Heart’s blood to calm you.
Heart’s blood to keep you.
Heart’s blood to live on in me.
She went to Falada’s head and, with resolve she’d never expected she possessed, tucked the bloody fabric deep in her mouth. Nodding to the knacker, she stepped back. “You may proceed.”
Wild-eyed, he worked quickly, hauling the head up the ladder and nailing it in place, muttering some prayer as he did. A pool of sticky blood formed in the snow beneath. Conrad stood a ways off, face contorted in astonished disgust. Nix waited for the knacker to leave, the magic pounding through her heart, answering the call of blood. Hoping enough of Falada’s magical spirit remained nearby.
“Alas! dear Falada, there thou hangest,” she whispered.
The head opened its eyes, coated milky white with death. “Alas! Queen’s daughter, there thou gangest.” The voice came out thready, uneven. “If thy mother knew thy fate, her heart would break with grief so great.”
Conrad made a strangled sound of terror, threw down his staff. It fell in the puddle of coagulating blood as he raced back to the castle and Nix picked it up, smearing the polished wood with Falada’s faerie magic. It wound with her own and coalesced, the steam of fading death forming into a shape, until the horse’s ghost stood beside her.
“Ready to watch the geese?” she asked and headed down the road, Falada’s ghost trotting alongside. No greetings from the folks she passed on her way that morning. Instead they offered rolling glances of horror and concern for her blood-spattered self. She ignored them, singing a jaunty tune, Falada carrying the harmony.
They spent a pleasant day, though the clouds gathered and snow began to fall, growing denser by the hour. Over and over, Nix told Falada how sorry she was that she’d balked at leaving and the ghost swirled the snowflakes in a dance to lighten Nix’s grief.
She didn’t want to be cozened, however. Instead she clung to the boiling fury, forging her black devastation into shining rage. Carefully she fed it with every bit of heart magic, of the fear, the despair, the debilitating weakness she felt, nurturing it like the babes she would never bear. She could never be Cavan’s wife in truth, could not devastate his noble heart with the knowledge that he’d been duped, had violated his marriage vows and defiled his body. But she could set him free. Natilde had killed herself when she spoke Falada’s death warrant. Nix would simply be her executioner. She’d die gladly for the crime. Perhaps her ghost could join Falada’s, circling the goose pond for eternity.
With Natilde and Nix both dead, Cavan could marry again. Perhaps to a woman he could like better, one who’d be a good queen for their combined kingdoms. Something she hadn’t considered until she passed along what Cavan needed to know. Natilde’s personal corruption rivaled even the worst of the nobles.
Entirely possible they’d sent her on purpose, planning to have her take Nix’s place all along.
If so, they would not succeed in that, either. The widowed Cavan would retain rule over both kingdoms—and he’d know what he faced. His children, the progeny of one of the best men she’d ever met, would take the throne someday. Perhaps they’d visit the pond in springtime and she could make the petals of the cherry blossoms dance for them, to tease out their laughter.
Once this was done, there should be laughter to fill the holes.
A sharp nip on her cheek jolted her out of her brooding thoughts, the geese pressing around her in anxiety, flapping their clipped wings to send the snowflakes spinning. She’d waited overlong, the sky dark and snow deep around her. She wasn’t cold, though. Instead a drowsy warmth infused her. The blaze of revenge. Savoring it, she tipped her face to the sky, letting the snowflakes slide off the forged heat of her skin.
* * *
Snow fell around Cavan, so densely that he almost couldn’t make out the grotesque sight.
But there it hung, the head of Nix’s horse, nailed above the gate to the town road, just as Conrad had told Brenna. The boy had spun a wild tale of a blood-spattered, wild-eyed Nix talking to the head and the dead flesh speaking back in archaic rhymes. Brenna called Conrad more daft than usual, but the knacker—poor thrice-damned man—verified that Natilde had demanded he hang the head there, and Nix had done... something to it. She’d been crazed, he said, and he’d been rattled to begin with, imagining that the horse had begged him not to kill her.
