It was so unfair that Grisha had been taken down, and by a servant of all things. And not just any servant. Hadn't she always known that Lisette would bring her family ruin somehow? For years she'd been certain that ruin would come in the form of another coup, in Lisette reappearing dressed in finery―true king's daughter that she was―and sending her out past the Wall.
Instead, Lisette had murdered Ilari's lover. And had lost her own life for it.
Since Lisette was dead now and the Champion would be soon, Ilari supposed she wouldn't hold a grudge against her father for not listening to her. But still, it galled her. Nazar had kept Lisette under the same roof as his daughter for years. When Lisette needed punishment, he had merely sent her into the Arena against someone who was equally disobedient. Yes, the loyalists found the spectacle entertaining, but was that entertainment truly worth the message it sent: that the king could safely be made a fool of?
She had told him, hadn't she, that if he allowed the Champion those acts of insolence, someday he would do something worse? And now he had.
Ilari slammed on the wardrobe door again. "I said let me out!"
*~*~*
When Vasya reached the Arena again, a few of the Loyalists were still milling around, but most had left. The fight was over, after all, the excitement gone. Now all that was left were two servants, carrying out the bodies.
They hadn't yet reached Lisette, and he went to her. His voice was raspy and slow as he read the passage―it had been a long time since he'd opened a book, and longer still since he'd read aloud―but he managed.
As soon as the words were said, color bloomed again in her cheeks; her mouth returned to a dark pink instead of the ghastly white it had become after so much blood loss. The tear in her dress was still there, but now her flesh was untorn.
He looked up and saw a young loyalist with a dark blue cape watching him curiously. "You there. Throw me your cape."
The boy stared down at him, hesitant. Realizing that he most likely wouldn't listen without an incentive, Vasya picked up a bloodied sword and tossed it up into the seats.
The loyalist stared at the weapon in shock and then grinned as he hurried over to pick it up. "Thank you," he said, beaming, and set his prize aside just long enough to unclasp his cloak and throw it down.
Vasya covered Lisette with it, and then he lifted her into his arms and went out the gate.
The gate through which he chose to leave faced Vedrana's Forest, though it would be a few hours' walk before he reached it. The Wall guard aimed his crossbow, and Vasya paused, meeting the guard's eyes. He couldn't knock this one unconscious, and he was too heartsick to even be able to think of words for an argument.
After a moment, the guard lowered his crossbow. "I lost my Elisa to one of the deathfights," he said quietly. "Bury her in peace, sir."
Vasya nodded, not bothering to correct the other man's misconception, and began to walk.
Chapter Seventeen
Vasya had been following the Wandering River for less than a day when he saw odd blue lights hovering over the water. He paused, watching them carefully, wondering if they presented a danger.
As he stared, one of the blue lights shifted form, elongated, took on a too-familiar shape and face. "Lisette...?"
She smiled, and blood spread across her chest, flowed from her leg, soaked her skirt until it was dripping. "Do you have any idea how much of a fool you are? Ridiculous old man. Do you want to know why I kissed you?" she asked, too much sweetness in her voice. "Because I was hurt. Because I was confused and looking for some kind of comfort. And you wanted me to stay, didn't you? Bruised as I was, shaken as I was, you would've had me stay."
Vasya didn't―couldn't―answer, and she sidled closer to him. "How long have you felt this way? One year? Two? That's long enough to delude yourself, isn't it, into thinking that I could actually want you?" She circled him, her voice a poisonous hiss. "You, who have the blood of so many on your hands."
Those hands curled tighter, holding onto Lisette―the true Lisette, not this horrific vision―and he tried to focus on the feel of her, cool as her skin was now. He then forced himself to break eye contact with the specter.
It was dark. It had been morning when he'd caught sight of the blue lights.
Quickly turning away from the deathly glow, he paused when he saw something pale lying underneath one of the towering trees, half-covered by leaves and fallen branches.
A skeleton. Picked clean.
