Fist of the Furor (13 page)

It was impossible to bring someone back from the dead.

Gabriella screeched, her eerie keen circling the room before she finally gave in to the pain. “Please,” she begged.

I knelt, my hand hovering over her blackened arm. The power of the trees slammed into me, their whispering murmurs rising to deafening chants. They called to the poison, to the ebony sap that filled Gabriella’s veins.

The princess arched off of the floor, her eyes filling with a turquoise glow. It reminded me of my eyes, the sight of it unsettling. My power permeated her flesh, and I stared at her arm, the horror of what I had to do suddenly filling me.

“I need a knife.” I swallowed hard.

Cadeyrn glanced down at me, his eyes finding my dread-filled gaze.

Kneeling, he pulled a dagger from his boot. “Let me.”

With one swift movement, he opened a vein in Gabriella’s arm. My power surged forth, thrusting the poison in a black pool onto the floor beneath her. Ryon pulled her away from it.

I gagged.

“It’s done,” I gasped.

Swallowing bile, I stumbled backward, watching as Ryon bound the small gash in Gabriella’s arm before jerking her to her feet. Madden draped her dressing robe over her shoulders. She sagged between them, anger warring with relief in her gaze.

She glared at Cadeyrn. “War,” she spat. “My country will go to war with yours.”

Cadeyrn smiled. “I sent a courier pigeon to your father this afternoon with a letter detailing your deception as well as proof. Never underestimate me,
wife
. I had your rooms searched. It took little persuasion for one of your ladies to talk. Both the ambassador of Henderonia and the ambassador of Dearn were present when the Black Lace root was found. A small sample of it was sent to your father along with a statement from both ambassadors. Tell me, Gabriella, do you think your father will risk war with three different nations because he refused to let the king of Sadeemia punish you for treason?”

Gabriella wilted.

There was no sympathy in Cadeyrn’s gaze when he approached her. “You will be returned to Greemallia ruined. Tell
me,
were your ambitions worth it? All it takes is one murder to feed bloodlust. Am I right to assume this was not your first?”

Gabriella sneered. “You will pay for this.”

Cadeyrn bent over her. “If you only knew the amount of threats I receive a day.”

And with that, he waved at the guards. Ryon and Madden dragged her from the room, hissing and screaming. She was a madwoman, her beauty and royal lineage hiding the blood of a murderer.

Cadeyrn glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll have a new bath sent up.”

I nodded. Behind me, Oran sat up on the bed. “This has been quite a show,” the wolf muttered.

I didn’t respond. My gaze stayed locked on Cadeyrn. The kiss that had passed between us earlier was even more wrong now. It wasn’t just that we were different; it wasn’t just that it had been a desperate way to heal … he was married to someone else. He was a man of prophecy, and I was a rebel bastard playing at being a hero.

“Look back to the window, Aean Brirg,” Cadeyrn breathed. “Euphoria looks much better on you than despair.”

With that, he left the room. I stumbled to the bed and pushed my face into Oran’s fur. In the distance, the Serenity Bell clanged. It rang four times a day to mark the different hours of worship. It was often at night that the villagers visited the temple the most. The Sadeemians were loyal to their gods. I’d never been to the temple, though I could see it from my window. The pristine white sanctuary called to me, but it was too dangerous to leave the palace.

“Four more days,” Oran said. “Four more days and we leave this wretched place. Too much drama for me.”

I laughed and was rewarded with a mouthful of hair. “And the trees are less dramatic?” I asked.

Oran sniffed. “At least they don’t reign over double weddings, kidnap babies, and try to poison us with Black Lace.”

He sagged onto the bed, and I fell with him. “You miss your pack, don’t you?”

Oran sighed. “I miss my mate.”

My fingers dug into his skin. “We’re going to make it home, Oran. Somehow, some way, we are going to free the rebels. Phoenix or no, I will lead them to freedom.”

Oran’s snout touched my hair and he snuffled. “You’ll write yourself an amazing destiny.”

Reclining on the bed, I swore, “I won’t die until Captain Neill does. I swear it on my honor.”

Chapter 17

The next four days were spent between the Hall of Light and the training fields. Princess Gabriella was brought before the king, her fine gown and lustrous jewelry sparkling in the sunlight. She was defiant, her tongue full of crass explanations that did nothing more than prove her mad.

The king took no pity. “I’d beg the gods for a child,” Freemont warned. “I have no doubt your father’s punishment will be harsh should you not conceive. If your temporary union with Cadeyrn is fruitless, the marriage is null.” Freemont looked at the guards. “Take her to the tower.”

Gabriella was dragged away, her hands bound, her lips thin with fury. I’d been standing in the hall when she passed, the hood of a brown robe pulled low over my face. The cloak did nothing to conceal me. The glare she threw my way was chilling.

“It’s wrong,” Catriona said later. “Madness is overlooked in royal families. Too many die because rulers fear the extinction of their line. King Henry is worse than most. His throne will pass to his nephew, Oliver, upon his death, and Henry doesn’t want that.”

I stared at her. “Why not?”

Catriona shrugged. “Because Henry doesn’t get on well with his brother, and he thinks Oliver is weak. I’ve met his nephew. There is nothing weak about the youth.”

Discussion of
Greemallia
had ceased then, replaced by talk of war. It was this talk that brought further surprise to the palace.

Two days before our departure, Catriona walked down the marbled palace halls wearing a pair of brown quilted breeches and a light blue tunic lined in navy circles. She had pulled her red curls on top of her head, her eyes flashing as she approached Freemont’s throne.

