“Very well, cursebreaker,” she said. “You have taken the diamond branch. Proceed as you are determined.”
She took a step nearer, then a second. She knelt before Heloise, her face luminous and yet so dark. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and the expression in her eyes was enough to break the heart. Heloise could not bear to look, but neither could she bear to look away. Though she did not understand why, she felt tears well up in her own eyes and a tremendous sorrow in her spirit.
“Hélène,” she whispered.
In the same breath, the fey woman whispered, “Alala.”
She took Heloise’s face between her enormous hands. Claws tangled in Heloise’s hair, but the woman’s grasp was gentle. She spoke in a voice that might have been a growl were it not so full of desperate pleading.
“Understand this, mortal beast: The end of your journey will be death and only death. Remember what I say! Should you succeed, you will kill her. Our beloved Alala. You will kill her, and she will be lost to us forever.”
Then she was gone. So swiftly, so completely that Heloise did not even feel the wind of her passing. She knelt alone in the diamond forest, clutching her branch. Her chest heaved with exertion and terror not yet relieved, and her blood boiled with anger and with . . . something else which she did not understand.
With a ragged “Ohh!” she squeezed her eyes closed and bent forward until her forehead pressed into the ground. She felt it change, the warm earth breaking away and leaving behind cold tile. When she sat up again, she was back in Centrecœur.
Benedict lay beside her, illuminated in the light of the diamond branch she held. His face was fixed, his mouth wide in a soundless scream. His eyes, glazed over, stared into nowhere.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Something horrible had happened. But what? Had he forgotten an important exam or tried to give an ill-prepared speech before a crowd of ill-tempered Black Tops?
No. No this was more horrible than that.
Why was it dark all around him? Perhaps he lay in bed on a moonless night. But no, he could not feel his bed underneath him. He couldn’t feel anything except . . .
“Benedict!”
Had word arrived from his father, his mother? Some bad news that could sink such dread into his heart? But what could either of them say that would cause this feeling? This feeling rising up inside, greater, stronger by the moment, ready to choke him in panic, in dread.
“Benedict, wake up!”
They hadn’t the power over him to cause this sensation. They did not love him, he knew. He had known as much for years, and he no longer feared the truth. Yet, why had they not come to him when he . . . when he lay . . .
“I think someone is coming!”
Oh! There it was. There was his answer.
The pine boxes. His dead friends. Victor’s pale face, already full of fever.
His own body. What was this covering his own body? This red lattice of rash like gripping veins of poison. The fingers of a crimson Death clutching him by every limb, across his torso, his back. All else is blackness, blindness, save for this scarlet, ugly fever, this scarring. Just like what he had seen on Luc, on Giles, on Henri. It had gripped them. It had taken them. It took Victor. Now it would take him too . . .
“Wake up!”
No. No, he had survived the Winter Fever. The rash had faded, leaving him pale and wasted, but his body lived on.
And his spirit? What remained of his spirit in the face of the future he now saw before him? A future of looming Death at every turn. A future which at any moment could mean the return of the clutching rash, of the pain, of burning—
“Wake UP!”
Benedict gasped and sat up suddenly, his hand flying to his face, which smarted from a sharp slap. He drew in breath for a shout but found the shout stifled by two hands pressed hard across his open mouth.
A strange white light illuminated the dirty, wide-eyed, terror-filled face of the peasant girl.
“Lumé love us!” she hissed. “Don’t make a sound! Someone is coming, and we’ve got to hide.”
Benedict stared at her, unable to think. What in the name of Lumé, Hymlumé, and all the starry host was he doing? In the dining hall! In the middle of the night and—
“Hush!” Heloise hissed again, grabbed him by the hand, and pulled. In her other fist she gripped a small branch which gleamed with an unnatural light. She stuffed it under her arm, stifling the glow as best she could. “Don’t say anything, just come with me.”
“See here, little girl,” Benedict began.
But then he heard an all too familiar voice speak beyond the door. “Is someone within?”
It was Doctor Dupont.
Memory washed down upon Benedict in a roaring flood. Not full memory just yet, but enough. He turned a desperate glance over his shoulder and saw the light of a candle gleam beneath the heavy door of the dining hall entrance.
With a smothered cry, he staggered to his feet and followed Heloise’s lead. She dragged him around the long banquet table and right into the vast dark mouth of the fireplace on the other side. Benedict, who had seen that fireplace alive with a bonfire-like blaze, would never have dreamed of entering that yawning darkness to stand on the ashes of long-dead embers. But just then his brain could concoct no reasonable thought or idea of its own save the vague notion that obeying Heloise was his best bet if he didn’t want to be found.
They crouched in deepest shadow at the very back. Heloise sat on the gleaming branch to hide it beneath her.
The door to the dining hall opened. A hand, weirdly pale in the glow of the taper candle it held, appeared, followed soon after by the solemn face of Doctor Dupont, more ghoulish than ever when lit by that single light source. His eyes searched the room, ineffective against the weight of gloom and darkness.
