Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(92)

“It won’t hurt to try,” Sabine said, squeezing my hand.

I nodded slowly. “Marc, could you amplify my voice enough that everyone could hear without stopping what you’re doing?” I had no intention of sacrificing those at sea to save those outside the wall.

“Yes,” he said, then tapped a gloved finger against his chin. “We’ll have to muffle the ears of any human we don’t want affected, half-bloods, too.”

“Marie might still have rowan, which would work just as well. I’ll go find her,” Sabine said, helping me up before she departed.

My gaze went to the open sea. “I won’t be able to do this forever, Marc. What is it that we can hope to accomplish?”

“I’ll go out and help as many injured as I can,” Gran said before he could respond. “I’ll see if Sabine can get me the materials I need.”

“Speak to Lady Marie,” Marc said. “She’ll be able to help you faster. Tell her I sent you. And find Joss – she could be of use.”

It was only the two of us and the dog left on the tower. “Marc?” I asked again.

In a rare move, he pulled his hood back, revealing his disfigurement in its entirety. It struck me then that if I removed the iron from him, he wouldn’t have to look like that anymore. That is, if he didn’t want to. Part of me was certain that even given the chance, he’d remain the same.

“We’ll be buying time for Tristan,” he said. “That’s all.”

“And if he falls?” Even saying it hurt; as did the idea that there would be more for me to do if he did.

Marc was quiet, and I swore I could hear the screams of those outside the walls. “We can run,” he said. “Take those who matter to us and get far away, regroup, then try again another day. Or not.”

His eyes met mine, straight on, without a flinch. I wasn’t sure if he’d ever done that before. What had changed?

“Or we fight,” he said. “To the bitter end. Try to rally Trollus against Roland and Angoulême. Roland isn’t invincible and Angoulême isn’t infallible. There are more ways to end them than pure strength of magic alone.”

“You’d make a good ruler,” I said, having thought it for a long time but never voiced it.

“Maybe during times of peace,” he said. “But to effect change, to rally people to risk everything, that requires a more ambitious and charismatic individual than I’ll ever be. Either way, I hope we’ll never have to find out.” Then he waited, because I hadn’t answered his question.

“We fight,” I said. “Until the bitter end.”

Sabine returned to the tower top. “Tips says they’re ready,” she said. “The half-bloods have blocked their ears with magic, and Fred’s men still had their rowan from the night of the masque.” She went to stand next to Marc, and it was not lost on me that she stood near enough to him that their elbows brushed. It made me wonder if Marc was ready, or even capable, of moving on from Pénélope, or if Sabine was pining for a young man who had nothing left to give. Either way, it was not my place to interfere, and given we might all be marching toward the end, what would be the point?

Sabine handed me a skin of warm lemon water, and I drank deeply, then ran through a series of exercises to warm up my neglected voice. She started to stuff her ears with wool, but Marc turned from his task and gently pushed her hands down. “Better not to take chances with you.”

Sabine touched the side of her face, and I knew she was feeling the warm press of magic protecting her from my spell.

Turning so they wouldn’t see the tears burning in my eyes, I took a deep breath, and then I sang. I chose a lullaby my mother – my real mother, not Anushka – had sung to me when I was a little girl, focusing my will into the lyrics and their sentiment. Be calm.

My voice filtered away from the tower and was caught with the threads of Marc’s magic, which carried it out across the city, over the wall, and into the fields and hills beyond.

Be still.

Power filtered up from the earth, through the stones of the castle, and into my feet. Wind soared in from the sea, carrying mist that tasted like salt on my lips. The magic felt pure, wiping away the tarnish of the blood magic I’d used, the troll magic I’d stolen, and making me feel clean. It was a gift.

The horde of islanders outside the walls lost its erratic, desperate violence. People stopped pushing, stopped fighting, their arms falling limply to their sides as they listened.

“It’s working,” Marc said. “Don’t stop.”

So I sang, repeating the lullaby like a soothing mantra, watching as my people sat down in the snow and the mud; and though it was too distant for me to see their faces, I knew they were transfixed. Mesmerized. There was motion amongst them now, Fred’s men, my gran, and whomever else they’d chosen to help, moving amongst the horde, pulling out the injured and doing what they could to help them.

But it was not sustainable. Exhaustion was tugging at my limbs, and my lungs burned, the melody beginning to rasp in my throat. Hurry, Tristan, I silently pleaded.

The bridge blinked out.

I screamed, despite myself. Screamed, because hundreds of innocents were about to drown, were about to die. Men and women who’d done nothing to deserve this fate. Children who’d never had a chance to live.