Battles of Salt and Sighs by Val Saintcrowe

CHAPTER TWENTY

MAGDALIA SHOULD HAVEknown, all those years ago, that it was inevitable that someone would find out that she was sneaking out to do magic with Duranth. She wasn’t particularly good at being stealthy, and besides, she was entitled to do as she liked.

She was the Favored daughter of the dominus, after all.

She had done a number of stupid things before being caught as well, and these things likely contributed to everything that happened after being caught.

The most stupid thing of all was that she had interrupted Duranth’s being whipped, in tears. She had clung to her father and sobbed and begged for him to stop. She had been out of her mind, and it’d had the opposite of her intended affect. Her father had Duranth whipped all the harder, and he’d slapped her across the face in front of all of the gathered fae, and then Onivia had taken her aside for a long chat about the proper amount of affection one might have for a slave.

She had been angry with Duranth, too, because he had promised her that he would stop causing trouble, but he hadn’t. He kept holding gatherings for slaves, and not just drum circles, but, well, she didn’t know what to call them. There would be a fire, but there would be no music or chanting. Instead, Duranth would stand in front of all of the fae, who would sit around the fire in a circle sometimes five deep, because fae from other villae would come to listen to him.

He would speak in a low and musical voice about the natural rights of all people, and he would sound like those horrid seditious tracts that the rebels passed around in the capital, and Magdalia kept coming back to listen for no reason she could fathom.

Afterward, she would tell him he must stop, that he had to stop, that her father would find out and that she would not be able to save him from punishment, and he would tell her that there was only one thing more important to him than her, and that was the Cause.

He said it like that, as if “cause” was capitalized.

This frightened her badly, but she could change his mind.

Anyway, of course her father had found out, and of course that was why Duranth had been whipped, though Duranth had given a long speech beforehand begging for the dominus’s mercy, in a properly respectful tone, head bowed. He had taken a page from Magdalia’s book and flattered the man, saying he was enlightened and far too powerful to be threatened by a few fae gathering to speak to each other. “Grant us the ability to fellowship around the fire, dominus,” Duranth had said. “We will serve you all the better for your kindness. I beg you, see fit to grant us this small boon in your benevolence.”

But the speech had only further enraged her father, because Duranth was too good at making arguments, and it only served to further highlight Duranth’s natural wiles as an evil death fae, and it also implicated her father in the process, because her father had educated Duranth as a child, and had therefore already fallen under Duranth’s wicked sway.

Her father, then, had to prove that he was no longer swayed by Duranth.

The beating was incredibly vicious.

She had been frightened Duranth would die.

As Duranth lay in a bloody heap, barely breathing, her father had come over and kicked the fae in the stomach. “Next time you cause trouble for me, I’ll cut off one of your limbs, you worthless ingrate,” he’d growled.

After, she had healed Duranth, and she had healed the bruise on her face from her father striking her, which was all she could do. She had not been able to save him from the agony of the whipping in the first place.

Duranth had been duller than she’d ever seen him, lying on his stomach on his thin bed mat, blood in his hair. He’d thanked her for healing him. He told her never to interfere again, told her that it had hurt him worse to see her father strike her than all the lashes.

She knew that was a lie.

“Please,” she said to him, then, “please promise you’ll stop this.”

He had only shaken his head.

They had continued to meet, to practice magic, and time had passed.

But then, one day, she was discovered.

It wasn’t a fae who gave her up, though many of them knew what she did. She supposed that they stayed quiet at the behest of Duranth. She didn’t pay any mind to how they deferred to him, but she should have. She should have realized that his magic was terrifying and that it meant calamity.

She was stupid, that was all.

And blind.

She had never been particularly intelligent when it came to him.

Anyway, it was Onivia who discovered it, because one evening, she came looking for Magdalia and could not find her anywhere, and her sister caused a ruckus having everyone look for her. Her father was brought in on it, and he threatened the fae with all manner of macabre punishments until one of them was so frightened that they blurted it all out—that Magdalia left every night to go into the woods with Duranth.

She and Duranth were actually heading back from their magic practice when they saw the torches through the woods. Duranth had been lifting her over a tangle of undergrowth, and his hands were on her hips, but the minute he heard her father’s angry shouts, he let go of her.

Magdalia rushed forward, intercepting her father, who was leading the charge, striding through the underbrush, screaming her name at the top of his lungs.

“Papa, you’re such a good papa to be so worried about me, but I’m fine,” she said in a sickly sweet voice, trying to soothe him.

Her father pushed past her and went straight for Duranth. “You had your hands on my daughter. I always knew you were filth, but this is the last straw.”

“No, it’s not like that,” Magdalia said. “Of course he would never touch me. It’s only that I needed his assistance to get through the underbrush.”

Her father had a dagger in his hand and he somehow had it under Duranth’s chin, its blade flashing in the torchlight. “Now, now, no magical tricks, boy, or I’ll slit your throat.”

