The Merqueen (The Witching World Book 3) Page 16

  Mirvela didn’t react as Washur trailed another circle around her. She didn’t act like any queen I’d ever heard of, but then, she wasn’t human like those queens. She might as quickly slice his head off as she’d order him to show her the proper respect.

  “The magic of merpeople is quite potent, and you’re their queen. I’d like to see what you’re capable of. I’m fond of powerful magic, and I’m the only one here who’s capable of it.”

  I snapped my eyes to look at Mordecai, but he was beyond reacting to insults to the ego. The death of his brother was as great an affront as Washur could ever hurl at him. Mordecai didn’t flinch, though his hands still clenched the armrest; he was ready to hurl himself—in attack, I feared—at Count Washur at any moment.

  Salazar, however, looked darker than he had before Count Washur insulted him, suggesting him incapable of powerful magic, though I was certain it couldn’t have been the first time.

  “My magic is extremely powerful,” said Mirvela, “but even I know that magic isn’t a toy to be taken out and played with.”

  “What else is magic for, if not play?” His voice shifted; it became eerie in a dragonly sort of way. “Magic is for me to play with, especially to prepare my prey.”

  “Your prey?” Mirvela asked disinterestedly, though I could only imagine someone who’d provoked so much of Count Washur’s attention would be quite interested.

  “Yes, my prey.” Each word came out much too slowly, much too seductively. “The point of magic is to gain power. And once you become as powerful as I am, all that’s left is to manipulate others to do as you wish.”

  Count Washur ran a cold, fishlike finger along Mirvela’s jawline, causing a chill to run through me as if it were my own face he touched. We all watched, even Mirvela. We assessed how deep the instability and craziness ran through this man; its depths seemed to lose themselves in the infinite abyss of a gorge.

  “I like you, Queen Mirvela. I like you very much. Will you please show me a glimpse of your powers?”

  I swallowed my revulsion as I did each slow-spoken, insidious word.

  “I cannot.”

  “You cannot, or you will not?” And for the first time, the edge of the sword showed its razor sharpness in the hollow of his voice.

  “I cannot.”

  “And why can you not when I ask you to do it?” Count Washur wanted to be the self-appointed king of magicians.

  “Because he bound my power.”

  Washur whirled on his heel, but Mordecai was ready for him. He’d stood, and now he lifted his chin.

  “You bound her power?”

  “Indeed I did.”

  “Tsk. Tsk. You should know better than that.”

  “Should I? Perhaps I should know well enough to bind your perverse power too.” Mordecai began to move into the center of the room, the need for an armchair forgotten. His weren’t empty threats.

  No one in this room made empty threats.

  Marcelo turned his body toward Washur. It wasn’t much, but it was a silent show of support for his mentor. Whatever Mordecai decided to do, Marcelo would back him up.

  Marcelo took my arm.

  Salazar inched to the front of his chair, his young legs prepared to spring up if he needed to, presumably to defend Count Washur.

  The cat left my skirts but not my side. She pressed her body into the skirts of my dress and held still.

  Mirvela’s piercing eyes followed every subtle gesture.

  Count Washur pretended to ignore every single one.

  The room was filled to bursting with the unsaid.

  “Ahem. Dinner is served, Lord Bundry.”

  Chapter 29

  Perhaps somewhere in the world there’d once been a more unusual dinner, but I couldn’t imagine it. The tension was palpable with Marcelo, Mordecai, and me on one side of the table, and on the other side, Count Washur and Queen Mirvela, engaged in an elaborate artifice that pretended to ignore the truth of what was going on.

  Salazar brooded in his seat next to Mirvela; all of his father’s attention went to her. He hadn’t spoken a word since Carlton opened the door to Marcelo.

  I took my seat in the dusty clothes I’d traveled in; Mother would have been horrified. It didn’t matter that half the people at the table had tried to kill me, she’d have said that I should never compromise my elegance. To her, appearances were power, and, as much as I’d blamed her during my time at Norland, it was probably true for someone like her. Societal status was the equivalent of power among the countryside’s aristocracy, and appearances could be everything—or close to it.

