#so that's been my life for the last week. bc my classroom is enormous and there are a million cabinets

[reneesbooks]

The Knight of Lacuna Lake - Part 6

summary: Proteus takes charge as the new king of Raedora. tw for blood gore and violence

in the previous part: Rosaleen and Birdie are murdered by Levi, who flees, and Keelan is arrested for failing in his duty to protect Birdie. he is thrown into the Black Cell, but is comforted by a golden light sent by Maura.

intro post, part one, part two, part three, part four, part five

decided to throw the entire 10k word chapter at y'all and run.

taglist (ask to be added <3): @serenanymph @lyssa-ink @oh-no-another-idea @lena-rambles @ashen-crest @tragicbackstoryenjoyer @serpentarii @allianaavelinjackson @laurenisnot

Keelan isn't sure how long it's been when the golden light flickers and fizzles out. He hopes that it means that Maura is asleep, safe somewhere and able to rest. He tries to curl up on the floor in the inky blackness, but sleep won't come. He sees the blood on Birdie's floor, hanks of silver hair that Maura loved to braid into complex patterns stained horribly red. He tries to push the memory away but it refuses to leave, hovering in the darkness in front of him no matter how hard he squeezes his eyes shut.

He screams until his throat is raw, slamming his fists into the wall as Levi's face rises out of the blackness, his eyes the moment before he disappeared, the last time he saw him before he murdered Birdie. His hand on Keelan's shoulder, telling him encouragingly that he's been improving in his reading every day. Blue lightning at his fingers, anger in his eyes.

The golden light flickers weakly to life in front of Keelan's eyes, chasing away the vision of Levi. He sobs weakly, reaching out to grab hold of it. He tastes sweet peas and sunshine when his fingers touch it. He holds onto it, needing the comfort, the protection from the waves of crushing guilt and grief. Needing it to chase away the visions of Birdie's blood on the bedroom floor, just another life he couldn't save.

The light doesn't last long, or it doesn't feel long to Keelan—either way, he is drowning again in the darkness of the Black Cell, Birdie's laughter ringing in his ears. His arms ache with the weight of her, the familiar warmth of her falling asleep in his arms as he carries her to bed. That familiar warmth as he tucked her in only hours before she was dragged from that bed and slaughtered, sheared like the little lamb she had been.

His knuckles are wet with blood and his throat is dry from dehydration. There is a scrape of metal and a tray hits his ankles. He drops to his knees, fumbling blindly for whatever had been pushed into his cell. He finds a dry crust of bread barely bigger than his palm and a tin cup of water that has already spilled all over the tray. The bread scrapes his dry throat on the way down, but the remaining water in the cup soothes it. He pushes the tray back up against the door and a hand reaches through a hole in the door, the barest hint of light spilling through as the guard grabs the tray and quickly retreats.

He paces until his feet are wet with blood too, imagining that he can see Birdie running in front of him, laughing as he chases her. He tries to speak to her, beg her to forgive him, to grab hold of her and keep her from running straight into her fate, but she is always just out of reach. He always comes up empty-handed.

The golden light returns and he holds it against his chest and sobs. As it starts to fade again, he begs Maura to stay, even as he knows it is only fading as her energy does. He hates himself for being so selfish, and cries into the darkness when it inevitably returns.

It's an endless cycle, visions of Birdie and Levi and Maura and Rosaleen and blood, always blood, chasing him around the cell until the golden light chases them away. And the golden light's horrible, sputtering death each time, plunging him back into the darkness. He thinks he will die with the taste of sweet pea on his tongue, screaming alone in the endless shadows.

The captain of the royal guard is the one who opens the door and lets light spill into the cell for the last time. Maura's golden light hasn't been there for a while, so it takes Keelan's eyes a while to adjust. He's led, stumbling and barefoot, through the silent criminals watching from behind their cell bars. He hears one murmur a prayer and almost laughs.

There is already a small crowd forming outside the gates, near the newly-repaired platform. There is a new addition, a tall wooden post with a metal ring set into it seven feet up. Keelan sees one of the soldiers from the dungeons cleaning off a long willow switch and nearly stumbles. They'd called the willows near Leyne weeping willows, since the criminals whipped with their branches always wept by the third hit.

Fifty lashes with a willow switch. He really is going to wish he was dead.

The king is sitting under a canopy erected near the platform. Maura is nowhere to be seen, to Keelan's relief. He doesn't want her to see this. Not after everything else.

A scribe is reading out the charges—for his failure to protect the young princess and for letting the murderer escape, he is to receive fifty lashes. It is only by the mercy of the crown princess that he is not killed outright as a traitor to the throne.

They attach his shackles to the ring on the post and tear away the back of his shirt. He meets the king's eyes. They are cold.

“Begin whenever you are ready,” Proteus says to the soldier with the switch.

“Keys,” Maura's voice whispers. He blinks and she is standing in front of him, her dressing gown pulled tight around her waist. Her face is streaked with tears and there are dark circles under her eyes. “Say nothing. The glamour is hard to keep up.”

Despair claws at his heart. He presses his lips together and stares over her shoulder. The crowd is cheering, calling for the beating to begin. She reaches out, brushing his cheek with her fingers.

“I don't know how long I can keep the shroud up,” she says, her voice choked with more tears. The soldier with the switch jumps up onto the platform. “But I won't let you do this alone.”

Keelan nearly bites his tongue when the first lash lands. Fresh tears leak down Maura's face. She cups his in her hands. The second lash hits and he whimpers her name, trying to hold himself together.

“I'm here,” she says.

