Chapter 27
You can’t ask me to watch you die
Night had fallen by the time they’d returned, seen to the horses and dragged themselves up the stairs to their rooms. The inn was dark and cold; Isobelle had to lay a fire in Gwen’s suite by candlelight while Gwen stripped off her chainmail and her sword belt.
She’d learned how to do it on the road with Gwen, with some difficulty.
It required patience and focus, neither of which were qualities Isobelle possessed in abundance.
This time, exhaustion played a far greater role – her hands kept trying to shake as she fed the fragile flame nestled in the wool and wood shavings.
When finally the flame stretched higher, and she was able to give it larger sticks that would hold it beyond a few seconds, Isobelle glanced over her shoulder at Gwen.
The room was still crowded with shadows, but she could see Gwen pulling off her jerkin, sodden from the snow. As she did, the undershirt she wore was tugged up as well, and clung wetly to her shoulders.
Her back was a mass of contusions and scrapes.
She looked like someone who had just been rescued from a torturer’s dungeon after weeks of suffering.
Her skin bore a history written in bruises, from the ugly brown discolourations of those nearly healed, through the bright purple-blue of those beginning to blossom.
And there, in an ugly red band below her ribs, the welts rising from the force of the rope she’d tied around her waist to keep herself from being swept off the cliff in the avalanche.
She had only let Isobelle at her with healing ointment now in a piecemeal fashion – rolling up a sleeve here or lifting part of her shirt there.
To see the entire canvas of the last few weeks writ so large over the sleek muscle and soft skin of Gwen’s back …
to know that the rest of her was likely just as battered …
Isobelle tossed a handful of sticks at the fire and lurched to her feet with a wordless protest. Gwen glanced at her, flushed, and tugged her shirt down.
‘Don’t fret,’ Gwen said quickly, forestalling her. ‘I bruise easily, you know that.’
Isobelle ignored her and caught the hem of Gwen’s shirt, tugging it upward before she could resist. The fabric bunched in her fists, and there it was – the angry welt that circled Gwen’s waist like a brand.
Isobelle’s breath caught. She lifted one hand, fingertips grazing the unmarked skin below the band of red, and felt the muscles of Gwen’s abdomen tighten beneath her touch.
Isobelle drew her hand back, glancing up. ‘Did that hurt?’
Gwen’s eyes were unreadable in the darkness, though the fire was brightening the room bit by tiny bit. ‘No.’ She reached out to take Isobelle’s hand in hers.
Isobelle marshalled her thoughts with an effort. ‘You scared me today,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve been scaring me in general, for more than just today.’
‘The sea monster—’ Gwen began, but Isobelle cut her off.
‘I’m not talking about that.’ Isobelle hesitated. ‘Or rather, not just that. You saved Orson’s life today, and I – I’m glad about that. I’m so glad. But you dived into an avalanche with nothing but a rope around your waist, Gwen. You could have died. Most people would have.’
Gwen released Isobelle’s hand and turned away, leaving her fingers tingling in the sudden absence of touch.
‘But I didn’t,’ Gwen replied shortly, and went to hang her jerkin up to dry before the fire.
The bleakness in her voice froze Isobelle far more deeply than the cold that day had. She’d sounded almost … disappointed.
‘Gwen, we can’t keep doing this,’ blurted Isobelle, whirling to face her champion. ‘Do we have any sign that this is even working? That the necromancer is weakening at all?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gwen admitted. ‘It’s hard to tell if the monster is any weaker, much less the one who controls it.’
Because she was weaker, too. It was more than the wounds she carried – more than the exhaustion.
Isobelle could not tell anymore what might be the spell affecting Gwen and what might simply be Gwen slipping into despair – Tabitha would tell her there was no difference, that magic and mundane were one and the same.
But Isobelle could see the way Gwen tensed every time the harbour bell rang its alarm to signal the monster’s return.
She could see how Gwen had to force herself to reach for her sword.
The fear was working its way through Gwen’s veins to her core. Isobelle was beginning to wonder, though she could scarcely let herself think it, if Gwen could defeat Bingleton before the spell defeated her.
‘You have to stop,’ Isobelle said finally, the certainty she’d been avoiding for days crystallising in her heart. ‘You don’t have to sacrifice yourself to—’
‘Don’t I?’ Gwen’s words were very quiet, and she didn’t look at Isobelle.
Before Isobelle could think of an answer, a sound halted them in their tracks.
The harbour bell had begun to toll. Once, twice – a long, low clangour that rolled out across the water and echoed back again, until it sang in chorus with itself, reverberating in their ears.