  But I could focus on little more than the bizarreness of our situation. Mordecai shot regular daggers at Count Washur, who acted as if he didn’t notice while throwing his head back to laugh at something Mirvela said. Marcelo watched Mordecai anxiously, and I watched both of them. Salazar tried to pierce every one of us with his glowering. And Mirvela did none of this. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said she considered Count Washur a charming gentleman.

  “Milady?” Carlton was bowing next to me with a tray of Gruyère and trout canapés. I couldn’t imagine eating anything surrounded by this enmity until I noticed Carlton’s conspiratorial smile. The bizarreness of the situation wasn’t lost on him, but for some reason, it was important to keep up the pretense. I couldn’t fathom why, but then, the aristocracy and its silly ritualistic ways had never made sense to me, long before this impromptu dinner that served up apprehension, vengeance, deceit, and hostility as its main courses.

  “Thank you, Carlton.” I served myself a canapé, but I was mostly thankful for his reassuring smile. I reminded myself that he was a magician too, just as Robert was. Perhaps it was a requirement for a butler to work in a home of magicians. Butlers did know most things about the workings of a home and family.

  I hoped Carlton was as skillful a magician as he was a butler. He bent to offer Count Washur his tray without even a flinch.

  By the time Carlton and the footman came around offering us lobster bisque, the conversation had turned innocently sinister, though of course there was nothing innocent about it. “How fascinating,” Count Washur was saying to Mirvela. “It took me a long time to figure out how to extend my human life past its pitifully short years.”

  It turned out that Mordecai wasn’t the only one at the table that had lived several lifetimes in his body. Count Washur and Queen Mirvela had found ways to accomplish it as well.

  “Please tell me how you managed it, Your Majesty. I’m most curious.” Washur seemed interested in everything about her. We were on our third course, and he and she were the only ones to have contributed to the conversation.

  Mirvela’s eyes glittered brightly, and her face and hair shone radiantly. She was enjoying herself. Her magic was still bound, but she was very much the same Mirvela that had enchanted Marcelo and me thousands of feet below the water.

  She tipped her head back playfully, flirtatiously almost. “My Count Washur, you should know better. A witch, especially one as powerful as I, doesn’t so easily reveal her secrets. How is it that you’ve managed to extend your life?”

  “It took me some time to discover how to do it, although in the end it’s not nearly as complicated a thing as I’d suspected. I take people’s souls.”

  Marcelo gave Washur such a dirty look that he felt compelled to respond. “What? They give them to me willingly. I never take a soul unless it’s given to me in free will.”

  “Like you took my father’s?”

  “Yes, like I took your father’s. He gave it to me. That was his choice.”

  “You lied to him to get him to agree to it.”

  “Did I? Did I really? Or did I just tell him what he wanted to hear? I’m not obligated to tell someone everything, am I, my dear Mirvela?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Just because your father didn’t think to ask me questions he should have asked doesn’t mean I lied to him. Though I would have. Honesty isn’t the im
portant thing most people make it out to be.”

  I checked for a reaction from Salazar, but there was none. Had he become so numb to the insults and wounds from this man who’d killed his mother and his hope for whatever good can come from life?

  “No, your father made his choice. I encouraged him along the path. Of course I did. But it was he who gave me his soul. It’s thanks to your father that I was able to enjoy an additional fine decade of life.”

  Finally, I spoke. The disgust wouldn’t keep silent any longer. “Each soul you take allows you to extend your life by a decade?”

  “That’s right, my Lady Clara.” A foul taste rose in my mouth that had nothing to do with the lobster bisque.

  “And how old are you?”

  “I lost count somewhere along the line, but I think I’m about five hundred and twenty-one years old.” Even Mirvela looked impressed.

  “So you’ve taken something like forty-two souls? Forty-two lives that were given to darkness so that you could live longer?”

