Malice, page 36
“You don’t care.” I wave her off. “Now that your deal is struck. It makes no difference to you whether I’m alive or dead.”
“That’s not true.” She risks a step closer. “I care about you. You know that.”
“Why? Because you bought me a dress once? Because you kept my secrets? Plotted to stage a coup on Aurora’s behalf? Oh, wait.” I tap a fingertip to my chin. “All of that was lies.”
She rounds on me. “I knew the princess was coming to visit you in secret. That you were reading forbidden books. I could have told Endlewild that, but I didn’t. I could have left you to rot in the prison, but I broke you free instead. Went along with your foolish plan—”
“For as long as it was convenient for you.” I shove her shoulder hard enough that she stumbles. Her golden Grace eyes smolder. “But the moment it wasn’t, you disappeared. Just like everyone else. And now you’ve taken Aurora, too.”
The tolling of the bells echoes in the room.
“The Graces are prisoners. Just like you. Remember Narcisse. Rose. You would have done the same if it was the Vila hanging in the balance.”
Maybe. But I dismiss that logic with a shrug. “We’ll never know.”
The sound of the key meeting the lock tears through the room. The handles jiggle. Laurel looks toward the sitting room, then back at me. “They’re coming. You must go.”
I nod, smiling. That familiar, comforting anger building inside my chest. Making me feel powerful. In control. “Oh, I will. And so will you.”
Her brow furrows, trying to sort out the meaning behind my words. Too slowly, for all the strength of her gift.
Mortania’s magic shivers awake. I can feel it uncoiling. Yawning and stretching. As it unfurls, I can sense the humming energy of nearly every object in the chamber. The leafy, woodsy magic of the paper in Aurora’s books, the souls of the trees still trapped inside each page, still smelling of pine and damp earth. The honey-drenched buzzing of the waxy candles. The molten ore inside the iron fixtures.
Laurel backs away one step at a time, her palms up. A sheen of copper-tinged sweat beads across her forehead and cheeks. “Don’t—”
A hawk striking, my magic soars out of my body and into Laurel’s. Her power is stronger than Marigold’s had been, but it yields all the same.
“Alyce,” she gasps. “Please.”
“Don’t worry, Laurel.” I tilt my head at her garbled sobs, riding the intoxicating tide of Mortania’s power. “You’re getting what you want. You’ll never be a prisoner again.”
She opens her mouth to beg. To bargain. And then the last fibers of her magic give out, guttering once, and then going dark. With a muffled cry, Laurel collapses, her arms stretched out on either side of her like broken wings.
Hers is the second life I’ve ended in less than a day. But I feel nothing, save for the crackle of my own power. And the overwhelming desire for more.
Something hard butts against the wood. Voices, first one, then many—one of which might be the queen’s—begin to crest. The door bows inward.
We cannot stay here.
Aurora is too heavy for me to lift alone, but I command my power as I did when I carried the sack of coins to the black tower, filtering strength into my back and arms. After I Shift, it feels like she weighs no more than a child. I scoop her up, careful to tuck her head under my chin.
And then, just as the door begins to splinter, I shove aside the tapestry on the far wall and duck inside the servants’ halls.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I break into a run. There’s no help for it now. A Shift would do nothing to aid me. Even if I became invisible, the servants would see Aurora’s body suspended in midair.
And so as we pass each wide-eyed and spluttering maid and footman, I reach into their bodies and snap their magic neatly in two. With Mortania’s power inside me, it’s as easy as popping the head off of a daisy. And I feel only a faint itch of guilt each time another purple-liveried body wilts. They would have done the same to me.
I count twenty before we make it to the old library, the only place in this wretched palace that is ours. The blanket is still where we left it. I lay Aurora down on top of it, fetching a stained pillow for her head. If I breathe deeply, I can still catch our scents twined together. Appleblossom and woodsmoke. My stomach flutters.
But we aren’t alone. Footsteps stampede down the corridor, shouts ringing back and forth as the palace guards follow my trail of dead servants. Swords sing their way out of sheaths. But they will not reach us. No one will separate us again.
