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King Dunstan needed to regain control of himself as well as the kingdom. The laws were well understood, yet no one seemed to be following them. In fact, too many were openly defying him, such as the cardinal. And the queen simply confused him. She had barely interacted with the world in the last twenty years, and now she wasn’t just appearing in the throne room—she was interfering, wanting a say in what happened, and fondling the prisoners.
Had she smiled at the child? At a witch? He wanted to talk with the general about what had happened when the prisoners were first presented. But despite him knowing the man was there, he had been hidden from them all and might not admit to his presence. Nor how he really felt about his sister’s return.
Dunstan took a deep breath and tried to focus on where they were walking. He wasn’t sure how he himself felt about Nelda’s return. He wanted to hate her. But when she had raised her honey-coloured eyes to him, he had wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and pull her against his chest. He wanted to believe she wasn’t responsible for the fire. He wondered if she had been returning to him to explain that.
The cardinal had managed to capture the elusive witch, but on a road that led to the castle. The man was too impressed with himself. Part of Dunstan wished the general had run him through when he’d threatened the little witch. He was clearly working to his own ends. Dunstan only wished he could understand what they were. The cardinal walked reluctantly ahead of him. He had stopped several times, and the guard had rested his hand on his sword. The king doubted the guard would have to defend him against the cardinal, but he didn’t appear to have his usual confidence. A cornered cardinal was likely a similar threat as a cornered boar.
They were far from the dungeons, and Dunstan wondered again just how he had managed to move the prisoners without being noticed. But then, they likely had been noticed. His own soldiers worked at this man’s behest rather than this own.
Dunstan understood the need to learn from the witches, but he was certain this man had more on his mind than that. The chapel was a surprise when they stopped at the door. It had been some time since he had come this way. There were, of course, many churches throughout the city and the countryside, and several chapels within Sunsong Castle itself. Some private, some open to all. This little one of the Goddess had not been visited since the prince had died.
As Dunstan tried to remember his quiet times here as a child, the cardinal pushed the door open. The space beyond was something very different from his memories. There were tables of instruments, piles of parchments and books. And one wall lined with strange metal coffins standing upright.
“I have not given the order for their death,” Dunstan said. His voice was lost to the noises of the room, and he realised that several monks were working amongst the chaos. Banging on metal, working through pages, calling out to each other.
The noise subsided somewhat at his voice, but a banging started inside one of the coffins.
“You have desecrated the sacred place of the Goddess,” a voice called out, and he assumed it was the younger witch. The one claimed to be Nelda’s daughter—yet he knew she could not be.
“The Goddess is not worthy of your attentions,” the cardinal growled.
Something General Graewyth had said returned to him, that the cardinal was working against the sisters, that the church was fractured. Was he using this witch hunt as an excuse? Were they witches or just women ripped from prayer and slaughtered?
“This is...” The king lost his voice as he focused on bottles and jars containing strange objects that might have been body parts or blood. They sat on the tables and on shelves against a wall.
“We have taken them from the witches.”
“These women had nothing when they were found.”
“There have been others.”
The king glared at him, waiting for a reasonable sign of respect. This man did whatever he wanted.
“They are to be killed on sight.”
“We have used them to learn how to find their hiding places.”
“And yet you still kill innocents,” the soldier growled.
The banging started again. He should not have allowed this, although he had not been aware of the extent the cardinal had gone to. The moment he had learned of her capture, she should have been put to death. Both of them.
“Open it,” he directed the soldier.
“Which one?” he asked, staring at the four too-shiny boxes.
“The loudest one—start with it,” the king said, pointing it out.
The soldier hit the large bolt with the back of his sword, and the door swung open. The slight blonde girl tumbled forward, and the soldier caught her in his arms and lowered her to the floor. She was drenched and panting. Had the cardinal soaked her in water, or was it that hot inside the casket?
“You don’t have fire,” the king said.
She shook her head, her hand resting on the arm of the soldier supporting her on the floor. Then, as though realising what she had done, she pulled away, almost tumbling back.
He looked up at the other coffins. She might be a witch, but the young men Nelda claimed were her sons were not. “Release the boys,” he directed.
The soldier stood quickly, and the cardinal put his hand on one of the coffins.
“Take his hand if he tries to stop you again,” the king growled.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the soldier said, his voice clear. And as he raised his sword, the cardinal took a step back.
The first door swung open, and a young dark-haired man slumped out. The soldier assisted him forward and sat him slowly on the floor beside the girl. She clung to him, running her hand over his face and through his similarly damp hair. He nodded once and took her hand. The other boy was in the next one. He was in a similar state, and yet there was something else about him. He had somehow managed to maintain his posture. He stepped from the coffin, looking about the room, and the king realised silence had descended on the space.
He turned with the soldier to open the last coffin, the one furthest to the left. And as the soldier reached for the woman inside, the young man standing beside him nudged him out of the way to reach for her instead.
“Mother,” he whispered, and she looked at him with those golden eyes. Jealousy reared its head, pushing Dunstan’s feet forward.
She raised a shaky hand to the boy’s face, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. He closed his arms around her, resting his cheek on the top of her head. She was trembling, but she didn’t appear as affected by the heat of the small space.
“It is not your doing,” the boy said, something angry in his voice, and his gaze met that of the king.
“She is a witch,” the king said by way of explanation, not that he had wanted any of them here. There was a process—the people had to be reassured. He needed to be reassured that the right thing was being done.
“She is a woman,” the boy growled.
“Frayne,” she said, “it is how it is.”
