Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(37)
“What difference does it make?” Sabine snapped. “They’re in. What matters now is what we’re going to do to stop them.”
Turning from the portcullis, I stood unmoving in the snow as human soldiers raced through the courtyard and outbuildings, arms loaded with weapons, eyes wide and mouths drawn into straight lines. Fred, having arrived only moments before on a winded horse, stood amongst them, shouting orders. Despite the chill, the sharp scent of sweat drifted on the breeze, and, from time to time, I heard a muttered prayer from one of the men.
I patted the pocket of my coat, feeling the bulge of the handkerchief holding my magic seeds. Fear made them act like fools, all logic lost upon them, whereas I saw clearly. Cécile would need to recast the spell for me when she returned. If she returns, I reminded myself, tucking away the idea that I should find another witch.
Just in case.
The thought scratched at me, but only for a moment. “They are wasting their time. Against so many, all of this,” I waved my hand at the chaos of soldiers, “will do nothing.”
Sabine’s hands balled into fists. I watched with interest to see if she’d actually go so far to use them, but she only inhaled and exhaled, then said, “Do you intend to do something to stop them?”
“Obviously.” I snapped my fingers at Fred, motioning for him to follow us up the stairs into one of the guard towers. “I’ll need them to get closer so that I can identify who is amongst them,” I said. “I’ll pick off the strongest, but I’ll need you and your men to distract the rest. You’ll be like a swarm of flies to a bear, but you should be able to give me the time I need. Once the most powerful are dead, it will be no trouble for me to kill the rest.”
Both Sabine and Fred were staring at me. “Well?” I said. “Go prepare yourselves for my signal.”
Turning my back on them, I rested one hand in the narrow arrow slit. I needed to capture at least one alive to ascertain how they had passed my wards. Though why I was bothering with the wards at all was a mystery to me. They were a drain on my magic, and their sole purpose was to protect the humans in Trianon.
Which was no longer important. So I let the wards drop, raising them up around the castle walls instead.
The city was silent, the river muffled by the heavy sheet of ice resting on its surface. The haze of troll-light came closer without spreading out, almost like a procession through the street. A peculiar tactic, and not one I’d expect from my father. He was a strategic master, but it had been a long time since I’d played against him so directly.
A very long time.
I’d been ten years old, and it had been a timed game of Guerre played before most of our court. Though the hourglass had only allowed us a minute per move, we’d been at the game for hours and I’d been bored. Partially because losing to my father was inevitable, and partially because I’d intended to go swimming in the lake with my friends.
Ana?s sat in the first row behind my father and, despite my best efforts, my gaze kept tracking to her. Her grandmother, the Dowager Duchesse, had forced her to wear a dress, and Ana?s was twitching irritably, casting the occasional sideways glance at her sister, who was deep in conversation with Marc. The twins had been forbidden from the throne room after the last prank they’d played, but I knew they’d be waiting for us at the boat. Ana?s caught my gaze and then crossed her eyes, and I bit my lip to keep from grinning.
“Tristan.”
My attention snapped back to my father, then to the timer, the last few grains of sand falling to the tiny white peak below. I shoved a piece onto a different square, my stomach clenching a second later as I saw the error. My skin prickled as my father’s magic manifested with his anger, but I kept my eyes on the board, too afraid to look up.
In one swift move, he snatched up my piece and hurled it across the throne room where it shattered against the wall. “Everyone out,” he bellowed, and the court fled, Ana?s the only one brave enough to hesitate, but even then, it was only for a second.
The doors to the throne room slammed shut, and my father backhanded the Guerre boards, sending pieces tumbling across the floor. “You said he was improving,” he demanded of my aunt, whose hand rested on my shoulder.
“He is,” she replied. “It’s not a matter of his intelligence or aptitude, Thibault, it’s a matter of interest. His heart is not in the game.”
I felt his eyes burning into me, but I refused to look up. “And how,” he asked, “do you expect to rule without these skills?”
“It’s just a stupid game,” I muttered. “It’s not real.”
My aunt’s grip tightened, not that I needed her signal to know that I was pushing my luck.
“‘Just a stupid game,’” my father repeated, then, “It’s not a game, you fool; it’s a tool. A way to train the mind and develop focus, and to be King of Trollus, you must master it. You must be the best at it.”
I fought the urge to take my mother’s hand. With her here, his temper would remain in check. “If you’re the best–” I lifted my face “–then why aren’t you teaching me?”
His jaw worked from side to side, and for the first and only time, he looked away before I did. It was a stupid question, I told myself. He doesn’t have time for you.
“Because,” he finally replied, “how will you ever beat me if I know all of your moves?”