Ask him anything.
When I said nothing, she patted my knee in encouragement. “Go on. You have questions, don’t you? You’d be a fool if you didn’t. Now is your chance. You won’t get another. Though I’ll honor your request not to kill him, others won’t. He’ll be the first to burn when we reclaim Belterra.”
Her smile finished what her words did not. But you’ll already be dead.
Slowly, I turned to look at him.
We’d never sat this close. I’d never before seen the green flecks in his eyes, the nearly indiscernible freckles on his nose. My eyes. My freckles. Hundreds of questions flooded my thoughts. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you kill me? How could you have done those terrible things—how could you have murdered innocent children? Mothers and sisters and daughters? But I already knew the answers to those questions, and another rose to my lips instead, unbidden.
“Do you hate me?”
Morgane cackled, clasping her hands together in delight. “Oh, Louise! You aren’t ready to hear the answer to that question, darling. But hear it you shall.” She jabbed her finger into the cut on the Archbishop’s cheek. He cringed away. “Answer her.”
Close enough to watch each emotion flit across his face, I waited for him to speak. I told myself I didn’t care either way, and perhaps I didn’t—for the war raging behind his eyes was also my own. I hated him. I needed him to atone for his heinous crimes—for his hatred, for his evil—yet a small, innate part of me couldn’t wish him harm.
His mouth began to move, but no sound came out. I leaned closer against my better judgment, and his voice rose to a whisper, the cadence of his voice changing as if he was reciting something. A verse. My heart sank.
“‘When thou art come into the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee,’” he breathed, “‘thou shalt not learn to do after the abominations of those nations. There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a . . . or a witch.’”
His eyes rose to mine, shame and regret burning bright behind them. “‘For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord, and because of these abominations, the Lord thy God doth drive them out before thee.’”
A lump lodged in my throat. I swallowed it down, vaguely aware of Morgane cackling again.
Of course I do not love you, Louise. You are the daughter of my enemy. You were conceived for a higher purpose, and I will not poison that purpose with love.
Abomination. The Lord thy God doth drive you out before me.
You are not my wife.
“‘But,’” the Archbishop continued, his voice hardening with resolve, “‘if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.’”
A tear escaped down my cheek. Upon seeing it, Morgane laughed louder. “How touching. It seems the whole lot of them are infidels, doesn’t it, Louise? First your husband, now your father. Neither have provided you anything but heartache. Where is this tolerance of which you spoke?”
She paused, clearly waiting for one of us to respond. When we didn’t, she rose to her feet, smile slipping in disappointment. “I’m surprised at you, Louise. I expected more of a fight.”
“I will not beg for his affection, nor his life.”
She scoffed. “Not his—I meant your precious huntsman’s.”
I frowned at her. Something vaguely urgent knocked at the back of my skull. Something I was missing. Some crucial bit of information I couldn’t quite remember. “I . . . I didn’t expect him to come after me, if that’s what you mean.”
Her eyes gleamed wickedly. “It’s not.”
The vague something knocked harder, insistent. “Then what—？”
The blood drained from my face. Reid.
Morgane’s forgotten words drifted back to me through the heavy fog of my mind. Amidst my heartache—amidst my rage and hopelessness and despair—I hadn’t stopped to consider their meaning.
The Lyons will rue the day they stole this land. Their people will writhe and thrash on the stake, and the king and his children will choke on your blood. Your husband will choke on your blood.
But that meant—
“I know I promised you the chance to light his pyre.” Morgane’s croon scattered the thread of my thoughts. “But I’m afraid you won’t get the chance, after all. The king’s blood runs in your huntsman’s veins.”