by Ann Aguirre
A chill curls through me. I’m better at reading him now, and there’s definitely something he wants to hide. “No. I haven’t.”
“I see.” His shoulders drop with tangible relief.
I want to trust him because he’s all I have in the world, but doubts trickle in, water seeping into the cracked hull of a boat. I’m meant to believe that he was the victim, from start to finish, and it terrifies me that it might not be true. What if—
No.
Despite my best efforts, I can’t stop the thought from forming. What if he participated freely? Perhaps he was innocent once, but everyone has a breaking point. Everyone can be corrupted. What if I unravel this curse because he’s fooled me completely with his feigned gentleness, and I unleash a monster on the world?
My old fear returns as well. What if he’s the baron? What if he took Njål’s body after the change? Regardless of what else is true, the monsters in the east wing need to die. That’s undisputable.
And I want to keep believing in Njål. I’ll stay the course. Probably I’m just prone to suspecting everyone, for didn’t my own da try to sell me for twenty pounds of flour?
“The book belongs to the baroness,” I muse aloud. “Which means the baron may have left a similar object behind, something I can use to break the curse. Who knows, if I destroy both items, it might be enough.”
To weaken them to the point that I can destroy them both.
Njål circles the worktable and draws me into his arms, resting his chin atop my head. “Are you sure you wish to continue with this? I meant it when I said I’d rather remain trapped for eternity than see any harm come to you.”
Ah, that’s why I have faith in him. His sincerity shines like the sun, warming me as I settle into his embrace. “I’m certain. Can you think of anything that the baron carried around or used a lot? Something that had sentimental value. I found the spellbook by chance, but I can’t rely on luck going forward.”
He thinks for a moment and then says, “He wore a necklace, always. It was the tooth of some great beast he slew in his first hunt. Do you think—”
“It sounds like a talisman,” I cut in. “Which room did they use?”
Briefly, a conflicted expression twists his countenance. “I’ll take you there.”
It’s entirely possible that the baron is still wearing the damned thing, and that’s why Njål hesitated. He may already be aware there’s no point in searching for this, but I accompany him because I’m curious about the chamber they slept in. I might find something else in here, a weakness to exploit.
“I am so afraid,” Njål says.
At first I don’t register the words because his tone is so level and calm. But when I glance over at him, his hands are clenched, claws biting into his palms until I see the red dripping from self-inflicted wounds. Quickly I pull his fingers back, smearing myself with his blood in the process.
“Why?”
“You’ll break yourself on these walls trying to save me, and I can’t stop you.”
“Break myself because of the keep or the curse?”
“It’s the same, isn’t it? Bitterburn is alive in its own way.”
I agree with that, actually. And I’ve long thought that there were two factors in play here, one malicious and the other wild and full of caprice, like a child who hasn’t learned to be wise. I wonder if the intelligence will persist here after the baron and baroness are slain. And if so, how will this place change?
I say sternly, “You’re my lover, not my guardian. I don’t claim that your concern is misplaced, but please don’t allow it to devour you. And besides, how do you know I’m not supposed to be here, doing exactly what I am? Perhaps I’m supposed to set you free.”
“I’d love to believe that—to believe that I hadn’t been forgotten by fate, that I just have an inordinately long destiny thread.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long to be born,” I tease.
“You were worth the wait.”
Utterly undone by his artless charm, I stroke his cheek while dodging away from his kiss. “None of that. I’m on a mission, and I won’t stop, no matter your blandishments.”
29.
Even after all these years, the baron and baroness’s bedroom is opulent.
I expect the white and silver motif to continue here as well, but instead, everything is green and gold, real gilt by the look of it. The fittings on the dresser could feed a family for a year. Though I haven’t cleaned, no dust has formed on the furnishings, and the bed curtains are pristine, a deep, mossy velvet with golden tasseled cords. Somehow, I anticipated a sinister sanctuary with signs of evil writ large. If not in blood on the walls, then the decor ought to show some sign of how wicked the prior occupants were.