The lashes are coming faster now, “You shouldn't…” he murmurs, quiet enough that only she will be able to hear him. The crowd is shouting, some cheering for each strike. “Shouldn't have come.”

Tears track down her face, mirroring his as the seventh strike breaks the skin. “I won't leave you.”

She presses her forehead against his and he leans against the post, closing his eyes. “Don't…don't want you to see this.” His voice breaks as the pain grows worse and worse. He's lost count and blood is dripping down his back and onto the platform. “Please, Maura.”

She shakes her head, her form flickering. Out of the corner of his eye, Keelan sees Proteus half-rise from his seat, staring at the space where Maura stands. She scrunches her nose and the image of her steadies. Proteus lowers himself back into his chair. The circles under her eyes are getting deeper. “I won't. I can't leave you.”

Someone is shouting out how many lashes it's been. Keelan's knees buckle, his shoulders wrenching as they take his full weight. He has so many left. Maura is stroking his cheeks with her thumbs, crying silently. Seeing her pain is worse than any willow switch.

“I'm begging you,” he chokes out, meeting her silver eyes. “Please.” He shuts his eyes as the switch hits his back again. “I don't want you to see this.”

She sobs once, the sound drowned out by the crowd's jeers. She leans forward to press her lips to Keelan's. “Come home to me, Keys,” she begs.

She's gone and Keelan's skin is splitting but at least she is no longer there to see it. He lets himself cry out, lets the tears pour down his face. As long as she isn't there to bear witness.

They are unshackling him, his shoulders screaming with pain as his arms are lowered from above his head.

“Chin up, boy,” the captain of the guard hisses in his ear. “If you fall, they'll leave you here.”

Keelan has to lean heavily on her, but he lifts his chin and meets the king's eyes. They are not nearly as cold, but he sees none of the man that he met in the chapel under the castle.

“Is His Majesty satisfied?” the captain calls out.

Proteus holds Keelan's gaze for a moment before looking away. “Yes. Take him away.”

“You're alright, lad,” the captain murmurs, leading Keelan down from the platform. There are shadows pushing in at the edges of his vision. “You only have to make it through the gates.”

Keelan wants to weep. The gates are miles away and he's lost so much blood that he can't feel his toes. He hold himself together with the thought of Maura's fingers on his cheeks. Her lips against his.

“That's it, lad, that's it,” the captain says as Keelan vomits in the bushes of the kitchen gardens. “You're almost there, I promise.”

They take him through the passage from the stables, likely to keep him out of sight. The dim corridor only reminds him of the Black Cell. He is relieved when they reach the barracks.

“Be gentle with him,” the captain says. The other soldiers help bandage his wounds and feed him a hearty beef stew before laying him down in his bunk.

“Thank you,” he manages to say. The captain pulls up a chair next to his bed, pushing her dreads out of her face.

“You took fifty lashes today. Most would have passed out from the pain. But not you. You're strong, Keelan. You'll be a good Queen's Knight.” She reaches out and pats his shoulder awkwardly. “Atta boy.” She clears her throat and stands suddenly. “Rest up. You'll be back to work in the morning.”

Keelan nods and turns his face into the pillow. He is asleep in minutes.

---

Maura's door flies open at eight thirty. Keelan doesn't have time to bow before she yanks him inside. He winces, the bandages on his back shifting.

“I'm sorry,” Maura says, running her hands over him anxiously. “Are you okay? They didn't hurt you anywhere else?”

“No,” Keelan says, recovering. He forces a smile. “Doesn't even hurt that bad.”

She doesn't laugh. “Liar. Take off your shirt.”

His whole face goes red and he very purposefully does not look at the four-poster bed against the wall. “Um. Why?”

She flicks her hand. His cloak and armor unfasten themselves and fall to the floor. “I've been studying healing magic all morning. Most of Levi's research disappeared after my mother's funeral, but I managed to sneak a few books away before he came back for them.” She helps him get his shirt off and he tries not to squirm as she appraises the wounds on his back.

“My father…” she says quietly. She touches the edge of one of the gashes. “I'm sorry he did this to you.”

“Birdie is dead because of me.” He shuts his eyes. “I deserved much worse.”

“No,” she insists. He feels warmth traveling across his back, following the trail of her fingertips. The pain fades in its wake and he tastes the faintest hint of sweet pea. “He forgets that this isn't Guildi. You swore your life, but the laws here are not nearly so harsh.”

“The laws allowing beatings remain,” Keelan says. “It wasn't that uncommon in Leyne.”

“It's not the same. The law is absolute in Guildi,” Maura says bitterly. “Not even the royal family is exempt from its punishments. Father…he shouldn't have done this. He called you away from Birdie; you never would have left her otherwise. He just needs someone to blame other than himself.” Keelan hisses with pain as she presses a little too hard and she murmurs an apology. “He should have never done this to you.”

“I've lived through worse,” he says.

“It wasn't necessary.”

“He's grieving.” Keelan thinks of the raid captain's hair between his fingers, the wide, pleading eyes staring up at him. The slight resistance before his sword broke the skin. “People are capable of awful things when they're grieving.”

Maura is silent for a moment as she finishes whatever spells she's using on his back. “I'm so angry,” she says quietly. “I'm angry at Levi. At my father, my mother, myself.” She presses her forehead to his shoulder and he feels tears wet his skin. “Not you, though. I'm only afraid I'll lose you too.”

He turns around, pulling her into a tight hug. “Never.”

“You can't promise that,” she sniffs.

“I can and I do. I promise that no matter what happens, you will always have me.” He kisses the side of her head. “My life in your service."

They stay in her room for the day, recovering together. Maura's spells helped close up the smallest of the gashes and speed up the healing for the bigger ones. She's too tired to do anything more and Keelan won't let her overexert herself for him.