With unbelievable ease, my magic finds the hearts of forest in the books and sends them flying off the shelves and piling in front of the open door. Torchlight bobs along the walls outside, the guards closing in. I am ready. I coax that leafy, loamy magic out, melding the flimsy hearts together until they are strong and sure. And then I set it free.
Fully grown trees erupt from between the pages of the books. Not the green-leafed saplings like those beyond Briar’s gates. But black, spear-limbed things that roar toward the ceiling. I push harder, thickening the trunks. Bidding spiky, poison-tipped thorns to pierce through the bark.
I remember a lifetime ago, when I was a different person altogether, and had wept because I could not heal Duke Weltross. Because I could only craft darkness and death.
What a fool I was.
These trees, their slick skins, twisted to form a deadly barrier at the library’s entrance, are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
A guard rounds the corner. There’s the sound of flesh separating from bone as he’s greeted by my thorns. I laugh, Mortania’s power surging through my blood and filling my lungs with the scent of molten steel and dark wine.
Swords hack against the other side of my trees, little better than needles against stone. They’ll never break through. I let the guards tire themselves and turn back to Aurora.
She sleeps so peacefully, unaware of the chaos surrounding her. I run my fingers through her silky hair. Trace the shape of her lips. The dip of her collarbone. The curve of her neck. Was it only days ago that we shared the night together here? I can still see her, luminous and soft and so perfect it makes my chest ache. She told me I was beautiful. Held my hand while her parents berated us. Risked everything to be by my side.
And what had I done?
Colluded with the Shifter who had helped murder her family. Believed his lies. Cursed the spindle that nearly killed her.
The tears come again, swift and brutal. I press my forehead against her knuckles. Plead for her forgiveness. For her to open her eyes and let this nightmare fade away.
I should let the prince wake her. Watch her velvet eyes cloud and darken when she thinks of me, the Vila who held her captive. Let her live a life with children and a throne and every other happiness while I waste away in some faraway place. As good as dead without her—the one person who was ever mine. It would be a fitting punishment.
“DARK GRACE!” I recognize the king’s bellow as it reverberates through the barrier. “You will release my daughter at once and answer for your crimes!”
My crimes. Yes. I have plenty of those. There is a trail of bodies outside, soaked in my magic. Every patron cursed from my elixirs. And then Laurel. She would tell me to give up. That I cannot win against an army of the king’s best men, plus the Etherians. I rub my thumb absently over the back of Aurora’s hand.
“I warn you, Dark Grace. When we tear down this wall, my soldiers will rip you limb from limb. Your head will sit on the palace gates. The birds will peck out your eyes!”
“What of your plans to invade Etheria?” I volley back, wondering how far away the High King’s army is. “Have you no more need for your weapon?”
A barrage of steel on wood answers me.
My magic shudders as an echo of Mortania’s voice whispers through me. Is this the man I will allow to care for Aurora? I recall her hard-edged fury when she spoke of her suitors. How she did not falter when her father threatened her very life if she crossed him. And then there are the lives of her sisters, yielded for Tarkin’s greed.
Aurora would not want her throne. Not like this.
“Bring down this wall!” The weapon strikes become more frantic. “You are nothing! NOTHING! A beast who needs to be put down. I will—”
But I am no longer listening. A glimmer on Aurora’s bodice has caught my eye. A piece of embroidery on her neckline, so delicate and small I thought it was a floral pattern. A trail of forget-me-nots or a lily chain. But it’s something else entirely.
Dragons. I trail my fingertip along the golden stitching. A horde of dragons in flight. One tumbling after the other, twisting and soaring, breathing fire. Magnificent, terrible beasts.
Just like me.
Yes. Mortania’s rasping voice again. Both mine and not mine. A shadow dwelling in my soul. And an idea unspools from that darkness. Mortania’s magic heightened my Vila power, making me stronger than I could have dreamed. Had it done the same to my Shifter abilities?
