth little had changed. He was rather in awe of him, it was true, but Corin had only ever been kind to him. “He is a good man, the best, and the most powerful I have ever known, or heard of. He will be a fine king.”
“Is Claudette happy with him?” Jean-Pierre asked, his eyes that looked so much like his sister’s; full of concern.
Bram nodded, knowing he could speak the truth of this with ease. “She loves him with all her heart, that much I do know.”
“And him?” the young man pressed, clearly needing to be reassured. “The prince, he loves her?”
Bram’s smile must have reassured him as he visibly relaxed. “He adores her,” Bram replied, nodding. “I never thought to see a woman snare him, truth be told. He was a confirmed bachelor before Claudette came into his life, but ... well, your sister can tie him in knots.”
Jean-Pierre let go of a breath and nodded. “She’s happy, then, being over there?”
“Yes, I would say she is happy. The war, of course, is a threat to everything, to all of us, but Claudette, she has adapted quite astonishingly well to her position.” He smiled, remembering the brave and capable young woman he had come to know and be friends with, and felt a swell of pride in her. “She will be a wonderful queen, not just a figurehead, either. The people around her have already taken her to their hearts. She is bright and clever and beautiful, and you should be very pro
ud of her.” He suddenly realised Ameena was giving him a curious look and cleared his throat. There had perhaps been too much warmth in his voice, but he had been through a lot with Claudette and they shared a bond. He admired her, and if he was honest, he was rather envious of Corin. He looked up at Jean-Pierre, avoiding Ameena’s gaze.
“As soon as I can move, I will return you to her, and we will leave you here in peace,” he added, addressing the last part to Ameena, who just shrugged and picked up the plate. He watched her go, wondering why she looked so depressed all at once. Would she perhaps miss him once he’d gone? The idea made him smile, until he realised he would likely never see her again.
Chapter 7
Corin woke up with a groan and laid a cautious hand against his temple. It felt like someone had split his head in two with a blunt axe. At least the pain dulled the horrific noise of the screams though. He would take that trade willingly. They were still there, blood-curdling and pitiful all at once, but at least he could hear his own thoughts through the din.
He lay still for a moment, trying to orient himself, to remember the events of last night, but he could find nothing but a memory of blood and death and shied away from it. Pulling himself upright, he rubbed his eyes, wishing he hadn’t woken so early. There had been no dreams, for once, and that was a rare blessing.
It was still dark and the tent was filled with the smell of stale liqueur and spilled oil from the lamps. It was a wonder he hadn't set himself alight. He’d dreamed enough about burning to death over the years, perhaps that’s what it had meant, he thought with a snort of disgust. Sadly he knew that wasn’t true. That was still to come.
The thought made his stomach heave and he hauled himself to his feet. He needed to get out, to get some air. As he looked around, a vague recollection of his breakdown last night came back to him. Regret that Anaïs had intervened was a weight in his chest, but perhaps it was for the best. His guilt was his own affair, the fate of the Fae Lands relied on him alone now. The lives of every soul in the three kingdoms. His own peace of mind was a small price weighted against such a cost.
Stumbling over broken furniture and empty bottles, he found his way to the opening of the tent and staggered through it, drawing deep lungfuls of cool air into his body, though he could taste the foulness of it on his tongue. He felt tainted, defiled by the stain on the land, the legacy that Auberren had left to Solastire. What could have caused such torment, such destruction, he simply could not comprehend, but guilt at having ignored the call for so long made him sick to his stomach. He was just as culpable as the present king, for he had sat back and done nothing as the land had sickened and died. He had to make amends.
The guards outside snapped to attention as he exited the tent and regarded him with anxious eyes. He drew himself up straight and forced a smile to his face. "Hangover from hell," he said and they laughed, relieved that he was merely acting to form and not, in fact, losing his mind as he suspected the whispers around the camp had come to suggest. He walked away from them, adamantly refusing their demands that they follow him, ordering them to stay put and keeping his upright stance until he was well out of sight.
Once he was clear of the camp, his shoulders slumped and he walked on into the darkness, feeling the sickness of the land around him seeping into his body. It etched the surface of his bones until they felt too fine, brittle and frail as the disease ate away at him. He felt it so keenly that he paused and looked down at his hands, expecting to see it staining his skin, like ink soaking into blotting paper. Carrying on once more, he crossed fields that had once been fruitful, full of life, giving generously to the people who tended it. Now those same fields were barren, the soil dry and lifeless, stirred by the slightest breeze and blowing into dust clouds, coating everything the same dull, dirty grey.