  “Forty-four, actually. Albacus, Lord of Irele, was the last soul I took, and he was quite an exquisite one too. I think a soul as powerful as his might give me even more than a decade of life. Perhaps I will stretch a decade and a half out of it.”

  I didn’t see it coming. But Marcelo did.

  Mordecai stood from his seat, bumping the table and rumbling crystal glasses and porcelain dinnerware precariously. The napkin that slid from his lap, almost in slow motion, did nothing to thwart the menace he was.

  Marcelo lunged forward and threw a protective shield spell that intercepted Mordecai’s attack just in time. The light of Mordecai’s spell splashed against the transparent shield and spread across it like a current, searching feverishly for the way through.

  “Marcelo, put that down. Now.” Mordecai was angry. He reminded me of Sylvia then, with her red, glowing eyes and righteous flame. I wished she’d come along with us on the journey instead of staying behind to help Robert guard the castle in Irele.

  “No, I can’t.” Marcelo’s eyes bounced between Mordecai, the shield, and Washur.

  “And why not? Or have you forgotten that this man killed Albacus?”

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten for a second of a single day.” Marcelo’s voice was gentle, too gentle it seemed for the circumstances.

  “Then why can’t I kill him now? It would be just. Not even the magical council would take issue with it. It’s right. He killed Albacus, unjustly, and now I can kill him.”

  “You can’t kill him now because this isn’t the man you are.”

  “Oh, it isn’t? And why exactly isn’t it the man that I am? Is this world not about justice?”

  “No, this world isn’t about justice. You and I know that better than most. This world is about goodness. About wisdom. About honor and respect.”

  “Did this man”—Mordecai spat out the word—“honor my brother? No. And he lies now. Albacus would never have willingly given him his soul.”

  “Oh, but he did, you silly old man.” Washur didn’t seem perturbed in the least by the fact that the only thing that stood between him and a killing spell was a shield held in place to protect him by an enemy. “I swore to Albacus that I’d spare your life if he gave me his soul. I already had him captured, you see. I would’ve killed him, anyway. But I couldn’t have taken his soul unless he gave it to me, and it’d be such a waste to let such a valuable soul float away without putting it to better use.”

  “My brother still wouldn’t have given you his soul.” But the strength of Mordecai’s conviction wavered. “He would’ve preferred to let me die rather than feed the darkness in you.”

  “Are you sure of that? I think he’d have done anything to save you. You were his little brother after all. All that family bonding and sympathy, such a foolish thing. It makes people do rash things. Like he did.

  “I felt a particular boost to my vitality when I breathed his soul in. It was most… delicious.” Washur met Mordecai’s eyes through the thin shield with unhindered maliciousness.

  Mordecai flung his hands together again. He spread them open about a foot apart, a bright red light growing between them. Then he hurled it at Washur.

  Marcelo’s shield wavered, but held—barely. There were holes in it now. One more blast from Mordecai, and he would kill Washur.

  I appreciated Marcelo’s desire for honor, but I wasn’t certain I could agree with his reasoning here. Would it be that bad if Washur died once and for all? It seemed that his death would free many people from the misery he so enjoyed inflicting on them.

  I watched the holes in the shield spread wider, as if they were burning slowly apart, and considered how nice it would be not to have Count Washur as a threat ever again.

  “No.” Marcelo’s voice was low, but strong, and even Mordecai waited to hear what he had to say. “This is not the way. Not in the home Clara and I will make for ourselves. Not in front of Salazar. Even if this… thing is his father, Salazar has already witnessed enough trauma.”

  Salazar’s head whipped up when Marcelo said his name. A different kind of alertness possessed his wandering gaze.

  “And not with Mirvela here. What if she has a way to take his soul? Even if she’s bound, we don’t know exactly how she takes life. We know she took it from Clara and me without our noticing. If she were to take his soul, how long would she live to torment others?”

  “All right, my son, if this is truly how you feel, I’ll wait, but only because of my respect and love for you. This man deserves to have died centuries ago, and I only wish I’d known of him earlier to wipe him from this earth. But if I don’t do this now, I’ll do it later.” And now Mordecai looked at Washur through the holes in the shield. “I’ll kill you. You can be certain of that every moment until I do.”