They take all three meals in her room and Maura refuses to let any of the servants in; the kitchen maids have to leave the trays at the door. She and Keelan eat on the floor in front of the window, surrounded by books as Keelan practices reading and Maura studies the pieces of Levi's research that she stole. Proteus tries to call on her twice, but both times she locks the door and refuses to answer.

She falls asleep with her head in Keelan's lap and he carries her to bed, tucking her gently under the covers. He drags an armchair in front of the door and falls asleep in it with his sword across his lap.

It becomes their routine for a week, then two. He missed Rosaleen and Birdie's funeral—Proteus hadn't wanted a traitor like him to be there, so it had been held while he was in the Black Cell. Keelan's back heals and Maura practices every spell she can find in Levi's books. Keelan's eighteenth birthday comes and goes without much fanfare—Stiofán sends up sugared buns and Keelan and Maura finish off a bottle of his father's wine, falling asleep on the floor in front of the window.

A third week passes and Maura is summoned to see the king. She refuses.

Keelan is waiting outside the door when Proteus arrives, red-faced. “Stand aside, Keelan.”

“The princess doesn't want to be disturbed,” Keelan says coolly. “She has ordered me to turn away any who come—”

“Move aside. I need to speak with my daughter.”

Keelan's healing scars itch. “My apologies, Your Majesty, but the princess gave me orders. My life is sworn to her service. I can't let you through.”

Proteus stands there for a minute, seething. Keelan can see him weighing execution as an option. Finally, the king of Raedora spins on his heel and walks briskly away. Keelan stays in front of Maura's door for a while longer, waiting to see if Proteus plans on returning to arrest him again. An hour passes without anyone else coming, so he slips back inside.

Maura looks up from a crumpled scroll. “You were out there for a long time.”

“Just making sure he wasn't coming back.” He unfastens his cloak and sets it down on his chair. “What are you looking at?”

Her nose crinkles as she looks at the smudged ink. “A spell Levi was researching, or maybe putting together. I don't have his personal spellbook to be sure.”

“What does it do?” Keelan picks up one of the books he's been reading.

“I'm not sure. A lot of the writing is in Fiero, so I can't read it. I'll have to spend some time working on a translation.”

She works in silence for a while before Keelan breaks it. “Are you going to go to see the king at some point?”

Her knuckles whiten around the scroll, the yellowed parchment crumpling. “He had you beaten for nothing,” she says savagely. “I don't want to see him.”

Keelan nods, lowering his gaze. “I'm better now,” he says quietly. “Your magic did its job.”

“Good.” She picks up another book and squints at the writing. “Let me know if any of the pain returns. I found a recipe for a scar salve that I could try out.”

And so the routine continues.

Maura throws herself into studying Levi's research. There are still nights that she clings to Keelan and cries until she falls asleep. He holds her and tells her he will never leave, but he can feel the gaping hole in her. He has the same one in his chest and has for years. He knows there is nothing that will close it.

Proteus doesn't try to summon either of them, nor does he come to the door again. Keelan's moved most of his things into a drawer at the bottom of Maura's dresser, since he falls asleep guarding her every night and only returns to the barracks when absolutely necessary. Maura tells the servants with the nerve to ask that she has ordered him to guard her at all times until Levi has been found. Soon enough, the only ones who come to the door are the kitchen maids that drop off their meals.

Stiofán starts putting little notes on the trays, keeping them updated on the going-ons of the land. Keelan is getting better at reading, so he reads them out loud to Maura while she works on her spells. Every day she shows him something new that she's learned from Levi's research.

It seems like this could last forever, the two of them studying in a peaceful bubble on the floor of Maura's bedroom. Keelan knows that it can't—eventually they will have to face the king, and the consequences of flaunting convention and propriety to stay together. But he still likes to pretend, at night as he's falling asleep in front of the door, that this is their everyday life. That there is nothing more that they have to do.

Before either of them know it, the eve of the new year arrives. Maura has been keeping track of the days, of the passing weeks and then months. Ten weeks and two days, if Keelan remembers correctly. They're celebrating by sleeping in.

“Maura.” The king knocks on the door and Keelan jerks awake in his chair, raising his sword. Maura motions for him to hide in her washroom and he hears her open the door. He presses himself against the wall, straining his ears.

“Father. To what do I owe this early visit?”

“Sweet pea.”

“Do not call me that.”

“Maura.” There is a long pause. “The law is the law. None are exempt.”

“Not even us.” Maura's voice is smooth, emotionless. “Was there anything else?”

“Beloved, I don't want to fight with you. We…we only have each other now. Please, sweet pea. I miss my daughter.”

Maura inhales sharply. Then again shakily. “I miss you too, Daddy. I'm just…” She sniffs and Keelan's fingers curl into his palms. “I'm just so angry.”

“Me too. I shouldn't have taken it out on Keelan.”

“No.” She sniffs again. “You shouldn't have.”

Keelan can hear a smile in Proteus's voice. “Will you two join me for lunch? If you're not too busy.”

There is another long pause before Maura says, “Okay.”

The door snaps shut and Keelan steps through the doorway into the bedroom. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She swipes two tears from her cheeks and turns to her dresser. “I'm going to get ready for lunch. You should as well.”

He takes the hint and grabs his things from the drawer, returning to the washroom and pulling the gossamer curtain over the doorframe. He dresses quickly and helps Maura tighten the laces on her dress when she calls for him. She's been eating less and less, and refuses to ask the maids for help, insisting that they'll gossip if they have to tighten the laces for her.

