Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
AUDREY
“Do not engage in unwinnable battles.”
~ Barloc’s Wisdom, compiled by F. Bergsoniir
L uca grabbed me before I made it into my chambers. I was exhausted all the way to my soul, and when I looked into his stormy gray eyes I just wanted to cry. All I wanted was what he offered, the gossamer dreams he spun. Dreams. Not reality. Not truth.
“Audrey,” he said, horrified. His arms went around me, and I just couldn’t return the embrace. I didn’t have any warmth in me. Not for him. Not for anyone. Hollow, I shut my eyes. “You warned him, didn’t you, that Mikus fights dirty?” He held me to him, rocked me. And despite myself, I relaxed slightly. He offered me everything neither of us could have, and so help me, I loved the hope he spun. But none of it was real. “He’s got a couple of broken ribs, but he’s alive. Thanking you.”
“Did you win much?” Isolde asked him, the words acidic as she forced herself between us. His fingers clung in fleeting protest, making my dress rake agonizingly against my flesh as it twisted. “Did you figure how much it’d cost her?”
I didn’t have the heart or the head for Isolde’s blame or Luca’s dreams. “Not now,” I said, but the words were small and weak.
“You don’t know,” he began, then shook his head, reaching for me. “Change is coming, Audrey. You won’t have to be afraid soon?—”
His hands were slapped away. Isolde planted a shove square in his chest and drove him back. “How dare you,” she spat, furious. Then I heard familiar staccato steps, the creak of leather, and the chime of metal.
Ice ran through my veins.
Isolde pulled me further behind her and spoke over whatever Luca was about to say. “The lady has had a long day,” she said loudly. “You may of course send word, and we can arrange a time?—”
My father rounded the corner, and I felt the world sway. Time seemed unusually slow, and the scene around him was blurry, but I could have replicated the simple, bold pattern edging his cloak and counted the studs in his belt.
The moment Luca saw him, I could tell. I watched from the corner of my eye as the color drained from his face like a jug of cider at a table full of knights. His cheeks went from red to pink and then almost gray. The transition took an eon. He fell back a step, eyes almost as wild as Vixen’s had been when we’d chanced upon that pocket of ’Ban bannermen.
My father’s lips moved, that long mouth that was so often a slash of displeasure in his square face imparting information I needed to hear but couldn’t. Out of time with his moving mouth I heard words erupt.
“Wise as ever, mistress Isolde. Escort lord Luca to his rooms, Wade. He has a banquet tonight.”
Before the words were done, Luca was being forced out of the corridor away from the family wing toward his rooms. He looked at me over Wade’s shoulder, his eyes full of sorrow and guilt. I felt nothing at all as I was swept along into the room with the fire burning and the piles of books Luca had lent me.
My father smelt of the oils used on his boots and scabbard. I noticed the familiar scents from far away. He opened his mouth. Words tumbled out, beaded and ran off my mind like I’d waxed and weatherproofed it.
I sat, because his hand gesture said, “ sit.”
Neither of his black-clad personal guard—the La’Angi family guard—were Mikus. Isolde stalked in, her expression calm but her eyes stormy. My heart felt like a stone in my chest. It kept me from drifting out through the ceiling and getting lost in the clouds. She stood with her back to the fire. The poker was a finger’s breath from her hand.
In a few days I’d be in a saddle, headed east. We’d make a new home somewhere else. Adventures would ensue, of course.
“…with Luca to support a liegeman of Raider’s Ban,” my father said, the words cool. “But I don’t think you’re that gullible or foolhardy.”
I didn’t want adventures elsewhere, though. I wanted my home.
I needed to listen. I looked down at my hands. They were lying one atop the other in my lap, steady and calm. My heart beat slow, heavy, rhythmic. It felt like it belonged to a drummer deep in the city. Outside of me. Away. “No, Your Grace,” I said. My lips, my tongue, didn’t feel like mine. They were cold, thick, and squashy. Not mine. Not me.
“Are you going to tell me,” he began, the words precise and full of anger, “that you were just playing your little game—identify the winner?”
