Page 30 of A Kiss of Healing & Honor (Darkstone Academy #4)

“All right,” I said reluctantly. “Let’s go stop the Duke de Norhas.”

Flying next to us, Menelaus opened his jaws with a deafening roar of approval, his golden eyes flashing with anticipation of a good fight.

As one, the Wind-Walkers followed us as we dove towards the seething chaos of the battlefield.

I felt Ilhan’s arms tighten around my waist as the wind whistled past us in a deafening rush.

“There!” he shouted, pointing. “The left flank is weak, and their center is overextended. If we strike there, we can break their lines and send them into disarray.”

I nodded, trusting in Ilhan’s knowledge of battle tactics. Before his powers awakened, he’d spent years at the Imperial Military Academy learning how to read the ebb and flow of battle like a master chess player.

Below us, I saw the imperial troops falter as they caught sight of the Wind-Walkers descending upon the battlefield.

As we flew over them, I saw men’s faces upturned with expressions of awe and terror. Some fell to their knees, others brandished their weapons, unsure whether to flee or fight the monsters of legend.

“Fear not!” I heard King Menelaus bellow, his voice carrying across the field like a thunderclap. “The Wind-Walkers fight for the domina-regent this day!”

Then we were past the imperial lines and over a sea of soldiers assembled under the standards of the Duke de Norhas.

On Menelaus’ command, Boreas and the other Wind-Walkers opened their great jaws and unleashed torrents of white-hot dragon-fire upon the duke’s unsuspecting soldiers.

Men screamed as they were engulfed in fire, their armor melting like wax in the heat. Horses reared and bucked, throwing their riders to the ground and trampling them underfoot in the ensuing chaos.

Below us, a keg of gunpowder exploded with a deafening blast, sending a searing fireball into the air that briefly illuminated the battlefield in a harsh orange-yellow glow. The roar momentarily overpowered all other sounds, followed by the crackles of residual gunpowder catching fire. Thick, billowing gray smoke cast a dense pall over the immediate vicinity.

My nose filled with the acrid stench of sulfur and burned wood.

For the next few minutes I watched, transfixed with horror, as the Wind-Walkers sowed destruction through the Duke de Norhas’ ranks.

The great feathered beasts tore through troop formations, scattering men and horses alike with mighty wingbeats. Huge taloned feet bent and crushed cannons, and all around us, ammunition stores detonated in great gouts of flame and smoke.

Despite the shocking carnage, I had to marvel at the Wind-Walkers’ terrible beauty. They dived and wheeled with a grace and power that defied description, their plumage gleaming like enamel in the sunlight, their wings painting great swaths of shadow across the blood-soaked earth.

“By Nemara of the Flaming Sword,” Ilhan breathed, his voice tinged with equal parts reverence and fear. “I never thought I’d see something like this.”

Beside us, Menelaus let out a triumphant roar, his voice seeming to shake the very foundations of the earth. That roar was echoed by the Wind-Walkers all around us.

The duke’s soldiers quailed before this onslaught, their courage failing in the face of such raw, primal power. Many threw down their weapons and fled, their black-and-silver standards falling to the ground as they deserted their posts.

Victory appeared to be within our grasp, though at a terrible price.

Then a sudden, searing pain lanced through my veins, as if my blood had suddenly turned to acid. I gasped, doubling over in the saddle, my vision swimming with tears of agony.

“Jacinthe!” Ilhan cried, putting his arms around me as I struggled to breathe. “What’s wrong?”

I tried to answer, but my tongue felt thick and clumsy in my mouth. Shadow crowded the edges of my vision.

“Look at her aura!” Gwydion shouted. “It’s turning black. Someone’s hit her with a death curse!”

The world spun around me as Boreas banked sharply and descended. Ilhan’s hold tightened on my waist.

“There!” Tama called, pointing towards a knot of dark-robed figures huddled behind the rebel lines. “It’s Mage Ysandre!”

I followed his gaze, my vision blurring with tears of pain and fury.

My former instructor was smiling, her face a mask of cruel triumph as she held aloft my betrothal contract and chanted a spell.

“Moon and stars!” Gwydion swore behind me. “She must’ve used Jacinthe’s blood to aim that death curse!”

Boreas roared in rage. With a powerful surge of his wings, he dove, his jaws gaping wide to unleash a torrent of fire.