“Is someone within?” he asked again, like the intonation of an ancient priest performing some secret rite. Which was a stupid comparison, of course, and Benedict silently cursed himself for thinking it. After all, Doctor Dupont was just a man; an odd man of odd habits, but hand-selected by his own father as the best possible minister to Benedict in his illness.
Nevertheless, a chill like ice trickled down his spine as the doctor moved into the room and glided around the table, holding his candle up before him. Its light passed within inches of their terrified faces, and Benedict feared they must certainly be discovered.
But the good doctor moved on beyond the fireplace toward a certain elegant armoire that housed much of the Cœur family’s fine silver, including two elegant chalices from back in the day when holy habits and sacraments were still practiced in Centrecœur.
This armoire was not meant to hold wine, which was stored in the cellars. But as Benedict watched, Doctor Dupont withdrew not only one of the two chalices, but also a bottle of an expensive vintage imported all the way from Southlands beyond the isthmus of the Six Towers. The ease with which he uncorked and the slosh inside the bottle as its contents were poured into the chalice told Benedict that the bottle was already half empty. Great Lights Above! Good Doctor Dupont was nothing short of a thief. A drunken thief at that.
Heloise’s hand clamped down hard on Benedict’s arm, reminding him that he would be wise to observe this thievery in silence, suppressing the indignant wrath that bubbled up on his tongue. He ground his teeth but allowed himself to be drawn deeper into the dark corner of the fireplace, his eyes sparking with fury as he watched the doctor down not one but two full chalices of wine. Then, as solemn and long-faced as ever, the thief used a square of linen to wipe out the chalice before replacing it on the armoire beside its mate. He tucked the now empty wine bottle into the depths of his sleeve, picked up his candle, and wafted back across the dining hall.
Heloise made no sound, but a sudden stiffening of her hand shot up Benedict’s arm like a shout. Though she said nothing, and he could not see her face to help him guess what her sudden fear might mean, he cast his gaze about the room and saw what she must have spied bu
t an instant before.
Beneath the great table was a gleam of silver and gold, faint but growing brighter by the instant; the two branches joined as one.
One slight turn of his head, and Doctor Dupont would see it. One pause in his stride, one stumble, and the glow would surely draw his eye. Benedict and Heloise huddled together in the fireplace, neither able to breathe, their gazes flicking from the little branch to the shadowy form of the doctor outlined in reddish gold by his candle, and back again. It seemed impossible that he could miss it, so bright was its brilliance by the time he had crossed to the open door.
Yet the good doctor stepped from the room and shut the door with a soft clunk behind him.
“Dragons!” Heloise breathed and sagged heavily against Benedict’s arm. The next moment, however, she scrambled from the fireplace, exposing the diamond branch as she did so. It had shrunk somehow, just like the other two, but it was still more radiant than any candlelight. She snatched it up, closed it in her fist, then hastened across the room to duck under the table and retrieve the other branch as well. There she sat, both fists tightly closed over her treasures, her back against one of the massive table legs.
She didn’t think she would ever move again. Her strength—however great it was—was sapped dry.
Benedict emerged from the fireplace and crossed the room with some hesitation, for it was very dark with the light of both branches hidden in Heloise’s fists. But he found his way and knelt before her. “You saved me,” he said.
Her mouth moved, but she was obliged to try three times before she could utter a response. Even then, it was only, “Yes.”
“I don’t remember what happened,” Benedict persisted. He passed a hand over his face. “At least, not completely. I do know . . .” He shook his head and heaved a long sigh. The images in his head were too strange, too convoluted. All he saw with clarity was the fever rash killing his mates, marring his own skin, disfiguring and agonizing.
But it was gone. It wouldn’t come back, not yet. Eventually, but not yet.
“I know you saved me, Heloise,” he whispered. “You risked everything, and you pulled me back from some . . . some darkness I don’t understand. I—I can’t—”
“Shut your mouth!” Heloise whispered, her voice sudden and harsh. Horrified at the sound of her own words ringing still in her ears, she bowed her head and pressed her clenched fists into her eyes. She couldn’t push out the memory of those awful beasts tearing into that black living-death. That image would never fully leave her, nor the image of the red blood staining the diamond branch, nor . . .
Nor the image of Aunt’s face wet with tears.
Look at the branches, said the voice in her head. Look at what you hold.
But she was so tired! Her fear and fury had been too great. How could she ever overcome them? How could she go on?
She wept. She realized this suddenly and with a curse. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she hadn’t taken a breath for some moments because of a sob choking in her throat. With a gasp and a moan, she buried her face in her arms.
“Lumé love us,” whispered Benedict. Then his arms were around her. She lowered her arms and pressed her face into his shoulder instead, allowing him to pull her close. She cried for reasons she could not name, or at least did not like to name.
Benedict whispered, “I’m sorry,” though he had nothing to apologize for that she could think of. It was just his silly, stupid way, and she wanted to scold him for it. But she couldn’t because she was crying too hard. He whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Heloise,” and patted her shoulder and her hair. “I’m sorry this has happened to you. I’m sorry all of this, whatever it is, has fallen on your shoulders.”
But the voice in her head had no such patience.