For a moment Vasya imagined himself meeting the same fate, caught in the nightmare of the blue lights and wasting away, still cradling Lisette. The enchantment he'd read over her would keep her the same, eternally the same, while he faded down to his bones.
Shaken, he allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and be grateful that he'd been able to look away in time, that even in death she'd provided him with strength. Then he took a deep breath and continued on.
*~*~*
Gennadi woke to a sharp pain in his arm. He blinked heavily through blood-crusted eyelashes, peering in confusion at the figure before him. It wasn't the princess or Grisha. Just a short, rounded man with a face that looked perpetually concerned. A familiar face. He'd seen it before.
One of Ilari's friends?
The thought had him baring his teeth, and the man spoke, no-nonsense and quiet. "Hush. It isn't as if I haven't stitched you up before."
The doctor. Of course. He'd been to see him so many times. Next he'd be forgetting his own name.
He groaned at that thought, and Alain patted his hand gingerly. "There now," he said. "Do you think you can walk, lad?"
"No," he rasped. "Tried. She... told me she'd let me go if I... if I could fight her and win. Let me down. I swung. Could barely stand. I―" He started coughing, and the doctor fetched a glass of water from the table behind him.
"Here now," he said. "Drink this. If you can't walk on your own, then I'll help you."
Gennadi shook his head. "She'll kill you," he muttered in between gulps of water.
"I've lived for several decades and I expect to make it a few more." He picked up one of the knives that had been used for a much different purpose only yesterday, and began sawing at the thick rope around Gennadi's left wrist.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Gennadi's eyes widened in panic, but the doctor simply turned, his expression calm, and faced Ilari. "Freeing this man's hands for a moment."
"I gave you permission for no such thing!"
"Have you not seen me make the rounds down here before?" he asked. "I make sure these most piteous of subjects don't die before their time. Give them water, take steps to prevent their bleeding out."
"You think you can fool me, but you can't," Ilari said. "You were trying to free him! I saw you!"
"The freedom would have been a temporary thing so I could apply salve to these rope marks," he said. "Once that was complete, I would have retied him."
"You are lying and I'll have you executed for it!"
"Young lady!" His tone was sharper now, and Ilari blinked. "I have been here for the rule of Queen Sitera, King Thibault, and your father. I helped each of them through maladies that a lesser doctor would've missed, and I expect one day I will help you as well. I am too valuable to be dismissed or worse over the small task of providing some comfort to these men and women. I am a doctor. This is what I do."
Gennadi saw rage and uncertainty fight a war across her face, and finally uncertainty won. She tilted her chin up, eyes narrowed. "I will trust you this once," she said. "If you prove that trust ill-given, I will see to your death myself."
"Understood, Princess."
"I am not a princess, not any longer. Address me properly."
"Understood, Queen."
"Thank you. Now leave us."
Alain gathered his stitching supplies and his salves, mouthing, "I'm so sorry," as he pulled his canvas bag closed. Then he slowly left the room, and Ilari smiled as she closed the door.
*~*~*
&nbs
p; Emeline wasn't sure how long she'd been watching the Wandering River.
It had rained again last night. Her forearms were coated with mud, her clothes were filthy, and she was fairly sure she'd gotten mud in her hair as well when she'd shoved it out of her face. Still, she couldn't quite make herself move.
Impossibly, she kept expecting Estera to come back. To offer to send her to the castle instead, or to bring Gennadi back here.
If he was still alive.
"Please," she said quietly, not entirely sure what she was asking for or of whom she was asking it.
When she heard footsteps, she turned quickly, a hopeful smile beginning on her face, wanting so badly to believe it was Gennadi that for an instant she saw his form walking along the riverbank.
Then he drew closer, and Emeline realized her mistake. The newcomer was a large, weary-looking man, carrying a black-haired woman. Emeline slowly got to her feet, recognition finally making its way through her exhausted mind.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked, hurrying to Vasya and helping to support him.