Using the magic I find in the books, in the shelves, in the tables, I create a bed for Aurora. It wraps underneath her, gently lifting her up, then winds over her head, melding into an intricate cage, the slats so close together that I can barely detect the slow rise and fall of her chest. Thorns spike out in every direction, ready to defend her against anyone who draws too near. The star-chosen prince, Elias. The king. Any fool who thinks to wake her and claim her for their own. She will wait until I can figure out what to do. A hundred years, if need be. When the rest of Briar is dead and we can start again. But for now…
The king is still shouting at me. Calling me all manner of names, so familiar to me now that they might as well be mine: Mongrel. Beast. Abomination. They burrow under my skin and spread their roots, sprouting painful memories. The looks on the courtier’s faces when Rose revealed me at the masque. The disgust in Marigold’s voice when she learned I broke the curse. The revulsion in the queen’s eyes when she saw me huddled against her daughter.
Aurora could have created a new world. A realm worth fighting for.
They do not deserve it.
Endlewild and I agree on one thing: Briar is no longer the land Leythana claimed from the helm of her dragon fleet. It has become a tree bearing rotting fruit. And there is only one thing to do with such trees.
Burn them to the ground.
My Vila magic hurtles out of my body and pummels into the outer wall of the library. The ancient brick explodes. Part of the roof caves in, stone and wood raining down in an avalanche on the Grace District. The bells are still tolling in anticipation of the royal wedding. I grit my teeth against the sound. Remember what Kal taught me. I was cautious with my Shifts before. Hesitant. But I draw on my unfathomable rage now, letting it snap and spark and roar.
If they want a monster, they shall have one.
Without a second thought, before I can let myself doubt, I take a running leap out of the gaping hole in the wall.
For one heart-stopping moment, I’m falling. The wind tears at my limbs. My stomach lurches into my throat. But I concentrate on my Shift. Command my power to obey.
Now, I order.
There’s a blinding pain in my back. A pair of taloned wings shreds the fabric of my bodice and unfurls from my spine, like the sails rumored to have graced Leythana’s ships. Veined and scaled and beautiful. Nothing like the flimsy illusions I summoned in the black tower. They buoy me up on the current of wind. My breath halts at the sheer joy of it. At the feeling of winter morning against my skin. The sight of the Grace District spreading below me. Exhilarating. I sharpen my eyesight, reveling in the way the citizens are scattering. Pointing at the sky, their shrill screams like music.
I’ll deal with them later.
Stones are still falling from the wounded library. I position myself in the air, calculating where the king and his men are trying to force through my barrier. Mortania laughs, low and knowing, as her magic unspools with mine. A single command is all it takes. The roof above the guards collapses, as if it were made of nothing stronger than sticks and mud. Death cries float their way up to my ears. Shouts to protect the king. But it’s far too late for that. If I breathe deeply, I can scent the charred copper of blood and fear. It is only the beginning.
I’ll give Tarkin credit. For a realm that hasn’t seen war in centuries, his army is well trained. Within moments, archers line the battlements, shooting volley after volley of flaming arrows in my direction. I land on top of the library and let my Vila magic wrap around me like a shield. The blows strike the shimmery green barrier, then slide away. At the first break in their assault, I launch from my perch and streak across the sky. Find the fiery hearts of the soldiers’ torches and build it up. Stronger and hotter. Until each one blazes green with the force of my power and leaps into the archers’ faces. Men howl and topple off the towers like the markers in Tarkin’s war room.
In the distance, a fresh wave of soldiers is readying a cannon. They pour the powder and stuff down the ball in a perfectly synchronized dance.
But they have never faced a Vila.
The shot booms, a blur of black coming straight for me. I tread the air. Let them think they have landed their hit. And then at the last moment I release my magic. It catches the cannonball midflight and sends it careening back toward the battlements. There’s a deafening crack as steel thunks into the side of the tower. The whole thing groans and leans to one side. Half of the men plummet to their deaths. The others are scrambling. Shouting. I concentrate on my Shift. My fingernails lengthen into claws. A barbed, poison-tipped tail punches through the base of my spine. The soldiers are trying to ready the cannon again. Cramming down the ball and the powder. Fools.
