Page 59 of Rhapsody of Ruin
“Better to risk now than regret later,” Nyssa replied briskly. She poured something pungent into a cup and set it within Amara’s reach. “Drink.”
Amara ignored the cup, her eyes never leaving me. “What is it you want, Elowyn? To see me suffer? To reassure yourself that I am still penned like a lamb?”
“I came because you are not safe here,” I said.
Her laugh was bitter, short. “Safer here than wandering the woods heavy with child.”
I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “You are wrong. The danger is not outside these walls. It is within them.”
Her brows knit. “What do you mean?”
I hesitated, my throat dry. To speak the truth aloud was to give it power. But there was no choice. “I overheard my mother. She does not mean for your child to live.”
For the first time, fear cracked her composure. Her hand stilled over her belly. “What are you saying?”
“She intends to use the birth as sacrifice,” I whispered. My hand slipped into my sleeve and withdrew the folded scrap of parchment I had hidden there. I laid it across her lap. “See for yourself.”
She unfolded it slowly, her fingers trembling. The ink shimmered faintly, preserved by protective spell. The words were cramped but legible:Blood of dragon and necromancer, offered at threshold, will bind veil anew.
Amara’s lips parted. She inhaled sharply, a sound like breaking glass. Her head shook once, violently, as if denial alone could shatter the truth. “No. She needs him. She needs, ”
“She needs power,” I cut in. My voice was sharper than I intended, my nails digging crescents into my palm. “Not him. Not you. Only what you carry. Once it is taken, you will be nothing to her.”
She stared down at the parchment, her face drained of color. Her breath came too fast, shallow, uneven.
“No,” she whispered again, softer, desperate. “No.”
The silence pressed down heavy, broken only by the crackle of candle-flame. I could see her fear wrestling with hope, denial strangling belief.
Finally she whispered, “There must be someone.”
“There is,” I said gently. “Your family. You are not forgotten.”
Her eyes snapped to mine, sharp and cutting. “You know nothing of my family.”
“Then tell me,” I urged, leaning closer. “If you want your child to live, you must tell me who can protect him.”
Her lips trembled. She looked away, to the dark corner of the chamber. When she spoke, it was barely audible.
“Mortaine.”
The name echoed in my chest like a bell. I had read it once in old court ledgers, long buried. A name tied to whispers of treachery and power.
“My mother’s sister,” Amara said, her voice steadier now, though her eyes glistened. “Lady Jolie Mortaine. If she lives, she will be near Grenoble. Near Greneford.”
“Then we will get him to her,” I promised. My hand slid over hers, covering it gently. “He will live.”
Her fingers clutched mine, desperate. “And me?”
The question tore through me. I had no answer.
Before I could try, Nyssa cleared her throat softly. “I can prepare supplies. Herbs for strength. Cloth for swaddling. Water. Quietly. No one will question me.”
Amara sagged against her pillows, the strength gone from her limbs. “Then it is decided.”
I rose, tucking the ledger scrap back into my sleeve, sealing the vow in ink and resolve. My legs shook beneath my gown, though I forced my steps to remain steady.
I slipped from the chamber while Nyssa busied herself with herbs. The door shut behind me with a soft click, the wards thrumming like a warning.