But no. Down to the peaceful, pastoral paintings on the walls, this is an elegant, well-appointed room. Silver-backed brushes wait on the dressing table for someone to sit on the padded bench and admire themselves in the clouded looking glass. A shaving kit is placed beside the wash basin, razor still bearing whiskers from its last use. This . . . is eerie.
“You didn’t get rid of their things,” I say, mostly to see what Njål will say.
“It seemed like wasted effort.” He doesn’t explain that statement.
Nor do I press him as I open the nearest wardrobe, which is stuffed full of dresses. He must have brought clothes other visitors had left behind, nothing that belonged to the baroness. I appreciate that.
Next, I target the baron’s armoire, an ornate piece with green cloisonné panels inset into the doors. He has fewer garments than his wife, but they’re all expensive and luxurious. I rummage through various boxes, chests, and drawers, finding ear cuffs and lapel pins, jeweled rings and a larger set that looks like an embellished set of manacles. I can imagine what that’s used for. Unfortunately, I don’t locate the necklace Njål mentioned.
“A pity, but I don’t think the talisman is here.”
As I slump on the floor in dispirited exhaustion, he squares his shoulders. “Wait a moment. I think I know where it is.”
Before I can say a word, he rushes off. I know damn well he’s going to the east wing, possibly to wrest the thing from the baron by force. With every fiber of my being, I want to follow, but innate caution holds me back. When I face them, I want every advantage, and that means destroying their objects of power first—but it will be a slow process, requiring all my limited patience. Acting on impulse will mean the end of both Njål and me. I might’ve been ready for a grim conclusion when I first arrived, but that’s not true any longer.
Both of us deserve to live. I want to travel the world and have adventures, not grow old within these walls. At best I have one chance to set things right. I’ll wait for the perfect opportunity and strike, so swift and sure that they have no chance to mount a defense.
Even Njål doubts that I can do this; he fears me destroying myself like a moth flying into a flame. Best for him to carry that impression back to our enemies.
I have no intention of falling asleep—hell, I’d never drift off in their room of my own free will—but suddenly I’m falling, and I hit the ground with a thud. It hurts. The stairs loom before me and I recognize the descent into the bone room, though with torches lit, it isn’t as terrifying as when I found it. Carefully, I descend step by step as an audible chant rises from below, syllables repeated in a language I neither speak nor comprehend. It’s nothing I’ve heard, not from Njål or any foreign traveler who’s passed through Bitterburn.
I creep to the edge of the wall and peer around. Young Njål is strapped to a table, as is his betrothed, Gilda. Their eyes are wide and terrified, but they can’t scream against the metal and leather pieces fitted across their mouths. The baron and baroness are chanting, and the baron smiles as he raises the knife, etched with occult sigils.
A touch startles me and I flail, arms swinging, until Njål steadies me. When I open my eyes, I’m curled on my side in front of the bed in the green and gold state room. H
e kneels before me, eyes lambent with worry. “What happened?”
As I push upright, I smell fresh blood. “You’re hurt!”
“Just a scratch,” he says. “Here, I got the necklace.”
He unfolds a blood-stained handkerchief to reveal a large yellow fang with a hole through the wide end, a crude leather cord strung through it. This looks nothing like a powerful treasure. It’s a brutal, violent talisman, and before I even touch it, my inner arms warm with the heat it radiates, like fresh blood hot from a kill.
Njål likely expects me to ask where he found it. I don’t because there’s no reason to make him lie. I can smell the fetid aura attached to this thing, as if it’s just been plucked out of putrid flesh. No matter how terrifying this gets, I must not waver. Grimly I accept this hideous token and wrap the cloth edges about it.
Njål pulls me to my feet and I tuck the baron’s amulet in the pocket of my dress. For a moment, I let myself rest against his strong chest and listen to his heart, the one that shouldn’t still be beating, the one that will destroy me if it stops. I’ve already lost one person I love; there’s no way I can survive another parting where I’m left behind. All or nothing, then—we both leave here safe and well, or neither.
