Wizard's Masquerade, page 36
“It’s fine,” soothed Grace. “Just give me some space. I have no idea how he managed to get himself stuck down there…”
It must have only taken a minute, but she was beside herself with worry by the time Grace managed to lift the small creature out from between the boulders and place him in Leyna’s hands. His round, furry body was shivering, and he squealed every time she moved him.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, cradling the tiny animal. How could she have forgotten about him? And how on earth had he managed to stay on during the ride through the woods?
Leyna stood and found herself face-to-face with Fry.
She froze.
Professor Fry. The Wizarding Guild’s healing teacher.
“What are you doing?” the woman asked.
Leyna did what she had to, and she did it without hesitation. Swallowing her pride, she held out Floofy to the blonde woman.
“He’s hurt,” she choked. “Please, can you heal him? Please.”
Fry’s fine eyebrows drew together, and she looked down her nose at the fluffy creature. “Oh, sweetheart. I’d love nothing more than to help…but I don’t do animals…or vermin.”
Leyna’s stomach dropped, and she hugged Floofy close.
“What a horrible thing to say!” said Grace, and Leyna could tell she was only seconds away from striking the woman.
“We have a prisoner to escort back—this is hardly a priority,” Fry said, brushing past them. The contact had been purposeful, and it made her skin crawl.
“Oh, and another thing,” said Fry, halting in her tracks, “while we’re at it, we can charge Quinn with leading the prince into an ambush of demons! Hasn’t this been a productive morning? And I’m not even in the Arrest Unit! Not to worry, sweetie, you can thank me later.”
Chapter twenty-five
Guilty
Leyna sat on a padded chaise beside the Foyer stairs with Cornelius. She barely registered the people moving past them into the Great Hall. They were drawn by the news of Quinn’s return from the dead, and the atmosphere simmered with anticipation.
Contrary to what Fry had said about locking Quinn in the dungeon, the unit took him to the Great Hall for a preliminary hearing.
Distressed by the limp animal in her arms, Leyna had been relieved to see Cornelius in the Foyer. Detaching from the unit, she’d boldly walked up to him and begged him to help her. Cornelius owed her nothing, not after everything he had done for her—but this was too important, and she had to ask. She had to make him listen. Floofy’s companionship, she suddenly realised, was something she could not bear to live without. The funny little creature had brought her joy in the recent dark days, always yipping in delight to see her, loving her without condition.
Cornelius did not need to be persuaded—he took one look at Floofy and ushered Leyna aside to sit by the stairs.
Meanwhile, Grace had gone ahead into the hall with the unit.
“I’ll be there soon,” Leyna promised her, returning her attention to Floofy.
“What happened?” Cornelius asked.
She began to describe the chase through the woods, but he interrupted her.
“I’m eager to hear the details, but my curiosity can keep. Just tell me, what happened to the creature?”
Leyna’s mouth dropped in surprise, but she quickly recovered and summed up how Floofy had gotten trapped in the rocks during the battle with the demons.
“Hmm.” Cornelius probed Floofy’s body with a tendril of blue magic, turning his body this way and that.
Leyna had never wished to be competent in healing spells more than she did in that moment. By the time they’d reached the Foyer, Floofy had grown unresponsive, and the only signs of life were his laboured breathing and quiet whimpers.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, unable to contain herself.
“His foot is swollen, but it’s not broken. It appears he twisted it.”
“What about the blood?”
Cornelius surprised her by seizing her arm and turning it.
“It’s your blood,” he said, nodding at the gash on her forearm. It was raw but clotted, and now that she was aware of it, felt sore. The rest of the skin was crosshatched with scratches where branches had whipped at her during the ride.
Leyna nodded in relief. “Fine. What about Floofy? Will he be alright?”
Cornelius arched his eyebrows. “Floofy?”
“Yes, that’s his name,” she said impatiently. “What’s wrong with him? Is he unconscious?”