"Do you know..." The Champion's voice was raw, and Emeline wondered when he'd last allowed himself to stop for a drink. He looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. "Do you know where the Dwarves are? They have a glass―they have a coffin. I need it. The only way she can live again is with that coffin's help."
Emeline turned her attention to the woman, something in the choppy fall of her hair and the shape of her eyes―
No. No, not her, too. "Lisette? No. She's not... what happened?"
"She was murdered. One of the deathfights."
Emeline stared at him, waiting for some reaction from herself, waiting for the sting of tears or for anguished words to spill forth. There was nothing. Her mind seemed to refuse to let her react, refuse to take this in.
He gently set her down, arranging the dark blue cloak over her and brushing the hair out of her face. Emeline sat down next to Lisette, taking her hand, as Vasya went to the river, peering into it before cupping his hands and taking a drink. Once he was finished, he came back to them, sitting down on Emeline's other side.
"Gennadi?" she whispered.
"Ilari sent him to the dungeons. It may be a small assurance, but at least he won't have to face Grisha." He looked to Lisette, his expression proud. "She took his life."
The words seemed to skim over the surface of her mind and then float away, leaving her unsure of what he'd just said. She looked up at him, confused, and then back down at where her hand was still clutching Lisette's.
Her hand was cold.
That wasn't right. Lisette was always warm, warm from her exertions at work; or from being in the press of bodies in the bondservants' quarters; or after working herself up in an argument. She was motion and passion and fire, and always had been. Nothing about her was cold.
Emeline abruptly dropped Lisette's hand, covering her face as she burst into tears.
*~*~*
"Any sign of them?" Vasya whispered.
"None. I think Gennadi was right; I think they're gone."
"Or perhaps they're out hunting."
Emeline nodded once, but her expression bordered very close to panic. Vasya couldn't blame her―she was actually holding up well, considering that there existed many a tale of travelers suffering sudden heart failure at the mere sight of the Dwarves.
But even if those wretched things were surrounding the coffin, snarling, he doubted it would turn him back now. "Keep watch."
"All right." She pressed her back to a tree, knife drawn. It was a serrated black blade with a dangerous curve to it, blood-red stones embedded in the handle. Something Emeline had taken from the Dwarves' cabin, he was sure. Such a thing would not be forged for her at the castle.
He walked forward, listening for any out-of-place sound, and reached the coffin without incident. Holding Lisette to his side with one arm, he lifted the lid of the enchanted box. Placing her inside, he carefully closed the lid again and watched as the swirling mist enveloped her, nearly obscuring her from his sight.
"Please," he whispered. "Return her―"
A shout of alarm from Emeline cut off his words, and then something slammed into his back. He hit the ground and rolled, gaining his feet quickly and drawing his sword.
They were in the cursed trees. No, not in them. Part of them. Dryads.
One scrambled toward the ground, headfirst, its brown, dead-leaf eyes locked on him, laughing.
He swung his sword at the one who'd knocked him to the ground, lopping off its head. The head rolled, bouncing off the feet of another attacker. It didn't pause to even look at its fallen comrade, let alone mourn. Vasya swung again, slicing the Dryad deep in the side. It collapsed, choking, a reddish sawdust spilling from the wound.
Then he looked to Emeline, saw her using the blade to try and keep one of the Dryads at bay. His mind called back unwelcome images of Lisette in the Arena.
The Dryad grinned at her, and held out its hand. "Magic to magic," it whispered. And the knife glowed white, tearing itself from Emeline's grip and flying to the Dryad's outstretched hand.
"Run!" Vasya shouted.
Emeline wasted no time in obeying, and Vasya drew a shorter blade and flung it at the back of the Dryad who started to pursue her. It sank deep and the Dryad hit its knees, clawing at its back.
The Dryad that remained twirled the knife in its clawed, bark-covered hand, but didn't try to throw the blade. Instead it ran―not toward him, but toward the coffin, shoving it open before it disappeared into the woods and melded once more with its tree, shrieking in laughter.
