Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(105)
“You would do well not to speak of him so.” Her lips pursed angrily. “He’s your father—and a good man.”
Beau snorted. “You’re certainly the first to think so.”
She sniffed and smoothed her skirts again. Obviously still displeased. “It hardly matters. This is bigger than your father—though it will certainly end with him, if Morgane has her way.”
“Explain,” I growled.
She shot me an irritated look, but continued anyway. “This war is hundreds of years in the making. It’s older than all of you. Older than me. Older than even Morgane. It started with a witch named Angelica and a holy man named Constantin.”
A holy man named Constantin. She couldn’t mean the man who’d forged the Sword of Balisarda. The saint.
“Lou told me this story!” Coco leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Angelica fell in love with him, but he died, and her tears made L’Eau Mélancolique.”
“Half right, I’m afraid. Shall I tell you the true tale?” She paused, glancing up at me. Expectant. “I assure you we have time.”
With a growl of impatience, I sat. “You have two minutes.”
Madame Labelle nodded approvingly. “It’s not a very pretty story. Angelica did indeed fall in love with Constantin—a knight from a neighboring land—but she dared not tell him what she was. Her people lived in harmony with his, and she did not wish to upset the delicate balance between kingdoms. As so often happens, however, she soon longed for him to know her entirely. She told him of her people’s magic, of their connection with the land, and at first, Constantin and his kingdom accepted her. They cherished her and her people—Les Dames Blanches, they called them. The White Ladies. Pure and bright. And as the purest and brightest of all, Angelica became the first Dame des Sorcières.”
Her eyes darkened. “But as time passed, Constantin came to resent his lover’s magic. He grew jealous and fitful with rage that he too did not possess it. He tried to take it from her. When he couldn’t, he took the land instead. His soldiers marched on Belterra and slaughtered her people. But the magic didn’t work for him and his brethren. Try as they might, they could not possess it—not as the witches did. Driven mad with desire, he eventually died by his own hand.”
Her gaze found Coco’s, and she smiled, small and grim. “Angelica wept her sea of tears and followed him into the afterlife. But his brethren lived on. They drove the witches into hiding and claimed the land—and its magic—for their own.
“You know the rest of the story. The blood feud rages to this day. Each side bitter—each side vindicated. Constantin’s descendants continue to control this land, despite renouncing magic for religion years ago. With each new Dame des Sorcières, the witches attempt to marshal their forces, and with each attempt, the witches fail. Aside from being woefully outnumbered, my sisters cannot hope to defeat both the monarchy and the Church in combat—not with your Balisardas. But Morgane is different than those before her. She is more clever. Cunning.”
“Sounds like Lou,” Coco mused.
“Lou is nothing like that woman,” I snarled.
Beau sat forward and glared around the table. “Forgive me, all, but I don’t give a shit about Lou—or Morgane or Angelica or Constantin. Tell me about my father.”
My knuckles turned white on my dagger.
Sighing, Madame Labelle patted my arm in silent warning. When I jerked away from her touch, she rolled her eyes. “I’m getting to him. Anyway—yes, Morgane is different. As a child, she recognized this kingdom’s twofold power.” She glanced to Beau. “When your father was crowned king, an idea took shape—a way to strike at both the crown and the Church. She watched as he married a foreign princess—your mother—and gave birth to you. She rejoiced as he left bastard after bastard in his wake.”
She paused, deflating slightly. Even I watched with rapt attention as her eyes turned inward. “She learned their names, their faces—even those of which Auguste himself had no knowledge.” Her faraway eyes met mine then, and my stomach contracted inexplicably. “With each child, her joyousness—her obsession—only grew, though she waited to reveal her purpose to us.”
“How many?” Beau interrupted, voice sharp. “How many children?”
She hesitated before answering. “No one quite knows. I believe the last count was around twenty-six.”
“Twenty-six?”
She hurried on before he could continue. “Shortly after your birth, Your Highness, Morgane announced to our sisters that she was with child. And not just any child—the Archbishop’s child.”
“Lou,” I said, feeling vaguely sick.
“Yes. Morgane spoke of a pattern to free the witches from persecution, of a baby to end the Lyons’ tyranny. Auguste Lyon would die . . . and so would all his descendants. The child in her womb was the price—a gift, she said—sent by the Goddess. The final strike against the kingdom and the Church.”
“Why did Morgane wait to kill Lou?” I asked bitterly. “Why didn’t she just kill her when she was born?”
“A witch receives her rites on her sixteenth birthday. It is the day she becomes a woman. Though the witches craved deliverance, most were uncomfortable with the thought of slaughtering a child. Morgane was content to wait.”