The wizard shook his head. “No, just in shock. I can heal his foot, but he’ll need rest. I can give him something to help him sleep later. What do you think?”
Leyna nodded eagerly. “Yes, sounds good. Is…is it a sleeping draught? Is it like what you gave me at the Wizarding Guild when you were looking after me?”
She waited for his reaction to her hint, a reminder of the connection they had shared. Perhaps it had all been in her head, and the relationship had strictly been professional, but she couldn’t help but bring it up.
Cornelius did not so much as glance at her as he said, “Yes, the very same. Now, please allow me to concentrate.”
Blue light swirled around Floofy’s body as Cornelius worked the healing spell. The light was almost blinding, but she couldn’t look away for even a moment as the magic settled on Floofy’s foot before melting like honey. Finally, it faded.
“All better,” smiled Cornelius, handing Floofy back to her. “Your arm?” he offered.
“It’ll be alright,” she said, unsure why she refused, except perhaps out of habit. But he took her arm again gently.
“Are you sure?” He leant closer to examine it, and a pleasant flutter spurred to life in her tummy. A faint scent reached her nostrils—it was spicy, and tantalising. She half-closed her eyes, fighting the urge to lean in and smell his hair.
“Huskarl Leyna?” he prompted, his voice soft and low in a way that left her lightheaded.
“Yes?”
His eyes met hers. He was still leaning in, his face close as he held her arm. “I asked, are you sure?”
“Um, yes, it’ll be alright,” she said quickly, drawing her arm back and pulling her sleeve back down. “I’ll wash it when I get upstairs. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Cornelius stood without warning and walked away.
“Lord Brighton, wait!” she called after him. “What about the sleeping draught?”
“I’ll make sure you have it soon. Will you be in your chambers this afternoon?”
“Yes,” she said breathlessly.
“Excellent. Now, everyone is in the Great Hall. Shall we?”
“Yes,” she said again, but was left feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and disappointment as the wizard crossed the Foyer and entered the Great Hall without once looking back at her.
Kissing Floofy’s fur, she kept him cradled in the crook of her arm as she took her place near the dais beside Grace.
The lord regent, Steward Marek, the prince, and the entire Royal Council had gathered, as had most of the court.
The accusation that Lord Quinn Volak, son of the lord regent of Rosaria, was one of the traitors involved in the Court Massacre, was grave indeed. Had Leyna not heard it confirmed by Quinn himself, she would not have believed it.
Quinn had grown up in the castle with her, and she’d spent seven years studying and training alongside him at the Wizarding Guild, but to this day, she still hadn’t figured him out. There had been many misunderstandings between them, and while they shared the blame for that, he had almost certainly lied to her on at least one occasion. First, about why he had left the Guild early to travel to the castle, and second, about the Renegade Spells, which he had always claimed were an accident. Quinn had never been her favourite person, and his odd, contradictory behaviour was confusing, but the fact that Grace loved him, and believed in him, said a lot in his favour. All things aside, her gut feeling was that Quinn was not a murderer.
Especially not after she’d seen a different side of him on the night of the king’s farewell feast. Behind his brusque, reserved temperament, Quinn had been vulnerable, like someone in need of protecting. It made sense why Grace—with her encouraging nature and easy acceptance of others—and Quinn—with his quiet level-headedness—were a good match. They brought out the best in each other.
This made it all the more difficult to see the couple separated as Quinn was questioned in the Great Hall.
After giving his son a stiff hug, Steward Marek returned to the throne, where he sat in near-silence as the Royal Council debated Quinn’s fate.
Restrained by guards, Quinn stood alone, and when he did not deny his part in attacking the Baxton Estate, Leyna squeezed Grace’s hand as jeers resounded in the hall.
Steward Marek looked dejected but unsurprised to hear the charges of treason and murder laid against his son, and when Quinn did not deny them, he looked troubled but said nothing.