Yet I’m also resolute. No retreat. No more making do.
I gaze up at his face, so rare that he lets me look my fill without trying to hide, at least a little. We’ve done so much more, but it feels like a risk when I reach up and touch the small horns nestled in his wild hair. From what I know of animals, he probably can’t feel this, unless I touch his head near the base.
“Did it hurt?” I ask.
“What?”
“When you changed, did it hurt?”
“It was excruciating. Bones breaking and realigned. I vomited blood . . .” Njål lets out a long, steadying breath. “I shouldn’t burden you with that.”
“I want to know more, and I’ll ask, once you’re free. Do you promise to answer? Even things that are difficult. You know everything about me, and—”
“Yes. If you break the curse, I will answer all your questions. I promise.”
“Don’t forget you agreed then.”
That’s enough for me. He’s sworn honestly—I’d know if he was lying, as he’s incredibly inept at it. My little sisters are better at deception. Likely it comes from living in isolation for so long, since he’s had nobody to fool. I take his hand, enjoying the chance to pace through the keep with him at my side, no longer hiding from my sight while observing me from the shadows.
The necklace burns in my pocket, still radiating that odd heat, and I touch it in reflex, hoping that my possession of their talismans doesn’t draw them out of the east wing before I’m armed, ready to fight.
“Is it protected also?” he asks as we retrace our steps.
I haven’t checked yet, but I suspect so. A quick peek into the spirit realm confirms it. “Not as strongly as the book, but yes.”
In the great hall I pause. If my suspicions are correct, I need that ritual blade. The last time I was down here, I was too frightened to search, and moreover, I had no notion what I ought to be looking for. But the item is fresh in my mind from dream-walking. I truly believe that Bitterburn—the aspect that isn’t evil—is guiding me.
“I need to go down there,” I say, pausing Njål with a hand on his arm.
To his credit, he doesn’t ask why. And this time he doesn’t discourage me. With startling deftness despite the claws, he pops the secret panel and the door swings open. We don’t have a lamp, but from the gleam of his eyes, I suspect he doesn’t need one.
He leads me downstairs without missing a step, proving me right. “What are we looking for?”
I stumble over what’s most likely a femur and shudder from head to toe. “The ritual knife. I can’t see a damn thing. If you can’t find it, I’ll need to come back with a candle.”
“I’ve got it,” he says tonelessly. “They were meticulous with their supplies before . . .” He trails, unwilling or unable to complete the thought.
If it gives him any horror to handle such a terrible thing, he doesn’t show it. I rush out of the bone room, flesh crawling. Pain leaves a mark, an indelible impression on the ether, and so many died down here, so many souls devoured with unholy relish. I’m shivering when I emerge into the great hall. Njål is slower behind me, bearing the blade as if it carries much more weight. He ports it warily to my room and stows it in a crate without letting me touch it. Even he uses the edges of his shirt, and knowing what it was used for, I can’t blame him.
“I’m so tired.” It’s not an exaggeration when I stretch and hear my joints pop like I’m an extremely old woman. “Would you like to come with me to see Agatha and Bart?”
“There’s nothing I’d enjoy more. Just a moment.”
Njål rushes off in the direction of the library, and when he returns, he’s holding a book. I smile at him, because this proves I was right about him hovering outside the stable that night. Back then, he listened to me read, perhaps with wistful longing, and he chooses to be part of that now, no longer a lonely exile.
Taking my hand, Njål pulls me through the kitchen. It’s cold as abandonment outside, and I shiver as I run from the house to the stable. In the moonlight, the ice statues gleam with eerie light, and I wonder what will happen to them if I break the curse. Will they return as they were? Or will time have their way with them? I suppose it depends on how long they’ve been frozen. There’s nothing in my witching book to explain any of this; I’m doing my best, based on hints and instincts.
