Enchanting the King (The Beauty's Beast Fantasy Series) (25 page)

“Yes, but he’d be
alive
.” The witch was impatient, her foot tapping, her voice a brisk snap like a whip.

Aliénor pressed a palm to her own throat, to the bruises there. She could feel her pulse pounding beneath her fingertips, frantic as the tumbling whirl in her mind. “Why did you send Thomas to kill me? Why not just try yourself?”

The witch rolled her eyes. “Never mind. I’ll come get you myself.” She yanked the sword out of Noémi’s hand, and the witch jumped off the dock.

Aliénor scurried back as the boat rocked with the witch landing. The wounded boat seemed to groan under the extra weight, the wooden beams creaking. Water sloshed over the side, splashing across Aliénor’s face like a slap.

The witch swung the sword as she landed. Aliénor dodged, and the blade stuck in the wood of the small, half-burned cabin compartment.

The witch tugged and grunted in frustration, trying to free her blade. As she stumbled back, she yanked the spell-knife from the sheath at her belt. She tilted the blade to flash in Aliénor’s eyes. “Better this way, eh? No more coaxing.”

Aliénor’s belly went cold. “Blood magic won’t work on open water.”

“Are you sure? Care to test your luck?”

No. Very much no. Aliénor tore her own knife out of its sheath.

The witch snorted. “Pretty toy, Princess. I don’t think you ever learned to fight with a knife, though, did you? You never
had
to learn.”

Aliénor also snatched a broken board up off the deck, hoping she could keep the witch far enough back. As the witch advanced, Aliénor swung her board at Mistress Helen, but the witch ducked and came up slashing with her own knife. Aliénor stumbled away, swinging the board one-handed, trying to hold on to her little knife as the grip grew slippery with water.

The witch looked cocky now, confident. She and Aliénor both knew she only needed to get the shallowest cut in and the fight could be over. “Do you know why I sent your king to kill you, little Aliénor?”

Aliénor dodged away, almost losing her balance. She wheeled her arms, trying to balance, as the witch slashed at her face. Aliénor lost her footing and landed on the deck, her rump stinging. She’d dropped the board, and Mistress Helen kicked it away with a snort of contempt. Aliénor scuttled backward as the witch advanced toward her.

Mistress Helen grinned. “I sent King Thomas to kill you because that is the surest way to make him mine. If you were still alive in the world, he’d fight me to get back to you. To be free. But if you’re dead, and at his own hand, then my control becomes a refuge for him. He’ll never want to be himself again after that, never want to face what he’s done. It’s the perfect prison.”

Aliénor’s body tensed, seizing up with anger. With a cry of rage, she hurled herself at Mistress Helen, knocking the other woman to the deck of the little skiff. Aliénor’s knife went skittering away. Something cracked beneath them, and they lurched downward together, water suddenly sloshing over both their faces. Aliénor reared up out of the water and slammed the blood witch down hard again. Again.

Mistress Helen spat water and thrashed beneath her, clawing for Aliénor’s face. She’d dropped her knife too, and lost it to the river pouring into the boat. “You stupid—”

With a crack, the boat split in half underneath them, and they were both dumped into the chill, rushing water together.

Under the water, tossed by the current, the witch clawed for Aliénor’s throat. Chest aching for air, Aliénor shoved back at the woman as the river tossed them along. Aliénor kicked free of the blood witch and shoved the woman away. Lungs burning, Aliénor kicked toward the surface of the river.

She broke the surface and swam hard for the dock, pawing at the boards, her sodden garments dragging at her all the way. The witch slammed into her back, slipping and grabbing to use Aliénor’s body as a boost to heave herself up. Aliénor elbowed the other woman in the gut and slapped her hand over Mistress Helen’s face. She shoved hard. Mistress Helen fell back, her eyes wide, and splashed into the water, going under.

Aliénor braced herself against the dock, holding on, watching the water, waiting for the witch to resurface. After a moment, she dared to turn her back and gripped the wooden dock to lever herself up.

The wood cracked, the board breaking lose to bang against her head. She crashed into the river, the water swirling her round and round. Alarm flared inside Aliénor and she struck for the surface, for air.