She holds his arm tightly as they walk through the corridors for the first time in weeks. Keelan feels almost agoraphobic under the vaulted ceilings of the royal wing's hallways. Guards bow and murmur greetings as they pass, black curtains hung over all the windows to indicate their mourning status. Too soon, they are at the doors of the dining room.

Maura inhales shakily and Keelan squeezes her hand where it rests on his arm. “You don't have to do this if you aren't ready.”

“I'm fine,” she says, and pushes the door open.

Proteus looks up from his food. "Ah. Come in, sit."

Keelan takes his seat next to Maura and waves off a servant that tries to offer him a platter of fancy little cakes. He takes a bun and a few pieces of fruit for his lunch and Maura nibbles on a single apple.

"I know that we are still in mourning," Proteus says, buttering a piece of bread, "and the people have accepted that as a reason that you have not been seen in over a month."

"Ten weeks and two days," Maura says coolly.

Proteus's jaw twitches. "Indeed, sweet pea. But it's the new year now, and we have to present a united front. You are the future queen of Raedora. The people need to know that you will take care of them."

"You wish for me to return to my royal duties." Maura bites into her apple, sucking the juices off her fingers before asking, "When?"

"Tomorrow. We will have a session of the court for the new year."

"Fine." She sets the half-eaten apple down on her plate and stands. "I think I've had enough to eat. Sir Keelan, if you would escort me back to my room; I would like to rest."

He stands, leaving his unfinished fruit on his own plate. "Yes, my princess."

"Before I go," Maura says, turning back to Proteus. "Have you anything to say to Sir Keelan?"

Proteus's eyes widen and dart over to Keelan, then back to Maura. "Beloved, what…?"

She folds her hands behind her back. "Nothing?"

Proteus clears his throat, standing. He meet's Keelan's eyes. "I should not have done what I did." He immediately looks back at Maura. "Are you satisfied?"

She curls her lip. "Hardly."

But she doesn't force him to try again, just turns on her heel and leaves. Keelan follows her back to her room, where she throws a vase into a wall with a frustrated scream. He sits there while she paces back and forth, ranting angrily about her stupid, stubborn father who is too pig-headed for a simple apology. When she breaks down crying again, he pulls her into his arms and tells her he's just happy Proteus was able to maintain eye contact for longer than two seconds.

Neither of them feel ready, but they both know it's finally time to break the self-imposed exile.

Now that Maura is returning to her royal duties, Keelan moves his things back to the barracks. He is still at her door every day at eight. Maura refuses to enter the library and it's too cold to study in the gardens, so Proteus picks out the books and one of the servants leaves them in the parlor in the royal wing for their morning studies. After lunch, Keelan sometimes follows Maura to court, sometimes to the door of her father's study where the two of them stay shut in for hours, discussing politics and the finer points of ruling. He's never privy to those discussions, but sometimes Maura will give him a summary of the day's topics. He doesn't understand any of it, but he loves to listen to her voice as she describes it to him.

The full silver moon is approaching and with it, Birdie's birthday. Maura hasn't said anything to Keelan, but he knows that she's had the maids keeping Birdie's room spotless. He doesn't have the guts to ask her about it yet.

On the afternoon of Birdie's birthday, Proteus calls a special session of the court. The nobles crowd into the throne room and scribes prepare dozens of little slips for the messengers. Keelan stands at Maura's side, watching her fidget with the ends of her braids as she waits for the court to begin.

Proteus raises to his feet and clears his throat. The crowd hushes.

"Tonight," he says, his voice trembling with rare emotion, "my daughter, Brigit, should have celebrated her eighth birthday. Instead, she was butchered by a man who pretended to be a loyal servant. She was killed, as was her mother, my beloved Queen Rosaleen, by magic. It is in her memory that I act now." He gestures to the scribes. "On this day, I declare witchcraft, the practice of magic, or the study of it, unlawful in all of Raedora. Any who are found to be a witch, to have practiced magic, or to have studied it, must be brought to the capital to face trial before their king and princess." He sweeps his gaze over the silent nobility. "Those who have never used their magic for harm will be allowed two days to leave. Those who have used their magic for evil will face the consequences."

Maura's fingers twitch in her lap.

"If it was not for witches, my daughter would be alive," Proteus says, his knuckles white on the arms of the throne. "Instead, my baby girl is gone. Witchcraft will no longer be tolerated in Raedora. If witches do not turn themselves over, they will be tracked down and brought here by force. All must face judgment for justice to be served."

Keelan's mouth is dry, thinking of Maura's books hidden under the bed. Proteus wouldn't prosecute his own daughter for witchcraft, would he?

The law is absolute in Guildi. Not even the royal family is exempt from its punishments.

"You are all dismissed," Proteus says, resting his head in one hand. The court leaves quickly, whispering furiously.

Keelan sets his hand on the arm of Maura's throne. "Princess?"

"I was going to take Birdie riding for her birthday this year," she says, staring ahead. "She always begged to come along when I went, but she was still too small. She was finally getting big enough."

He slides his fingers down to touch her arm. "Do you wish to go back to your chambers to rest?"

"Yes," she says, standing. "Yes, I think I will."

---

"The princess's birthday is coming up," one of the kitchen maids says slyly, passing Keelan his usual breakfast sausage. He breaks it in half, tossing half to the fat kitchen cat that's supposed to catch rats but mostly trips people and begs for scraps. "Do you think she'll get any gifts this year?"

"She's still in mourning for her mother and sister," Keelan says, giving the maid an odd look. "Why would she even celebrate her birthday?"

