“No! No, no, he’s going to be fine! He’s—get off of me!” She shouted at the restraining hands and pushed her way to her husband’s side, dropping to her knees.
“Love you. So. Much.” Girion raised his bloodied hand to reach for her. Mouthing the words as he struggled to breathe.
“I love you. And you’re going to be my lover for the rest of our very, very long lives, Girion the Great,” she half-sobbed, tears pouring down her cheeks as her hands grabbed his throat.
Wind. Water. Earth.
Stop the water. Stop the red water. The blood must stop flowing from this wound. And the earth in us. The metal in us. Fuse and bind. Air in his lungs, wind in his breath, keep flowing.
And fire. Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire.
She had no fire magic, but fire—cauterizing a wound. She’d known it to be done, like when old Jake had his leg bitten by a dog, and it got infected, and it was the leg or his life. “Fire!” Jocasta screamed and felt it—felt the pulsing in her soul, not her blood or her lungs, or anything like that, but a deep pain that burnt from the inside out and seared her palms.
And stopped the bleeding. Sealed the wound.
“Jocasta?” Cole was near her.
“Your Majesty. Your parents are on their way. I’ve sent messengers,” Herrick whispered.
“He’s alive. Fetch the doctor, but I’m keeping my husband,” she hissed, then lay on Girion, too tired to stay upright, but not too tired to keep healing him.
In a few minutes, she felt his hand on her head. Stroking her hair with weak fingers.
“Had my flank,” he whispered.
“Always. Don’t talk. Your throat hurts.”
“You’re right.”
“Shhh.” She managed to sit up, and when she saw his mouth open again, she silenced him the only way she knew how. She kissed him.
Chapter Fourteen
Jocasta walked down to the stockade, fury shaking every ounce of her body. Her dress was still stained. She hadn’t taken it off, letting the sight of Girion’s blood strengthen her. Fire danced from the tips of her fingers when she remembered the way his last words—well, what he had believed to be his last words—were declarations of love. For her.
“You almost took away the first thing I have let myself love in many years,” Jocasta announced, storming past a perfect storm of guards. Herrick trailed her, and she saw him shake his head when some of the guards began to move forward. The message was clear. Jocasta the Just had come to take a bit of justice for her beloved Girion the Great.
Nemo cowered in his cell, draped in his discarded clothes. “He attacked me.”
“No. He chased you. You ran. Why?”
Jocasta knew, of course. Girion was awake and talking, claiming he felt fine. Cole and the royal physician were practically sitting on him to keep him in bed and resting.
“I have no idea. I guess he didn’t like that I used to know your family.”
“Nemo. Which means No One. But you were called Mr. Reynard. You know... I found out that in the olden days, many royal and noble families gave their servants their household name. Reynard—that isn’t a common name in Caledon. It’s much more common in certain regions of Wyndwood, in particular, the royal city. The Archduke and Archduchess Reynard come from a very old family. They presumably have very old lines, maybe old family retainers who took their name.”She shrugged. “Or it could be a coincidence. Who knows? Who cares? What matters is that you bit my husband. You almost killed the King of Caledon. I’m fairly certain you can be executed for that.”
“Yes,” Herrick said. One cold, firm word that made Nemo sit up in the corner of his cell.
“Which is entirely stupid, because you, at worst, committed some acts of sharp practice with money, and at best, were ignorant of the law. But then you ran—and apparently you said some most unkind things about humans.”
“Treason. Treason against Queen Jocasta.” Murmurs began to run through the guards.
“Oh, a person is free to say what they think, unkind and ignorant though it may be.”
“I didn’t think the king would approve. He was asking questions he had no right to ask!”
“You were a guest in his home. Attacking someone in their home is frowned upon in polite circles.” Jocasta walked to the bars of the cell. Her fingers touched the metal, and her exhaustion vanished. Fire flooded her palms, and she grit her teeth as her hands stung. “What are the bars made of, Herrick? Iron?”
