Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(80)

“What did they do?” I asked

“It was a panic, of course,” Martin replied. “They knew it was iron that was holding them back, but not how to rid themselves of it. Many tried starving themselves and forgoing water; others attempted to bleed themselves dry, believing they could remove the contaminant that way. There were casualties, but when they realized that they’d started aging, that their magic had begun to change, that they were no longer immortal, they tried anyway. Those ancient fey were still long-lived by our standards – hundreds of years – but with each passing generation, lifespans grew shorter. Now they are no better than the average human. In a few hundred years, perhaps we’ll live and die in the space of a handful of decades.” He sighed. “There have been some who have postulated that it is this world’s way of getting rid of that which does not belong, but that strikes me as fancifulness.”

“It’s a poison to you,” my gran said thoughtfully, tapping an index finger against one tooth. “One that is compounding over the generations. Has it caused trouble other than mortality?”

Poison.

“Birth defects; madness; and, as is the case with the Duke, hemophilia,” Martin said. “Though some of it might be caused by inbreeding, particularly amongst the aristocracy.”

Gran wrinkled her nose. “Vile habit. And what of those with mixed blood: human and troll? Are they similarly afflicted?”

Martin shook his head. “There isn’t a single case of an afflicted half-blood on record; and for the thousands of years our kinds have intermingled, the life expectancy of half-bloods has remained constant. Injuries inflicted with steel weapons on half-bloods heal at approximately the same rate as those inflicted by other metals. If not for the marked decrease in power, the injection of human blood into our lines might have been a viable method of adapting ourselves to this world.”

I heard everything he said, but my mind was all for the word poison. “Gran,” I said. “How do you cure poisoning in humans? With magic, that is?”

“Depends,” she said. “Some poisons run their course quickly, and the magic cures the damage that has been done to the body. With others, the toxin lingers or builds, and the magic is used to draw it out of the body, which sometimes does more harm than good. It’s painful, and always more magic is required to heal the damage.”

“That’s it. The latter,” I said, my mind racing. “Do you know a spell?”

She nodded. “The best requires lobelia, but there will be none of that found in the dead of winter, so we will have to use alternatives. Regardless, it’s what needs doing afterward that’s the difficult part. But,” she eyed Martin, “you’ve told me time and again that the earth’s magic is ineffective on full-blooded trolls.”

“It is.” But what Martin had said about the earth using iron to rid itself of what didn’t belong had struck a chord. “A witch’s magic won’t work on them because they are not of this world,” I said. “But the iron is. What if the spell could be used to draw it out?”

“Surely it’s been tried?” Gran asked Martin, who shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever heard. Or if it has, it certainly didn’t work. ”

Excitement flooded through me, chasing away the cold and exhaustion. “It won’t hurt to try.”

Gran hissed softly between her teeth. “It will hurt. For better or worse, the iron is part of them now, has infiltrated every part of their bodies, even their magic. You’ll be tearing them apart to get it out.”

“And putting them back together with their own power,” I finished. There was a perfect symmetry to the idea. It felt right. “I want to try it.”

“Then you’ll need a test subject,” Martin said. “I propose that subject be me.”

I hesitated. He’d been through so much, and the thought of causing him more pain made my stomach sour. “Are you sure?”

His smile was more of a grimace, but he nodded. “A life without purpose is no life at all. The fight to make our world a place worth living was everything to élise, but she didn’t get to see it through. I’ll do this for her.”





Chapter Forty-Five





Tristan





“All that effort to keep him from taking control of the islanders, and now you’re just going to let him have them?” Chris jabbed a stick into the fire, sending a cloud of sparks up into the air. “What a waste of effort.”

“It wasn’t a waste.” I winced as a slight breeze blew smoke into my eyes, making them water and sting. Chris had a strong sense of fair play running through him, and he’d insisted if the rest of them had to take smoke to the face, so did I. “Your saving Courville was never a possibility, so in that, nothing’s changed. And they’ll only be bound to him for as long as he’s alive, which won’t be for much longer.”

“Unless he kills you,” Chris said. “And then everything will go to shit anyway.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

“You’ve got enough of that,” he replied. “I consider it my duty to keep it in check.”

“Noted.” Picking up a stick, I jabbed the fire, hoping the smoke would switch directions. Instead, I was rewarded with a cloud to the face.