The maid rolls her eyes. "Sometimes," she says slowly, as if he is a child, "people celebrate things when they're sad so that they can feel better." She laughs at his expression, handing him another sausage and a napkin for the grease. "Perhaps her friends will still get her something to cheer her up a bit."

Keelan bites into his sausage, smiling a little. Not a bad idea. He bids the kitchen staff goodbye, hardly noticing the maids exchanging bets.

Keelan is, technically, paid a wage, so he gets his purse out from under his bed in the barracks and counts out the coins with shaking fingers. Eighteen silver, six copper, and twelve gold. Not much, but he's sure he can find something.

The kitchen maids tell him, giggling, that most people looking for a good birthday gift for someone like Maura will start at the jeweler in the Grand Market. He doesn't want to be recognized or bothered while he is out, so he strips his horse and dons a plain cloak. Without the fancy saddle and heraldry, his fierce warhorse almost looks like the docile mare that pulled his father's plow.

The jeweler isn't hard to find—he has a large sign with a painted diamond and a throng of people perusing his enormous booth. Keelan wanders around the tables, eyes wide as he takes in the range of different jewels and precious metals. Maura loves blue and green, so he looks at sapphires and emeralds. His eye catches on a simple gold ring with a small blue stone. He catches the jeweler's attention.

“How much for this one?” he asks. The jeweler's smile is sour.

“Twenty-five gold pieces,” he says, with a decidedly nasty lilt to his tone.

“I have twelve and eighteen silver,” Keelan offers.

The jeweler sneers. “If you can't pay, put your grubby hands somewhere else.”

Keelan stiffens, glaring at him, but sets the ring down and goes back to his horse.

“Don't let that snob get you down,” a voice to his right says. He glances over to see the silk merchant leaning out of their booth. They give him an apologetic smile. “He's been a sour apple as long as he's been here.”

“Thanks,” Keelan mutters, mounting his horse.

“There's a jeweler in South Town that has better prices,” the silk merchant calls loudly, ignoring the way the jeweler glares at them. “Better prices, too, in my humble opinion.”

Keelan laughs a little. “Thanks.”

The South Town market is small and quiet, but the merchants are friendly and one happily points him to the jeweler's workshop.

It's a small building, stained with smoke from the puffing chimney. The front window has a spare, simple display featuring a single set of jewelry—a necklace, a ring, a set of bracelets, and a pair of earrings, all worked in silver and set with small red gemstones.

“What can I help you with?” a young woman asks eagerly when he steps inside. He freezes as she bounces around the counter, beaming. “Are you shopping for yourself, or somebody else?”

“Harper, go oil the tools,” an exasperated woman says from where she is hunched over a half-assembled necklace on the battered wooden counter. “Hello, love,” she says to Keelan, as Harper slinks off sullenly. “I'm Laoise, the jeweler. You'll forgive my apprentice, I hope. She is very eager.”'

Keelan's hand is still resting on the doorknob. He releases it and clears his throat. “Ah. Yes. I'm here because I want to find a birthday gift for someone.”

Laoise sets down her pliers and studies him for a moment. “What do you have in mind?”

He deflates a little. “I don't know. Someone said to go to a jeweler and here I am. She already has everything…I don't know what to get her.”

“I see.” Laoise comes out from behind the counter, looking Keelan up and down. She glances out the window, at Keelan's horse. Something like amusement flicks across her face, but she doesn't say anything about it. “How old will your friend be?”

“Seventeen. She…she lost some people recently. I want to make sure she knows that I'm here for her.”

“Of course,” Laoise says, smiling. “You're a kind friend. Tell me about her. What does she like?”

She pulls up a chair at a little table and Keelan sits, trying to think of words that will be adequate. “She's…she loves to read. She loves plants, especially sweet peas. Her favorite colors are blue and green. She likes horseback riding and stargazing.” He wrings his hands in his lap. “I'm awful at giving gifts.”

Laoise got a pot of tea from somewhere at some point and is pouring him a cup. “That's alright. I'll help you.”

“The silk merchant in the Grand Market told me to come here,” Keelan admits, accepting the cup. Laoise laughs.

“They're a sweetheart, aren't they? They send a lot of folks my way. I'm guessing the old stuffed-shirt was rude to you? Mad you couldn't pay?”

Keelan nods and sips his tea. It leaves a warm feeling in his chest, his nerves calming slowly.

“Let's get it out of the way, then. How much do you have?”

“Six copper, eighteen silver, and twelve gold.” He fidgets while she repeats it to herself silently, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Is that enough?”

“Oh, that's plenty, honey. That stuck-up egomaniac in the Grand Market is just greedy.” She rubs her jaw. “You won't want any yellow gems—it'll clash. No gold either, which is fine since I only work in silver anyway.”

“But her hair is golden,” Keelan says. “Wouldn't you want to match that?”

Laoise shakes her head. “You don't need to add to the gold; it won't match and will only make either her hair or the jewelry look out of place. No, you want to match her eyes, to pull out that color more clearly and draw attention to them.” She taps her chin with one finger, her eyes darting around the shop. “Hm. Come look at this one.”

She picks up a necklace with a delicate silver chain and a blue teardrop gemstone. Keelan thinks of the similar one that he's seen Maura wear to state dinners. “Not quite. It's beautiful, though.”

“No need to flatter me,” Laoise laughs. “I know my work's worth. We're trying to find the right one; we'll have to go through a few wrong ones.” She sets the necklace down, frowning in thought. “Does she already wear a lot of jewelry?”

Keelan rubs his forehead. “Kind of? She doesn't wear a lot all at once, but she almost always has something.”

“Makes sense.” She picks up a set of silver-and-green bracelets. “These, perhaps?”

