Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(115)

“Wulf, no!” Penelope shouted as he leapt over her and straight at Alexander, who was fighting, his sword drawn, yelling for reinforcements.

Damien sprang to his feet, running for Wulf. Penelope scrambled up, wrestling with her skirts, dashing after him. Dimly she noted that Petri had pulled Sasha out of the way of the fight, while Egan was moving to help Damien with Wulf.

Wulf landed on Alexander, biting down on his sword arm until the sword skittered across the room. Alexander fought with fists, trying to shield his face, but Wulf ripped into him as he’d torn into the assassin Felsan in the woods. Blood gushed, rendering Alexander’s pristine shirt scarlet and his blue coat, now shredded, black.

Damien and Egan at last locked hands around the maddened logosh and yanked him from Alexander. Wulf fought and kicked, not to hurt them but to get at Alexander.

Alexander tried to rise but collapsed to the floor. The Grand Duke’s sash of office had been slashed to ribbons, and Alexander’s face was gray, blood streaming from wounds in his stomach.

Wulf broke away from Damien and Egan, but he turned and leapt for Penelope, becoming a boy before he landed in front of her. His fingers and mouth bloody, he threw his child’s arms about her waist.

Penelope gently pressed him aside and sank to her knees beside Alexander. Petri knelt on his other side and pulled open what remained of Alexander’s beautiful coat. “That is a death wound,” he announced in somber Nvengarian. “I’ll fetch a physician, but he’ll not be able to help.”

Damien looked grim. He leaned to Alexander, hands on his knees, as Petri ran off.

The logosh had ceased their attack. The soldiers were gathered into a terrified clump, and the logosh, men once more, stood as calmly as they had before the fight began.

Alexander’s breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes, pools of pain, swiveled to Penelope but could not focus. “I’ll not let him win,” he whispered.

Penelope smoothed Alexander’s hair from his cold face. “Do not move too much.” She looked at the men around her. “Bring me water and a sponge and bandages,” she commanded. “And herbs—lavender and chamomile.”

“No.” Alexander groped for her hand. “Miss Trask, you must promise me you will not let the monster out.”

Penelope took Alexander’s ice-cold fingers between hers. “I will watch him,” she said softly. “I promise you this. His father will not win.”

“Tell my son.” Alexander broke off, his breath rattling, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

“You have a son?” Penelope asked, her voice gentle.

“Tell him I love him,” Alexander whispered, his voice barely working. “Tell him not to be ashamed of me.”

“I will take care of him, my old friend,” Damien said, on one knee next to Alexander. “I swear that.”

“Not you,” Alexander said, seeking Penelope with now-sightless eyes. “Her.”

Penelope squeezed his hand. “Lie still. Help will come.”

Sasha had made his way to Penelope, and now he stood close beside her. “She is the true princess,” he told Alexander. “She can heal you.”

Alexander gave Sasha an ironic smile, although it was clear he could see nothing. “This does not reassure me.”

“I have to try,” Penelope said.

Egan gave her a troubled look. “The wound’s mortal, lass. His stomach’s cut.”

“Bring what I asked for,” she said sternly.

Egan turned, resigned, and spoke to one of the room’s guards in Nvengarian. Penelope heard the rush of booted feet.

Damien parted the remains of Alexander’s shirt and the slashed waistband of his trousers. Alexander’s stomach was a bloody mess, blood flowing with every breath. Penelope put her hands to the wounds. Alexander didn’t flinch, but his blood pulsed around her fingers. She felt his heartbeat, strange and erratic.

Penelope had no clear idea what to do—if she could do anything at all. When she’d cured Sasha in the tavern at Little Marching, she’d simply bathed his wound and sewed it closed. This was different—this was a man dying.

But she knew she had to make the attempt. She closed her eyes, letting her thoughts slide away, comforting darkness taking their place.

In her mind’s eye Penelope saw, not Alexander’s bones and muscles, but lines and crosses that had to be arranged in a certain way. It gave her pleasure to straighten them in her mind, to lay one beside another, to align this one with that one.

It was not easy. Penelope frowned when the lines wouldn’t behave—she had to smooth a few out again and again until they were right. Perspiration beaded on her forehead to trickle down her temple.

It was extraordinarily quiet in the room, the sun shining through the windows with pleasant warmth. The soldiers, the logosh, Damien and Sasha, were still, as though they’d frozen in place while she worked.

More threads would not untangle. Penelope patiently unraveled them, as she might pick out embroidery that her mother had gotten hopelessly muddled. Penelope felt a pang. She missed her mother and her arbitrary gushes of affection—Dear Penelope, I knew you could fix everything. I could not have hoped for such an angel as you.

Penelope continued to smooth, loosen, straighten. It became easier as she went along, readjusting the next line and the next. A cool breeze blew through the room, bringing with it the chanting and cries of the people below.