She saw Duranth swallow, tilting his head back. She saw him clench and unclench his hands, thinking about doing something, and she’d seen his magic. She’d never seem him use it against a person, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work, because it would. She knew it. Duranth was strong. She let out a cry. “Please, Duranth, please. Just apologize, and I’m sure my papa will be the understanding, good papa he is. Won’t you, Papa?”

“I’ll deal with you later, Magdalia.” Her father was only looking at Duranth. “Someone else here. I need another blade to his neck.”

There were four blades, suddenly, all around Duranth, and he seemed pathetically small, and his eyes flashed in fear as he looked all around.

“Hold him,” snarled her father.

“Papa,” she said.

“Shut your mouth, Magda,” said her father, keeping his gaze fixed on Duranth. “Duranth, you’re an ungrateful little snake. I gave you so much. You were my favorite. How do you repay me? Stirring up my slaves? Touching my daughter? I’ll show you what happens to fae who put their hands in places they shouldn’t. I’ll cut one of them off.”

“No!” Magdalia screamed.

Duranth started to move his hand, but her father caught it, holding Duranth in place.

Duranth looked at her, and she could see the terror in his face, and she launched herself onto her father and tried to stop him, but he shrugged her off.

She struggled to her feet, but Onivia was there, wrapping her arms around her sister, saying, “No, Magda,” and “Stop, Magda.”

And then the dagger glinted in the torchlight again as it snicked through the air.

Duranth screamed.

The air smelled like blood.

Magdalia strained against her sister’s arms.

Duranth fell to his knees, clutching the bloody stump that was his wrist to his chest. His expression was a contorted mask of anguish, but he didn’t make another noise.

Magdalia realized she was sobbing and tears were streaming down over her cheeks.

“Lock him up,” said her father. “I’ll deal with him later.” He reached down and snatched up Duranth’s hand and waved it in the fae’s face. “This, I think I’ll keep.”

Duranth didn’t react to that. He rocked, gritting his teeth.

Onivia pulled on Magdalia. “Let’s go.”

“No,” said Magdalia. She wondered if she could put the hand back on, if her magic could heal that. She resolved to try. And to do that, she’d need to get the hand from her father. So she got to her feet and let herself be dragged off.

Onivia asked her questions on the way back, and Magdalia confided in her—stupidly—because she thought that Onivia would understand, that she would be on her side, but Onivia—the traitor—went directly to their father and Magdalia wasn’t sure what it was that she said exactly, but when she was finally brought before her father later that night, in his study, she stood on one side of his desk and gazed at the spattered blood on his clothes, and he barely listened to anything she said.

“What did you let that fae do to you? How has he corrupted you?”

“Papa,” she said quietly, “he will be of no use to you so crippled. I’m sure he understands the seriousness of the situation now and will conduct himself properly from now on. May I attempt to reattach his hand?”

“Did he force you to lift your skirts? If he did, know that it is not your fault, but I must know, because if he has put some abominable half-blood in your belly—”

“It would be a good exercise for my magic to attempt healing on such a level. I’m sure my magister would approve of taking up such a challenge. And doesn’t strengthening my magic serve Fortune?”

“What did he do to you?”

“Nothing! We only do magic. That’s all.”

“Death fae magic? Evil magic? How is he so strong through all that metal in his face? You will tell me everything he can do.”

“Please, Papa, let me have his hand.”

“Never,” said her father, shaking his head. “Tell me the extent of his evil power, Magdalia. You are under his evil enchantment, you must see that.”

“I’m not. I promise I’m not.”

Her father sighed. “You swear to me that he’s never touched you in that way?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s something, at least.” Her father rubbed his face. “Even so, with his magic, he probably has to be put to death. I don’t know why I hesitate. I suspect it’s sentimentality. I felt such affection for him as a boy.” He sounded wistful, but it was also wrong, to talk so easily of killing Duranth.

“No!” She might have screamed it.

“You will never see him again,” her father said to her. “Put that monster from your mind.”

There were guards at her doors, so she climbed out her window.

Then she climbed into the windows of the kitchens and filled a flour bag full of supplies, because Duranth would need something to eat. She had also brought coin with her and one of her hooded cloaks that she had worn in the capital. It was plain enough that it didn’t appear feminine, and it was well made—something that only a wealthy human could have. It would do to disguise his ears. If he kept his head down, no one would suspect he was an escaped slave. They might wonder why he was wearing a cloak in such weather, but there was nothing for that, nothing that she could think of, anyway. He could use the money to purchase a ticket on the train and he could escape her father. It wasn’t right to let a slave go free. She knew that. But surely it wasn’t right for him to die either.

Duranth was being kept in an iron cell. There were three of them out on the edge of the fae dwellings, metal boxes with locks on the doors, small inside, only enough room for a man to crouch inside. His skin would touch the iron all over. It was an agonizing punishment for the fae.

There were guards there too.

She knelt and pushed her magic into the ground, sending it out until she felt the feet of some panthers. She pushed into them, her magic exciting them, making them euphoric. They surged in the woods, loud enough to make a noise, and she yelled, disguising her voice, calling for help from the guards.