Of course he knew the game. Or had guessed. We’d made no real secret of it. Why should we? And it was the perfect excuse. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“As long as the winner isn’t one of our own,” he continued, dark, low, and slow.
My mind, unencumbered by the weight of my body and fear, flew. I saw every breath he took and the smallest shift of expression, studying them all. “Your Grace,” I began, the words as crisp as his own, “you and I both know Mikus is the best. He’s the best fighter and the best brawler. If I picked Mikus every year, where would the challenge be? My game isn’t to identify the winner, Your Grace. My game is to identify the person who will fight Mikus.”
His lips were still thin, his eyes narrow, but there was a slight softening in his shoulders, the smallest tilt of his head, that told me I’d made progress.
“Did it occur to you how that would look?”
I sighed. “Not really, Your Grace. Mayhap I spend too little time considering people’s talk.” I stood and went to where a jug and cups had been laid out and poured my father a drink. Spiced juice.
He was silent while I served him, swimming gracefully through the tension in the air. It wasn’t really my grace, though. They weren’t really my limbs. “You spin a good tale,” he said, taking the cup without sampling the contents. “You get that from your mother.” From above, I saw the softness in his shoulders, the line of regret between his brows, and I knew I’d misspoken. “But I have no patience for games, girl.”
And wasn’t it fortunate I wasn’t in my own skin right now? I should’ve stayed seated and compliant. I didn’t look at Isolde, with the makeshift weapon right by her hand. If it came to it, could we take out all three of them?
“Your Grace, I?—”
His hand shot out, but not toward me. Isolde’s hair was in his fist, and a knife was at her throat. She was pulled back and off balance. My feet carried me a step away. The room was gray around the edges, but she was so clear. They were so clear. My father’s level eyes, long, neutral lips, square jaw. Isolde’s curls in his hands. Her jaw tight with pain. Her neck arched, her legs at awkward angles, her hands splayed in the air, poised. The knife was the same gray as Luca’s eyes. He’d used it to carve venison last night. There was no sign of the thick gravy that the meat had swam in, though. Not on the blade, or smeared over Isolde’s throat.
Father’s mouth was moving, but the words came slowly, like rocks thrown into a pond.
“Sullivan.”
I was grabbed. No, no, my clothes were grabbed. It all felt the same. Pressure. Pulling. Flesh and cloth were the same. Neither was me.
“Help my?—”
Ripping. Biting. Cold air against my back. I tried to spin, tried to struggle. My dress had been torn, the bodice pulled down over my arms, tangling me.
“—daughter—”
Before I could move I was shoved forwards, belly over the arm of the couch, face down.
“—understand—”
My skirts went up. The cold was a piece of information that didn’t apply to my own skin. I knew he wouldn’t kill me. I knew Sullivan was the dog with the most control, too.
“—what—”
I lifted, twisted. Hands bit into my hair, forcing my face down into the cushions. Air. There was no air.
“—Raider’s Ban?—”
Heat, pressure. A body behind me. A hand. It bunched and tore the fabric at my hip. No. No, the flesh. That was flesh. At least some of that was my flesh.
“—men—”
I tried to turn my head, tried to breathe. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t draw more than a sliver of air. It was hot. It had come from my own body.
“—do.”
The weight of him was crushing. Endlessly crushing.
And then he was gone. One moment, there. The next, gone. But Isolde’s hands were on me. I’d know those hands anywhere. Anytime. I was levered up. Hair was brushed from my face impatiently.
They’d left. Why couldn’t I remember them leaving? Father would’ve spoken, before he left. I needed to remember what it was he said, so I could avoid it next time. I wouldn’t pour the juice. I’d sit and be compliant.
She put her forehead against mine. Her hands on my arms. She spoke but I didn’t need to hear the words to know they were reassurances. I drifted, somewhere above, somewhere beyond. Her hands squeezed, firmly. Slow, for a while. Fast, for a while. Moderate, for a while. Left, right, left, right. I matched my breathing to hers. My skirts were bunched, and my backside felt strange with only my drawers between me and the world, so I resettled the fabric. Next time, I’d know what to do.