Sit up, girl! Sit up and wipe your nose and behave with some decorum! Whose child are you? Is this what the blood of Rufus the Red has come to over the generations?
“I’m not of Rufus the Red’s blood,” Heloise muttered through her tears.
“What was that?” said Benedict.
Of course you are! growled the voice in her head. Do you think family lines follow but one course throughout your mortal history? Sit up, and remember you’re the daughter of warriors. Sit up and look at what you hold in your hands. And come to me. Come to me!
Heloise sat bolt upright, staring into the dark rafters of the ceiling above. With a loud sniffle, she rubbed her sleeve across her nose.
“What’s wrong?” Benedict asked. He could just discern the basic outline of her shape before him, could see that she was looking up. He glanced up as well but saw only more darkness. “Did you hear something?”
Heloise didn’t answer. Instead she slowly uncurled both her fists.
The branch of silver and gold gleamed like the light of the sun and moon entwined. While the branch of diamond sparkled like all the stars in the heavens.
“Another branch,” Benedict whispered. His eyes, filled with the light of diamonds, shone in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it! It must be worth . . . a king’s ransom. Three kings’ ransoms!”
Much more than that, foolish boy.
Heloise didn’t bother to answer. She held up both branches, lightly touching them to each other. And, just as she and Benedict had seen before when the gold and silver branches were united, so they saw again. The first branch reached out to the new one, caught it, twined about it. Gold, silver, and diamond stems blended into one long, curling branch of indescribable beauty.
It was whole. Somehow Heloise knew that it was now the shape it was meant to be.
“What is it, do you think?” Benedict asked.
Heloise, though she couldn’t say how she knew, responded immediately and with absolute conviction: “It’s a key.”
They did not need Benedict’s snuffed candle to light their way—the Faerie branch was light enough. So Benedict tucked the candle stub into his pocket and followed Heloise into the gallery, out of the west wing of the house, past the chapel that was his room, and on toward the old east wing. Heloise moved with surprising confidence for one who had not set foot inside Centrecœur until a few days ago. She might have been born to the Great House, so easily did she navigate its corridors.
Benedict made no effort to take the lead but followed her in silence. He spoke up only when they neared the east wing, whispering, “Remember, the apothecary is just down the passage. If Doctor Dupont is still awake he might see the light.”
Heloise snorted. “He drank enough to put him to sleep for days!” she said, and urged Benedict on with a glance.
So they came to the narrow stairway winding up the lone Tower of Centrecœur. Heloise went first. The heavy closeness of the stairwell was enough to smother much of the light. Benedict hated to follow but hated still more to be left behind. If Heloise was right—if the branch she held really was a key, despite not looking like any key Benedict had ever before seen—he didn’t want to miss this opportunity to discover what lay behind the locked Tower door.
So they proceeded up the stair, Heloise easily enough, being small and slight; Benedict with more trouble the higher they went, for the passage got narrower and narrower. Any marauding Corrilondians of historical times who tried to fight their way up this stair would have had their work cut out for them! A defender well supplied could fend off all assailants for ages while waiting for aid from king and country.
The folks of centuries past must have been much smaller people, Benedict decided as he ducked his head and squeezed his shoulders through the passage. Heloise reached the top long before him and stood on the topmost step, tapping her foot and scowling as he finally rounded the last curve.
The wooden door stood behind her. It was blackened with age and fixed with brass. By the light of the silver-gold-and-diamond branch, it looked strangely ominous.
“Were you right?” Benedict asked. “Is the branch a key?”
“I don’t know,” Heloise said. “I haven’t tried it yet.”
They stared at each other for a long silent moment, each waiting for the other to urge action, neither certain they wanted to pursue the course set before them. Then, without another word, Heloise turned suddenly and stuck the diamond end of the three-part branch into the heavy lock.
Without a sound, the door swung open.
Benedict, standing farther down the stair, could see nothing save for a light falling suddenly upon Heloise, illuminating each of her tangled curls in such sharp detail that she seemed suddenly more real than real. “Wait!” he cried, and tried to catch hold of her arm.
He was too slow. Heloise stepped through the doorway, and before Benedict could take a single step, the door shut behind her. He stood alone in utter darkness at the top of the Tower stair.
TWENTY-NINE
All around her the trees were laden with flowers so thickly blooming that it was impossible to see more than the vaguest impression of what lay beyond them. They hung like a curtain of white and rose and lavender, and long tendrils of stems and leaves curled around them in shades of green and blue. Each blossom was exquisite in its design and proportion so that, though they grew in great clusters, not a single one was lost in the crowd.
It was too much. Too much splendor too distinctly rendered in too many colors and brilliant lights. A single one of those blossoms would be enough to fill the eyes of a longing poet or lustful painter to the fullest. In such profusion, the glory of them was . . . deadly.
Mortal eyes were not meant to behold such beauty and survive. Heloise took one desperate glance and shut her eyes as tightly as she could. She stood with her back pressed to the shut Tower door, feeling its fastness behind her.
“Greetings, mortal child.”
Someone approached. Heloise could hear the soft murmur of stirring in the boughs, and she felt the silken kisses of petals falling on her face and arms.