I tuck my wings in and dive. Spears sail past me, but I am faster. The wind whistles against my eardrums. Fear setting in at last, the men abandon the cannon and flee. Not quickly enough. I bank. Swoop low. My tail lashes out like a whip and connects with soft throats and tender bellies. Just before I make for the skies, a brave, stupid soul jumps into my path, brandishing a sword. I tear him in two with my claws. His insides spatter on the stone.
More. Mortania’s laugh trills with the clanging of Briar’s alarm bells. More.
Yes. At my command, the powder in the cannon explodes. Green fire snakes its way into every crack and crevice of the tower. I leave it to do its work and circle back to the rest of the realm. The Grace District is soaked in the acrid scent of terror. Men with axes and blades and even pitchforks crowd the streets, swinging their weapons at me like they could possibly make a difference. Women watch from the windows, mouths hanging open. I want to taste the salt of their tears. Rend the plump satin of their Grace-gifted skin.
I find Lavender House first. Every moment I spent inside, chained to spill my blood in the name of jealousy, swirls in my mind. Every snide comment. Every cruel prank. In seconds, I’ve called the fire in the lanterns. Casings burst. Flame canters through the garden and climbs the walls of the house. The Grace pennants are cinders. Windowpanes shatter onto the snow-blanketed hedges. There’s a chorus of screams as my fire plugs doorways and broken windows, ensuring that there is no way out—not for any of them. The same way they’d trapped me for twenty years.
A new cry splits the air, and I look up to find a speck on the horizon. No. Not a speck. A shape I know very well. But one I never thought to see above the rooftops of the Grace District.
My heart swells. “Callow!”
She soars toward me in the steely sky, her black eyes fierce and vicious. A warrior’s.
“How did you get here? Where have you been?”
The kestrel lands on my shoulder. Nudges her head against my cheek in greeting. Callow. Come to fight beside me. Our wings were clipped, but we’re flying anyway, two birds freed from our cages. Untethered.
“Come,” I tell her. “Let’s show them what we can do.”
Callow needs no encouragement. She swoops and dives, talons slicing the faces of our enemies. Pecks at fingers and hair and arms. Before long, the Grace District is nothing but smoldering green fire and the sweet, addictive scent of blood. Already, ships are beginning to leave the harbor, frightened passengers falling over themselves to get below decks. I find the wooden magic of the masts and break them in half. Set the rest aflame, dragon figureheads charring black.
We wing back to the palace. The fires I set are growing steadily. Tendrils of black and green smoke curl in the air. But the windows of the king’s war room are yet untouched. Another familiar figure looms behind them, staff pulsing gold. Endlewild.
Fresh rage boils in my belly. The Fae ambassador regards me with cool detachment, as if he doesn’t care that I’ve wrecked half the realm. As if I’m still something he can crush under the heel of his boot.
Show him who we are, Mortania urges.
With a feral yell, I send my magic into the famed windows of the war room. For glass that is said to be able to withstand dragon’s fire, it carries a flimsy heart indeed. It cracks almost instantly, a long fissure spiking up the center and webbing outward. And then, with a last push of my power, the glass implodes.
Endlewild doesn’t flinch. Not even as the storm of glittery shards whooshes into the room and cyclones around him.
Callow settles on my shoulder as I tread the air current.
“I see you have ignored my warnings once again,” Endlewild says, indifferent as ever. “Your anger will be your undoing.”
Callow shrieks at him, her talons digging into my flesh.
“It will also be yours, Lord Ambassador.”
“Wicked creature. This is not over. You will have all of Etheria upon you. Kingdoms from beyond the Carthegean Sea. It will mean a war.” He raises his staff. A gilded aura shimmers around the orb, where his own heart of magic dwells. “We will bring you down.”