Strange events that chilled Cavan more than the snow soaking through his cloak. Not the least of which was the horror of Natilde, ordering the horse’s death, having it hung where Nix would see it. Another escalation of her mysterious vendetta against Nix. One abhorrent to both his own nature and the values set by the king. No life should be wasted thus. Frost rimmed the once-elegant ears and snow furred over lashes, closed against the mare’s fine-boned eye sockets. She had been a fine horse. Worse than a crime to have carelessly destroyed her.
Or deliberately. For surely this had wounded Nix unbearably.
His mind reeled at how to handle this, what to say to his wife, when he wanted most to wrap his hands around her slender, bejeweled throat and enjoy the glee of seeing the life fade from her poisonous gaze.
Also revolting, how much he wanted that. Values be thrice-dammed.
As he moved beneath the head, a trick of the light or the falling snow made it seem as if the horse’s muzzle flexed, lips drawing back. The hiss of wind carried a voice, female and full of sorrow. Her heart would break...
A chill that had nothing to do with the weather raised the hairs on his neck and spurred him through the gate and down the deserted road. Muscles straining as he broke trail in the deepening snow, he focused on finding Nix. She should have returned hours since. Wretched Conrad, telling no one he’d left her out there alone. Napping in the stables until Brenna rousted him out. Cavan could have sent men to fetch her—probably should have brought some along—but he’d been too impatient. And haunted by the dread that he’d somehow caused this. It fell to him to find Nix and bring her home. Brenna, with a searching glance and a shrewd nod, hadn’t tried to talk him out of it.
He nearly missed the turn-off to the pond, the snow had covered it so fully. But the sound of a goose honking had him turning back. The lone goose shook off its cape of snow and, hissing at him, flapped its waddling way down the snowy bank. Cavan sank to mid-thigh, struggling through, fearing for Nix more than ever. Only a gaggle of the birds milled about on the verge, scuffling snowflakes into wild patterns with their wings. No sign of Nix.
In the pattern of falling snow, it seemed a horse pranced. A wraith of mist there and gone. With nothing else to go on, he followed it.
And nearly fell over Nix.
Buried in snow, surrounded by milling geese, she looked as dead as the mare’s ghost. As erased as her name implied. Her skin and hair white as bone, she seemed a sculpture made of the snow lovingly piled upon her. But when he strangled out her name, her frozen lashes fluttered, and she opened eyes the color of high summer sky.
With a curse, Cavan gathered her up, snow shedding from her cloak to reveal more colors. Wading through the drifts, the brassy honks of geese echoing his straining heart, he regretted not having more help. This was his penance then, for whatever of his failures had made this come to pass.
Nix watched him, eyes guileless as a doll’s and—once or twice—their glassy quality made him think she too had died. But her gaze remained fixed on his, her bloodless lips moving in some soundless song or prayer. When they passed beneath the mare’s severed head, intelligence moved behind the deep blue glass. And something else.
Fury.
He took the back way, the servants’ entrance directly to the warm kitchens. Several maids shrieked at the sight of him and one dropped a tray of bread to make the Circle of Glorianna. Brenna wasted no time pointing out that this was their prince and no ghost or frost-monster, and set them to work rescuing the bread and boiling more water.
When she turned to lead the way to the stables, Cavan shook his head, melting snow fallin
g in runnels down his neck, shedding around him like a surge of spring run-off. Instead he climbed the servants’ stairs, two, three at a time and carried Nix to his own chambers. Brenna barred the door behind them and fixed him with a worried frown.
“You can’t have the girl here,” she fretted. “It’s not done and—”
“Am I not a prince? Heir to the throne and penultimate ruler of all in Erie?” He ground out the words in a voice that made Brenna widen her eyes in trepidation. He’d failed to act before and would not make that mistake again. “I decide what is done. Only the king can countermand.”
Heedless of the snow soaking her, he set Nix on his great bed. She watched him with those vacant blue eyes as he fumbled with frozen fingers at the ties of her cloak. Not without compassion, Brenna shouldered in and took over the work, briskly bidding him to turn his back and change his own garments as she efficiently stripped Nix of her clothes and tucked her under the covers. When he returned, she’d taken away the sodden coverlet and whisked out another goose-down comforter.