Once they were gone, she went to the iron box and put her hands on it. “Duranth,” she whispered. There was a window of sorts on the box, bars over it. She could see his folded-up arms through it. His wounded wrist was bound with a bloody rag.

She reached through the bars to touch him, but there was too much iron. She could not find her magic.

This troubled her.

Why should iron affect her own magic? She was not fae.

Now, she supposed it led credence to Duranth’s claims that her magic did come from the fae, that she had Seelie blood.

He felt her touch and managed to move. Now, she could see his face in there. “Magdalia. You’re here.”

“My father is going to kill you,” she said. “You’re going to have to leave. I brought you food and a disguise and money. I’m here to help you escape. How do I get this lock open?”

But before he could say anything, one of the guards was back. The guards were human, but they were still slaves. They had contracts that they were working off, and someday they would be free.

She straightened and addressed the guard in her most imperious voice. “I need this prisoner out. Unlock the cell now.”

The guard smirked at her. “You’re not supposed to be down here, and I’m going to send someone to tell your father.”

“Wait,” came Duranth’s voice, threaded with pain. “Don’t send anyone yet.”

“You’re not supposed to talk,” said the guard.

There was a rustling from the woods, and the other guard emerged. “Nothing out there that I could find, Decimus.”

“Probably a distraction,” said Decimus.

The other guard stepped up next to the first one.

“Trintus, is it?” said Duranth, his voice stronger. “Is that your name?”

“Don’t talk,” said Decimus.

“And you’re Decimus,” said Duranth. “I’ve seen you at the meetings before.”

“Shut up,” said Decimus.

“You can read,” said Duranth. “You had a copy of Basilius. You spoke of it. You said that you couldn’t understand why Fortune would decree for power to be passed down through blood, when even a common slave could see that the rich weren’t suited to it.”

“Look, you were quiet enough before,” said Decimus.

“Except for a few groans,” said Trintus.

“So, I don’t see why you’re talking now,” said Decimus.

“Let me out,” said Duranth. He looked at Magdalia, and she knew, she somehow understood that her presence had given him hope again, had restored his spirit. He had been languishing in pain and despair, and she had helped just by appearing.

Trintus let out a wild, disbelieving laugh. “We let you out and we’ll pay for that.”

“The dominus is angry,” said Decimus. “He might kill us since he can’t get his hands on you.”

“If you don’t let me out,” said Duranth, “then he’s going to kill me, and when he does, he’ll kill my magic, and you know what I can do. You believed. You stood with the others when we spoke of the uprisings—”

“If you’re so powerful, get yourself free,” said Decimus. “And I’ll thank you not to talk about this anymore.” He turned to Trintus. “It’s a lie. I’m no fae sympathizer. I’m no revolutionary.”

Trintus regarded him, thinking this over.

“Trintus doesn’t believe you,” said Duranth.

“Duranth can’t get himself free,” said Magdalia. “Not through all the metal.”

“Trintus is going to go to the dominus and tell him everything about you. And whether it’s a lie or not, the dominus won’t take chances, and your life will be forfeit.”

Decimus licked his lips. “Oh, Fortune deliver me,” he muttered. He snatched his dagger out of its scabbard, the movement quick—too quick.

Magdalia had hardly registered it by the time the dagger was in Trintus’s temple, sunk into the man’s head.

Trintus made a gurgling noise.

Decimus yanked the dagger out.

Trintus slumped to the ground.

Decimus went to work on the lock, wriggling the key inside. “I’m coming with you.”

“All right,” said Duranth.

Decimus opened the door to the cell.

Duranth scrambled out, wincing, stretching his limbs.

Magdalia seized his arm. “I tried to get your hand. I thought maybe I could put it back on. But I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Duranth touched her face with his good hand. “It’s all right.”

She poured magic into his wrist, sealing his skin, healing it over.

He ran a finger over his newly healed skin. “Thank you,” he whispered. Then he turned and put a finger on Decimus’s neck.

The man fell down.

“What did you do?” said Magdalia, gaping down at the motionless man.

“I can’t have him slowing me down,” said Duranth regretfully.

“Did you kill him?”

Duranth pulled her against him and put his lips on her forehead. “Thank you, little Magda.” He looked into the flour sack she’d brought, and he smiled at her. “This will do very nicely. You’ve done quite well.” Then he backed away.

“Why did you have to kill him? Couldn’t you have just put him to sleep or knocked him out or something?” Of course, she supposed her father would just kill him for his failure to contain Duranth. Maybe this was more merciful.

“Wait for me, Magda. Remember. You promised.” And then he was running into the woods.

She took several steps after him, as if she would follow him.

But no.

She couldn’t go after him. She couldn’t run away with an escaped fae slave. What was she thinking?

She went and climbed back into her window.

In the morning, when the guards were discovered, it was determined that the iron cages hadn’t been strong enough to hold Duranth. They sent out the dogs after him, but they never found him.

Her father raged and ranted. One night, he threw Duranth’s moldering hand into the fire.

Eventually, he grew bored with the anger, however, and he called off the searches. His thoughts turned to other things.

Magdalia tried to make her thoughts turn to other things too.

She was never entirely successful.