She seems to contemplate this for a moment, chewing her lip before saying, “John keeps Sybil in the dungeon. She’s hurt, but I don’t know the extent of her injuries. Only that he’s taken her ability to weave spells.”
That news is a punch to my gut. The garden spins, and I’m dangerously close to emptying my stomach of the fruit and bread I ate for breakfast.
Dear God…
John must have taken her tongue. It’s the only way to rob her of her craft. Without a tongue, she can’t speak her spells. No one else can say the words in her stead. Only she must voice them. That’s the nature of magic. If anyone could wield it…anyone could wield it. One must be born with the ability to bend reality using the powerful combination of potions and words.
A witch who cannot speak is no witch at all.
“Help me, Eleanor,” I beseech her in a rough whisper. “Please, help me. Your brother lies in wait just outside of Newkirk. Help me get him inside the castle so we can kill John.”
“Yes.” She’s already nodding. “Of course, I’ll help you,” she rasps. “We can do this, and we won’t be alone. Others here will fight with us, but it will be dangerous.”
“I’m prepared for dangerous,” I assure her. “What I’m not prepared to do is let that madman continue to terrorize Rygard.”
“Good, I’m glad” Her smile is sweet, and there’s a sparkle in her blue eyes. “Now, tell me, Rapunzel, how did you come to love my brother?”
I pick my words carefully, keeping Emma’s warning about how others will take my relationship with my men at the forefront. Rather, I feed her bits and pieces of how Quinn bartered his soul and how he, Wren, and Dax came to be as close as brothers. I tell her of Dyhurst, Emma, and the renegades who call that ancient castle home. Then I explain how there’s a chance Quinn can gain his soul back, leaving out the details, lest I say too much and break my pact with the demon. Last, I tell her of the awful day we came too close to losing Quinn when his throat was slashed with a poisoned blade.
And when I’m done, I find her gaping at me.
No, that’s not right.
She’s staring at my hair.
Instinctively, a hand flies to the heavy braid. I wince when I realize how much I’ve said.WhatI’ve said. I added one detail without thinking because the words flowed once I began talking.
“You healed my mortally wounded brother with yourhair?”
I roll my lips between my teeth and nod because it’s too late to take back the truth. I spent my life guarding this secret. But after ten minutes with Eleanor, it flowed out of me like a rushing river. I blame it on the fact that she looks too much like Quinn.
With nothing more to hide about my hair, I explain how John called for Sybil to heal my mother after she fell ill while she was pregnant with me. How Sybil’s magic couldn’t save Queen Anne, and instead, infused me with life. How the magic seeped into my hair, and because of that, I can heal the sick and the dying.
I even confess that my life is connected to the magic.
She asks questions, many of which I answer. Some I can’t because I don’t understand how the magic works. I only know it does. We walk a bit more, and finally, the conversation turns, and she tells me of the Redgraves. How they were proud and powerful before their father’s greed destroyed their family. She was betrothed to Sir Stephan of Glasburg since she was a child. Although never pleased with this match, she was prepared to do her duty and marry him. But after Queen Anne’s death, an opportunity presented itself. John needed a new wife, and she was offered up like a sacrificial lamb to a king mad with grief.
The king gained a pretty young bride to abuse.
Glasburg rose in rank to become Captain of the Guard.
Quinn murdered his father before the man could reap the benefits of the power promised to him. Then he surrendered his soul and tore out Glasburg’s heart with his bare hand.
Two down…one left to kill.
ChapterEighteen
“Wake up.”
A haunting voice slithers into my dream, but it evaporates like smoke.
Sybil? No. Hers reminds me of two stones grating against each other.
Tucked into my warm bed, I roll over and tug the heavy blanket with me. I keep my eyes shut tight, knowing when I open them, the floral murals I painted across the plaster walls of my tower will surround me. An artist I’m not, but I had to pass the endless days somehow. When I ran out of parchment, I used my prison as a canvas, bringing to life the outside world as I imagined it.
I swore to Sybil that I would never leave the tower, and I never did, even allowing her to shackle me to my cage lest I give in to the temptation of freedom.
Not even after discovering where she’d hidden a master key that would grant me liberation did I dare step one foot outside. Fear, I found, was a stronger chain…