I saw the mages frantically throw up a spell-barrier, but the dragon-fire passed through it as if it were no stronger than a soap bubble. An inferno of flames engulfed the group.

As Ysandre’s robes and hair flared in a halo of flames, I felt as if all my nerve endings had been set ablaze, the pain so intense that it blotted out all other sensations.

I screamed, the sound torn from my throat and echoed by the shrieks of agony from the burning mages below.

“Look!” Ilhan exclaimed. “That’s the contract. It didn’t burn.”

“It can’t be destroyed by anything except a nullification spell recited by both the parties who signed it,” Gwydion shouted.

Caught in a blast of hot air rising from the burning bodies, the square of enchanted parchment soared upwards.

Boreas swooped in a tight circle around it. Ilhan leaned out of the saddle at a precarious angle and snatched it out of the air.

I heard Gwydion’s voice, distant and distorted as if through water. “Jacinthe, hold on! We’ll break the curse, I swear it!”

But his words were lost in the roaring of blood in my ears, the world fading to a dim, gray haze. I was vaguely aware of Boreas landing, of Ilhan and Gwydion lifting me from the saddle with desperate haste.

Their faces swam before my eyes, their features blurring.

Agony consumed me, ravaging my body as the death curse sank its vicious claws deeper into my body, devouring me inch by inch. I writhed on the ground where Ilhan and Gwydion had laid me, my muscles seizing in agonized spasms.

“Gwydion, help me!” Ilhan’s voice cracked with desperation. “We have to slow the curse’s progress!”

I felt their hands on me, their magic pouring into me like molten silver. It seared through my veins, warring with the icy tendrils of the death curse that sought to drag me into oblivion.

I struggled to breathe as the curse constricted around me like a serpent’s coils, slowly squeezing the life from its prey.

Distantly, through the roaring in my ears, I heard Boreas bellow in pain and fury.

Then a familiar voice rang out from somewhere above me. “Jacinthe! Hold on, my dearest, we’re coming!”

Mama! Relief crashed over me like a wave, momentarily drowning out the searing agony of the curse.

Then a fresh wave of pain ripped through me, tearing a strangled cry from my throat. Ilhan and Gwydion frantically poured more of their healing magic into me, desperately trying to keep the curse at bay.

“Stay with us, my love,” Ilhan urged hoarsely. “Your mother and King Menelaus are almost here. We’ll break this curse, I swear it.”

Clinging to their words like a lifeline, I forced myself to keep breathing, to keep fighting against the inexorable creeping fire eating me alive.

Then Menelaus was landing beside us with an earth-shaking thud, and my mother was sliding from his back. She raced towards me with a desperate cry, Mage Armand close on her heels.

As she reached my side, she dropped to her knees and pulled me into her arms. “My dearest,” she said, her face a mask of anguish. “I’m here now. We’re going to fix this, I promise.”

She turned her head and said something to Mage Armand, followed by a stream of orders to my companions.

Then Mama and Mage Armand joined hands and wove a complex purifying spell, their hands moving in intricate patterns over my body as they chanted in the ancient Sabaean tongue.

I could feel the power of their spell washing over me like a cool, cleansing tide, slowly unraveling the twisted strands of the death curse that had me in its strangling coils.

Gwydion and Ilhan, still gripping my hands tightly, continued to channel their power through me as well, their faces set in fierce concentration as they fought to keep me tethered to this world.

Tama, Boreas and Menelaus added their own power to the spell, their deep, resonant voices joining the chant as they poured their strength into me.

Slowly, painfully, I felt the curse’s grip on my soul loosen, the icy fingers of death reluctantly relinquishing their hold as Mama’s purifying magic burned them away. The agony that had consumed me for so long receded, replaced by a blessed numbness that spread through my limbs like a healing balm.

The last vestiges of the curse shattered like glass, dissolving into nothingness. I drew in a deep breath and marveled at the lack of pain.

“It’s done,” Mama said, her voice trembling with exhaustion and relief. “The curse is broken. You’re safe now, my dearest.”

I sat up with an effort and clung to her, burying my face in her shoulder as she rocked me gently back and forth.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and raw. “That’s two death curses in a row foiled, thanks to you all.”

