23 #2
Grippin gets the fire going, then trudges out the door and pulls it shut behind him.
I crouch on the dirt floor near the hearth and strip off my gloves, moaning with relief as warmth soaks into my chilled fingers.
The carpet curves himself behind me, helping to confine the heat so I’ll get warm faster.
My body is trembling from hunger, so once I’ve thawed enough, I unsling my satchel and partake of the meager food I brought from the palace.
“If this place collapses in the night, will you save me?” I ask Severin.
“I will attempt it.”
“It’s good to know someone cares.”
The carpet makes a frustrated sound, so human that I twist around to glance at him.
“I was trying to tell you, before the cave-in,” he says.
“The prince cares, Forsythia. When he was flying with you toward Anyssir Castle, when you were dying, he found that one of his fingernails could still hold a glyph, and he painted a healing symbol on it. He used it a few times throughout the journey.”
“Wait—” A hollow thrill passes through me, and my skin turns hot with the sudden realization. “That means he—”
“He gave his life energy to sustain you. Not just once—multiple times. He didn’t want you to know, but I think it’s important for you to understand that he spent it willingly, eagerly.
He shortened his life for you, and he was happy to pay that price.
You left because you wanted him to choose you…
but he already did. He chose you over himself. Isn’t that enough?”
I release a hysterical half-sob, half-laugh. “You’re very opinionated, you know.”
“One of my best qualities.”
“It really is.” I sob again and swipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I can’t go back to him right now—I would freeze to death on the way. I’ll get a little sleep, and we’ll return in the morning. I can put you in your case to rest, if you like.”
“I’ll rest on the floor,” says the carpet. “That way, if the ground collapses, I’ll be ready to scoop you up and fly out of here.”
I pull my gloves back on and curl up in front of the fire, still in my cloak and boots, with my satchel for a pillow.
It’s difficult to settle down at first, knowing that the crack in the earth is just a few steps from the door of this cottage.
But I’m one slender woman, lying still on the ground.
As long as there’s no sudden, heavy impact, I should be all right.
Something wakes me.
At first I’m not sure what it is. A shift of the ground? The snap and crackle of the fire? The flames are burning low—I should add another log.
As I sit up, the sound comes again. A quiet footstep on the dirt floor of the cottage.
I whirl, fumbling for one of my knives, but my gloved fingers are clumsy and my cloak gets in the way. The invader seizes me by the throat and slams me against the wall so hard the entire cottage shakes. My head goes fuzzy, pain spearing through my skull.
“Severin,” I gasp.
He’s not in the house. He left me, or maybe this fellow did something to him.
“You abandoned her,” my attacker wails. “You left her there to die. You could have saved her.”
My shaken brain finally manages to identify him—the young husband who kept begging me to save his wife. He must have borrowed some heavy clothing, left the house the villagers put him in, and made his way here, seeking some kind of misplaced vengeance.
He’s out of his mind, crazed with grief. Maybe I would feel more sympathy for him if I could fucking breathe.
I wheeze two words in my defense through the compression of his fingers. “I—couldn’t—”
“You could have!” he bellows.
“No—time.”
“There was time!” He smashes me against the wall again, and an ominous vibration rolls through the ground beneath our feet.
“S-stop,” I whisper, but I have no more air for words. I dig in the folds of my cloak, hunting for my belt, for the hilts of my knives. Can’t seem to grasp them. Can’t breathe… can’t…
“She was mine,” sobs the man. “You should have gotten her out. You had the carpet.”
My fingers grip something solid. I pull the knife out of its sheath and ram it into his arm.
With a yell of pain, he releases my throat. I drag in a painful breath and kick him as hard as I can.
“Bitch!” he yells. “Heartless, wicked bitch. You’re one of those southern assholes from Belavrin, flaunting your wealth and your land, dangling everything you have in our faces. Foul, greedy wretches.”
I try to respond, but my throat hurts too badly for anything but the most essential words. “Where’s my carpet?”
“I didn’t do anything to your fucking carpet.” He advances, and I slash wildly through the air to fend him off. I’m dizzy, and my throat is bruised, but I won’t let him get near me again.
“We had just been married,” says the man, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Her father arranged it. After waiting for so long to get a woman, I finally made a good match. She would have borne me sturdy children.”
“You wanted children? In this place?” I rasp a laugh. “Is that wise?”