He walked further, down a hill and into the valley, and here in the middle of the field was what had called out to him, drawing him closer with its pleas for help. A great tree, ancient, a thousand years old. Corin went to it, placing his hand on the rough bark and closed his eyes. It lived, barely, the thrill of life within little more than a whisper under his fingertips.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He sat down, his legs giving out as despair combined with a marrow-deep exhaustion. But he had spent too long running when the land had needed him, and now he needed to do something, anything. He dug his fingers into the dead soil, leaning back against the trunk and closing his eyes, feeling his connection to the land. It was different than Alfheim, this land, so desperate to live, fighting to reach him, desperate for his presence. It grasped at him, rushing towards the magic he brought as his reach grew and expanded, spread out, for mile upon mile, further than he could ever have thought possible. It clamoured for him, pleading, but he could not heal it all, not until he was king, and only if he wasn't too late. But maybe he could do a little good.
Corin took a breath, drawing on what little reserves he had before sending his power into the soil. It penetrated deep under the ground, stirring seeds and roots, nourishing the stricken soil, bringing life where life had been driven out, and all around he felt the land awaken under his touch. He opened his eyes and felt his heart lift to see the first tentative shoots break free of the earth, heard the rustle of the branches overhead as buds ripened and split open, the leaves bursting from their sticky cages as, all around, life tore free of the sickness that had held it captive for so long. He worked as long as he dared, sending his magic as far as he could, and then sighed, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but finding himself pleased with his efforts. Looking around with satisfaction, he closed his eyes and fell asleep, with the great tree standing guard overhead.
***
Bram woke up and felt the tug of heat and pain across his shoulder. He tried to move, cursing and muttering, but the pain only intensified, shooting fire across his muscles and down his arm. Gods, but he had to get moving, get out of here; he had been sent to do a job and so far he had failed miserably. He had to get Jean-Pierre back to Claudette safely if it killed him. He tried to ease himself into a sitting position and felt a wave of nausea so intense he thought he might pass out. Laying back down again, he cursed himself, feeling utterly furious and more frustrated than he had ever been in his life. What he needed was a healer. In his lands, a wound like this would have been mended by now, surely there was something, someone in this wretched place that could help him?
He looked up as Jean-Pierre walked in the room holding a cup of coffee.
“Alors, I thought I heard swearing so I figured you were awake.” He grinned at Bram and put the mug down before helping him to a sitting position.
“Thank you,” Bram muttered as Jean-Pierre handed him the mug. It was beyond humiliating to need the help of such a young man.
“Feeling sorry for yourself, huh?” The bright turquoise eyes, so much like his sister’s were far too perceptive.
Bram snorted. “You could say that.” He took a sip of coffee and leaned his head back against the wall. “Gods, man, do you not have any kind of healers around here? I need to get you back home soon or your sister is going to have my head on a pike.”
“Healers?” he queried with a frown. “Well, Ameena has offered to take you to the hospital,” he said, shaking his head at him.
“And what will happen, at your hospital when they take a look at me?” Bram asked, raising one eyebrow.
Jean-Pierre opened and shut his mouth and then shook his head. “Thinking about it, you have a point. We can’t take you there. They’ll take one look at a gunshot wound and call the gendarmes, and, of course, they’ll want ID, name, place of birth, etcetera.”
Bram gave him a wry smile. “That could be difficult.”
They sat in silence for a moment while Bram drank his coffee and then Jean-Pierre got to his feet with an exclamation. “Merde, I’m an idiot!”
“Well, you said it,” Bram murmured, staring into his mug.
Jean-Pierre frowned at him. “I’ve just had a brilliant idea,�
� he said, sounding rather indignant. “Do want to know what it was or not?”
Bram put the coffee mug down and waved his hand at him. “Yes, yes, go on.” If it got him out of this damned bed, he was all ears.
Jean-Pierre sat back down, eager to explain. “A friend of Claudette’s, her grandmother was a healer. Sadly, she died not long ago ...”
Bram rolled his eyes before realising he’d been spending too much time in Ameena’s company. “Very helpful.”
“If you’ll let me finish!” Jean-Pierre said, his tone increasingly exasperated.
Bram sighed and gestured for him to continue.
“Apparently, her niece has the same talents, I’ve heard a few people talking about her and, well, to be honest, I’ve always thought that stuff, you know, herbal stuff and the like, I thought it was just a load of rubbish, but...” He paused and took a breath, apparently hesitant to continue.
“What?” Bram pressed, curious now as the boy looked a bit on edge.
“Well, it’s just …” He stopped again, shaking his head as though he was about to say something really stupid. “I’ve heard rumours about the family and to be honest I thought it was just ... well, more of the same, but now, with you here ...”
“Oh, for the love of the gods, spit it out!” Bram yelled at him, wishing he knew what the devil the boy was on about.
“She’s a witch.”
Jean-Pierre scowled and crossed his arms, glaring at Bram and looking more than a little defiant.
Bram sat up, wincing as he did so but too interested not to move. “You’re sure?” he demanded.
“No!” Jean-Pierre shouted, giving him an incredulous look. “Of course I’m not bloody sure. A witch? Seriously? But then, there you are, an elf, so what the hell do I know?” He threw up his hands before folding them across his chest and retreating into silence.
The Darkest Night Page 8