  “Old man, you won’t kill me. But now I think that I might just have to kill you. I’ve never taken the souls of brothers before, especially not of two brothers like you. It’ll be most enjoyable.”

  Mordecai didn’t bother with Washur anymore. To him, he was already dead. The only matter left was to figure out when he would die.

  “Marcelo, as a guest in your home, when and how will you agree to allow me to kill this creature?”

  Marcelo held the dilapidated shield in place while he spoke. I wasn’t too certain that either Mordecai or Washur wouldn’t still try to kill each other. “As soon as we deal with Mirvela, you can duel to the death. I won’t censure an execution—” He took one hand from the duty of maintaining the shield to stop Mordecai’s protest. “I fully agree with you that he’s guilty of great crimes and that the gift of life is wasted on him. Remember, he killed my sister, stole my nephew, and made my father go mad, essentially killing my mother also. He killed Albacus. But I know your power will prevail over his. You’re the better magician, as well as the better man. A duel is honorable, and you, my dearest Mordecai, are an honorable man.”

  Mordecai nodded and brought his hands to his sides. Marcelo lowered the shield, and I trained my eyes on Washur. I felt Sir Lancelot do the same from my chair back. “All right, my son. I’ll agree to your terms. And if this is what they are, then I insist that we deal with Count Washur’s underwater evil counterpart tomorrow. The sooner we settle this all, the better for everyone.”

  “Thank you, Mordecai.”

  Marcelo pushed his chair back and stood. “Carlton, I think it’s time for our dinner guests to leave now.”

  “Yes, milord.” Carlton sounded as relieved as I was that the charade of civilized company was over, though I don’t know how he could have handled himself any better than he had.

  Washur stood too. “Come, Salazar. This home is no longer the place of courtesy it once was.”

  Marcelo snorted, surprising even himself. It was just that some things were too preposterous for courteous behavior.

  Washur bowed to Mirvela. “Majesty, I hope to see you again one day.”

  She bowed her head back, queenly. “Perhaps you will.�
��

  “I’ll notify you, at your castle,” said Marcelo, “once we’ve resolved everything, so you and Mordecai can face each other in a proper duel.”

  Washur and Salazar followed Carlton to the dining room’s exit. “Come now, Mina.” A soft brush of fur revealed to me that the cat had been next to me under the table all along. She’d been just as silent as Sir Lancelot through the conflict.

  Mina stopped at the threshold to look at me again, with those piercing green eyes, until Count Washur snapped his fingers violently, and she trailed after his retreating footsteps. The beauty of her feline walk subdued itself to be servant to a cruel master. Her bushy tail fell limply to drag against the parquet floor and intricate rugs.

  And of all the things that had happened since we arrived in Bundry, it was the image of Mina that I couldn’t shake from the grips of my mind. Those green eyes clung to me like a cloying perfume whose scent had overstayed its welcome.

  I heard the hoof beats of horses outside, and I ran from the table, ruffling Sir Lancelot’s feathers as I pushed my chair back without warning.

  Chapter 30

  I stopped only a few steps from the castle’s front door, with Carlton right behind me. My heart thumped loudly in my chest, though I didn’t know why it did.

  Already, Count Washur’s horse was too far away for me to reach by foot. His horse and Salazar’s were beginning to navigate the treacherous slope downward, making me instantly nervous for the horses. Were they really going to force their horses to descend with riders? Without any kind of magic to aid them?

  Washur’s lack of consideration for the animals shouldn’t have surprised me, and really, it didn’t. But it made me angry, and I followed his retreating figure with a piercing gaze that I wished could do harm. I hadn’t been able to indulge any kind of righteous anger for his treatment of any of us; at least I could do so for the horses.

  If Washur sensed the fury in my stare, he didn’t let on. But there was one who did, and when she turned to look at me, I thought my heart would jump out of my chest and follow her down the winding path of peril.