Something caught at her legs, tugging her back. For one horrified moment, she thought it was the blood witch. But as she felt down around her ankle, she realized her now-tattered skirt had caught on a nail in the side of the dock. She yanked again and again and at last felt the fabric give.

With a voiceless cry of relief, Aliénor hugged the pylons under the dock, holding on to them as she swam through the murky water up to the surface. She caught a trailing rope in the water, used that to drag herself up the rest of the way.

With a gasp, she popped her head out of the water and sucked a deep breath into her quivering lungs. She held grimly onto her rope as the river rushed around her, trying to tug her back into its suffocating embrace. Her arms ached, and her body shivered hard enough to hurt.

Something bumped into her from behind and she startled away, an unwise scream causing her to swallow a mouthful of water.

It was the blood witch, facedown in the river. Aliénor caught at the woman’s clothes with one hand as Mistress Helen’s limp body rushed by. But Aliénor’s hands were too numb and cold-clumsy. The witch’s body spun away from her to the center of the river’s tide and was soon swept out of sight. Just one more piece of detritus from the storm.

“Princess? Princess Aliénor!” At the sound of Llewellyn’s voice, Aliénor’s eyes pinched closed with relief.

“
Here
.” She tried to scream it, but the word came out only a half-strangled croak. A board banged into her side, then a dead sheep. Her body was going cold, sluggish, her eyes drifting closed. Her fingers wanted to loosen on the rope, let go—

Llewellyn’s hands fastened around her arms, and he hauled her up like a landed fish, water sluicing off her clothes and hair. They flopped together onto the dock in an ungraceful tangle of limbs and wet clothes.

After a moment, Llewellyn groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “The witch is dead, then?”

“Drowned, I think. How did you know?”

He tapped his temple. “Her spell lifted off me, and I woke up. And the sleepers are no longer under her control.”

“Are they—”

“Still asleep. It’s my magic too in this spell, and unfortunately, mine was the stronger. Perhaps, if all else fails, I’ll have to—” He broke off and cleared his throat, staring at Aliénor. “Anyway, are you all right?”

She just shook her head and pushed unsteadily to her feet. “I’ll decide later. Let’s break this damn curse.”

The cursed sleepers had all collapsed again, dozing peacefully right in the middle of the road. Aliénor and Llewellyn dragged the ones by the dock under shelter to make sure no one was washed away or drowned in a street puddle. More in-depth help would have to come later. For now, the best thing for everyone would be to break the damn curse.

The nobleman’s house lay empty, of course. Discarded blankets and bandages littered the floor, and a few splashes of blood from men who had been forced to stumble out of bed to follow the witch’s call.

A note atop the table caught Aliénor’s eye, and she staggered over to the small scrap as if towed there by a leash. Her name was scrawled across the folded note. Eyes stinging, already guessing what she would read, she unfolded the paper. He’d written it in Jerdic. For her.

“Dearest Aliénor, I must leave you now to confer with your cousin.”
A splotch of ink lay just there, as if he had sat thinking with his quill pressed to paper before he could continue writing: “
Last night was the most wonderful night of my life. I hope we can discuss the terms of our mutual surrender again today. I leave my heart here behind with you. Guard it well until we meet again?”

For some reason, the blood witch had not drafted Thomas into her army of sleeping soldiers. He lay stretched out atop the jacquard quilt, his hands folded neatly upon his chest, his face still and composed like in death. He looked like a king, like the golden splendor of glory and honor personified.

I do not want a carven king. I want a tongue and teeth, pokey elbows, strong hands. I want willing arms and a warm kiss
. Aliénor folded up beside his body, her knees giving out. She leaned over Thomas, water from her wet hair dripping onto his face. He did not stir, did not even flinch in his cursed sleep.

Llewellyn brushed her shoulder with his fingertips. “You should change your clothes. Dry off. Eat something.”

“No.”

“Princess—”

“
No
. No more delays. I put this curse on him. I will not make him wait to be free of it. Let’s try it now.”

Llewellyn held his empty hands out. A notch of worry had formed between his brows. “I’m not…sure.”

Aliénor thumped the bed in frustration. “You’re a magician. You drew this poison out of me.”

“The spell was weaker then. And I don’t want to risk you.”

“Risk me?”

He shook his head, half-distracted as if he didn’t quite have the words.