“One more thing, Your Grace,” said Professor Fry, striding forward and bowing to the High Table. She wasted no time in sharing her theory—which she presented as fact—that Quinn had led the prince into an ambush. When she described the battle that had taken place against the demons, panic rippled through the hall at the report of the creatures so close to the castle.
“The traitors are coming!” someone cried.
Steward Marek rose to his feet. “There is no need to panic,” he said sternly, and with the Council’s help, he was able to calm the gathered audience.
When the room finally settled, Leyna stepped forward before Fry could speak again. “I don’t think Quinn was leading us into an ambush,” she said loudly. Every set of eyes turned to her, and she cleared her throat nervously. Even Lord Brighton was staring at her in surprise, and she lifted her chin as she continued, “Quinn had no way of knowing we would follow—the prince could just as easily not have followed him. I think he was just trying to run away.”
Her words sounded weak, and she was met by silence. Fry was the first to speak.
“Then how do you explain that the Crown Prince was lured straight into the midst of demons?” She turned in one spot, addressing the entire room. “I mean—” she gave a forced, high-pitched laugh, “I understand that he’s your friend and colleague, Huskarl Leyna, but really, how can you make excuses for him? The prince could have died. Because of him, two of our bravest castle guards are dead.”
The room erupted into conversation.
“Huskarl Quinn, what say you?” Chamberlain Percy asked, struggling to make himself heard over the babble. He fidgeted as he peered down at Quinn. “Did you mean to lure the prince into an ambush? Surely, there’s another explanation?”
“I don’t deny it,” said Quinn, and a flurry of gasps rushed through the room.
“No, Quinn,” moaned Grace in an undertone, half-leaning on Leyna and squeezing her hands tight enough that it hurt.
“Are you sure?” Percy tried again. “Come now, Huskarl Quinn, there’s no need to take the blame for something you didn’t do.”
Quinn lifted his chin. “I did do it.”
Seth piped up. “It’s not true. I could tell he didn’t want me to follow him.”
The crowd’s murmur drowned the prince out.
“This is not the time nor the place,” said Steward Marek, raising his voice, “But the charges will stand, and we will consider the evidence at a formal trial.”
“And where shall we take him?” called Fry, her tone bordering on insubordination. “His fine chambers? Or perhaps, one of the guest suites overlooking the gardens?”
Leyna’s fists clenched as she realised what Fry was doing. Traditionally, exceptions were often made for accused members of the upper class to await trial in the comfort of their rooms. In a situation such as Quinn’s, house arrest would have been the norm, but the quiet outrage rippling through the crowd showed Fry’s statement had aroused resentment towards both Quinn and his father.
Steward Marek’s face darkened. “There will be no favouritism,” he announced. His gaze lingered on his son. “You are to take him to the dungeons to await trial. No visitation but direct family members. The number of guards permitted to access the dungeon will be restricted. That will be all; this hearing is adjourned.”
He turned away and spent several minutes talking to the captain in an undertone. Sitting at the High Table, Percy leant forward, visibly trying to listen in, his expression growing more concerned as he twisted a napkin in his hands.
The captain escorted Quinn from the Great Hall. His father did not watch as he was led away, nor did he seem to notice the crowd’s displeasure. Meanwhile, the room was alive with chatter.
She spotted Cornelius in the crowd. He was watching her—or perhaps their eyes had only met accidentally, because in the next instant, he wasn’t looking at her at all.
Grace was kneeling on the floor, sobbing. Exhausted after the chase through the woods and the battle that had taken place, Leyna sank down to the tiled floor beside her and drew her close.
“Leyna, I don’t understand what’s happening,” cried Grace, leaning her head against her shoulder.
“Neither do I,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
A few hours after the hearing, Leyna sat on her bed, resting with her legs stretched out as she waited for Cornelius to arrive. Floofy was asleep beside her, and while there was no longer any need for the sleeping draught, she waited with anticipation for the wizard to arrive. This was partly because her left leg had begun to radiate pain from when Budsworth jumped the log. She hoped it was only a pulled muscle, but sharp spasms of pain were shooting up her calf, and she was concerned enough that she wanted Cornelius to have a look at it.
