The Pretender's Crown (50 page)

Witchpower relented, and Belinda stumbled onto enemy territory feeling very alone.

23 June 1588
†
Brittany; the Gallic camp

“Javier.” Tomas's voice broke through a rush of silence so loud it could only be witchborn: silence weighted with silver, pounding in his ears like blood. Javier shuddered, and Tomas's hands closed on his shoulders, warm and strong. “Javier,” the priest said again. “You've done it, Javier. It's over. Rest.”

“Over?” Javier lifted his head, neck muscles screaming protest. “The war?” Heat patched his face at the foolishness of the question, but Tomas's smile held sympathy, not mockery.

“The battle, at least. The day. Look you to the fields, my king. See your army as one.” He stepped aside but stood close, as though rightfully imagining Javier would need support.

The river of red-coated soldiers had become a sea streamed with black: Aulun and Khazar together, retreating now from a wall of witchlight so feeble that Javier doubted it would stop a robin, much less an arrow or a sword. His men, an ocean themselves, but of many more hues, surged forward to heckle their fading enemy. Witchpower went with them, rolling just ahead of their blades, and Javier staggered where he stood, strength draining from him.
Belinda
, his hateful thoughts whispered,
Belinda
had drowned a whole armada, and yet he could barely keep his feet after a day of shielding his men from the worst brunt of war. She had grown so much, and he had fallen so far, all in such a short time.

Still, it was her army that withdrew, not his. That was worth taking pride in. Javier managed a smile and its weak presence brought a light of satisfied relief to Tomas's golden eyes. “I don't know what you did,” he murmured, “but you changed our luck. Come back to the war tent now.”

A king shouldn't lean so heavily on his priest; the idea weighed on Javier's mind as Tomas fitted himself against his side, shoring him up. Shouldn't, and yet this king couldn't stop himself: he didn't trust his own feet to carry him the few hundred steps back to his quarters.

Songs of triumph greeted them as Tomas shoved the tent door
open. Generals surged forward, catching Javier's shoulders, slapping his back, pride in their voices, as though they'd never doubted him. Their accolades left a tangy taste, flatter than blood, in the back of Javier's throat, and he searched the tent for a gaze that didn't hold him in adulation.

He found it in his uncle, sprawled in a chair, long legs splayed out and fingers templed in front of his mouth. Rodrigo only nodded, a small motion of approval, and if the corner of his mouth shifted in a smile, it was all but hidden behind his hands. Javier nodded in turn and looked for a seat of his own. Finding none, he gave up any pretence of strength and leaned more heavily on Tomas, who ducked his head. “Let me find you somewhere to rest, majesty.”

“No.” Javier shook his head wearily, but smiled. “Their ebullience will keep me on my feet a while longer. Just stay near and be ready to catch me if I fall.”

“Always.”

Despite the promise, Javier was torn from Tomas's side and pulled into a throng of generals and admirals too pleased with their coup to worry, yet, about tomorrow's battles. Someone thrust a cup of wine into his hands and he drank greedily, then ate what was offered with as much abandon, heady from both wine and pride. He caught glimpses of Tomas and recognised the priest truly was almost always close enough to catch him if he fell. Touched, he raised a toast that the others followed heartily.

“To God's will,” Javier said throatily “To our victory in God's name, and to Tomas del'Abbate, whose gentle spirit has guided me when I've needed it most these past months.”

Ruddiness crept over Tomas's olive skin and his eyes turned to fire, shyness and delight both manifest in his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, and a blast of cooler air rushed in with the opening of the tent doors.

“The gentle priest” came on the air, words harsh and sarcastic. “Our gentle priest who's given our warrior king such counsel. Our army is one again, a gift indeed. This power of Javier's is God's gift, priest. Why counsel him to such moderate measures as reuniting our army, when he might have shattered the Aulunians with cannonballs
of his own magic? Perhaps you don't want us to win, or perhaps you fear the gift's not God's at all, but the devil's own.”

