Chapters (32)
She squeezed his cold hands in hers, forced her voice through reluctant lips. “Of course it is, Father. Everything is about that night.”
“I told you to run, foolish girl,” he said, his voice caught between pain and tenderness. “There is no place for you here. Just like there was no place for your mother.”
Constance felt an unexpected flash of pain at the words. “Why did she even come here?”
He shook his head but didn’t answer. “Why did you come back?”
“This is my home. My birthright.” Truth.
“The storm…” And all of a sudden he was struggling against the red spell as it tried to reinforce itself, mending the break in its wall with tendrils knitting like ivy.
“What is it, Father?” She gently raised her right hand to his face, feeling him start to disappear.
“Something … has been bothering me. Could it be … Thorn? The mage who cast the … the storm spell?” He had to struggle with the words between strained, panting breaths. “Could the Justice be … responsible? Is it all … connected? The mage hunts … They could be a decoy, and a way … to exert control? The Justice … is a fanatic … he is unhinged. These are the things … I have wondered … beneath my madness.”
Constance nodded slowly, squeezed his hand. “The physician is strong enough to cast such a spell, and he has certainly been in the city for long enough,” she said. Her heart clenched as she told her father what he longed to hear. “But I will triumph over this, Father. That’s why I’ve come home.”
“Yes.” The Duke appeared comforted, resting back in his chair. “You … you have to save our city,” he managed to say. “Save it … from the storm cloud … and from the Justice … and his mage.”
His eyes met hers determinedly, and Constance could feel him clinging to his sanity like a drowning man clinging to the rocks. When she replied, her voice burned. “Don’t worry. I will show them the true meaning of justice—you have my word.”
Relief briefly flickered over his face, followed by confusion. Constance lifted her hand from his face, unable to bear the sense of him slipping away. The lines around the Duke’s eyes grew deeper, his stoop more pronounced as he hunched over in the chair. He closed his fingers around the scored wooden arms, his knuckles whitening.
The sea had swept him back into its depths, and he was drowned.
“Who are you?” he snapped, catching sight of her as if for the first time. “What are you doing here, sneaking around? Fetch the Justice! Out! Out!” he shouted, his voice raw and ugly.
She stood up. “I’m just leaving, my lord,” she said, the words catching in her throat.