Page 2 of The Deathless One (The Gravesinger #1)
Her mother’s eyes saw straight through her, and Jessamine’s heart ached, knowing the lie now stood between them. But one of them had to do something. And her mother had already tried and failed to fix this problem.
This was their last and only choice.
The queen nodded and held out her arm for Jessamine to take. Together, they descended through the darkness and stepped out into the brilliant sunlight illuminating the courtyard, where a crowd awaited.
Leon Bishop had brought a small entourage.
A few dukes and duchesses all wore the customary black garb of his kingdom.
All the others—guards, maids, and footmen—were in dark shades as well, though they stood out with their pressed white collars.
They looked like guests at her funeral, and she’d never hated the color black more.
Her people intermingled with his, wearing navy and other shades of blue. Most of them were nobility, hoping to get a good word in before the merger of the kingdoms. All were running like rats from a sinking ship toward what they hoped might save them.
The image of them all wavered in front of her as her gaze turned inward. Her vision blurred and the crowd became a bruise that spread throughout her kingdom, smudges of black and blue, just like the ones hidden underneath the sleeves of her wedding dress.
Leon waited at the altar, all handsome golden man dripping in rich colors.
In contrast to the shadowy shades he made his courtiers wear, he was clad in a pale cream suit edged in golden threads, the picture of conquering wealth, framed by the sea behind him.
The entrance gates were now closed, the seal of her family crest ensuring they were locked—their giant raven spread its wings over the entire doorway.
The courtyard became a balcony that extended out over the water, the only part of the castle without walls.
A sheer cliff dropped down to the channel that led into the city.
She ignored everyone around her and instead stared out at her kingdom.
Her home towered over the sea, and everything spread out from there.
The Water District was tucked against the coastline, with its tall, five-story homes packed tightly against each other.
All the city’s water was first pumped through the sewers and then into the manufacturing plants for filtering.
The Factory District lay to its left, belching out pillars of smoke.
The Merchant District that spread thin beside the border so tradesmen didn’t have to travel deep into Inverholm.
Both the Pleasure District and the homes of the nobility were tucked up against the massive stairwell that led to the castle gates.
Leon had supplied his own priest, of course, and that left her mother to walk with her all the way to the front of the crowd. The onlookers took their seats as the priest intoned some nonsense about matrimony and gods.
She heard a whisper from the book of witchcraft. No god would bless their union. They’d all died years ago, and the echoing cries of her people in mourning trailed like ghosts through her mind.
Leon grabbed her hands in his, icy fingers lacing through her own.
When he squeezed, she looked into his eyes and wondered if she’d ever find him handsome.
Oh, he was fine enough. Everyone said so when the nobles from Orenda visited, which they did every year for the harvest festival.
Golden locks often flopped in front of his eyes, and she’d seen many noblewomen brush that lovely hair back for him.
His blue eyes were so pale they were nearly white in some lights.
Angular features, broad shoulders: he was a handsome man by every regard.
She just didn’t want him. Never had. Not when they were younger, and certainly not now.
They’d known each other since they were children, and she’d always seen the cruel edge to him.
And now, after they’d sacrificed her to him, she could see it even more clearly.
He’d arrived two nights ago with the rest of the Orenda guards.
It had taken only a few hours for her to see that harsh nature again.
“Are you excited?” he asked quietly, his voice barely audible over the priest’s droning.
Jessamine had no idea how to respond. No, she wasn’t excited.
She loathed the idea of getting into bed with him tonight, especially considering that she knew what he would expect.
Kissing. Touching. Lingering underneath the covers, where so few men had ever touched her, and she didn’t really want them to.
Men were too… boring. She found far more excitement in researching witchcraft than in clumsy kisses and fumbling hands.
“I am,” she replied. Her voice was a breathy whisper. A lovely sound that only a princess could make. She’d spent her entire life developing that exact sound.
“And you’ve given up all that… nonsense?” He stared at her a little too hard.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His fingers squeezed hers almost to the point of pain. “I have friends in high places, remember? A little rumor reached my ears that you’ve been dabbling in magic.”
“Magic? I’m researching ways to stop the plague.” Jessamine wanted to rip her hands from his, but she didn’t want to spark gossip in the crowd.
But who did he think he was? She was the crown princess of Inverholm! If she wanted to resort to witchcraft or black magic, then she would. If that was what it took to save her people…
A commotion erupted at the front gates. Loud voices, shouting, angry words thrown about too readily for a day of celebration. What was going on?
Leon’s gaze only flicked in that direction before he squeezed even harder. The bones in her fingers flared white-hot with pain, and she let out a little gasp before she clenched her teeth to silence it.
“Jessamine,” he hissed. “Are you still researching black magic?”
She could lie. She could tell him that she’d been a good little princess who would never touch a grimoire or spell book. Not in her life. Never.
But he planned to move into the castle, and he’d eventually find her workroom.
He’d see all the glass jars full of specimens and items that no princess should touch.
Bloody hearts. Black ooze. Scrapings from the infected and even a few fingers from the dead.
All items used in dark magic. Not that she’d tried the spells herself, but she was researching.
Just in case. What if it helped?
What if no one else saw the answer, but she did? Her advisors were too afraid of what the covens might still do. They never tried to talk with the witches. They refused to do anything other than sit in their stupid prejudices and refuse to even consider other views.
So she straightened her shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes. “I am.”
The front gates burst open. People surged through them, angry and rioting and… oh.
Oh no.