Javier twisted around to find Sacha at the door, Marius and Eliza flanking him, though their expressions told tales of horror as he spoke. Shocked silence swept over the room, broken by Eliza, who'd never cared for propriety. She barely bothered to lower her voice as she snapped, “What's gotten into you, Asselin? This is a celebration.”

“A celebration of a minor victory that might have ended this war, had our king moved boldly. It
rained blood
, Javier, and this is what you follow it with?”

“Your fight is with me,” Tomas interrupted softly. “Your hatred's not for Javier, but for me and the wedge you see me as having driven between you. Show some pride, Lord Asselin. Bring your war to the one who's your enemy, and leave your friendship intact.” He came to stand at Javier's right, not blocking his sword hand, but placing himself slightly forward, as if he could protect Javier from Sacha's daggered words.

Sacha strode forward, leaving Eliza and Marius to scramble along behind, though to Javier's eyes they didn't so much follow him as put themselves into the circle of contention. Marius took a place just beyond Tomas, and Eliza hung back on Sacha's left, one hand half-outstretched as though she could drag him back and knock sense into him. Beyond them Javier was aware of the silence, of gathered generals and warriors all holding their breaths, waiting to see how disaster would unfold. None of them, not one, stepped forward to diffuse the scenario, to try to calm Sacha or silence Tomas. No, this was too important for that. This was a moment in which they could test their king's mettle without forcing a confrontation themselves. Almost he admired them, for their audacity in waiting.

Almost. Near-exhausted witchpower began to gather, working itself up to strength, and Javier was uncertain whether he'd rather turn its lashing on his passive generals or on Sacha's bubbling hurt. Even without the witchpower he knew that was what drove his oldest friend, that displacement had pushed Sacha this far, a thing Javier had never dreamt could happen. “What would you have me do, Sacha?” His voice was edged with enough regret to last a life-time.
“I do battle against another who wields the same kind of power. My attacks are stymied, and it seems to me a better use of talent to unite our army so we might fight as one than to wear away my strength in a fight that will only end in a stalemate. I have tried to tell you this.”

“The Aulunian heir,” Sacha snarled. “How can she share your power, Javier? You can't both be God's chosen. The Pappas has blessed you, and so we know your magic to be God's gift. Hers must be born of a bargain with the devil. This priest dooms us all by urging you to caution. You've got to stop hiding behind his skirts, unleash everything you have, and destroy our enemy. Or do you cling to fear and weakness because you can't trust that your power is God-given?”

“You speak foolishness.” Tomas's face flushed with passion. “A day ago we were lost. Today our army is one, and tomorrow our united strength will wage war against the infidels. God's hand is in this.”

Javier raised his palm, silencing the priest. “I fight to the best of my talents, Sacha. If I'm weak it's because I've spent a lifetime rejecting this magic, afraid it was a temptation laid before me by the fallen one. With the Pappas's blessing and Tomas's steady hand I can trust it's God who's granted me this skill, and walk unafraid.”

“What of us?” Sacha asked, voice low and distorted. “What of those who were your family before this magic came to life, before this priest came to your side? How can you not trust us, Javi?”

He broke on the last word, sending a lance of pain through Javier. That nickname,
Javi
, was reserved for Sacha alone, a bond between him that he guarded jealously. To hear him use it in company meant he was more uncertain of his place than Javier had ever wanted him to be. “I will always trust you, Sacha. How can you doubt that?” His own voice dropped as low as Sacha's had. “Can you not forgive the part of me that needs the priest's faith and guidance? It's never meant I don't need you, my friend. It only means I need him, too.”

Betrayal rose up in Sacha so quickly it swept over Javier like the riptide, pulling him down and drowning him in it. “You
need
us,” Sacha snarled. “The priest is only a crutch. Damn you, Javier, what must I do to show you?”

