Chapter 50
Now the court was in a proper riot.
All manner of accusations lashed out—some at me, for unwittingly harboring a witch, but mostly at Florence. Taran bound her arms behind her back, and she did nothing to resist.
“I’m going to see Nicolas,” Quinn said. “We have to stop this before they can get a pyre built.”
Men were already setting off to gather materials. The Banewights took Florence away, though Sahra kept herself distanced. My thoughts were reeling, but now was not the time to panic. I had to be decisive.
I followed Quinn to the Council Chamber. We didn’t bother to knock or announce entry before barging in. Nicolas sat at the long table with Duke Minnick, Marquis Trefor, and a few vaguely familiar ambassadors, but whatever business they’d been discussing came to an abrupt halt the moment we arrived.
“Alana?” Nicolas asked, rising from his seat. I must have worn my horror plainly; he craned his face to Quinn. “What’s happened?”
“The Banewights arrested Lady Florence,” Quinn answered.
My husband paled. The rest of the council exchanged murmurs before excusing themselves and filing from the room. When the door shut, he spoke again.
“On what grounds?”
“Confession. She admitted it after Taran…”
I glanced at Quinn, then signed the rest. “He was going to reveal my curse to the courtiers if she didn’t come forward. He suspected her but had no proof.”
Nicolas braced a hand on the table.
“We must save her.”
“The Banewights’ authority overrules that of any king, emperor, or priest,” Nicolas replied. “I cannot order them to set her free.”
Quinn stomped forward. “They’re going to kill her. That could be your wife out there.”
“But it isn’t. Florence put herself forward to protect Alana. She should have taken care not to be caught—”
“The Banewights remained because of me.” My hands flew, smacking against each other in outrage. “The crows are drawn to me, Nicolas. Perhaps because my power is growing. I don’t know. I need Florence to guide me, and she’s counting on us to help her.”
“Let’s say we do free the Maitre,” Nicolas growled.
“Then the whole of Gallae would know her identity. She would have to flee to Hadria. You would be suspected of aiding her escape; it wouldn’t be safe for you here anymore.
Where would you go? Would you live out your days in Pontarena, subject to my occasional visit?
We both know that wouldn’t be enough for you, Alana. I—”
“This isn’t about us!” I grabbed the other end of the table, baring my teeth. “Damn you and our marriage; a life is at stake!”
“Alana—” Quinn started.
“Damn our marriage?” asked Nicolas. “Would you damn Juliana, too, while you’re at it?”
I shook the table, and he stepped back. The anger that had boiled over quickly settled, and Nicolas lowered his head.
“I’m sorry you’re losing a friend,” he said gently.
“I’m sorry that, for all the power the crown provides, I cannot help you the one time you’ve asked for it.
If killing the Banewights would solve this, I would take their heads myself…
but that would spark a religious war, a rebellion, and likely much worse. Would you do that to save your friend?”
My head ached with pressure, overwhelmed by stress and mounting grief.
“Assassination attempts would become frequent. Juliana’s life would be at risk.” He put his hand on top of mine. I pulled back. “I’m sorry, Alana.”
“There must be something, Nic,” Quinn begged. “I could free Florence, take her back to Hadria. Blame me. Name me an enemy of the crown and exile me. Tell the world that I was a secessionist, that I was trying to use Florence to usurp you.”
I turned to Quinn with exasperation, but Nicolas scoffed. “Ask my wife if she would trade your companionship for the life of her friend if it meant she could never see you again.”
Quinn’s brow furrowed. “Of course she would.”
“Don’t speak for her. Ask her.”
The viscount caught me mid-deliberation. My cheeks flushed as I realized how long it had taken me to draw my conclusion. Obviously I would sacrifice my friendship with Quinn if it meant Florence escaped with her life, no matter how it hurt.
“Alana?” Quinn whispered.
“I would,” I answered. “Naturally.”
Nicolas crossed his arms. “Now ask the viscount if he would do the same. Would he risk never seeing you again?”
