Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Edmund
Silence was all that greeted him as he crept through the halls of his own palace—like a thief.
His breath rattled in his ears, far too loud. Night pressed heavy against each window he passed; not a single sliver of moonlight spilled within to light his way. The lanterns lining the walls lay similarly dark.
There was no longer anyone left alive to light them.
Not since the death of poor, idiotic Hews.
Hews, who had nearly foiled everything. Hews, who had put Mariana on guard for any further schemes, making all of this infinitely harder for him. How was he supposed to get his mother out of that wretched dungeon now with his wife watching his every move?
A fresh wave of anxiety crawled across his skin. The muscles in his back tightened. He cast a glance over his shoulder. Blessedly, only shadows still yawned behind him.
For now.
He estimated he had exactly five minutes alone before his dear and loving witch noticed his absence. Five minutes before she came looking for him.
Five minutes before he lost this opportunity forever.
His stride lengthened. His pulse quickened. He hurried into the Scarlet Wing—the entirety of which had once belonged to his mother and her ladies-in-waiting. Now it belonged to no one. No one beyond the dust gathering in every corner.
And the bodies haunting the courtyard.
Four minutes.
Edmund passed his mother’s sitting room. Her study. Nothing of any true value would ever be in there. The dowager queen had always kept all of her most prized possessions in her bedchamber.
Her box of poisons was sure to be there as well.
Poison. The weapon of women and men who weren’t clever enough to think their way out of a situation otherwise. When he was still a boy, his mother had tried to instill in him a few rudimentary skills concerning the poisons she favored.
Not enough to prepare them himself, of course. Charlotte Hargrave never would have divulged a secret that could then be used against her. But how to identify them at a glance? That he could do.
He merely hoped he could find the right vial in time.
Three minutes.
Quicker. He had to be quicker. His mother’s bedchamber lay at the end of the hall.
Jogging toward it, he burst through the gilt-inlaid doors.
More darkness blanketed the room, leaving the space a mere blur of vaguely familiar silhouettes: the four-poster bed, the wardrobe, the vanity housing all his mother’s creams and powders, the sitting area near the cold hearth, and a blanket draped across one of the chairs, out of place. A half-drunk cup of tea rested nearby.
A shard of guilt lanced his heart at the sight of it. His mother had been drinking it the day he had her arrested and thrown in the dungeon, all to appease Mariana. Her bedchamber must not have been disturbed since then; it lay frozen in time.
A testimony to what a terrible son he was.
Truly, a banner year. His mother imprisoned, his court dead, and—if the border villages were to be believed—some lunatic warlord called the Bonesinger killing his way through the outer forests. Had not his brother tried to warn him about that fellow?
Ah, well. Perhaps the man would do Edmund a favor and conquer Drakmor next, putting his wife out of her misery.
Two minutes.
Box. Where was the box? He looked under the bed but found nothing. He flung open the wardrobe and scoured its drawers. Swaths of fine linen, lace, and silk greeted his fingertips, but nothing solid. Not even a stray vial lurked amongst his mother’s clothing.
Where was it? It had been so long since he last saw the box that he couldn’t even remember what it looked like. All he could recall was that it was a box. A wooden box. But the only box he could see in the room at all was…
His mother’s jewelry box.
Edmund crossed the room in three long strides.
Heart racing. Breath hitching. He opened the box.
The glint of dark jewels shimmered against the velvet interior, masking the box’s true purpose.
But he knew better. His fingers remembered just where to find the latch to open the hidden compartment, even though his mind did not.
One minute.
A soft click shushed through the still air.
A hidden panel at the front of the box cracked open, revealing a row of small vials glittering within, alternating between green and brown hues.
Edmund’s jaw tightened as his mother’s little rhyme for remembering which poison was which threaded through his thoughts.
“Green for when someone has done you wrong.
Brown for when you want them to sleep until dawn.”
His hand hesitated over the vials. What did Mariana deserve?
Sleep?
Or death?
“What are you doing?” a smoky voice asked from the doorway. Dark. Saccharine. Suspicious.
“Darling,” he greeted his wife without yet daring to look that way. Swiftly snatching one of each vial, he shut the hidden compartment and pilfered one of his mother’s many necklaces before finally snapping the box closed.
When he turned to face the slender Arathian woman looming in the doorway, he flashed her his most winsome smile. “I fear you’ve gone and spoiled my surprise. Here I was, fetching a gift for you.”
Mariana lifted the candle she carried higher, letting its light spill further into the room. Shadows carved deep ravines in her cheekbones, making her look even more feline than usual—like a lioness forged from obsidian and gold. A starving lioness.
A lioness who saw enemies around every corner and impending doom within every patch of darkness.
Her glowing eyes narrowed.
He pressed the two vials deeper into his left hand and hoisted up the necklace he had stolen with his right, letting the pearls and rubies wink within the candle’s flame. “You see? Do you not like it?”
A vague hint of relief eased some of the sharpness from the witch’s features.
“Edmund, you know I do not like when you go wandering off.” Something shifted in her expression then, something that made her almost seem vulnerable.
More like a woman and less like a monster.
“It gets…so terribly lonely here without you.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from pointing out that the halls of Palace Falwood might be a good deal less lonely if she hadn’t killed everyone who used to live there.
“Of course. Of course,” he murmured instead, trying to soothe the dangerous creature before him. “You know I never wander far, though. Sometimes a man just needs to stretch his legs. Or hunt for something pretty to make his wife smile.” He waved the necklace at her again. “Might I put it on you?”
A hesitant smile finally curved Mariana’s lips, dimpling her right cheek. “Very well.” Setting aside her candle, she turned her back to him and brushed her long, ebony hair over her shoulder, pulling it out of the way.