Witchpower, heavy as thunder in the air, rubbed Belinda's skin as, confident in her invisibility, she slipped through the last few guards and pup tents that made up the body of the Ecumenic army The royal tents, the strategy centres, and the accommodations for high-ranking military lay beyond the common area. Of all of them, one was largest and cleanest, and that was the one she made her way to. She would have known it as her quarry had she been blind, such was the power building there, and she tightened the stillness around her before entering, making certain she would remain unseen until she had well and truly studied and understood the situation within.

She pushed aside the tent door in time to watch Sacha Asselin draw blade and fling himself toward Javier de Castille.

Love, in the end, tells all.

Belinda Primrose ought not be in this room at this moment, but she is, and every part of her that is thinking and rational knows she should let this game play out. But that's not the part of her that acts: that part is, perhaps, Beatrice Irvine, who is divorced from the truths Belinda's come to know, and whose heart still beats too fast at the thought of a ginger-haired prince coming to her bed. Belinda has fallen, fallen further than she knew, because the queen's bastard would let Javier die, but the woman she is now slams a witchpower shield around the young king, and throws all her strength behind it, so there's nothing left for herself.

And realises, less than a breath later, how very badly she's chosen.

Marius is there, suddenly, terribly: a physical shield far more visible than the one she's offered. Marius is there, between king and killer, and Belinda's scream isn't the only one to fill the war tent. The sound Marius himself makes is dreadful, a gasp of pain and surprise so soft Belinda shouldn't be able to hear it, especially under her own scream; especially under the bull's bellow of horror and rage that Sacha Asselin shouts out. His back's to Belinda, blocking his hands, blocking Marius's belly, but she knows there's blood there, draining the colour from Marius's face.

Guardsmen are there now, between Belinda and the others, swords raised to strike at Sacha, and Belinda is reminded of Ilyana's death, six months ago in a Gallic courtroom. Sacha will die the same way, skewered by long blades, and the only sorrow she has is
that she doesn't wield them herself. Her heart has stopped: stopped, she thinks, the moment she entered the tent, and it may never beat again.

But she's wrong, and the contraction that comes next is the most painful thing she's ever known, gutting her, cutting her own throat, weakening whatever strength she had.

Because another scream belongs to Eliza Beaulieu, who has somehow got herself between Sacha and the guards. She staggers now, white-faced, under the plunge of their swords. One man struck from on high, cutting down from her shoulder at such an angle that it can barely have missed her heart; the other has struck through her gut, the same kind of blow that Marius has taken for his king.

The three of them, two men and a woman, fall to their knees, so slowly as to be a dance. There's grace inherent in this death, but only for a moment. Marius, perhaps, knows what Eliza's done; Sacha does not, and his howls are for the man he holds in his arms, his dying friend. One of the guards, horrified, yanks his sword back, and Eliza screams again, folding herself over the blade that's left, the one thrust into her belly. That guard has let his sword go, has fallen to his knees himself in apologetic supplication, and Belinda has the momentary clear thought that he pulled the strength of his blow, else he'd have driven through Eliza and pinned her to Sacha, taking both their lives. She wants to commend his swiftness in doing so, but even if she could draw breath beyond the icy cut of horror in her own throat, she knows he's killed the beautiful Gallic woman. There is nothing to commend.

All of this, all of it, has taken almost three seconds.

It was inconceivable that Sacha could lift a blade against him. If Javier had any clear thought, it was that: Sacha
could not
raise a blade against him, and therefore must mean it for someone else.

Tomas, who stood at his right hand. Tomas, whose faith strengthened his; Tomas, toward whom Sacha's shoulders were squared. It was the smallest thing in the world, and yet it was everything: those
few inches in difference between where Tomas stood and where Javier did. No one else could possibly see it; their stances were wrong. They would see a friend displaced by a priest, outraged at his fall in status, determined to take vengeance on the man who had belittled him. They would see a king in danger, and think nothing of those around him.