They lapsed into silence until Ambrose clasped his fingers together and stared at his shoes. “I’m sorry for what happened to your stepmother, but what you witnessed was nothing more than base trickery. You’ve seen true magic at Ketach Tor.”
Louvaen nearly choked on a bitter cackle. “I have. It tortures Ballard so badly he no longer possesses his mind. You’ve used it to gull my sister. I can’t abide magic because all I’ve seen is the misery it causes and the lies it perpetuates.” Her lip curled in disgust. “I want no part of the stuff. If I could find a way to rip it out of me, I would.”
“Then your hatred is misplaced,” he said sharply. “You detest the tool, not the wielder.” He removed his spectacles to clean the lenses on his robes. He blinked owlishly at her before setting them back on his nose. “You guessed right when you said Ballard and Gavin suffered from a curse. Isabeau cast her bane before she died, though I don’t think even she realized how deeply her hatred would take hold or how great the power of her words.”
She sat quietly as Ambrose told the story of Ballard’s marriage to Isabeau, his inheritance of her valuable dower lands, his slaying of Cederic of Granthing and finally of the bane, spun off the bloodied lips of a dying woman who thirsted for vengeance instead of peace with her last breath.
A low pitiful groan spilled from the well room followed by Ballard’s voice, now raspy and gasping. “Mercy, Isabeau,” he said. “I beg you.”
“Mercy, Isabeau,” Louvaen and Ambrose repeated in unison. They stared at each other, Louvaen wide-eyed and sick to her soul; Ambrose paler than milk.
Ballard’s brief remarks about Isabeau had hinted at an enmity between them. Still Ambrose’s tale stunned her. Not because Isabeau had cast the curse against Ballard—plenty of spouses hated each other enough to wield curses, knives and skillets against each other—but against Gavin as well. “She hated her own son.”
“Just as much as she hated her husband—which was a lot as you can tell.”
“How old was Gavin when the curse manifested?
“Twelve and fostering with a lord’s household a few leagues from Ketach Tor. He was still a page and eager for the day he’d become a squire.” Ambrose ran a hand through his spiny hair. “The curse took him without warning, turned him into a beast both cunning and violent. He killed two men before he changed back to a boy—bloodied, terrified and a prayer away from being put to the sword. Only Ballard’s long friendship with the fostering lord saved him.
Louvaen shook her head. “My gods, that poor child.”
Ambrose sighed. “Indeed. Ballard paidblot witeto the slain men’s families and took Gavin home, but word passed swiftly and soon everyone from the borderlands to Waleran’s court heard that the only child of the Margrave of Ketach Tor carried a curse. The curse struck again a fortnight later. We had to tie him to his bed and post guards at the door. After that, people left Ketach Tor.”
Another round of shrieking swelled up from the bottom of the stairs. When it stopped, Louvaen thought she’d need an iron crow to pry her clenched teeth apart. “Is there nothing you can give him to ease his suffering?”
Even in the buttery’s frigid air, Ambrose’s brow was beaded with sweat. “No. I’d have to brew the draught so strong, I’d end up poisoning him.”
They waited for more of Ballard’s howls, but it remained quiet. Louvaen exhaled a shuddering breath. “If the curse is supposed to manifest in Gavin, how does Ballard shoulder the brunt of it?”
Ambrose’s eyes closed for a moment, as if he prayed for strength. “The situation was unacceptable, and Ballard was willing to do whatever was necessary to shield Gavin from Isabeau’s malice.” His gaze turned bright and watery. “I told him it would be a mercy to just kill the boy. Isabeau had no hold over the dead, and Ballard’s part of the curse—a woman not loving him—was of no importance.” He chuffed. “I hate being wrong.”
“I can’t imagine Ballard would even consider killing his own son.”
The sorcerer’s humorless smile hid a world of secrets. “That’s just it. Gavin isn’t Ballard’s son by blood. Granthing sired him, and Ballard knew it.”
Louvaen’s thoughts reeled. “My gods, did Isabeau not know? What good was all that son-destroying-the-father twaddle if Granthing was already dead?”
Ambrose’s eyes lit behind the reflective spectacles, and a tiny smile played around his mouth. “Ah, Mistress Duenda, you do have a way of humbling the most epic notions.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if she knew. She may have guessed. I personally believe she was exacting her revenge on Granthing as well, in case Ballard lied and Granthing lived. I think she knew in the end he didn’t love her any more than Ballard did; he only pretended. His betrayal was worse than Ballard’s indifference.”
“She’d destroy the heir Ballard so desperately wanted for Ketach Tor and turn him into the instrument of Granthing’s death in the event Ballard hadn’t actually killed him.” Louvaen sighed. “Not so much twaddle then.”
“No, but there was a way out for Ballard. He could marry again, father a child on another wife. Love is no requirement for siring a child. He’d still have his heir and keep Isabeau’s land.”
“My son is why I breathe, Louvaen.”
She stared at the door between the buttery and the well room, imagining the tormented man imprisoned in the dark cell with only his pain for company. “Who sired him has no meaning here. Gavin de Lovet is the true son and heir of Ballard de Sauveterre.”
“Aye, he is.” Ambrose followed her gaze to the door. “I couldn’t break the curse, but I could manipulate it. I redirected the symptoms onto Ballard. Everything Isabeau would have burdened Gavin with, I shifted to his father—the disfigurements, the pain, the physical bonds tethering him to this castle and lands.”
Louvaen pressed the heels of her hands against her aching eyes. She wouldn’t weep. Not now. Not even later. Maybe when the flux ebbed and the curse’s effects with it, she’d cry. For Ballard, for Gavin, and for Cinnia. Most of all for Cinnia who had the towering misfortune of falling in love with a cursed man. She might even cry for herself for falling in love with the ruin of one.
“Are you all right, mistress?” For the first time since she’d met him, Ambrose’s eyes were soft with concern—for her.
She answered with a question of her own. “Are Gavin’s eyes always yellow during the flux?”
Ambrose shook his head. “No. We’ve battled this curse for a long time. As Ballard says, he’s like a bucket filled to the brim. Some spills over and rebounds back to Gavin. So far only his eyes have changed.”
“How long is a long time?”