Keelan has never seen Maura wear bracelets in his life. He thinks of her flourishing motions when she speaks and casts spells. “She talks with her hands a lot.”

Laoise grimaces and sets them down. “I should think not.” She casts her gaze around the shop again, her eyes narrowing. “Harper!”

Harper comes tumbling out of some back room, oil smudged on her nose. “I wasn't listening,” she says guiltily.

“Of course you were.” Laoise waves her hand. “Do you have that piece you were telling me about ready to be shown?”

Harper's whole face flushes. “You—to a customer?” she squeaks.

“Yes, Harper, to a customer,” Laoise says with the barest hint of a smile. “Do you have it?”

Harper disappears and reappears faster than Keelan can track, holding a folded cloth in her hands reverently. She lays it out on the counter and Keelan leans over to get a better view. She unfolds the cloth carefully, revealing a delicate ring made of braided silver and set with three pale stones. Keelan inhales softly, his eyes raking over the thin tendrils of silver that hold the stones in place.

“They're moonstones,” Harper says, vibrating with pride. “They change color in the light, see?” She tilts the cloth carefully, rolling the ring in between her fingers. The pale white surfaces of the moonstones shimmer, blue and silver and red hues crossing their faces. “When exposed to direct moonlight, some say that they can feel the moon's power through the stones. Whether or not that is true, they will often glow brighter and more vibrantly.”

Keelan reaches out but is afraid to touch the dainty piece or smudge the stones. “You made this?”

“Yes.” Harper fidgets, a bit of doubt entering her expression. “Is it satisfactory?”

“It's perfect,” Keelan breathes. He smiles at Harper before returning his gaze to the ring. “How much?”

Harper hesitates, glancing at Laoise.

“Wrap it up for him,” Laoise says. Harper nods and take the ring away. Laoise sets her hand on Keelan's shoulder. “I'll give it to you at no cost, Keelan O'Leyne.”

He jerks away from her, startled. “How did you know?”

“You pick up on things more as you get older,” Laoise says with a wink. “And you're not all that stealthy, honey.” Her expression sobers. “My mother was from Leyne. I lived there for a while as a young girl before we came here.”

Keelan's breath catches in his chest. Laoise sets her hands on his shoulders.

“You are not alone, little knight,” she says softly. “You are not the only one who remembers.”

Tears well up behind his eyes. Harper returns with a wrapped ring box tied with a ribbon. She presses it into Keelan's hands and takes his empty cup of tea. Laoise pats the side of his face.

“Leyna watches over you, Keelan of Leyne,” she says. “You are not alone.”

He walks out of the shop shaking, tears sliding down his cheeks without his permission.

You are not alone, little knight.

He rides back to the castle slowly, lost in his thoughts.

---

Proteus doesn't host a ball for Maura's birthday, as they're still in mourning. Even so, Stiofán makes all her favorites for dinner and sends up extra sugared buns with the desserts. Keelan's hands are sweating so much on the walk back to Maura's room that he thinks he's going to drop the ring.

"Sir Keelan," she says, curtsying. She goes to open the door and his heart leaps into his throat.

"Wait."

She pauses. "Yes?"

"I got you something." His mouth is dry, but he manages to smile at her. "If you're interested."

She lets go of the door handle. "Like…like a birthday present?"

"You didn't get one from me last year. Not a real one, at least." She slips her hand into his and he rubs his thumb across her knuckles. "And with everything that's happened…I just wanted to make sure that you knew…" He clears his throat. "It's a gift for you."

He doesn't drop the box, and hands it to her with steadier hands than he'd expected. She takes it but doesn't open it, turning it over and over and inspecting the sides of the box. "Where did you get this? How?"

He chances a smile. "I am paid a wage, even if it's not a big one. I got it…I'll tell you after you've opened it."

She pops the top off and presses one hand to her mouth when she sees the ring.

"They're moonstones," Keelan says, twisting his fingers together. "They change color in the light." He watches tears gather in her eyes and his breath hitches. "Do you not like it?"

Her eyes dart up to his face and her hand lowers from her mouth to reveal a tremulous smile. "It's beautiful," she whispers.

He bows. "Happy birthday." She is still staring at him and he fidgets again. "So you like it?"

Maura looks back down at the ring and her trembling fingers lift it out of the box. She slides it onto the third finger of her left hand. "It's the best birthday gift I've ever gotten." He can't help the enormous smile that breaks over his face. She stands on her toes and kisses his cheek. "Thank you."

"Anything for you," he replies.

She goes into her room and he walks on air all the way back to the barracks.

---

Keelan opens his eyes.

“Keys!” Maura's face appears above him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Thank the gods, you're awake. How do you feel?”

He blinks, trying to orient himself. He's laying on a cot in the infirmary, undressed from the waist up. His mouth is dry, his toes are tingling as sensation returns to them, and he can feel stubble growing in on his jaw.

“What happened?” he says, immediately wincing as his dry throat scratches with the effort. Maura bites her lip.

“You don't…you don't remember?”

His head aches. “Remember what?”

She drops her gaze to her lap. “You…you were helping bring witches in for the trials. One of them attacked you.”

“I remember bringing witches in yesterday, but everything else is a blank.” He scratches his jaw. The stubble must have grown in fast.

Maura's gone a shade paler. “Yesterday?”

He slides his gaze to her slowly. “Yes. Why?”

She won't look at him. “That was over two weeks ago, Keys. You've been here, recovering, for fifteen days.” Her fingers curl into her palms in her lap. “I…made a mistake.”

