“I love you,” Winnie mouthed. Elisa Balden shut her eyes to escape the sight of her husband’s dismembered head, the little vibrations of her body visible even at our distance.
A whisper of steel, and then metal met flesh.
My stomach turned. It felt wrong for people to die like this, with no more dignity than animals led to slaughter. If they could not fight back, then it was like they were already dead. Perhaps they’d died in the privacy of the council’s judgment, or when they were taken to their cells.
Nicolas stood with folded hands, expression unyielding. Love, no matter how strongly felt, might not always be enough. He held authority over me, and I was powerless when it mattered. If these condemned traitors were animals led to slaughter, then I was a leashed pet.
I wondered when I would die, and whether it would be before or after my spirit had broken.
Kante’s breath steamed from his nostrils as his hooves rebounded against the hardened field. His coat was thicker as of late, warm to the touch; a small mercy from the cold air stinging my face. My eyes watered as he picked up speed, which provided a solid alibi for the tears to freely fall. I was overcome, unsure of which node of thought to cling to before my mind shifted to some other dreary corner.
Winnie went away with the Duke of Greene, who’d offered solace in the form of hot chocolate and quiet space. No longer in charge of keeping her head above water, I sought respite of my own in the riding fields, reaching them just in time. The stable master already had Kante saddled for the day’s exercise and was preparing to mount the animal.
“Better you than me,” he’d said, not questioning my lack of chaperone today. “To tell you the truth, he’s always a little unruly without you. Perhaps he prefers your quiet companionship.”
Through our connection, I knew that Kante simply disliked the smell of him. He reeked of other horses and man-musk.
I guided Kante along the fence, slowing to dry my eyes. Beads of mucus formed in my nostrils, and I patted away the tears with a handkerchief before stowing it back into my riding coat. A figure watched from a distance, an unusual sight of gold in today’s dreariness.
I rode to Sahra Doonle, looking down on her from atop the steed. The woman was absent during the beheading, possibly because she had nothing appropriately dark enough to wear in her wardrobe.
The Banewight initiate curtsied. “Princess Alana. I hope my watching hasn’t disturbed you; I saw you riding from my chamber window and felt homesick.”
I hadn’t spoken a word to Sahra, and wasn’t entirely sure how to go about addressing her. Were Banewights “ladies” and “lords”, or did they fall someplace else, like the maitres?
My silence didn’t deter her. “I had a mare back in my village. A gift from my betrothed: a Mazarnian with fine cream coloring.”
“What was she called?” I asked.
“Marshmallow.”
I snorted. Beneath me, Kante shuffled his hooves, his tail swishing at imaginary flies.
“She was too timid to board a ship, so I left her to a friend,” Sahra went on. “I miss her.”
A brisk wind blew between us. Sahra shivered, bundled warmly in unfamiliar spotted furs of gold and black atop sheepskin. Beneath the cloak, bright patterns emerged with the gust.
“What brought you into the Banewights?” I asked, cautious but curious.
“Asli wanted to join. He has always felt the call to adventure, even if it meant sticking his nose into strangers’ affairs. I came because I knew that I would not see him again if I stayed.”
I frowned. “And your betrothed?”
Perhaps prospective marriage held another weight in Aduran.
“Killed,” Sahra said succinctly. Her lids shut in memory, and then she looked up at me. “An envious witch cursed him with a sickness that would only heal if he decided to marry her instead. She might have cursed me, but the Doonles cannot be touched by magic.” She paused, shaking her head. “My love chose death.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, or if I had enough room in my heart for more sadness. I only slanted my lips, gracing her at least with a look of pity.
Sahra returned to the moment. “You have a strange aura about you, you know? You glow. Not to others, but I can see it clear as day.” She put a hand on the fence. “Someone cursed you.”
My heart caught in my throat. Before me stood a hunter of witches, but more importantly, a person who could see the magic flowing around me; not my own, perhaps, but traces of the truth. I had little choice but to indulge her curiosity. “Yes. A witch cursed me before I was born. I cannot speak in the presence of men, lest they fall bewitched.”
And if Sahra went to tell a soul, I’d drive a knife through her heart.
Sahra’s breath hitched. “I have heard this story before, from Taran, though I did not know it was about you. But I saw you speaking to—” She hesitated mid-thought. I watched her, measuring her intentions as she reconsidered her words. “Does Prince Nicolas know?”
“He does, but I’ve won him over in other ways,” I replied with a hawkish glare, momentarily forgetting my anger at him. “He was the first person I ever met, beyond my parents. I stopped him from stepping on an adder. I’ve saved him from a few such serpents in the months after. When you cannot speak, you tend to be more observant.” I quirked a brow. “Will you tell anyone?”
