Chapter 24
Beatryce woke up and stretched, genuinely glad to see the day.
Casting that spell over her mother last night had left Bea feeling powerful in a way she’d never experienced before. She truly had been a fool to shun her training as a child. She realized more than ever what she’d missed out on.
She could only hope that with Malzar’s help, she might learn enough to make her grandmother and mother proud.
She’d just rung for Lysette and Sylvia when she heard urgent knocking on her door. From somewhere in the apartment, Sylvia called out, “On my way, my lady.”
Apparently, they’d already arrived.
Bea pulled on her robe while she waited, wondering if it was Dren at the door. She doubted he’d knock so loudly, but then again, with the size of his hands, perhaps he didn’t realize how loud he was.
She opened the drapes in the bedroom herself. The day was well underway, the gardens beyond streaming with sunlight.
Sylvia came in and curtseyed. “Good morning, my lady. Councilor Wyett is here to see you. He says it’s a matter of urgency.”
Bea nodded. “I’ll see him in the sitting room. Fix my tea immediately.”
“Right away, my lady.”
As Sylvia left, Bea glanced at herself in the mirror. She was less presentable than she would have liked to be, but Wyett would understand. She adjusted her robe, tucked back a few unruly strands of hair, then went out to the sitting room.
He was standing by one of the windows. He bowed as soon as he saw her. “Good morning, your highness.”
“Councilor. What is this urgent news you bring?”
“Everyone is ready to proceed with your mother’s healing. I thought you’d want to know so you could attend. If that’s still your desire.”
“It is. How soon?”
“Within the hour. Clary is bathing her and changing her linens now, preparing her for the procedure.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Very good, your highness.” He paused. “If your mother survives this procedure, it will be months before she’s fit to rule again. The crown must remain on your head until then.”
Bea nodded. “I understand. And I’m at peace with that.”
“I will always be available to you, as I am to your mother.”
“Which I am grateful for.”
He gave her a quick smile. “I will see you soon, then.”
“One more thing, Councilor. Have you seen any progress in my uncle’s search for a new magician?”
“To be honest, your highness, I haven’t paid him any great attention lately. My time has been spent with your mother. Do you want him in attendance at her healing?”
“No. But I would like some kind of progress report from him. We are now relying on a stonecaller to help my mother. It should be a Grym magician assisting Mistress Barlow, not a troll.”
Sylvia came in with Beatryce’s tea. Bea held her off with an upraised palm.
Wyett nodded. “I understand and agree. I will let him know you want to be apprised of his work.”
“Thank you.” As Wyett left, Bea waved Sylvia over. Bea took the cup of tea off the tray and drank. “I need to be ready quickly. A simple gown, nothing elaborate or bright or showy, paired with a simple circlet. Nothing more.”
“Yes, my lady. And for your breakfast?”
“I’ll eat when I return. Go, get my things laid out. I’ll be in shortly.”
Sylvia took off. Bea carried her tea into the office, locked the door behind her, and headed into the vault. She’d put the key in the pocket of her robe last night so she’d know exactly where it was.
She went straight to the mirror. “Malzar, I need you.” She drank the last of the tea down and set the cup aside.
The shadowy face appeared. “I am here to do your bidding, my queen.”
“The attempt to heal my mother and remove the blade from her body is about to take place. I’m worried it won’t go well. We’re being forced to use a troll stonecaller, as there is no magician in Malveaux capable of handling the blade as needed.”
He nodded, sending little tendrils of smoke across the glass. “You successfully performed the strengthening spell over her last night?”
“I did. It seemed successful, anyway.”
“Then you’ve done all you can. If it seems as though the healing isn’t going well, or that she’s fading, you must be close to her. You must reassure her with your touch that you are there. Regardless of what anyone else tells you. You are queen. No one can prevent you from helping her.”
Bea nodded. “Yes. I will remember that.”
“Whatever happens, don’t be afraid. You are the granddaughter of Leda Blackbryar, and she would not be afraid.”
“I will not be afraid either.” Bea stood a little straighter. “When I return, I want you to start instructing me in the magical arts. I foolishly chose not to study such things when I was younger. I regret that now. I want to change my ways.”
Malzar smiled. “All is not lost, my queen. There is much I can teach you.”
“Good. I’ll be back.” She grabbed the cup and went to take a quick bath and change. She made Sylvia put a fresh bandage on her hand. The wound looked no better, but thankfully, it looked no worse.
When she entered her mother’s apartment and went through to the sitting room, Wyett was there as well as Minister Wickthorne.
Both men bowed. Galwyn had been moved to his perch by the windows.
There was no sign of Ishmyel, which pleased her.
Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to come, but it might also be that he didn’t want to see Beatryce because he still hadn’t found a magician.
