Chapter 6 #2
“Then write: trap below.”
He scribbled fast and tied the paper around a bottle neck.
The door broke.
The first man stepped in.
Isolde raised the iron rod.
He laughed.
Then stopped when something above them roared.
Not loud enough to be heard by the whole keep.
Close enough to shake dust from the rafters.
Lucian had felt her fear.
The man lunged.
Isolde swung.
The rod struck his wrist. The hooked blade fell and skidded across the stones. Perrin shoved the dumbwaiter rope, sending the bottle upward, then grabbed another bottle and smashed it against the barrel.
“Stay back,” he shouted.
The second man entered with a crossbow.
He aimed at Isolde.
A blast of heat struck the cellar door from outside.
The wood exploded inward.
Lucian stepped through the smoke.
His eyes were gold.
The man with the crossbow fired.
Lucian caught the bolt before it reached Isolde.
Caught it in one hand.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the bolt turned to ash in his fist.
Perrin whispered, “I will never complain about his temper again.”
Lucian crossed the cellar before the men could recover. He struck the first across the jaw, sent the second into a rack of bottles, and drove the third back with a wall of heat that did not touch Isolde though she stood close enough to feel the warmth of it on her cheeks.
The fight ended in less than a minute.
Not cleanly. Not gracefully.
Final.
Thierry arrived behind him with two guards, looked at the broken shelves, the spilled wine, the cracked door, and Perrin holding half a bottle like a sword.
“I leave you people alone for one dinner.”
Perrin lowered the bottle. “You’re welcome.”
Lucian turned to Isolde.
His face was controlled, but his hands were not. One still held the burned remains of the bolt. The other flexed once at his side, as if he had stopped himself from reaching for her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
His gaze moved over her. Collar. Sleeves. Hands. Face. He did not trust her answer.
“I said no,” she added.
“I heard you.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I am learning your habits.”
That should have angered her. Instead, something softer moved through the fear. She hated that too.
Thierry crouched beside one of the fallen men and pulled back the collar of his coat. A mark had been burned into the skin behind his ear: a wolf’s head split by a line of ash.
His expression changed.
Lucian saw it. “Baldric.”
“Or someone using his symbol,” Thierry said.
Isolde looked at the mark. “Morgaine sent the note.”
“Baldric sent the men,” Thierry answered. “Different knives. Same room.”
Lucian picked up the folded warning from Perrin’s basket. The gray powder dusted the edge. His eyes darkened.
“Firebane.”
Isolde watched his face. “The same poison from the forest?”
“Yes.”
“Then Morgaine had it. She showed it in the western wing.”
Thierry stood. “Now we have the powder.”
Lucian folded the note carefully, using the clean edge. “Not enough. She will claim it was planted.”
“By a maid?” Isolde asked.
“By anyone foolish enough to stand near you tonight.”
The words were harsh. Not at her. Around her. A wall made of anger and worry.
She stepped back. “Then I should go.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”
“Away from the hall. Away from Morgaine. Away from you.”
Perrin made a small sound. “I dislike this plan.”
“So do I,” Lucian said.
Isolde faced him. “Your father told them to let me serve. Morgaine pulled me below. Baldric’s men came for me. The council is watching you. Every minute I stay near you makes it easier for them to prove what they already suspect.”
“And running makes you easy to take.”
“Staying makes me easy to use.”
He had no quick answer.
The cellar smelled of smoke, broken wine, and scorched wood. Above them, the dinner continued. Isolde could hear faint music now, a cruel little tune played for people pretending not to know blood was moving beneath their feet.
Lucian stepped closer.
Not enough to trap her.
Enough that she could see the burn mark on his palm where the bolt had struck.
“You are not a burden I intend to pass from hand to hand.”
“I never asked you to carry me.”
“I know.” His voice changed. Rougher. Lower. “That is part of the trouble.”
Their eyes held.
For once, no one interrupted.
Then a guard rushed down the broken stair.
“My lord. The high table is asking for the girl.”
Lucian did not turn. “Who?”
The guard hesitated. “Lady Valcour.”
Isolde laughed once. Small. Tired. Almost surprised at herself.
Lucian looked at her.
She took the clean wine bottle from the shelf, wiped dust from its neck with her sleeve, and lifted her chin.
“Then we shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
When Isolde returned to the great hall, every conversation weakened.
Not stopped.
Nobles were too skilled for that.
But the room noticed.
She carried the wine bottle in both hands.
Lucian walked behind her at a distance that looked formal unless one knew him well enough to read the violence held still in his shoulders.
Thierry returned to his place with a fresh bandage under his sleeve.
Perrin vanished toward the servant arch, blessedly alive and already whispering to Mrs. Corvin.
Morgaine watched Isolde approach.
Her smile was perfect.
“You found the cellar,” she said.
Isolde poured the wine. “Yes, my lady.”
“And the bottle?”
“That too.”
“How fortunate.”
“Very.”
Lucian sat.
Renaud looked from him to Isolde, then to the slight scorch mark on Lucian’s cuff. His face gave nothing away, but his fingers tightened around his cup.
The council rider leaned forward. “There was a disturbance below.”
Thierry lifted his fork. “Rats.”
The rider stared. “Rats?”
“Large ones. Organized. Poor manners.”
No one laughed.
Morgaine placed her cup down. “Isolde, your collar is uneven.”
Isolde’s hand stilled on the bottle.
Lucian’s chair made the smallest sound against the floor.
Morgaine’s eyes warmed with delight. She had found the string and meant to pull it in front of everyone.
“Come closer,” she said. “I’ll fix it.”
“No, my lady.”
The refusal cut through the hall.
A servant refusing a noblewoman was not a small thing. It was a spark falling into dry straw.
Morgaine’s eyebrows lifted. “No?”
Isolde curtsied. “My hands are full.”
“Put down the bottle.”
The council rider watched closely.
Renaud’s face hardened.
Lucian was very still now.
Isolde set the bottle on the table.
Morgaine rose.
Step by graceful step, she came around the high table and stood before Isolde. She smelled of roses, smoke, and gray poison.
“So lovely,” Morgaine said softly. “So obedient when watched.”
Isolde met her gaze for the first time in the hall.
“Not always.”
Morgaine’s smile thinned.
Her hand lifted.
Before she could touch the collar, a crash sounded outside.
Not from the cellar.
Not from the kitchens.
The east windows flashed orange.
Someone shouted from the courtyard.
“Supply road!”
Another voice followed, higher and terrified.
“Rebels at the lower gate!”
The hall erupted.
Chairs scraped back. Guards rushed toward the doors. Nobles stood with shock and anger breaking through their polished faces.
Lucian moved toward Isolde, but Morgaine moved first.
She leaned close, lips near Isolde’s ear.
“Leave before dawn,” she whispered. “Or I show them what is under your dress and let the council decide how human you are.”
Then she stepped back, face smooth again.
Lucian reached Isolde’s side. “What did she say?”
Isolde looked past him to the windows.
Fire rose beyond the lower wall.
Screams carried up from the road.
Among the chaos, one figure stood outside the far gate, broad-shouldered and still while others ran.
Baldric Wulfran lifted a hand.
Not in greeting.
In warning.
The mark on Isolde’s back burned like a living brand.
Then the outer gate exploded inward.