Brenna searched his face, hands fisted on her hips. “What is this about, Cavan?”
He looked past her to Nix, ivory hair spread over the white pillows to dry. A porcelain doll, shattered by brutality. He swallowed down his guilt to force out the words. “I’m in love with her.”
“Oh, my sweet boy.” Brenna whispered in devastation, then clutched his arm, forcing him to look at her. “That cannot be. You will ruin her and the Princess will use this to destroy you both. Your marriage is too new. You don’t yet have an heir. Think of your duty to—”
“I’m sick to death of a duty that forces me to bed a woman I loathe and to turn my back on someone who deserves my protection.” He said it forcefully enough that Brenna, shocked, released him and stepped back. “What kind of man am I,” he asked her more gently, “what kind of king would I be, if I turn away from what I know in my heart to be right, to embrace a surface that covers a vile wrong? This is the right thing to do—I know it in my heart.”
She scrubbed her hands in her apron. “All right then. How do you want to handle this, my Prince?”
“One step at a time.” Impulsively, he hugged her, as he hadn’t in years, since he’d grown into a man. “She must live before we can do aught else.”
“She’ll live.” Brenna patted his back, her voice watery. “She’s far tougher than she seems. I’ll bring the things and keep this quiet. But remember—I can keep everyone out but the king. You’re on your own there.”
“I’ll handle my father, if it comes to that.” He’d find a way.
He barred the door behind Brenna and returned to sit with Nix. A hint of rose had enlivened her lips, the sweet line of her cheekbones, but she stared into nothing. Her mouth moved, repeating words he could not hear. Bending closer, he put an ear to her lips, the chill emanating from her as from the walls of ice in the north.
The words hissed together, tangling and blurred, until he made them out, bit by bit, and strung them together. “Alas! dear Falada, there thou hangest.” Over and over.
He called her name, stroking her cheek, but she seemed not to hear him, buried in her prayer. Except it sounded less reverent or supplicating, and more like a witch’s chant. A thread of rage and revenge wound through the simple words that stirred his own blood, prodded and compelled him.
So much so that, when Brenna returned with her supplies, he swung on his own cloak again and—shushing her protests—went out into the storm.
The mare’s head, hung there still, the shroud of snow doing little to disguise its ghastly impact. Steeling himself, he repeated Nix’s words. “Alas! dear Falada, there thou hangest.”
Ice glittered in the air, along with a potent surge of a magic he’d never encountered but recognized instantly. It sounded blue as Nix’s haunted gaze and smelled of spring rain. Frost shattered off the severed head as its eyes opened, the burning white glare of its dead eyes riveting him.
And spoke.
“Alas! Queen’s daughter, there thou gangest. If thy mother knew thy fate, her heart would break with grief so great.”
The words tolled through him, a broken bell of warning, sinking him to his knees. Much as Nix had cowered before Natilde. No—Nix was the Princess Natilde. Which meant the woman in the bridal chamber, the one he’d bedded... was someone else, entirely. He’d betrayed his wedded wife, his vows.
To Nix. Who’d known the truth and hadn’t said.
It would be a horror to you to compromise your integrity in such a way. That would undermine who you need to be.
What did the little bitch say to you?
You shouldn’t consort with her ilk.
He’d been duped. Tricked. And stupid.
9
The warmth of soup and kind words penetrated her icy shell. Goose down surrounded her and, for a dreamy space, Nix imagined the geese had wrapped her up in their wings, keeping her warm and safe.
As if they too had thawed, tears melted down her face and Brenna tutted, wiping them away. Focusing on the woman’s kind, concerned face, Nix tried to think where she might be.
“You’re in Prince Cavan’s bedchambers,” Brenna told her and fed her a spoonful of soup. “He found you in the snow and brought you back.”
That explained the great bed, the carved wooden posts and elaborately inlaid fireplace, heating the room with life-giving flames. Not her cozy room in the stables. Where she belonged. A goose girl, not a princess.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered to no one.
