Casters and Crowns

Chapter 24

B aron had come to the castle so sure of how he felt. Betrayed. Used. Resigned to a world that did not intend to give him anything he hoped for but still dangled the chance before withdrawing it.

Then Aria came barreling in—quite literally—to confuse it all again.

She moved her hand down his back a few inches, still massaging, and brushed his spine in such a way that he gave an involuntary shiver, forcing him to sit up at last. She pulled her hand away. That was for the best. Otherwise, he might have stayed like that forever, enjoying comfort from a girl he’d come to care about but wasn’t sure he could trust.

If what she said about the branding law was true ...

With their closeness in height, he could not avoid her eyes, deep brown and earnest. Touched with a tired red. Even if she meant it now , circumstances could change. There was an entire Upper Court advising the king, all of whom would surely be eager to explain to the princess why freeing Casters in any way would only damage the kingdom.

At least there was one thing Baron could be certain of.

“You sought me out,” he said, “because you’re trying to break a curse.”

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“After enough time, your specific inquiries concerning magic painted a picture. I’ll warn you now, there’s no guarantee I can reverse it, but if you tell me the details, I’ll do what I can.”

In the back of his mind, he tried to push away the memory of his father thrashing in bed, the frantic servants, the physician’s voice—

“I can’t,” Aria whispered. At Baron’s frown, she mouthed soundlessly before looking away.

“Physically can’t,” he said. Not a question.

Her gaze returned with hope.

Well, that excused some of her subterfuge. Baron grimaced.

“Any physical restraint is a Stone Caster’s work. Did Widow Morton have someone else with her? Richard Langley, perhaps? Did he touch you?”

The Cast restricting communication wouldn’t harm her, and it wouldn’t be particularly strong, but it would act as a blanket over Widow Morton’s work. Her fluid Cast, the real curse, would be harder to find beneath the Stone Caster’s cover.

Aria frowned. “Only a ... servant woman. She had the palest blonde hair I’ve ever seen, almost white. But she had no witch’s mark.”

For a moment, Baron started at the description, thinking of his stepmother, Sarah. As if no one else in the world were blonde.

“Perhaps Widow Morton allied with an unbranded Caster from Patriamere,” he suggested. “For the curse itself, what did the widow give you to drink?”

Her frustrated expression spoke volumes.

“All right.” He raised a hand. “It’s a blood curse, then.”

Remembering the curious notes from her journal, the warning not to drink crossed out and replaced by blood , he’d guessed the truth, but it had been worth hoping otherwise. Any number of curses could be Cast in freely spilt blood, as long as there was enough hatred behind the intent. Considering the death of her son, Baron imagined Widow Morton had been able to manage a great deal of hatred.

Curses . The worst side of magic, the side fed by rage, discontent, fear. Baron had Cast only one in his life, shortly after his branding. He remembered the hot tears, the raging fury inside, the desire to break something . He’d poured all of that into one of the orchard trees, superheating the water in every branch and leaf. The tree had exploded, as if by lightning strike, and Baron had been lucky to escape with his life, though a surgeon had spent the rest of the day pulling splinters from his skin and stitching him closed. He still had scars across his chest.

Curses were like that. The Caster always paid a cost.

“Do you need my blood?” Aria’s voice trembled.

Considering the last time she’d bled in the presence of a Caster, the fact that she offered spoke to a wealth of bravery. Baron realized he’d not given her enough credit for that day in the kitchen. Anyone would have been afraid to take the cup he offered, but she had reason beyond most to refuse. Instead, she’d given him a chance.

“No,” said Baron softly, “just your hands.”

She wore no gloves, and he removed his, extending his hands. She slid her fingers into his. Soft. Warm. Nearly flawless.

“What’s this?” He brushed his thumb over a long, thin scar on her pointer finger.

Aria winced, squinting through one eye. “My first foray into the kitchen. That wall you pointed out has been off-limits to me ever since, and on that subject, thank you again for saving me earlier.”

“I haven’t saved you yet.”

He closed his eyes, focusing on the steady point of contact between their hands, pushing away the distraction of her lilac perfume. For a moment, there was only darkness—then, pulsing faintly at the edge of his senses, he found the song of her blood. It rose to envelop him. The Cast already in place revealed itself in the rhythm of her heartbeat, like a sharp note in every third chord of a melody. If it were a beast in a lair, it rumbled with the contentment of a king resting on a throne of skeletons, a beast which would not be removed except on condition of its own death.

It was worse than Baron had imagined.

“This is fatal.” He opened his eyes, grasping her hands with more force than intended. “She means to kill you.”

Aria’s expression did not reflect the same shock, only a resignation.

All at once, Baron’s memories crashed in—

Your father’s collapsed! Come quickly!

Do something, Baron!

Sitting on the bed beside his father, everything shaking, clinging to the man’s clammy hand, calling on all the power within himself, reaching desperately for a miracle.

Coming up short.

“I can’t,” he whispered, feeling sweat break across his forehead. “I can’t combat this. I’m not strong enough.”

Aria looked down. Her fingers slipped from his.

Baron swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak again—

From somewhere in the castle, a brass horn sounded. Aria leapt to her feet as if the bench had burned her. “The joust!”