At the first trickle of terror, I opened my eyes and lifted my hands. I held on.
“I’ve got you,” she said grimly. “I’ve got you, Audrey.”
My heart was beating. Hard. I breathed. I couldn’t match her pace. A wave of horror came up and swept me away.
The agony of it was everything. Everywhere. A sob was ripped from my chest. Her hands squeezed. Rhythmic. Faster, slower, faster, moderate, slower. Left, right. I wept. Her forehead bit into mine, and I felt it. It was mine. And my body hurt. My hip. My shoulders. Where the fabric had pulled and torn with so much force. My neck where I’d been forced face-down and held. I coiled my hands around her skull and cradled her, shaking so hard I don’t know how our heads didn’t rattle and knock. My chest was heaving. He could’ve killed her. He’d never kill me, but he could’ve killed her. He would’ve. Without hesitation or concern.
One blue-eyed swordsman could never be worth Isolde’s life.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed between sobs. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, you screwed up,” she said ruthlessly. “But who treated a person like a thing, Audrey?”
The speed at which he’d grabbed her. Horror. Terror. It had me by the throat. By the hair. I wept, clenching my teeth, refusing to wail. It wouldn’t matter. There was so much pain. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“Who held the knife?” she asked, her hands biting as they squeezed. Left, right, left, right.
He had the same eyes as me, golden brown. The same jaw as me, square and strong. The same mouth as me. The tears seared my throat. My knees collapsed, and I couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop them. She went with me, holding me.
“Father,” I said eventually. The Duke. Victor. The Butcher of Wolfswail. The General of Arcanloc.
“Did you hold the knife?” she demanded.
Those eyes. Pain ripped my chest. It vibrated through me. It consumed me. “No.”
“Say it.”
I sucked in air and felt the pain ripping through me. “I did the best I could.”
She nodded. Her head bumped mine. I sobbed, rocking. “Again.”
“I did the best I could.” And the words hurt, still. But they wouldn’t. Not for long. Because they were true. Because they were right. And if anyone could show me that, Isolde could.
“Who overruled your autonomy?” she demanded, fury in her words.
I tried to pull away, and she just went with me, squeezing. My hands went to my face. Tears. Snot. I curled up and crushed myself down. My face into my skirts. I couldn’t breathe. It hurt so much I couldn’t breathe. Her grip adjusted, then the squeezing continued. Slow, slow, fast, slow, moderate, moderate, fast. I didn’t fight. I couldn’t have. I cried and rocked, but it didn’t empty that well of agony.
“Who pushed you down, Audrey?” she asked, when the tears began to run dry.
I wiped away some of the wet mess on my face. “Sullivan.”
“Did you do it?”
“No.”
“Did you survive?”
“Yes.”
Her voice had softened. “Who should be ashamed, Audrey?”
I shuddered. It was there, in my breast, in the marrow of my bones. Dark. Tacky. Hungry. “Sullivan. Victor.” I breathed with her, almost. “I did the best I could.” And it still hurt, but it was a dull ache. I struggled up and pushed my hair back with wet fingers. “I need a bath,” I said, and the words shook. Though he’d only touched me through my clothes, I still needed to scrub myself clean.
“You do,” she agreed, unconcerned. “And the Butcher needs an arrow through his throat. Both can wait. Work with me a bit more, Audrey.”
So I nodded and breathed. I felt the irregularly rhythmic squeezes on my arms. I let my mind circle, let my heart hurt. And it eased, eventually. The words, mayhap. The movements, perhaps. I rested while she rang for a bath, keeping the rhythm myself with my feet. We breathed, together.
The ball and banquet happened without us. We talked about what we needed to do. When we needed to do it. Next steps. Survive the archery tomorrow. Keep our heads down. Minimal presence at the feasting and dancing, and avoid Raider’s Ban riders at all costs. Tell Luca we didn’t want company. That was all we needed to do tomorrow. We could do that.
I fell asleep curled up in my bed with Isolde stroking my hair. Safe. Loved.