“Your Prince put you here, so I imagine that means you should be,” Brenna returned with confidence. But she didn’t entirely believe her own words. She sounded worried. Concerned for the man she loved like her own.
“Where is Cavan?”
Brenna pressed her lips together and shook her head. “You don’t worry about that. Your job is to eat soup, drink tea and rest. Everything else will come as it will.”
As if summoned by her words, a fist pounded on the doors, spurring her heart into a similar thudding rhythm. Brenna rose, checked the peephole, and unbarred it. Cavan burst into the chamber, snow falling away from his cloak like feathers, gray eyes like stormclouds as they fixed on her. He looked wild, like a warrior from an old tapestry, as if he should be swinging a great sword on a battlefield. “Leave us,” he snapped at Brenna, never taking his gaze off Nix.
Far from taking offense at his brusque order, Brenna smiled and bobbed a curtsy. “See that she keeps eating.”
Wanting to beg the woman not to leave her with this man she wanted so badly and dared not claim, Nix shrank into the covers as he barred the door, locking her in. If only the goose down could swallow her up and bury her. But Cavan’s steel-sharp glare kept her pinned to the world. He dropped his cloak to the floor and strode to her, stripping off his gloves as he came. One knee brought him up onto the bed and he bracketed her face in his hands, holding her still for his questioning.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you are, Princess Natilde?”
The question knifed through her. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s who you are.”
“No.”
“No?” His hands tightened on her face. “Don’t you lie to me. You’ve lied enough.”
“It’s not a lie. I never lied. I’m not her anymore.” She managed to get her arms from under the swaddling covers, wrapped her fingers around his strong wrists, not to pull them away, but to hold on. So she wouldn’t go under. “I lost her. Maybe I never had a good grip on her to begin with, but I left her on an icy stream bank and I can’t ever be her again.” As if the shell had been ripped from her along with her clothes, leaving a small and naked thing. All the wrong size.
“You are the woman I married, that I exchanged vows with. Not the other.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, willing him to understand. “I’m so, so sorry. I hoped you’d never find out.”
“Why?” He looked so bleakly confounded, lost as she’d been. �
�If only you’d told me, I would never have bedded another, violating my vows to you.”
“But you didn’t,” she insisted. “You operated out of the best of intentions, so there is no stain upon you for it.”
“There is.” His fingers dug into her cheekbones in a way that made her want to weep, not from pain, but from his anguished scrutiny that laid her bare. “I failed you, in the worst possible way.”
“Cavan...no.” She leaned in, willing him to understand. “I failed. I couldn’t seem to stop any of it. I let her strip me, h—hurt me. Take my place in your bed. Take Falada from me. There wasn’t anything I could do.”
“You could have told me.”
“I couldn’t. It’s a terrible thing to discover that you are nothing. Why would you have believed me? I had no proof.” Her throat clenched around the final confession. “I am no longer a virgin, Cavan.”
His brow grew thunderous. “You were raped? Who? I’ll have him flayed for this.”
“No man. She did it. With the hilt of a knife.” The dismay in his face sickened her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Ah, Nix.” His grip slackened and he slid fingers into her hair, drawing them through, much as she might have with Falada’s mane. She closed her eyes against the memory. “All this time,” he murmured, “I wondered how I could be so drawn to you, why I felt a connection to you and not her.”
“I feel it, too. The vows, perhaps,” she said, his touch making her both sleepy and roused.
“What do you mean?”
“As if, by promising ourselves, even far apart as we were, we connected. We both wanted to do what’s right for our people. I see that in you, the way I know it in myself.”
“I knew you, also, in my heart, from dreams or another place. But it’s more than that. From the first moment, and adding on with each moment after, I fell in love with you.” His voice came hoarse as his hands drifted over her shoulders, tracing her collarbones. Her nipples peaked and she became aware that the covers had fallen away and she sat bare-breasted before him. Cavan’s gaze followed her thought and his hands. “I thought of you, all the while. Pretended it was your skin I touched, your thighs I spread.”
The Twelve Kingdoms: Heart's Blood Page 7