Edmund immediately tucked the vials inside the interior pocket of his doublet and busied himself with adorning the witch with yet more of his mother’s beloved jewels. At least this necklace had been one of her least favorites—a pearl and ruby choker his father had once gifted her.
Before he suddenly died under mysterious circumstances.
He had always wondered if his mother had slipped one of the green vials into old King Warwick’s evening vodka. He had never asked her, though.
Sometimes, one was just better off not knowing.
Mariana broke the growing silence between them first. “You have seen those dreadful pamphlets littering our courtyard, I presume?” Disdain laced her tone.
“No.” The word snapped from his lips, far sharper than he had intended. He winced. It was best for him to keep this creature in a good mood. Happy, even. Even though she had turned his courtyard into a crypt. “No, darling, I avoid the courtyard. Remember?”
“It is probably for the best,” she mused aloud. “They would just upset you.”
Curiosity gnawed at him, leaving him wanting to press for more details.
But did it truly matter? Did anything matter anymore?
He finished clasping the necklace around Mariana’s throat, careful not to brush her bare skin with his fingertips. He hated having to touch her. To kiss her. To play these games.
The sooner he found an opportunity to use one of the vials, the better. He could get his mother out of here. They could escape into the wilds of Drakmor and rally the great lords, retake the palace, and—
“Do you love me, Edmund?” Mariana abruptly whispered, snapping his attention back to the present and stopping his heart cold.
“Of course, darling.” The lie came easily to his lips these days. “You are my sun, my moon, my stars. My entire world.” His throat thickened. His teeth clenched. Softer still, he reminded her, “Do not forget that I have given you everything, dear heart: my throne, my armies, my kingdom, my mother.”
Slowly, the witch turned to face him. By the light of the candle, he saw that her golden eyes now shimmered with tears.
“And yet the Lady whispers to me, Edmund. She warns me that your heart is false, that you mean me harm.” Her left hand fell to the plane of her stomach, flat beneath the folds of her crimson robe. “That you mean our daughter harm.”
What denials were already smoldering on his tongue, waiting to be loosed, dissipated like smoke. “Our daughter?” he echoed, nearly choking on the words. A disbelieving laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
Mariana frowned, her eyes narrowing once more.
Edmund’s laughter died in his throat. His gaze searched hers. “Surely, you are teasing me, my love.” He could only pray that she was.
But the witch he had taken for a wife did not laugh.
She did not smile. She merely arched a single eyebrow, clearly challenging him.
“Why would I tease you about this?” She took a step closer; he fought hard to keep from retreating.
“Our daughter stands to one day be the most powerful woman in all of Avirel—a woman who can unite all kingdoms into one. She will have claims to the throne of Drakmor, the throne of Arath, even the throne of Elmoria once we finish our conquest.”
Mariana’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight, as if she were feverish.
“And then Kuni and Lothmeer, too,” she added in an almost dreamy whisper.
“Perhaps even the city-states of Fortuna if she is truly bold. Which she is bound to be, being our daughter.” She spoke the words as if they were a dark prophecy—a nightmare for future generations.
Edmund’s thoughts raced, trying to make sense of what this madwoman was saying, trying to calculate just how any of this could be possible. Mariana with child. His child.
She was his wife, of course. In every sense of the word.
But…so soon?
Mariana’s frown deepened. “You do not look happy, Edmund,” she whispered, her breath audibly catching in her throat.
He could only stare as a single tear streaked down her cheek.
“The Lady warned me you would not be. Even though this is all according to Her plan. Even though I have done everything She has asked, still it is not enough to have what I want—”
Edmund closed the distance between them in the next heartbeat, his stomach roiling as he swept the witch up into his arms. “Hush now.” His lips pressed a kiss to her brow, seeking to buy himself time while his mind still reeled.
What if she wasn’t simply mad? What if she was right? What if she was…pregnant?
A daughter. His daughter.
He couldn’t possibly use the green vial. Not now.
Mariana melted into his embrace, and Edmund clenched his eyes shut at the sensation of her burying her face against his neck. Her tears stained the collar of his doublet. Hot. So very real—not an act. A strange weight settled in the pit of his stomach.
Tentatively, he tightened his hold on her. “Why do you listen to these voices, darling?”
Within his arms, she stiffened. “They are not voices, Edmund,” Mariana hissed, lifting her face from his throat to glare at him. “It is the Lady, instructing me, guiding me.”
“Filling you with fear is more like it,” he countered with a grimace. “If I promise you that I mean you no harm, will you believe me?”
For a few breathless moments, she searched his face, her eyes scorching his. Searching. Studying. “Swear it,” she finally whispered, her breath caressing his face. “Swear it to me, and I will believe you.”
A swear. For once, Edmund hesitated—a split second and nothing more. “I swear it,” he vowed, sealing the binding contract those words presented with another kiss pressed to her brow. “I will not harm you, Mariana. I swear it.”
Uttering such a thing turned his stomach. Not because he intended to break his promise, but because he intended to keep it. He meant every word.
And he hated it.
Dear Lord, now what am I supposed to do? he prayed out of habit alone. But he had no answer to his desperate plea. No stroke of inspiration to guide his path. Of course, he hadn’t truly expected there to be one.
He had married a witch.
He had let her massacre his courtiers.
Imprison his mother.
Hold him hostage within his own court.
The Lord had surely abandoned him long ago. Here he had been so concerned about earning the High Shepherd’s ire—about being excommunicated from the Church—when he should have been worried about fates much worse than that.
Being trapped within his own personal Underworld here on the living plane.
Rescuing his mother was all he could do now. He had promised her he would, and he had no intention of breaking that promise.
Not even now, when he had yet another impossible vow to keep.