The goats huddle together for warmth in the straw. It’s better in here, not as warm as my room with its cheerful, crackling fire. Bart and Agnes bleat in greeting, and we settle in next to them. Then Njål opens the book, a new novel that looks interesting. I said that, rather. He’s read everything in the library, though he doesn’t always recall plot points. As time passes, memories blur for him. That’s the one blessing about his situation. I suspect he’s lost years this way, drowning in fiction and drink.
Listening to Njål read soothes Agatha, and she lets me milk her with minimal protest. Eventually a yawn practically cracks my jaw, and Njål closes the book with a snap. “Good night, Lady Doe and Lord Buck.”
I shouldn’t find it dashing when he sweeps me into his arms and collects the milk pail with one hand, bending effortlessly even while holding my full weight. Just imagine how much harm he could do, if he turned that strength against someone.
But not me, never me. I trust that he’d suffer grievous harm before hurting me.
Maybe Gilda believed that too, the invidious voice whispers.
30.
Before bed, I tend to Njål’s wounds.
The old ones have formed fresh scars and the new slashes are raw. Both have been inflicted by the same source. He doesn’t speak as I clean and dress the gouges in his flesh, not acknowledging that he risked so much to retrieve the necklace, and here I’m not even certain about my methods.
“Better?” I ask.
“Indescribably so. A kiss would heal me entirely.”
I curl my hand behind his neck and drag his face to mine to provide the proper incentive, then Njål takes me to bed, and I don’t sleep for half the night. In the morning, I’ve breakfast to cook and a goat to milk, but afterward, I settle at the worktable, staring at the necklace and the tome. Experimentally, I nudge them together with a wooden spoon, but nothing happens when the items touch. I was hoping for a hiss or a shower of sparks.
How can I destroy these?
The enchantments on the necklace are less potent, so I close my eyes and center myself, examining the article from all angles. Then I send testing charges against it, seeking a fissure, and the place where the leather threads through the fang vibrates slightly. There, I scrape my energies against it, over and over, until a soft glow starts, like I’m starting a magical fire. The shield reacts and I imagine my power as a knife, levering between protections, forcing them a
part. One layer cracks and it’s weaker below. I keep going like this, until the necklace quivers on the counter and then stills.
I did it.
But I’m exhausted. I can’t even look at the spellbook today. The remainder of the afternoon, I rest and commune with Agatha. Njål joins us eventually, regarding me with fond amusement. At least, that’s how I choose to interpret his smile.
“I succeeded with the necklace,” I tell him, as he settles on the straw next to me.
“You stripped the protections from it?”
I should probably be offended by his shock, but weariness has a bony hand wrapped around my throat. Nodding, I indicate the book tucked beneath his arm. “You came to read to us, I take it?”
He answers by pulling me onto his lap, starting the next chapter as the goats quiet for the night. In the morning, I repeat the prior day’s pattern and apply myself to the spellbook. This time, Njål appears as I settle down to work. His presence is a bit distracting, for he watches me intensely, but I close my eyes anyway.
The tome is like a beacon, darkly glowing in the ether. Shadows flutter all around in my peripheral vision, drawn to its malice. I shouldn’t let my guard down, not even for a second. I imagine myself enfolded head to toe in a bright patina of protection. I can’t let a lesser threat derail me.
Brute force won’t work; I’m not strong enough to power through such an ancient, intricate aegis. What does the book want? Perhaps if I can figure that out, I can trick it. I let light flutter around it, not a threat at all, and fill that spell-wisp with the surety that I have a secret, knowledge passed down through generations. The cover stirs and the pages flutter.
Yes, I’ve read it right. The grimoire knows that I can use magic, and its pages are full of terrible spells. Yet it still yearns for more. Such is the nature of endless hunger; no matter how much it devours, it can never be sated. As the book snaps at my spell-wisp, trying to capture it, I snag the red ribbon that runs down the center, a small thing left to mark the page, but here, it’s also a weakness I couldn’t grasp until the book opened on its own.