There is a sick feeling in his gut that has nothing to do with the healing wounds that he sees across his chest and arms. He takes a moment to look at them, to process what they are. “I was burned,” he says as it finally dawns on him. “Badly.” As sensation returns, he can feel how extensive they were. His whole chest, across his shoulders and arms. They're mostly healed now, so the pain is mild but still constant, ebbing and flowing. “But I don't remember anything.”

Tears drip down Maura's cheeks. “You were in so much pain. I thought…I must have done something wrong. I didn't mean—”

“You took my memories.” There is a distant roar in his ears. He can't feel the absence in his head, but he knows, deep in his chest, that they're gone. “You stole them.”

“I only wanted to take the memory of the pain,” she says, tears falling faster as she reaches for his hand. He pulls it away. “You…you were in agony, Keys. The witch who burned you…she nearly killed you. I couldn't…I couldn't let you live with that kind of pain.”

“You learned the exact spells that Levi used on us.” He stares at the wall on the other side of the infirmary. He can't look at her tears anymore; he isn't sure how much longer he can handle the pressure in his chest.

“I thought if I learned how he manipulated us, I could stop it from ever happening again.”

“How is this stopping it?” His voice raises, but he still can't look at her. He glares at the other side of the cot instead. “Fucking hell, Maura, how is this stopping it?”

She inhales sharply and he closes his eyes, letting his head fall back on the pillow. A moment passes silently, then another. “I will leave you to recover in peace,” Maura finally says. He feels a hesitant, fluttering touch on his hand before her footsteps pace away with a swish of skirts. He doesn't open his eyes until he hears the infirmary door open and then shut. He is alive and alone and missing fifteen whole days of his life.

He rolls over and tries to get some sleep.

---

They release him from the infirmary in the morning and he returns to the barracks, where soldiers regale him with the tale of his heroic duty protecting the king from the fire witch. The captain of the guard pulls him aside at one point and pats his head with another “Atta boy.” He just dresses and straps his sword to his side.

“You have the whole day to recover,” the captain says, stopping him on the way out the door. “You don't need—”

“I'm in good enough shape to return to my job protecting the princess,” Keelan says flatly. “Excuse me.”

The captain stares, worried, but lets him past.

He's missed the morning studies, but he takes his place next to the guards outside the private dining room and waits for the king and the princess to finish their lunch.

The doors are open before he is ready. “Sir Keelan.” Maura tips her chin up, visibly steeling herself. “The physicians didn't inform me that you were ready to return to service.”

He bows. “I swear that I am fully able to protect you, my princess.”

“Good man,” Proteus says, stepping past Maura to clap Keelan on the shoulder. He manages to disguise the wince as another bow. “We're holding court today. The witch who nearly killed you is due to go on trial. Perhaps you will be the one to dispense her justice. It would be fitting.”

Keelan swallows the sick feeling in his stomach. “Yes, my king.”

He falls into step behind Maura and pretends not to notice her furtive glances at him. He can read her face too well, knows exactly how she's feeling. The guilt in her eyes is threatening to kill him.

The court is already assembled when they arrive. Keelan sees many whisper behind their hands when he walks in and chooses to ignore that as well. He might not remember what happened, but he won't let their gossiping faze him. He's sure there are plenty of outlandish stories out there.

“We may begin,” Proteus calls out, his voice ringing over the chatter. The court falls silent and the doors at the far end of the throne room swing open. Guards file in, leading prisoners in chains. They are forced to line up along the back wall and Proteus surveys the assembled prisoners.

“You are all here to stand trial for witchcraft,” he says, his expression hardening into the same one Keelan saw on his face the day he was beaten. “The law is the law. None are exempt. The truth will be found out, and the law will be applied. Those of you who have not used your magic to harm will be allowed two days to leave Raedora.”

“Those of you who have used your magic to harm will face punishment befitting the crime,” Maura says, her voice ringing even louder than her father's. Keelan fights the urge to look at her and read the expression on her face. It's the only reading he's any good at anyway.

The guards pull the first prisoner, a middle-aged woman with stringy dark brown hair and muddy eyes, forward and onto her knees in front of the throne.

“Ah, yes,” Proteus says, his lip curling a little. “The so-called swamp witch.”

She spits on the floor in front of him. “I kneel not for you, foreign king, but for our princess. She is a true Raedoran queen.”

“I thank you for your respect,” Maura says. “But I am not the queen yet, and my father's rule still binds you. Do not disrespect him again.”

The swamp witch bows her head. “As you wish, my princess.”

“You stand accused of witchcraft,” Proteus says. “What do you plead?”

“Guilty as charged,” the swamp witch says, a little smugly. “Been the witch of my village for twenty-five years.”

“What does that entail?” Maura asks, leaning forward in her throne and resting her chin on her hand. Keelan sees her left thumb rubbing along her moonstone ring. “Being the village witch, that is.”

“Maura,” Proteus starts to say, but Maura waves a hand dismissively and he shuts his mouth, shock flashing across his face. Keelan's fingers twitch towards the hilt of his sword, wondering if she shut his mouth for him. She wouldn't use magic so brazenly, especially not in front of the king, or on the king.

Would she?

He hates that he isn't sure anymore.

“A village witch protects her home,” the swamp witch says, her eyes darting between Maura and Proteus. “She heals the sick, aids in births, and eases the pain of the dying. She keeps raiders and thieves away and serves her community faithfully. Many of us take vows to the gods and the moons.”

“Interesting,” Maura says. “What witness does this witch present?”

The guards pull forward a young woman who trembles as she realizes that she has the full attention of the royal family. She drops into a shaking curtsy. “My name is Maisy, milady,” she says, with a thick southwestern accent that Keelan recognizes. They must be from one of the villages in the swamps near Aresfield. “I was brought here ta bare-witness.”