“We’re becoming experts in banishing those things,” Gwydion joked as Tama and Ilhan lifted me to my feet.

Ilhan pressed a gentle kiss to my temple, his breath warm against my skin. “Let’s saddle up,” he murmured. “The battle isn’t over yet.”

With their help, I climbed shakily up onto Boreas’ back, settling into the familiar groove of his saddle.

Behind me, Mama and Mage Armand did the same.

As Boreas and Menelaus took to the skies once more, I watched in awe as the tide of battle turned decisively in our favor.

In my brief absence, the Wind-Walkers had continued their devastating aerial assault on the Duke de Norhas’ forces. Their blasts of dragon-fire reduced cannons to molten slag and mowed down entire centuries of legionaries.

The battlefield quickly turned into a scene of utter chaos as the duke’s soldiers threw down their weapons and ran for their lives, desperate to escape the fury of the Wind- Walkers’ battle-lust.

The imperial forces surged forward, their eagle banners snapping in the wind. I saw their general accept the surrender of one rebel commander after another.

As the battle limped to a close, I surveyed the carnage below with a heavy heart.

The fields were littered with the bodies of fallen men, horses, and mules. The stench of death and burning flesh filled the air, making my stomach churn with nausea.

Despite the overwhelming victory, I found no joy in the slaughter. As a healer, every life lost felt like a personal failure, a reminder of the terrible cost of war. I closed my eyes, sending a silent prayer to the Divine Mother to guide the souls of the slain to their eternal rest in the West.

We followed Menelaus down to a group of men gathered beneath the Supreme General of the Imperial Legions’ eagle banner.

The general, his splendid plumed helmet and gilded armor splattered with blood and grime, rode up as Boreas landed.

Before Mama or I could greet the general, Boreas announced, “Bow, earthworms, before Their Imperial Highnesses, Princess Jonquil and Princess Jacinthe!”

I winced.

The general scowled. “While my fellow commanders and I are grateful for your aid, your joke goes too far, Lord Dragon!”

“I am King Menelaus of the Wind Walkers!” my father announced. “Do you question the identity of my mate?”

Mama inclined her head with a regal gesture. “General Clovis, I must congratulate you on your promotion. The last time we met, you were the captain of the palace guard. Father always said you would go far.”

General Clovis gave her a hard, assessing stare. Then his eyes widened.

“Divine Mother preserve us! It’s truly you, P-princess Jonquil! Back from the dead!” He unbuckled the chin strap on his helmet and swept it off his head.

Tucking it under his arm, he bowed deeply. His companions hastily echoed his gesture.

“What news, general?” Mama asked. “Have you captured the Duke de Norhas?”

His expression turned grim. “Your Imperial Highness, I regret to inform you that the Duke de Norhas fled the field. My men report he was last seen riding hell for leather in the direction of his camp.”

“We can’t let him escape!” Mama exclaimed.

“Leave it to us!” Boreas said eagerly. “We’ll capture him and put an end to this, once and for all.”

“Very well,” Mama said. “But be careful, all of you. The duke may be defeated, but he’s still a powerful mage.”

With a roar, Boreas surged skyward, his powerful wings carrying us swiftly over the battlefield.

As we reached the rebel camp, I spotted the duke’s tent, a huge round pavilion made from crimson fabric. The black-and-silver double-mountain banner of Norhas flew above the entrance. A sweaty black stallion in silver-studded harness and matching saddle was tied to a stake nearby.

My heart leaped with excitement and dread. The Duke de Norhas is inside that tent!

Boreas swooped low over the canvas structure, making the sides billow. “Duke Beltràn de Norhas!” he roared. “It’s over. Surrender!”

The stallion screamed and reared in terror as we passed overhead. But there was no response from within the tent.

“I smell blood. And death,” Boreas informed us as he ascended again.

He wheeled around, then dove once more, snagging the roof of the duke’s tent in his talons.

He tore it away with a screech of ripping seams, revealing a shocking sight.

The Duke de Norhas sat slumped forward in a chair, his head and the upper half of his body resting on scattered maps and battle plans covering the surface of a wide wooden desk.

His throat had been slashed and a dagger lay between his head and his limp hand. His face was turned to one side and his empty eyes stared at the spray of his lifeblood across the canvas wall.

“So, he chose death over dishonor,” Ilhan said, hugging me from behind.

