Chapter 36
“So, any man who hears your voice wants to bed you?”
Alone together in the Queen’s Chamber, I decided it would be better to inform my new protector of the curse straightaway. I sat atop my bed and told her everything I thought might be necessary. And Siere Marceline, bless her, sat and listened until all was said.
“Well, that explains the silence,” said the knight, scratching her scalp.
“I’ve seen curses do worse, you know. I once had a commander who turned everything he touched to ash…
but the man was a brilliant strategist, so long as he kept those hands to himself.
And such a skill proved useful in close quarters with the enemy. One touch, and poof.”
I made a lazy smile. For once, someone heard the truth and simply accepted it. “Please do not feel that I only chose you because you are a woman. You showed great prowess on the field today.”
“I know.”
I laughed.
“If I may ask a few tactical questions… What about humming? Whispering? A whistle?”
“I believe any instance of my voice triggers the effects, so whispering would be a definite no, humming seems dangerous, and whistling…actually, that’s perfectly safe, but I wouldn’t dare go around whistling to communicate. That’s sure to get me killed for being a nuisance.”
Siere Marceline weighed my words, then continued. “Have you tested it on eunuchs? Boys before their voice drops?”
“I have not ‘tested’ it on anyone.” The thought of conducting experiments on living beings greatly unsettled me. “Only two men have heard my voice: King Nicolas, and a man who tried to abduct me.”
“I see,” replied the knight. She thumbed her chin. “What about repeated exposure? Do the effects seem to get worse?”
I had to pause and reflect on that one. Early on, it seemed as if every time I talked, Nicolas writhed under his skin. But that had long-since plateaued; until this morning, his obsession had stabilized. My heart ached. “I’m not sure, Siere.”
“Please, there is no need for formality. Not from you.”
“Then…” I paused, tilting my head. No, my heart really ached. My entire torso felt wrong. I swallowed it, whatever it was, and cleared my throat. “What should I call you? Marceline? Marcy? Celine?”
Siere Marceline’s eyes widened, distant with thought. Her voice was firm. “Not Celine.”
“Oh.”
There was a history there. I’d prodded a scar, but I wouldn’t dare press the matter.
“Marcy…” I went on, nodding. My stomach churned. “Marcy will do fi—”
I gagged, and all at once, I heaved up everything I’d eaten that day. Marcy stood abruptly and came to my side. “Your Majesty?”
Initially, a terrible sense of cosmic retribution overcame me. Poison—I’d been poisoned, but how? When? No one had behaved unusually as of late, but if one of the courtiers were to act on their agenda, the coronation would be the occasion to see it done.
Wide-eyed and sweating, I gawked at the mess. I put up a finger, waiting to see if more was to come, but that seemed to be all of it. The nausea faded until I felt completely normal.
“I need to see my parents,” I concluded, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my gown. I’d require a change of clothes, first. “Marcy, send for Winnie, please.”
The section of the tower given to my parents for practice was long-abandoned, tools of its original purpose left to gather dust until their shapes were obscured in thick cobwebs.
I sat and watched my mother clean while my father prepared a basic remedy for nausea.
Ginger root and peppermint filled the air, a pleasant distraction from the dank stench of decaying wood and iron.
“My guess,” said Mother, toying with some forsaken forceps, “is either a torture chamber or some kind of alchemists’ laboratory.”
I looked around. “Too many windows for a torture chamber.”
“You lack imagination, my love. Just imagine, someone’s got you tied up, they’re removing your fingernails by the quick.
You see a servant girl carrying water in the courtyard below and cry out for help, but the girl does nothing.
Either she’s ignoring you, or she can’t hear you.
Isolation is a form of torture, too, you know. ”
My smile faltered. Father grabbed a jar of dried flowers, and I quickly came to his side. Tapping him on the shoulder, I shook my head. “Not that one.”
He blinked, baffled by my assertion. Observing us, my mother came around and took the little glass into her own hands, studying it briefly before reaching for a container of valerian root. “Why not? Pennyroyal’s an excellent cure for digestive upset.”
“Because it can bring on monthly bleeding,” I said, snatching the dried flowers away. “So, no Pennyroyal, no feverfew…”
Mother’s brow climbed. Beside her, Father scratched his head. “But this is my standard tincture for nausea. I’ve made it hundreds of times.”
“Not right now,” I said firmly, allowing my father to read my lips. “Not for me.”
The silence was excruciating. Father set down the mortar and pestle, and Mother dropped the valerian jar so that it crashed and shattered on the stone flooring.
“Already?” She moved closer to my father for stability and placed a hand over her heart. “You’ve only just married. How can you be sure?”
My lips thinned.
Father couldn’t contain his smile for long, but Mother’s startled horror remained evident even as her husband pulled me into his embrace.
“Alana.” She held her breath. “If you have a son…”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I arrive. For now, I have help. I will not be alone. And I have you two, don’t I?”
“Oh, Petra, leave her be,” Father growled, turning to face his wife with such an undercurrent of anger that it took me by surprise. “Whatever you’re grumbling about, just be happy for once. You know pregnancy is hard enough without everyone sowing worries.”
Well, that comment didn’t help the anxiety, either, but his heart was in the right place. I patted his hand.
“I know,” Mother exhaled, meeting my gaze.
Queen or not, there was no escaping that look from her.
“I am grateful that you will not have to rear a child alone. It was difficult, especially those early years…having to keep a constant watch on you, an ear out for unwelcomed visitors. Even with a normal little girl, it would have been enough to drive any parent to madness. I only...I want your suffering to end, Alana. And a son you cannot speak to—”
“When we get there, Mother.”