This didn’t explain the giddiness she felt as she waited for him, nor the eager way she swung her legs off the bed and rushed to the door when the knock finally came.
If she’d thought Cornelius would deliver the draught in person, she was mistaken. Opening the door, she was disappointed to see a messenger boy holding a small vial of what looked like honey. There was no note, only a verbal message with instructions on dosage.
In the days that followed, the Royal Council revealed few details about Quinn’s involvement in the Court Massacre, with no mention of whether he truly had attacked the queen, and it left the rest of the castle’s inhabitants to read between the lines.
The gossipmongers of the court were, as always, quick to fill in the details:
“I heard he’s a werewolf,” whispered a young noblewoman, who was standing near Grace and Leyna in a fine cream gown, surrounded by other ladies. “When the moon is full, he turns into a horrible beast! He’s a danger to us all.”
Leyna repressed a snort. There was no such thing as a werewolf. It wasn’t even a full moon when the Massacre had occurred.
Quinn was a morpher, and was one of only three students in her cohort who had committed to the advanced subject. His inherited natural talent and family predisposition to the wolf form had given him an edge, but it would have been for naught if he hadn’t dedicated five years to mastering the skill. She had desperately wanted to become a morpher herself—until she’d realised that learning to transform into an animal would mean limiting herself to just three subjects after third year, and she’d already had trouble choosing only six. Although Quinn had covered the fundamentals at the start of his tuition, he had dropped all his subjects after third year except for magical combat, magical defence, and morphing.
But no one would be interested in hearing about the Guild’s curriculum—a werewolf made for more palatable gossip. She forced herself to continue walking but the women’s voices followed her.
“Well, I heard he killed the queen!”
“No!”
“Yes! I heard Quinn dragged her off by the hair, then went straight for her neck with his teeth.
“Oh my! It’s a good thing he’s locked up.”
Leyna’s temper sparked, and she strode towards the huddled circle menacingly. When the gaggle of women spotted the white lightning crackling at her fingertips, they immediately scattered. Her show of magic had been unintentional—a sign of the frustration that boiled beneath the surface.
Steward Marek faced significant public backlash after the arrest of his son, with some blaming the steward himself for the attack. Whispered rumours circulated he had orchestrated the Court Massacre in order to usurp the king.
“The taste of power went straight to our dear regent’s head,” said a nobleman with a melodramatic sigh, cooling himself in the gardens with a lacy fan that was as white and elaborate as his wig. “First, Marek sent his son to assassinate the king and queen, and now, he’s using him as a scapegoat for his own crimes!”
Leyna squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the surrounding noise. She longed for a quiet moment, but the fine weather had attracted other nobles to the gardens, disrupting the solitude she’d hoped to find there. She crossed her arms and nestled closer against her favourite tree, where she had a perfect view of the fountains. The sun was warm against her skin and a bee buzzed in the flowering tree above.
“And indeed,” continued the nobleman, his voice carrying over the low hedges, “it is simply shocking that the steward would repay our beloved King Rutherford—may his soul rest in peace—with such villainy. Alas, what can you expect from a Kormendian? They are not a reasonable people. I always said King Rutherford was generous to allow him a seat on the council, let alone the stewardship. And look at him now, the lord regent! That’s the trouble with Kormendians: give an inch, they’ll take a mile.”
Something in Leyna snapped. She vaulted the low hedge and confronted the group of gossipers, jabbing a finger at the nobleman with the white wig. “Watch yourself, my lord.”
The other aristocrats scrambled back several steps, clearly worried at being caught criticising the kingdom’s ruler, but the nobleman merely regarded her with polite surprise, a lacy hand on his hip as he looked down his nose at her. “Why, Huskarl Leyna…do feel free to insert yourself into the conversation.”