They were infected. Twenty men and women, their eyes swollen in their sockets, black pustules dotting down their exposed arms and up their necks.
Even from this distance, she could see that the boils had broken open on many of them.
They would infect anyone they touched, or whoever got near enough for that fluid to spread.
At this stage, they moved in packs. Sticking together with other infected, sometimes quite literally, as they wandered through the streets of her kingdom.
Guards raced in after them, muskets at the ready and pikes held out to keep the infected at bay.
“Kill them all!” Leon shouted, and he half turned toward the intruders.
“Corral them as usual!” she shouted, turning already and lifting her skirts to run into the brawl. They had been herding the infected into groups and keeping them separate from others, just in case there was still a chance to save them. “Those are my people, Leon. You do not get to make that call.”
“Oh, but I do.” He reached for her, grabbing her arm and yanking her back. The bruises there, the ones he’d placed in the same way a few nights ago, screamed again. “Come here, princess.”
“Let go of me!”
She struggled, but he wouldn’t let her go.
He hauled her to the front of the altar, shaking her hard enough to knock the tiara from the top of her head.
It clanked against the ground, rolling down the steps and onto the stones as he shouted, “The princess admits to practicing dark magic! We all know the truth—the witches spread this plague! And your would-be queen sympathizes with these people who try to kill your loved ones. For the sake of both our kingdoms, I lay claim to this castle and to the people of Inverholm, without the guidance of the Harmsworth family.”
The nobles in front of her froze. Her mother stared at her, wide eyes filled with fear. And Jessamine realized this was so much worse than she had ever dreamed.
This wasn’t marrying a man for her people.
It was fighting for her life as he threw her to her knees on the altar.
It all happened so fast. His guards moved closer, swords raised, muskets held high, the sunlight gleaming off the edges of metal pointed at the nobility.
She couldn’t hear over the sound of thunder, but then realized it was her own heartbeat in her ears.
His people had let the infected in. A distraction so they could line up behind her people, preparing to take the lives of all those she loved so dearly.
Already the infected were dead, killed by Leon’s men, but so were most of her family’s guards.
Bodies littered the ground, their blood a shocking red against the pristine green-and-white marble cobblestones.
One of Leon’s men stepped forward, the black of his uniform so dark it looked like ink. He beat a hand against his chest and shouted, “Long live the king!”
Others echoed the words, and Leon stood above her like a conqueror, as though he’d done this single-handedly when she knew he wasn’t intelligent enough to do it on his own.
Someone else was behind this. The thought burned so clearly through her heart it was like a brand, a premonition of truth that seared her very soul.
A few of her own nobles repeated the words, their eyes downcast, refusing to even look at her. Those who didn’t echo the phrase were the first to fall.
Her mouth hung open as the sharp points of swords and blades atop muskets dug into flesh. They pierced through lace and velvet and silk, erupting from chests and bellies. Glistening bright red.
She couldn’t hear their cries or their pleas. She couldn’t hear anything but the insistent beat of her heart telling her, Jessamine, get up. Get up. Do not let them die while staring at you on your knees.
Breath shuddering in her lungs, she forced herself to stand. The fancy lace at the bottom of her gown ripped, tearing a hole all the way to her knee. The tattered white edge hung like a funeral shroud as she met her mother’s gaze.
Her beautiful mother. Her darling, fearless, tenacious mother who had ruled this kingdom alone for twenty-two years after her father’s death.
Jessamine had never known him, but she hadn’t had to.
Her mother had been enough. Now a sneering, black-clad swordsman grabbed her, his blade clutched in his other hand.
“Thank you,” Leon said, stepping up behind Jessamine and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
He held her back tight to his chest, his arm a prison that forced her to freeze as the guard wrestled her mother to standing.
“Your kingdom will be the perfect way to save mine. Your nightmarish plague is spilling into other kingdoms, you see. So I will throw everyone who is infected here, and you can kill each other for all I care. This place will become a dumping ground for the dead and the dying.”
“This is my home,” Jessamine replied, her voice thick. “You cannot take it from me.”
He inhaled deeply in her ear, and then sighed long and slow. “Oh, princess. I already have.”
One of the guards slid his blade across her mother’s throat.
A gush of bright red erupted from the wound, spilling out and sinking into the deep blue sea of her dress.
The hard set of her mother’s eyes never changed.
Her jaw clenched, her fingers fisted the fabric of her skirts, but she barely reacted.
Through it all, the queen of Inverholm never flinched.
She greeted death as an old friend and died with grace and beauty.
Any of the old guard, the still-living noblemen and noblewomen who had renounced them, would remember the moment when their queen had died for no reason. Their eyes turned as one to Jessamine.
She held herself stiffly, refusing to look afraid or even feel an ounce of that fear. Leon still held her, his arm around her shoulders, the prison he created with his body still strong.
“Should I let the infected have you?” he asked, his voice rumbling behind her. “Should I feed you to our mutual problem?”
She trembled in his arms but did not reply.
Leon tsked. “No, I think I’d best fix this permanently, rather than have you wandering around. After all, if I’m going to sit on the throne, I cannot have anyone threatening my claim.”
The cold press of a blade against her throat should have frightened her. But she accepted her death with the glint of steel in her own gaze as she memorized every face of every traitor who had touched one of her people.
“Goodbye, Lady Jessamine,” Leon murmured in her ear. He wrenched the knife across her throat, sending a kaleidoscope of pain through her entire body. And with a twist of his arms, he sent her tumbling over the edge of the cliff and into the sea.