My eyes narrowed, but just to prove a point, I turned to Quinn, lifting my hands, and stalled. His eyes were rounded, fixed on me with pained consideration.
“Quinn?”
He opened his mouth, a small croak leaving his throat.
Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No.”
Nicolas lowered his eyes. All the cards were on the table now, face up, and he said nothing to address it; he’d been the one to flip them.
If he couldn’t be the hero, he made it blatantly apparent that Quinn couldn’t be, either.
It was a pyrrhic victory, one that exposed all of us to each other and ourselves.
He backed away, covering part of his face with his palm.
“It won’t take long for them to get that pyre assembled. I suggest we take some time to compose ourselves,” he said. “Perhaps your parents could watch Juliana tonight, Alana."
I couldn't bring myself to nod.
The courtiers chattered excitedly, a roar that echoed into the palace walls and made my stomach turn. Winnie took hold of my arm to steady me, another hand placed on the small of my back.
I came to the entrance, looking out on the courtyard with contempt.
My father leaned on the opposite end of the threshold, arms crossed over his chest. As I passed him, he reached out and touched my shoulder.
I smelled something awful on his fingers, like he’d been messing around with rotting meat and field mice.
The apothecary in me recognized the scent for what it was: henbane and hemlock.
“Father?” I whispered, but he shook his head and went inside.
Winnie ushered me on. We pushed through the crowd, none of whom seemed to care that their queen was among them.
Pitch and oil drifted in the air, and soon I reached Florence.
She was bound to the stake, but strangely enough, she appeared utterly tranquil.
Almost euphoric. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, gently tossing with the breeze, and when she saw me, she smiled.
It was sardonic, like she was readying herself to deliver a joke.
A careful pyramid of wood was built around her, but she might as well have been standing in a field of daisies.
Nicolas stood next to me. I saw Quinn, too, though he gave us careful distance.
“Your Majesty,” Florence called out, perhaps her first instance of proper address I’d observed. “I’m sorry for deceiving you. You couldn’t have known.”
Death lurked around the corner, and she was constructing my alibi. Winnie squeezed my arm. When I didn’t respond, she did for me.
“How could you, foul woman?” she shouted, though her voice broke on the words. “You will not be missed.”
Florence chuckled, not bothering to watch Taran as he came out with the torch. “But I’ll miss you most of all, Lady Winnifred.”
“Go to Hell.”
Taran approached the pyre with the torch held high. The crowd fell silent in the gravity of the moment. Asli leaned forward, bright-eyed with anticipation. Beside him, Sahra turned away, finding support on the half-wall behind her.
“I cannot go to Hell,” Florence announced, her hazy stare returning to me before sweeping over the crowd, “because Hell is coming to Gallae.”
Taran set the fire. It spread out slower than I imagined when my father shared the story of Laetitia. “Enough, witch. I checked you for carvings; the Lord will not hear you.”
Florence ignored him. “This is my final wish, O Lord of Night. The last of many gifts. Let Gallae burn with me.”
My heart skipped. I took a step forward and was held fast by Winnie. Surely she wouldn’t; Florence cared for me, for others here. She wouldn’t curse us. She couldn’t, not without a—
Shadows erupted from beneath the pyre, a living, writhing presence. They rose like great wings, blotting out the evening sun. The temperature plummeted, and I felt Him there, a pure being of immeasurable wrath.
Gasps and screams rippled through the crowd. A vast figure cupped Florence protectively even as the flames climbed higher. They changed colors, burning a bluish-black that cast everything in otherworldly light. The Banewights’ uncertainty was shared, Asli’s pleasure curdling on his face.
Through it all, Florence remained serene. Father gave her that. Her skin blistered and cooked, and the Lord of Night appeared before her one last time, kissing her forehead in farewell before the smoke obscured everything.
The light of the world started to return, those shadows receding beneath the pyre. I swallowed thickly, sensing that the Lord’s darkness hadn’t faltered or waned, but perhaps had been released, as if Florence herself incubated great stores of his magic.
Beneath my feet, the ground shook. We all felt it.
Then the earth was still.