The Blood Spell (Ravenspire, #4)(41)
Now he’d been a firsthand witness to a magical attack on the streets of the Evrard quarter. And it turned out four other quarters had been hit with the same spell. Nearly fifty people dead. Eleven horses lost. And scores of traumatized people, many of whom remembered the horror of the blood wraith walking the streets sixteen years ago. Kellan might have been too young to remember the wraith personally, but he’d grown up with the stories. Last night’s attack was different—nothing was feeding on the blood of innocents or leveling an entire contingent of royal guards with a clap of its hands—but it was terrifying all the same, and every single head family now had a full-blown panic on their hands.
Which meant Kellan had a full-blown panic on his hands.
And he was expected to have answers. Or at the very least, suggestions.
Instead, he had restlessness and pent-up energy and the memory of Blue’s tiny hands in his, which shouldn’t have been confusing, but somehow was.
He’d been surprised to see her in the pub, so far from her own quarter. More surprised to see tears on her face. But the biggest shock had been the instant urge to protect her. To wipe away the tears and make her smile instead.
This was Blue. The girl who’d acted like she was smarter than him and who’d made sure to get him in trouble every chance she’d had when they were kids. The girl who’d ruined his relationship with one of most interesting brokers in Falaise de la Mer by boldly interrupting a street fight and then forcing Kellan to throw the match.
But this was also the girl who’d taken Nessa under her wing with genuine love and respect. The girl who spoke up for those who couldn’t speak for themselves and who defended justice like she was being paid to do it. And the girl who refused to fawn over him and who gave him absolute honesty, whether he liked it or not.
If someone had asked him at the start of the summer what he thought of Blue de la Cour, he’d have said she was a menace to good old-fashioned fun, but that she was a trustworthy friend for his little sister.
Now his thoughts were more . . . complicated.
And he couldn’t afford complicated. He had political allies to soothe, a betrothal to manage, and a witch to catch. If he’d felt something bright come to life within him when he’d danced with Blue, it was simply the realization that they were becoming true friends.
As the first cracks of light broke through the dark sky, Kellan dressed and hurried out of the royal wing toward the kitchen. His valet would be mortified that the prince had let him sleep instead of waking him to assist with his morning, but Kellan wanted solitude a bit longer.
How were they going to find the witch responsible for casting the spells that had burned so many people? It had to be a witch. The iron bells hadn’t rung like they would if it had been a fae monster, and he couldn’t think of anything else capable of casting spells like that. To his knowledge, there hadn’t been an active witch in Balavata since the two sister witches sixteen years ago. Marielle had become the blood wraith; the other had helped them trap the wraith in the Wilds and had then disappeared before the new law banning the use of magic could be used against her.
Had she come back? But if she had, why now? And why use harmful spells when she’d been instrumental in stopping her sister?
The truth was that Balavata was a healthy mix of people and cultures. Their port was busy, their borders active, their cities growing. Any number of witches could be living within the kingdom, and unless they chose to actively do magic in front of people, no one would ever know it.
Kellan reached the kitchens as the cook was lighting fires in the three enormous stoves while kitchen maids rushed about gathering ingredients for breakfast. When they saw him, they all froze, dropped into low curtsies, and waited for permission to continue.
The restlessness inside him scraped at his skin.
“Please don’t mind me,” he said as he reached for a shirella resting in a basket. The corkscrew-shaped fruit was larger than his palm, its pale blue skin smooth and inviting.
“That won’t be enough breakfast for you.” The cook, an employee at the castle since before Kellan’s birth, nodded sagely. “I’ll fry up some eggs and meat in a minute. Where should I send the plate?”
He smiled gratefully. “The council room, please.”
He’d get an early start. Outline his thoughts. His questions. Begin organizing the tasks he needed to delegate to others. And he’d run it all past his mother before the meeting began. His handling of the matter had to be perfect. If he showed a single sign of weakness, he would sow doubt about his ability to be a strong ruler.
There were those who wouldn’t hesitate to mount a coup against him if they thought they could get away with it.
By the time the council members began arriving, Kellan’s breakfast was a distant memory, and he had a stack of parchment in front of him with notes, lists, and topics he wanted discussed. His mother had looked it over, added a few thoughts of her own, and then squeezed his shoulder in a show of support before moving to the door to greet everyone as they came in.
Kellan didn’t waste any time. “Thank you all for being prompt,” he began. “I’ll get right to the point. We have a dangerous witch in the city, and people are panicking. It’s important that we have a strong, measured response, and equally important that our response is highly visible.”
“So we can give the witch plenty of warning that we’re coming?” Martin Roche asked, his double chin wobbling as he spoke. The buttons of his jacket strained to cover the ample expanse of his belly, and his pale, stubby fingers tugged at his collar as if he found it constricting.