Wyett approached. “Your highness. Clary, Dr. Lockhart, Mistress Barlow, and Stonecaller Thruma are with your mother right now. They’ll call for us when they’re ready to begin.”
“Very good.”
The door opened behind her and Vice-Minister Grylan Evenshade hustled in from the foyer.
She looked at him directly. “What are you doing here?”
He bowed. “I thought I should be here in case I was needed.”
“You couldn’t perform the magic necessary to remove the blade from my mother. Do you really believe there might be something else we would rely on you to do?”
He blinked. “No, your highness, I suppose not.”
“You are dismissed.”
Evenshade glanced at Wyett and Wickthorne, but they said nothing. He turned and left.
Clary came out. “Mistress Barlow is ready to begin.”
Bea went into the bedroom, Wyett and Wickthorne following behind. The doctor bowed. “Your highness.”
“Dr. Lockhart. Mistress Barlow. Stonecaller Thruma.” The troll witch was the largest person in the room.
Bea had a fleeting thought about how a woman with hands that size could capably perform the task of removing the blade from her mother’s back.
She supposed the witch would not be here if she didn’t trust her own abilities, however.
If this didn’t go well and the witch was to blame, Dren would be shamed. And the witch would be punished. Bea imagined the witch understood that.
Bea edged closer to the bed to see her mother. After the spell she’d performed last night, Bea expected her appearance to have improved, but it seemed the effects from the spell were temporary. Once again, Anyka looked wan and frail.
Unnta raised her hand and gestured for Bea to step back. “Not too close.”
Bea narrowed her eyes, remembering what Malzar had told her. “Anyka is my mother and I am your queen. I will stand where I want.”
Unnta frowned. “Once we begin, there cannot be any interruptions. No speaking, no contact, no sudden movements. Your mother is on the brink of the Beyond. Any disruption will push her closer.”
“I am not a disruption.” Bea fumed silently and kept her hands at her sides.
Unnta dipped her head. “I have only your mother’s well-being at heart.”
That softened the edge of Bea’s upset. She nodded but said nothing as Unnta reached for her supplies.
“We begin,” Unnta said. She worked with stern efficiency at the queen’s side, her gnarled hands gently pressing poultices around the wound on Anyka’s back and chest.
Beside her, Dr. Lockhart took out a small vial and extracted a silvery elixir into a needle with careful precision.
Stonecaller Thruma knelt on the thick carpet, set her palms flat to the floor, and began to chant in the deep, grinding language of the trolls. Magic hummed through the air, as if trying to anchor Anyka to life.
Bea stood between Wyett and Wickthorne near the wall, looking over the side of the bed.
Bea kept her bandaged hand clenched at her side, despite the pain.
Or perhaps because of it. The pain helped her focus.
It reminded her of what was important. That this was her fault.
The wound throbbed in time with her racing heart.
Wyett’s jaw was locked, his gaze fixed on Anyka. Wickthorne watched with an odd air of nervousness Beatryce didn’t understand. He seemed almost emotional.
Anyka suddenly arched with a guttural cry, black veins creeping along her throat.
“Hurry, Lockhart,” Unnta ordered as Thruma’s chant deepened. “That blade must not cause further damage as she moves.”
Lockhart’s needle flashed as he sank it into Anyka’s arm. Tiny black veins wriggled around the injection site like burrowing worms.
Bea cringed, but her mother relaxed.
“Good,” Unnta panted, sweat beading on her brow. She looked at Thruma next. “The blade must come out. Now.”
Thruma’s chant increased as she nodded. She rose, wrapped her thick fingers around the dagger’s hilt, and tipped her head back, her voice gaining power.
The blade glowed cherry-red, then white-hot, searing the flesh around the wound with a hiss of smoke and the sickening scent of charred skin and burning herbs.
Anyka screamed, her body bowing forward. Only then did Thruma wrench the blade free in one clean, brutal motion. A rush of darkness spilled from the wound.
Bea’s heart and hand ached. She inched forward.
Unnta shook her head. “Whatever you do, child—do not touch her. The transfer could—”
But Bea could not bear the sight of her mother’s agony, the woman who had always seemed unbreakable now so fragile. She lunged forward, slipping past the others to clasp Anyka’s clammy hand. “I’m here, Mother. I’m here.”
Lightning-hot fire exploded through the half-healed gash in Bea’s palm, scorching the bandage. The darkness poured into her—hungry, searching, ancient—slithering up her arm and latching deep inside her body before she could yank her hand away.
Anyka’s eyes flew open, suddenly clear and bright. She drew a ragged breath, then closed her eyes and slumped against the mattress.
Bea stepped back, cradling her hand. Perfume, earthy and sweet, assaulted her nostrils while a faint whisper curled inside her skull like a twisted lullaby, announcing itself.
Something new had joined the voice inside her. Something stronger and darker.
And yet also very familiar.