The boy held her out then, studying her. “Why did you run then, if you would so willingly die now?”
“You,” she said, putting her hand to her chest. The king was tempted to step forward as she trembled so much he thought she might collapse. “All of you,” she added, but she couldn’t look away from the young man before her. The king wondered if they were all her children or only one.
The boy shook his head. “I’m already gone.”
“Don’t say that,” she said, clinging to his damp and torn clothing. The king wondered then if they had really arrived in such a state.
“Do we kill her now?” the cardinal asked. The boy moved surprisingly quick, pushing her behind him and protecting her with his bulk.
“They are not for experimenting. I want this to stop,” the king growled.
The cardinal grinned at him. Again, he thought he was winning. Dunstan longed for someone to provide him with some reasonable advice and a way to end this.
The soldier stood off to the side, watching over the group. He could trust this man. And despite his relationship to the woman before them, he could trust the general. But he had already entrusted a child to him. The general was for killing witches, not saving them. Somehow the king had three, and something in him wanted them to live.
“How do you know?” he asked the cardinal.
The man looked at him and shook his head.
“How do you know they are what you claim them to be?” the king demanded.
“Her brother himself named her a witch, saw her walk from the flames that had touched his face.”
“I know that. Not all witches can survive the fire.” He noted the shivering younger woman as the boy beside her put an arm around her. “How do you know?”
“The God tells me,” the cardinal said, lifting his chin.
Dunstan tried not to roll his eyes. The man would never tell him the truth. The cardinal had recognised the woman, and the girl was a lucky find. As was the child. There was something, he realised, whether it was the voice of the God or some other tool—he had a way of identifying them. And due to his recent rampage through the convents of the kingdom, it must be something he had only just discovered.
But then how many years had he been torturing women in this chapel? Experimenting on them. And why had no one known?
“Bring them,” the king commanded, turning towards the door.
“Your Majesty,” the cardinal said, and the rare use of his title from this man made him stop. “What will you do?”
“It is not your concern,” the king said, indicating they follow as he continued forward.
“She destroyed Sunsong Castle,” the cardinal growled.
“I did not,” she replied, her voice still a tremble. Dunstan wondered if she would ever sound as confident as she had when he’d known her before, or even in the throne room earlier.
“She will do it again,” the cardinal insisted.
The king turned back to look at him, the monks all watching.
“I would have if that was my intent. No matter the water or the cold dungeon—if I wanted to burn, I would.”
The king looked at her seriously, the young man holding her tight as the other two more or less held each other up.
“It is not what I want. It is not what I have done.”
In that moment, the king wanted to believe her with everything he had. He wondered if the general with his connection to this woman wanted that to be true, wanted to save her. In those moments when he had learnt not only that his son had died but that the girl he knew had been responsible, he wasn’t sure which had cut him deeper.
Looking at her now, he was relieved that she lived, and yet what she had done still burned hotter than the flames she had caused that day. Despite her claims that she had not.
“Mother.” The worried voice of the young man drew him back to the room as she stumbled, despite his tight hold on her, and slipped to the floor. The boy bent with her to prevent her hitting it.
“She should not be removed from this room,” the cardinal cautioned.
The boy had her in his arms, a determination that he would do all he could to keep her safe clear in his features. It reminded the king of someone then, as though he knew that face. His dark gaze turned to the cardinal, as though challenging him to keep her locked away.
The king shook his head, answering the unasked question. He motioned for the boy to hand her over, for he feared the boy would fall himself. He looked strong enough, but he was exhausted.
When he wouldn’t, the king bowed his head—something he would not usually do for anyone—and turned again for the door.
As the odd group stumbled into the hallway, he realised just how stifling and overwhelming the room beyond had been.
“Where do we go?” the soldier asked.
He wanted to take them to the general. A man he could trust. But people would talk. The whole castle must already be abuzz, and he didn’t want word reaching his queen that this woman still lived, and in possible comfort. He couldn’t trust her—he shouldn’t trust her.
“Where would you suggest?” he asked the soldier.
The shoulder looked back over his shoulder. “Somewhere equally secluded.”
The king nodded and indicated he lead the way. “And once we are settled, I want to learn how long that man has been using that chapel.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The soldier paused for too long before heading along the passageway, then turned down another. The king hoped they would be far enough away from the cardinal so as not to risk being rediscovered. They would have to be careful who saw them coming and going. Once he had them hidden away, he hoped they would stay there until he worked out what to do. That had been the aim with the dungeons—although his soldiers, it appeared, could not be trusted.
Disappointment washed over him that his own men would betray his orders so easily. But then, he had allocated them to the cardinal, instructed that they follow his rule. He looked up and wondered where they were. He had no recollection of this part of the castle, although he was sure he had been through every inch during his lifetime.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Servant quarters,” the soldier muttered.
“Servants talk,” the king reminded him.
“They are barely used. Soldiers hide here occasionally when they want a rest on a long night’s watch.”
The king stopped. Did he really have no idea what went on in his own castle?
The soldier stopped and turned back. “It is safe,” he said.
The king nodded, and they turned one last corner before the soldier stepped forward and opened a door. It squealed loudly from lack of use, its hinges resisting the movement. It was dark and dusty within. There had been few torches along the way, but he hadn’t noticed just how dark it was.
“Are there no windows?” he asked.
“Not for the poor,” the soldier said. He wondered if the man was at least a little thoughtful of what he said, but the king could not make out his face. A candle flared to life, but the dim light did little to illuminate the room.
The witch looked at him, still in the arms of the young man she claimed was her son, and her eyes reflected the flame—or were they flames?