Aliénor gripped Llewellyn’s arm and forced him to turn toward her. “You have an idea, don’t you? What is it?”

The magician just shook his head, looking frazzled. “Kiss him.”

She recoiled. “Kiss him?”

“Yes.”

“Just
kiss him
? Like a silly fairy tale or something?”

Llewellyn folded his arms, brow furrowing in exasperation. “Look, when you kiss him I’ll open a channel up between you two. You follow that down and bring him back to us. Just leave all the fiddly magic bits to me, all right?”

Aliénor swallowed. “Fine.”

“If it doesn’t work and you get sucked down into the cursed sleep with him—”

“
What?
”

The magician flung up a placating hand. “Never fear. If this fails, I’ll just cut my throat and then all the magic will unravel. All right?”

“
No
.” They glared at each other for a long, tense minute. Then Aliénor swabbed water out of her eyes. “I’m not going to fail.” She breathed out through her nose and shivered, her wet clothes clinging to her skin. “You’re right, though. I should have changed my gown.” With that, she closed her eyes and leaned down, pressing her lips to Thomas’s mouth.

He was cold against her and still.
It’s not working
. She tried to ease back, but then something gripped her hard, drawing her down into darkness and cold. An eerie quiet. She gasped and stilled her instinctive urge to wrench away.
No. I’m not giving up
.

Instead of retreating, Aliénor threw herself toward that reaching darkness, toward the choking black mass boiling behind her eyelids. The magic took hold of her, a hard, angry grip eerily like being choked. She pressed closer to Thomas. She flung her will, her hope out toward the sleeping king.
I love you, Thomas. Come back to me
.

Thomas lay in utter darkness, numb, afraid. His legs felt chained, his arms pinned. Drawing breath grew more painful with each moment, as if someone were stacking rocks on top of him and steadily adding to the pile.

“You left us.”
The voices of those he’d failed echoed all around him. His dead soldiers. His father. His brother, Hugh. His missing nephew, Gabriel.
“You’ve destroyed the kingdom.”

Rosamund…

“You’d replace me with some foreign girl?”

“No. Not replace. Never replace.” His heart had been dead, dust-barren and empty for so long. How could Rosamund begrudge him this new growth with Aliénor? These hopeful green shoots of spring hurt, but they healed him too.

“The people will never accept her.”

“She’ll destroy the kingdom.”

“It will mean another war with Jerdun.”

“Thousands more lives lost because you can’t control your lust.”

He thrashed, trying to free his arms, trying to stop the voices as they swelled and crashed against him like a punishing wash of waves, a tide trying to crush him against the shore.

Rosamund stood beside him, her soft hands tracing over his brow.
“Sleep, Thomas.
Sleep
. Isn’t that better? Sleep and forget.”

Under her gentle hands, the riot of voices softened to a gentle susurrus of whispers. Easier to ignore. Thomas expelled a tight breath through his teeth. He was so tired…

“Aliénor will be better off without you, anyway.”

“She’s so young.”

“So bright.”

“Why let her chain herself to a dried-up old man like you?”

“Sleep, dear Thomas. Just sleep.”

Thomas felt his head nodding, his chest aching. He let his eyes flutter closed, let his limbs relax in their restraints. “Yes. You’re right.”

“No.” The voice was soft, faint, but it brought with it a warm glow, a light that reminded him what sunlight felt like.
Aliénor
.

The voices emitted a chorus of hissing, and his eyes startled open again. When he looked around him, he did not see familiar faces. Rosamund was not here. Just a boiling black cloud. A formless evil thing. The cloud churned, but a figure moved behind. As he caught sight of red hair and a pale face in the dark of the cloud, Thomas tugged at his restraints. “Aliénor!”

She drew closer, the black cloud swirling and shifting around her as she pumped her arms, thrashing and swimming toward him even though the inky blackness tried to haul her away.

A firm hand grasped his chin and turned him away. He stared into the face of Rosamund. “
Thomas, you must
sleep
. Just let go. Stop fighting and we can be together.
”

He clenched his jaw, his heart aching with missing her.

“
Thomas
,” Aliénor cried out.

Rosamund’s fingers dug into the skin of his jaw. “
Sleep and forget, Thomas. Forget your responsibilities. Forget your sorrows. Thomas…
” She leaned down to kiss him.