“It’s a man’s right to have children.” He takes another step.
I brandish my blade, hissing, “Stay back.”
“You took that future from me,” he snarls. “I worked for years to get matched, and now she’s dead.”
“Not my problem. My carpet and I saved the people we could easily reach, and then we had to get them to shelter before everyone fucking froze to death.”
“I could hear her crying in the rubble. I begged you and the others to help.” He drags off his glove with his teeth and sinks one of his fingernails into the stab wound on his forearm. “You owe me a wife.”
A cool sensation washes over me, turning my limbs soft and pliant. My arm falls to my side, and the knife slips from my hand.
He activated a glyph. I didn’t see any markings on his fingernails, so I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t expect a man from a poor village in Tularesk to have any way of using magic—much less a glyph crafted with invisible paint.
That mistake is going to fucking cost me.
“Compliance glyph,” rasps the man. “A wedding gift from my father, since my wife wasn’t enthusiastic about the match. He told me it might come in handy.”
A rape glyph, you mean. I try to say it, but with the weight of the glyph conforming me to my attacker’s will, I can’t form the words.
His wife, whoever she was, might have preferred death to being trapped in a marriage with this bastard. I wish I’d saved her and left him to die.
“The glyph won’t last long, so I’m going to make the most of it.” The man starts unfastening his pants. “Bend over that table.”
Every part of my will and my consciousness condense within me, attempting to resist the compelling force of the magic. I take one step toward the table, but I don’t bend. I may not be able to fight back, but I refuse to yield easily.
“Bend over.” The man’s voice is strained, shaking.
Like he’s working himself up to this. Like his fury and bitterness are warring with whatever shreds of sanity he has left.
“This is your punishment. And afterward, you’ll stay with me.
You can be her.” His large hand slams against my back, forcing my front down against the dusty surface of the table.
Once I’m bowed there, he grabs my pants and drags them down to my knees. Cold air washes over my skin. I’m fighting inside, struggling against the compliance magic flowing over my body, screaming silently for Vawn, for Severin, for anyone.
The man’s fingers find the edge of my undershorts, and he starts to pull them—
Something splatters across my bare thighs, and for a second I think he came before he even got inside me. But a sodden thump follows the splatter. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his body tilt aside and fall heavily to the ground.
There’s something different about his shape. My dizzy brain takes a second to identify it.
He doesn’t have a head.
Warm fingers grasp my pants and pull them back into place. Then Vawn steps around the table, into my view. He’s holding a short sword, a sharp one, judging by the ease with which he decapitated my attacker. I’m guessing he used the strength glyph on the central finger of his right hand.
“Your Highness,” I murmur.
“Forsythia.” He sounds angry, panicked, devastated, and relieved all at once.
“Compliance glyph.” I push myself slowly upright as the effect dissipates. With no will to guide it, the glyph’s magic is no longer effective.
Severin’s voice issues from behind Vawn, quiet and penitent. “I should not have left you alone, but… I went to get the prince.”
“You did exactly the right thing.” My voice cracks, and I pitch forward against Vawn’s chest. He catches me, but after holding me for a moment, he pushes me gently back, examining my face. “What else did he do to you? Are you hurt anywhere?”
“He choked me, and he knocked my head against the wall. My side hurts.”
“I should have tortured him before killing him,” Vawn says regretfully.
“A quick kill was best.” I shudder, glancing at the leaking head and neck stump of the dead man.
“You sit down,” Vawn says, leading me closer to the fire. “I’ll get that mess out of here, and then we’ll talk.” He turns back to the corpse and promptly gags. “Shit, that’s foul. So much blood.”
“Do you need help?”
“No, no. I can do this. You rest.” He picks up the head by its hair and gags again, but manfully opens the door and pitches the head out into the snow. “Carpet, you have to help me with the body.”
“I do not.” Severin draws himself upright, ruffling his tassels. “You killed him in the bloodiest way possible. You must deal with the aftermath. I will not have his filth marring my fibers.”
“How would you have killed him? Since you know best in all things?”
“For fates’ sake—” I struggle to my feet. “You’re letting all the heat out, and we’re going to freeze. Come on. I’ll help you lift him. Vawn, do not vomit on me.”
Somehow, he manages not to throw up as we drag the body into the snow. Back inside, he adds more wood to the fire, and then we sit facing each other by the hearth. The carpet hovers nearby, waiting.