The three of us were silent, for only a moment. Father resumed his work and left the women to do our glaring. As he finished, he added a swirl of honey to the tincture, then passed it to me. “Here, Little Bird. This will help. I’ll prepare a few sachets to keep available for your next bout.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t piece it together beforehand. You never fall ill; must have taken you rather by surprise.”
“I figured it was the sugar,” Mother added. “These nobles and their damned—”
A shriek pierced the air from somewhere below. We collectively hesitated, with Father’s hands still on the pot of honey and Mother’s criticism cut short. Running footsteps and shouting voices echoed up the stone walls.
I moved to the door, the tincture clutched in my hand. My parents were close behind, descending the spiral stairway as the volume of whatever scene awaited us grew louder. Beneath the voices, there was a rustling, fluttering noise, like fabric being shaken, or...
We reached the second floor’s corridor and stopped short, blocked off by Marcy’s extended hand.
Crows. Dozens of them, perhaps more than a hundred, packed the length of the hallway so densely that the carpet was barely visible between their feathered, black bodies. They perched on the wall sconces and tapestries and windows, flapping their wings and cawing out in a deafening roar.
Servants cowered behind their aprons for protection, pressed flat against the wall.
The guards tried to shoo the birds, who either ignored them or moved from harm’s way before returning to their original positions.
In the center of it all was Angharad, kneeling on the floor with her arms over her head and sobbing.
“Alana!” Angharad screamed, trying to move only for the birds to peck at her feet. Only in the center of that circle was she unharmed.
It was a breach of protocol, to publicly address me with such familiarity, but under the circumstances, I could forgive her.
“Call off your friends!” she yelled, and every man and woman turned to face me with uncertainty. “This—eek!—this is why you cannot feed these stupid, wicked little creatures!”
I’d once considered that Robert might not be one bird, but several. This, however, was a greater gathering of crows than I had ever encountered as individuals. It couldn’t possibly be my doing, could it?
Nicolas emerged at the other end of the hall, Quinn close by his side. The viscount shot an accusatory glare my way; all I could do was throw my arms out, the universal sign for: I’m as lost as you are, asshole!
Taran Banewight brushed past both men, heading straight for Angharad. The birds pecked at him, but if they didn’t move, he trampled them. They learned their place in short order, parting for him as he reached the marchioness and lifted her with ease.
“Do not accuse your queen, my lady,” he said quietly, that deep voice still booming over the birds’ chatter. “This is certainly the work of a witch.”
On a quick search of the corridor, I found no sign of Florence. Even as others filed in—Winnie, my handmaidens, Adelaide—my other lady-in-waiting was nowhere to be found.
“King Nicolas,” Taran spoke, turning around to face him.
He carried Angharad away from the spot and the crows scattered, taking off through windows in organized pairs.
Several turned to look at me before departing, and I swore their eyes were hollow, like they’d been plucked out and filled with shadow.
“I’ll need to remain here a while longer, along with my seekers.
I hope you understand; it’s for the safety of the kingdom. ”
“Certainly.” Nicolas clenched his jaw, adjusting his posture. “You are always welcome.”
“I shall escort Lady Angharad away.”
I watched him go, then met my husband’s steeled gaze. He closed the distance, careful to avoid the twitching corpses of those birds that dared to remain in the Banewight’s path. Once he was close, he placed a hand on my shoulder.
“They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“N-no, of course not,” I whispered. As Quinn neared, I shut my mouth and moved my hands instead. “I had nothing to do with this.”
My focus latched onto Florence as she appeared atop the stairs. She seemed unfazed by the commotion, heading straight for me and ignoring all else.
She took me by the arm and smiled meekly at the king.
“It appears we’ve a problem on our hands,” Florence said.
“I’ll say,” Nicolas replied. “The Banewights intend to stay now. What did you do, woman?”
“You think I’m so eager to keep them around?” Her hand gestured to the dead birds. “Alana has a way with the crows. It is possible they sensed some danger and came to ward it off.”
“Danger?” I signed. “It was only Angharad.”
Nicolas frowned. “Quinn.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Search Angharad. Thoroughly.”
My lips parted, a protest rising in my throat. The thought of Quinn’s hands on Angharad, even professionally, sent an unexpected bolt of possessiveness through me. Worse than jealousy was watching Quinn’s obvious discomfort, the way he tensed as he struggled with the demand.
I wanted to step forward and offer an alternative…but I caught myself in time, snapping my mouth shut and clenching my hands at my sides. I had no claim to him, and if he wished to find another way, he would.
Quinn’s expression changed then, features darkening as duty overrode the code he abided. He nodded. “As you wish.”
The resignation in his voice made my heart ache as much as my powerlessness to prevent it. I watched him go, and Florence’s hold on me tightened.
“Worry not. She’s your friend, so it’s doubtful she was bringing you harm.” Florence ruminated quietly. “Crows are mysterious friends. Who knows their motivations? And besides, poor Quinn has been down like a wagon without wheels. He could use the entertainment.”
I clenched my teeth, body stiffening. Florence squeezed my arm yet again, reminding me that the king was right there.
“Another thing,” Florence added. “I shan’t be joining you for the wedding tour. If the Banewights remain, I need to keep myself scarce.”
“Of course,” I whispered, but my thoughts were far from that. They churned with images I couldn’t banish: Quinn’s hands on Angharad, checking the lacing of her bodice, beneath her skirts for hidden weapons…
I burned with jealousy I had no right to feel.