Aeva folds her arms and leans back against the wall behind us, not minding that she is crushing the Turkish velvet wall hanging. “I said, you’d best start with the regent. Cutting off the head of a snake is the only way to kill it.”
My mouth twitches. “The followers of Arduinna have a delightful way with words.”
She lifts one broad shoulder. “I don’t trust her one bit. I don’t trust anyone here.”
“Tell me, what do you think of the king?”
The corners of her mouth turn down as her gaze seeks him out. “Not much. He looks less like a king and more like a junior cleric that the rest of the clerks enjoy harrying.”
I wince at the accuracy of her description. “Can you tell if he is still under the effects of Arduinna’s arrow?” For that is at the heart of what allows us to wrest victory from defeat—the magic in the last of Arduinna’s remaining arrows.
She tears her gaze from the king and frowns at me. “What do you mean?”
“Calm yourself, it was not meant as in disrespect, but rather a theological question.” I briefly fill her in on what I have learned about the Princess Marguerite. “And so I am trying to determine if the effects of the arrow have worn off now that we are in France. The genuine love and admiration the king displayed toward the queen in Rennes is no longer evident. Perhaps the magic only works in Brittany.”
“No,” Aeva says softly. “He loves her still, as much and in such a way that he is capable of. Arduinna’s arrow can only guarantee a person’s love. If a person’s capacity to love is meager, Arduinna’s arrow cannot fix that—only ensure that meager love is directed toward a particular person.”
And that is precisely the answer I feared most.
?Chapter 49
Genevieve
hen next I return to the dungeons, it is in the early hours of the morning before everyone else is up. Because of that, my forage through the kitchen does not yield much of a meal, but it is all I can manage at this hour. It has also occurred to me that I probably should arrange for another bath for the prisoner, but that will take a fair amount of planning and stealth and so will have to wait for a different day.
When at last I reach the dungeons, I use my torch to light the others in the sparring room, collect the swords from their hiding place in the storeroom, and head for the oubliette. “Are you awake?” I call down.
“Should I not be?”
I set my torch down and slide the bolt loose. “It is early,” I tell him as I open the grate.
I can almost hear him shrug. “I have no measure of time here.”
“Fair enough.” I toss the rope down, then draw my baselard as I wait for him to climb up. I have chosen swords today as I prefer the distance they put between us.
Maraud’s head emerges from the dark hole, followed by his arms. As he levers himself up onto the floor, I am startled to see that both of his hands are bound in rags. I forgot to make him the salve I promised. “What happened to you?”
He swings his legs up and out of the oubliette, shrugging sheepishly. “I have not held a weapon for over a year. My hands have lost their calluses and grown soft. When I descended the rope yesterday, it scraped the blisters open.”
“Will you be able to hold a sword?”
He sends me a mocking look as he rises to his feet. “So now you are my nursemaid as well as my sparring partner?”
“Hardly. I only want to make sure our session is worth my while. Now, if you are done whining, let’s get to work.”
His lips twitch as I motion for him to proceed me into the room. Once there, I toss the wooden sword at him, watching carefully when he catches it. He winces, but only slightly. “Back to swords?”
“You said you had more tricks to teach me, and I would like to learn some of them today.”
He raises his sword, and I raise mine. “I have in mind to show you how to compensate for both your smaller size and shorter reach. Both will be vulnerabilities in a true fight.” He parries, quickly altering the direction of his sword from left to right to left again. “Your footing is a disadvantage. My lunges and strides are half again as long as yours. You must move faster and quicker, taking two small steps back for every one of mine, or you will soon find my blade against your nose.”
He is right, I think. We could never have trained for this in the smaller room.
Even so, I block his attack easily. “My reach does not seem to be an issue here.”
“No?” He pivots and attacks my blade with a series of diagonal swings. It is all I can do to keep him at bay.
Because I must extend my arm farther, it will tire before he does. I feint to the left, then leap to the right, creating an opening for me to get inside his guard.
But he is prepared for that and blocks my blow hard enough to cause my teeth to clack.
Irritated now, I grab my sword with both hands and use all my force for a downward strike on his blade, close to the hilt.
As I’d hoped, the force of it causes him to drop his blade, although I am certain if his hands were not injured, he would not have done so. With satisfaction, I bring the point of my sword up to rest against his heart. Our eyes meet. “And now what do you think of my reach?”
He grins, almost apologetically, then grabs ahold of the blade. Before I can so much as gasp in surprise, the point of my own weapon is turned toward me and rests upon my heart. His eyes are expressionless.
“Well done,” I concede, although I am loath to admit it. “Now what trick do I use to get out of this position?” For some reason, my voice sounds thin, thready.
“You don’t.” His voice is soft and apologetic. My heart plummets down to my feet, my body somehow understanding what is happening before my mind can absorb it.
His hands were never injured at all. The bandages were to protect them from the sharp edge of my sword.
“Don’t go for your dagger,” he orders. With his free hand, he pulls a knife from some hiding place. It is made of bone—bone from one of the meals I fed him—and has been carefully sharpened against the stone of his prison until the end is a wicked—if rough—point.
“I need you to drop it onto the floor.” There is true regret in his voice, as if this pains him in some way.
Fury sits in my throat like a hot coal, but I have no choice but to do as he asks. I reach for the stiletto up my left sleeve. While his eyes are focused on my knife, I slip my fingers into the cuff inside that same sleeve to retrieve the needle case hidden there. Moving suddenly, I toss the stiletto onto the floor. As I’d hoped, it draws his eye long enough for me to hide the case in my palm.
“Is this some new trick you are teaching me?” I ask to further distract him. “If so, I do not care for it.”
“No. Not a trick. I am leaving, and you are coming with me.”
My fingers fumbling with the needles grow still. “Coming with you? Am I to be your hostage? I assure you, no one will pay a centime for me.”