Vasya paid it no heed. Because Lisette was sitting up now, patting at her leg and at her chest in wonder. Smiling, he stepped forward. She turned to him, returning the smile―only hers revealed fangs.
As he watched, horrified, the whites of her eyes turned a sickly yellow, and lethally-pointed obsidian claws sprouted from her fingernails. Her skin began to darken and wither, resembling tree bark.
He hadn't said the words. He hadn't been able to say the words in time.
"Oh, Lisette," he breathed. "I'm sorry."
She crawled out of the coffin like a spider, rising back to her full height in front of him, tilting her head curiously.
Then she backhanded him, the Dryad within lending her strength, sending him crashing into a tree. He shook his head to clear it, slowly sat up, leaning against the trunk. She was moving toward him again, her eyes on the sword he still held.
He tossed it away.
"I'm not going to raise a hand to you," he said. "No more than I ever would before."
She approached, her walk so far from the confident stride he was used to. Now her motions were stiff, jerking, as if the Dryad wasn't entirely sure what to do with a human body yet. The one fluid motion came from the claws; they clicked together in a rapid threatening rhythm.
He didn't try to go for the sword. After this, the worst of all his mistakes, he deserved whatever this thing chose to dole out. It seemed a fitting retribution for a life where he'd caused nothing but death and scars. The one good thing he'd ever done was choose to try and help Lisette, and in the end he'd been useless at even that.
"I made a mistake," he said. "That morning. I was so surprised that I didn't kiss you back like I should have. I do love you, sweetheart. I'm sorry I failed."
The thing wearing Lisette's face crouched down in front of him, drawing an arm back, claws held together to create one large fatal point, aimed at his stomach.
He knew what to do in a fight, what he should do now. Slam his head forward, stunning her. Grab the wrist, twist it up behind the back, break the arm. Snatch up the sword while the opponent was still too dazed by pain to move; finish it quickly.
He did move forward, but not in the way his survival instinct dictated. He simply closed the distance between them enough to press his lips to hers.
*~*~*
Somewhere within herself, Lisette fought against mist. It was impossible to grab
hold of, the flames in its eyes dancing with laughter as it taunted her.
If she stared into those flames, concentrated, she could see what it saw. At first that sight was dimmed by fog, by thick glass, but then it was free, free and hunting.
She could hear Vasya's voice, faintly, just an echo in her heart, telling her that he wasn't going to strike even now. Lisette shrieked out a protest, willing her own mouth to work, to tell him not to be a fool, that she gave her permission, her blessing.
If he sensed her warning at all, he didn't show it. He simply leaned forward and kissed her.
She wanted to shout at him again, but instead tears filled the eyes that weren't even hers anymore, spilling over.
Lisette clenched her hands into fists as memories flooded in.
After the first deathfight, creeping back toward the Arena and hearing the laughter of the king and his friends as the man who'd refused to take her life collapsed in the dirt below, bloody stripes crisscrossing his back. She'd started forward, only to have Roz grab her and tell her that a child had no business seeing such a thing.
The way he'd grinned at her and Gennadi, that day during the sparring competitions.
The warmth of him.
He hadn't been repulsed or offended by her kiss, as her mind had repeatedly told her. Just surprised.
She had died in that Arena. She knew that now. And he had braved Vedrana's Forest for her. He loved her. And she would not lose that, not now, not to some opportunistic malicious thing.
If she couldn't fight it with something tangible like her fists, then maybe she could destroy it with something intangible.
And she focused, concentrating fully on moments with the people she loved: Emeline's hesitant, kind words; the way Gennadi's shoulders had felt underneath her hands when he'd kissed her; the thrill in her heart when she'd made Vasya smile.
Those memories, that light created a glow in her that spread out, shoving the mist out of her mind and to the edges of her body.
Screaming, it escaped through her skin, burning as it left, evaporating as it hit the open air.
Lisette took several deep breaths, coming back into herself, waiting until the fire in her skin had faded before she opened her eyes.
Winterbourne's Daughter Page 24
