Aftermath. #2
“You think if I told those heathens I’m a wizard, they’d welcome my magical abilities?” he asked, pausing for my response.
I didn’t humor him with one. Instead, I quaffed my goblet of wine.
Fitzroy tutted as I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and slammed down the goblet, overcome with queasiness as the potent liquid swirled in my belly.
“They’d throw me on the bonfire,” he continued, answering his own question.
I shook my head. “For some reason, unbeknownst to me, they deeply respect you. I truly believe many of the men would follow you through even the darkest of nights.”
“I’ve seen how quickly subjects can turn on their ruler,” Fitzroy murmured, running a hand through his dark hair. “My aunt was admired one moment, abhorred the next.”
I latched onto his shoulders, shaking him. “There’s more magic residing in Lyonesse than the King admits—I saw people on the cliffs casting spells.”
For a moment, Fitzroy studied my face—his eyes brimming with worry—before letting out a harsh exhale. “If Regina has wizards on our soil, her army is truly impenetrable—”
“The wizards weren’t fighting for her,” I interrupted. “They were protecting us.”
Fitzroy’s brows furrowed; his expression was one of deep concern. “I think you saw what you wanted to see.”
He cupped my face tenderly, as though genuinely worried I was hallucinating. For a breath, I wavered in his palms while he pinched his bottom lip between his teeth, drawing my attention to his mouth. But then he did the thing that always snapped me out of his hypnotic gaze—he spoke.
“Don’t lose your sanity,” Fitzroy said, slapping my cheeks hard enough to sting.
In the pit of my stomach, anger sparked—fueled not only by his condescending tone, but my own desire. Why was he so pleasing to the eye? Why did his lips look so good for kissing?
It was as if he’d been grown from the tree of temptation, and I—shamefully—wanted a piece of him.
I pointed my shaky finger at his face, hoping he knew it trembled in rage. “If you cannot find a speck of courage, teach me sorcery,” I demanded. “I’ll use it to win this war.”
Shaking his head, he declined my request. “Stick to what you’re good at. Once more, I thank you for your expertise in ironwork, but now you must leave—I need time to strategize.”
He ushered me toward the exit.
“There’s no time left,” I protested desperately, knowing that good fortune had been my ally during the invasion, and fearing that the gods wouldn’t favor me a second time.
Once he had pushed me to the tent flap, Fitzroy resumed his pacing. “I should dedicate my mornings to prayer and repentance, in case I’ve upset the gods,” he muttered, clearly speaking only to himself.
As he blamed divine retribution for the massacre, my mind involuntarily recalled the image of Tom’s head rolling toward my feet—his frozen, terrified face would haunt me forever.
I imagined his mother, stooped over a big pot as she prepared his favorite stew in hopeful anticipation of his homecoming, only to be met with inconsolable grief.
The idea constricted my chest until I could bear it no longer.
“Your cowardice is infuriating,” I cut through his soliloquy, my voice thick with both anger and sorrow.
Fitzroy deviated from the path and marched toward me. “Watch your tongue, witch,” he growled, his breath heavy with the scent of wine.
“Stop threatening to expose me as a woman,” I shot back, standing my ground, holding my head as high as my neck would let me.
“Be thankful that you are. If you were a man, I’d have your head for those words.”
His patronizing tone shattered my self-control. Before I could rein it in, I raised my quivering hand and slapped him hard across the cheek.
“Would you have my head for that, too?” I asked, trembling with anger.
My palm throbbed, yet Fitzroy didn’t flinch. He walked over to his table, putting it between us.
“No,” he said, stroking his reddened cheek, showing me my slap must have stung.
“But if you do that again, I’ll strip you naked beside the bonfire for all to see.
Everyone will know your secret—and war’s no place for a woman.
” He chuckled contemptuously, pouring himself more wine.
“I know you’ve no desire to be carted back to the Wetlands, so you’d best learn to bite your tongue quickly. ”
His lordly laughter only stoked my rage further.
“Forgive me, my Prince,” I said, bowing my head. “Excuse my candor, but are you actually a prince?” I looked up, piercing his gaze. “Or are you just the glorified son of a whore?”
I hadn’t realized he had thrown the goblet until it shattered against a tent pole beside my head. Red wine stained my tunic, and a fragment of glass nicked my cheek, drawing blood.
Fitzroy sighed as if disappointed in his aim, then strode over. My instincts urged me to retreat into the corner, certain he’d hurl more shards my way, yet I found a surge of courage and stood tall in his presence.
With a sharp, exasperated breath, he hastily removed his glove. His fingertips hovered over the cut on my cheek as he muttered in Yfelle.
“Closen hire wund, hiersum tou hattan. Halen hire flasc, hedan tou crafa.” Close her wound, obey my command. Repair her flesh, heed my demand.
I fixated on the marble marking on his palm, swirling like he had purple whirlpools beneath his skin. Then, he wiped his fingers over my wound. I reached up, expecting to feel the sting of the gash—but there was nothing. He had healed it with magic.
“See you on the morrow,” Fitzroy said coldly, his tone dismissive. Turning away, he grabbed an intact goblet, filled it to the brim with fruity wine, and resumed his relentless pacing.
I ducked out of his tent, worrying I might combust from the anger burning inside of me. As much as I longed to challenge his defeatist battle plan, I knew I couldn’t. Fitzroy held the upper hand—in strength, status, and sorcery.