“He probably couldn’t stand the thought of being arrested and publicly executed,” commented Gwydion.

“A coward’s way out, if you ask me,” Tama added with contempt.

Boreas landed next to the ruined tent. Whinnying in terror, the frantic stallion reared again, uprooting the stake.

He galloped away, trailing rope and wood behind him.

Still feeling shaky from the duke’s earlier attack, I let Ilhan and Gwydion help me down from Boreas’ saddle. They supported me as I wobbled over to the duke’s corpse.

I stood beside the duke’s body, a complex mix of emotions churning through me.

Relief, that the man responsible for so much death and suffering was gone forever. Sorrow, for the all lives lost in his quest for power. And a profound rage at all the harm he’d inflicted on the people I loved.

“I’m just glad it’s finally over,” I whispered, reaching out to close the duke’s eyes.

His skin was still warm to the touch, but his aura had faded to the faintest of glows as his body completed the slow process of dying.

“What happens next?” asked Tama.

I straightened. “We go tell Mama and King Menelaus the news.”

“The remaining rebel commanders will surrender once they hear,” Ilhan said, “and then we can aid the wounded.”

∞∞∞

That night, the imperial legionary headquarters on the city’s outskirts glowed with light and buzzed with activity as the imperial army’s generals celebrated our victory with a banquet.

Music blasted from trumpets, fiddle, and accordion, nearly drowning out conversations in the huge dining hall.

The long trestle tables were laden with platters of baked root vegetables, tureens of pumpkin soup, pyramids of spit-roasted chickens, baskets of bread rolls, and roasted joints of beef and mutton interspersed with raw versions of the same.

Rows of steaming pitchers sat on every table, filling the air with the scents of hot wine mulled with orange peel, cloves, and cinnamon.

Mama and Menelaus were seated at the head table on the dais, along with General Clovis and his commanders, and hailed as the heroes of the day.

Still feeling weak from the aftereffects of the duke’s curse, I took my seat at the table just below the dais. My soul-bonded mates settled in beside me.

Ilhan’s hand found mine under the table, and Gwydion slung his arm around my shoulders.

Tama, seated across from us, serenely devoured a plate of freshly caught trout as Boreas, back in human form, feasted on bloody slices of raw beef piled on a platter.

All around us, the other Wind-Walkers, now shape-changed into a crowd of boisterous young men, crowded the long tables, elbow to elbow with human military officers and nobles.

I eavesdropped on a dozen different tales of how the Duke de Norhas met his end. Most of the stories sounded much more exciting than the ignominious truth.

As the feast progressed, I observed Mama and King Menelaus. They sat close together, their heads bent in conversation. The attraction and affection between them was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. It was a bittersweet sight, a reminder of the years they had lost and the secrets that had kept them apart.

A lavish dessert course of fresh fruit, puddings and pastries, accompanied by molded almond-paste Wind-Walkers, had just been served when the music abruptly fell silent.

A man clad in deep blue livery with the imperial golden eagle embroidered on his breast strode into the dining hall and approached the head table.

Raising his voice over the clamor of conversation, he shouted, “By order of Her Imperial Highness Domina-Regent Jacinthe and the imperial council, the supposed Princess-Royal Jonquil and her companion, one Apprentice Jacinthe of Bernswick, who dares calls herself Princess Jacinthe, are summoned to present themselves at the imperial court at noon tomorrow. Their claims will be examined, and the truth of their identities determined.”

The messenger paused, his eyes fixing on Mama with a stern intensity. “Be warned, those found to impersonate an imperial official or member of the imperial family face severe penalties under the law.”

I felt a chill run down my spine at his words, my stomach twisting with sudden nerves.

Mama nodded serenely and replied in cool tones, “We shall attend Her Imperial Highness as summoned.”

Next to her, King Menelaus’ expression was thunderous, his eyes flashing with barely contained anger.

“King Menelaus and Fernan de Norhas, the new Duke de Norhas, are also invited to attend Her Imperial Highness at noon tomorrow.”

The messenger turned on his heel and departed, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. I could feel the eyes of the entire hall upon us, the weight of their curiosity and speculation pressing down like a physical force.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing.

Tomorrow, we would face the domina-regent and the imperial council.

And they’d just made it clear that they believed us imposters.