The king stiffened. The advisors surrounding him murmured uneasily. Lord Conall’s face went ashen. Prince Cadeyrn entered the hall, Gryphon beside him. Anger marred their features.

Catriona rose. “I petition the right to fight beside my husband in the war against Medeisia.”

Freemont’s hand gripped the arm of his throne. “Impossible!” he bellowed. “Do you jest? Has my son married two mad women?”

Catriona’s cheeks flushed, but she stood her ground. “My father is well aware of my nature, Your Majesty. If you fear his blaming you, simply tell him I ran away to join the battle. I admit, I admire the rebels. I have been trained to fight since I was a child.”

Cadeyrn took a step down the hall. “Trained to fight, Cat, not to kill. Killing is something you will never be able to wash your hands of.”

The princess refused to glance over her shoulder, her eyes on the king. “I have always been a keen supporter of helping those in need.”

Gryphon fumed, “These are not starving children, Princess. They are not in need of extra blankets and coddling. They are attempting to overthrow their king and most of them will die in the process.”

Catriona swallowed hard, her attention on the king. “I will not be moved, Your Highness. I’ve brought my own guards to Sadeemia. It would take nothing for me to send one of them back to my father with wild accusations. Just imagine what he would say if he discovered I was raped while under your care? What a predicament it would be should the lineage of a future heir be in question.”

Freemont stood, his face red with fury. “You would stoop to such levels?”

She glanced up at him. “I would stoop
to
much to get what I want, Your Majesty. You say this is not my war. Look at the young scribe among your people. The one who bears the marks of the condemned in her country. Do you think she asked to be branded? Do you think she asked to watch the people she loved die? Do you think she asked to be a hero? It was forced on her. So why can’t a future queen
choose
to fight alongside her husband in ridding his nation of such an imposing threat?”

Cadeyrn marched to the throne. “This is not your fight, Cat.”

She glared at him. “And it’s any more yours?”

Lord Conall whispered furiously in Freemont’s ear. Catriona’s sharp gaze passed between them. “Do you think to detain my guards? Do you think to detain me? I suppose it is good then that I sent one of my guards to the coast yesterday. He is even now aboard a vessel to Henderonia. He carries two messages with him to my father. If he has not heard from me in a month’s time, I give you leave to imagine which note he will impart to Gregor.”

Lord Conall stepped away from the king, his jaw agape. There was grudging respect in Gryphon’s eyes when he met Cadeyrn in front of the throne.

“Her wits are strong,” Gryphon mumbled, “even if her senses are skewed.”

Cadeyrn threw him a glance. Something passed between the two men, unspoken words that only lifelong friends could decipher.

“On my honor,” Gryphon whispered. There was something in his gaze, something intensely feral.

Cadeyrn nodded. “I concur with my wife,” he said suddenly. “She can travel with the army if she promises to remain always under guard. Gryphon will lead her detachment.”

Catriona stiffened, her lips parting.

Cadeyrn stopped her. “Do you wish to go, Cat? I have played many games more complex than yours.” He leaned close, his voice lowering so only she could hear. “I have spies everywhere, men in every kingdom. Do you think I couldn’t stop your man? I could have a carrier pigeon dispatched and one of my men at the docks before your man ever unboarded the ship.”

She stared at him. “Then why don’t you stop me?”

His gaze assessed her. “You would only come after us. You’d find a way. I know you. I’d rather have you under my protection than discover you dead trying to fight a war for people you barely know.”

“Some of them have become friends,”
Catriona
huffed.

Cadeyrn’s brows rose. “Enough to die for? Are you really looking for bosom friendship or are you seeking excitement?”

Catriona glanced away. Stepping back, her gaze went to the throne. “I concede to the prince’s stipulations.”

Freemont sighed. “You will all be the death of me,” he swore. “If Raemon doesn’t destroy us first.”

The party was dismissed. Covert glances passed between Catriona and Gryphon.

I had not been in the hall when the Princess of Henderonia approached the king. In the shadows, mice eavesdropped, grasping every word before scurrying to my chamber. It was there I heard of Catriona’s request to fight. It both humbled and angered me. Her involvement meant another innocent life caught up in a battle that belonged to my people.

I sat on my bed, anger prompting me to pull the dagger from the sheath on my thigh. With practiced efficiency, I threw it, watching as it dug itself into the side of the Henderonian armoire. I wasn’t prone to fits like my cousin,
Mareth
, but everyone has their breaking point.

Oran snorted. “If only the armoire were our enemy.” I was apt to agree.

That night, the Goddess of the Forest came to me again, her mist trapping me. She wasn’t real. This was a dream, a remembrance of Silveet’s previous visit, her eerie words revisiting me. “You are not the phoenix.”

I woke soaked in sweat and tears. Lifting my arms, I stared at my wrists, at the marks that had become my identity. The tattoos were crude, the lines of the burning star and busted inkwell uneven in places. They were not meant to be pretty. The rough lines told many stories. The ink brought images of fire and Aigneis’ screams. It brought memories of branches tearing at me as I ran through a dark forest. It brought visions of a courtyard, a noose tightening around my neck, and a lone, quivering sword thrust into muddy ground, a sign of defiance against a king.

The goddess’s words washed over me, “
It is often powers we overlook that grant us the means for greatness.”

My gaze raked the burning star. Nature and healing. The mark had come to represent Silveet and the forest.

Again, the goddess’s words echoed, “
It is often powers we overlook that grant us the means for greatness.”

My gaze slid to the busted inkwell. The mark of the scribe.