Neither of them moved for several long, tense breaths. Then Gwen’s hand lifted, reaching towards the jerkin she’d just hung up to dry, and Isobelle’s paralysis shattered.
‘Gwen, stop!’ she blurted, feeling the blood rush to her face – not in shame or fury, but pure desperation, an intensity that had been building for days. ‘You’ve never tried to fight it at night before – you won’t be able to see. You’re exhausted.’
Gwen’s voice was tight as she pulled the wet leather over her head and back into place. ‘I’m aware.’ She reached for her chainmail. Step by step, she retraced her motions, reversing the actions she had taken moments ago as she’d undressed.
And then a shout sounded from the hallway.
Henry, their loyal – for now – captain, appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed with exertion.
‘Sir Gwen, quickly! There’s a ship sailing in, we can see it by moonlight!
They’re sitting ducks for the monster!’ He turned and sprinted again for the stairs, back towards the harbour.
Isobelle and Gwen both froze in place, and then Isobelle dragged in a breath. ‘Gwen, stop. They’ll see the creature, they’ll sail back out. We’ll keep ringing the bell to warn them.’
But Gwen kept moving, so Isobelle progressively raised the volume of her voice. ‘Stop! Gwen, you can’t! This is beyond reckless!’
Gwen said nothing, rising to her feet and walking stiffly across to where her sword lay. It was as though she hadn’t even heard what Isobelle had said.
This wasn’t Gwen – this was a shadow of Gwen. Isobelle was losing her, as surely as if she’d been pulled beneath the waves – piece by piece, day by day, fight by fight.
Isobelle crossed the room to try again. ‘Gwen, it’s dark. You’ll be killed.’ She stopped near Gwen, raising her hands and adopting a posture of defence, wondering if she had any chance at all of stopping her champion, should Gwen choose to barrel through her.
Gwen simply kept buckling her sword belt, head down.
What was she thinking? Was she thinking at all? Why wasn’t she listening – why wasn’t she looking at Isobelle? Didn’t she understand that worn down as she was, exhausted from fight after fight, this midnight battle could be the end of her?
Isobelle’s heart was racing now, and with a cry of frustration, she played her final card.
The words burst past the dam that had kept them in check, and came flooding out to envelop them both.
‘Gwen, you can’t make this decision. You aren’t yourself.
I think you’re under a spell – you have been almost since we arrived! ’
Gwen’s head snapped up and her hands finally stilled. ‘What?’
‘Do you remember that pouch of herbs you found in your pocket?’ Isobelle asked urgently. ‘It wasn’t one of Olivia’s sachets. Tabitha said it was a hex bag. Bingleton doesn’t just have this town under a spell, he’s cast one on you, too! That’s what’s making you so reckless.’
Gwen’s lips parted, then closed again, as though she’d bitten back her first retort.
She simply gazed at Isobelle, absorbing her words.
When she did speak, her voice was low and controlled.
‘There’s no spell on me, Isobelle. I’m just afraid.
I was before we came here, and I am now.
And the one thing – the only thing – I know for sure, is that I can’t let it get the better of me. If I do, then it really will be over.’
She picked up her sword belt, buckling it at her waist as she neatly stepped around Isobelle and turned for the door.
Isobelle whirled around, taking a helpless step after her. ‘Gwen, it’s a spell! This isn’t how you fight a spell, you can’t force your way through it.’
‘This is exactly how we fight it,’ Gwen snapped.
Isobelle’s heart was beating against her ribs, trying to break free of her body. Her throat was tight, her breath coming too quickly, too shallow.
Gwen was going to die. She was going to haul her battered, exhausted body out into the bay, and this creature was going to come for her in the dark, and kill her.
‘Gwen, this isn’t about being a hero – you’re acting like you’ve got some kind of death wish!’ Isobelle cried.
Gwen stopped, one hand on the door, perfectly still.
‘I can’t go with you.’ Isobelle made herself keep going, her throat aching as she swallowed down a sob. ‘You can’t ask me to watch you die. I won’t do it.’
‘What are you saying?’ Gwen’s voice was icy cold, like Isobelle had never heard it.
‘I’m saying, if you walk out that door, then one way or another, survive or not, it’s over.’
Gwen’s silence stretched into eternity, as tears spilled down Isobelle’s cheeks. Finally, her voice a pained rasp, Gwen replied, ‘If I don’t walk out this door, then call it what you want – my cowardice, his spell – it’s won. It’ll be over anyway.’
And without another word, she left.