“To bear witness to the crimes of the so-called swamp witch,” Proteus adds, but Maura waves her hand again.

“I'll handle this, Father,” she says airily. “It is good practice, isn't it?”

Proteus opens and closes his mouth, apparently speechless. Keelan's hand tightens on the hilt of his sword. What kind of game is she playing?

“Maisy,” Maura says. The poor girl flinches. “Tell me about your village witch.”

“Mistress Ennis?” Maisy blinks. “She fixed my cat's crooked tail. When the fisherman's son got fish-sick, she helped him get it out without suffering.”

“What's fish-sick?” Maura interrupts, tilting her head.

“Oh, beggin' your pardon, princess, but it's rather unpleasant,” Maisy says, flushing and glancing around at the gathered nobility. “I would never—on such royal ears as yours, milady, and—”

“That's fine,” Maura says. “Please, continue telling me about Mistress Ennis, as you called her.”

Maisy nods, curtsying again. “Mistress Ennis kept pirates away when they came lookin' for safe harbor.” The swamp witch, Mistress Ennis, chuckles a little at this. “She's a real nice lady, milady, and we were real sad to see her go.”

Proteus leans forward. “The law is the law. Have you ever seen the swamp witch use her magic to harm others?”

Maisy hesitates, her eyes darting between Proteus and Maura nervously. “Do pirates count?”

“Defending your village from pirates is not the same as harming others,” Maura says evenly. “There is no other instance of Mistress Ennis using her magic harmfully?”

“No, milady. My princess.” She curtsies again.

“She is innocent,” Maura says. She waves her hand and the guards come forward, unlocking Mistress Ennis's chains. “You have two days to gather what you need and leave Raedora.”

Mistress Ennis sinks into a deep curtsy. “As you command, my princess. I hope to someday return when you are queen.” Proteus shifts in his throne, but the swamp witch is already turning away. She says nothing more, thankfully, and leaves with Maisy pulled tight against her side.

Keelan shifts from one foot to the other, glancing between Maura and Proteus. Maura is only focused on the next prisoner while Proteus watches her, calculations running behind his eyes. Keelan isn't sure what angle Maura is playing now. He thinks bitterly that he might have a better idea if she hadn't erased two and a half weeks from his memory.

“Sir Keelan.” Maura leans back in her throne and he steps forward. She looks up at him, a wrinkle in her brow. “What's fish-sick?”

Keelan smiles a little, clearing his throat before answering. “When someone eats a fish that's gone bad. Their insides clean themselves out to keep the rot from spreading. Most vomit, but some—”

“Stop.” She holds up one hand, a little paler. “I understand now. Thank you.”

The next prisoner, a tall man with cracked glasses, kneels before Maura's throne. “My princess. I submit to your justice.”

“You stand accused of witchcraft,” Proteus starts to say, but Maura leans forward in her throne, her hand up again.

“You are a witch, yes?”

“Yes, my princess,” the man says. “My parents were witches too, but they've left this world for the one beyond.”

“What did you use your magic for?”

Keelan sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, his mind slowly piecing together Maura's plan. He doesn't have the full picture yet, but he's not sure how he feels about where all this is going.

“I'm a gardener, Your Highness.” He spreads his hands and the guards draw their swords. Green sparks dance between the man's fingers, but nothing more. “I use my magic to keep the crops of my village healthy and productive.”

“Who is your witness?”

Another man steps forward and bows. “My princess. I swear on my life, this man has never used his magic maliciously. He has helped my family's farm prosper for years, despite droughts and storms.”

“Innocent,” Maura says, spinning her ring on her finger. The court claps politely and the two men leave. The next prisoner is brought forward, spitting and struggling the whole way. Maura's lip curls, matching Proteus's. “Yes. The fire witch.”

“I'm not the only witch here, princess.” The witch spits the last word like a curse. Keelan see's Maura's fingers twitch in her lap and there is a brief golden shimmer in the air in front of her before it disappears.

“I have no doubt of your guilt,” Maura says, her voice still even despite the steel underneath. “But we shall give you the same treatment as all the others. What did you use your magic for?”

The witch spits again. “I won't say another word,” she says.

“Wouldn't that be a blessing,” Maura replies flatly. “What witness is there for her?”

A young man steps forward, averting his eyes but bowing neatly. “My princess. My king. This witch lived outside our village, see? I…I know little 'bout her, but there were lotsa stories of her powers. The village always brought her the healthiest lamb during the spring. My ma told me it was to keep the wildfires away. But…” He glances at the witch, then up at Maura, his expression hardening into determination. “I thinks she's the one who sets the fires.”

“Liar!” the witch screams, but Maura ignores her.

“Regardless of the witness's statements, your actions here in these halls were inexcusable,” she says. “You attacked my father, the king, and nearly killed Sir Keelan of Leyne, sworn shield of the crown. These are serious crimes that demand justice.”

“There's no justice to be found here,” the witch says. Her hands are still bound, but Keelan sees red sparks fizzle out at her fingertips. They stop after a moment and he thinks he sees golden sparks settle on the woman's wrist. The witch sneers at Maura. “And the princess is a hypocrite worse than her father. Magic runs through your blood, girl, and your father is a fool to not see it.”

“Sir Keelan.” Maura's eyes are cold and her voice emotionless. “She has insulted us enough. Remove her tongue.”

The witch's eyes widen and Keelan steps forward, drawing the dagger from his belt. “Yes, my princess.”

“Not here,” Proteus says, reaching out to grab Maura's wrist. “Not in front of the court.”

“I disagree.” Maura shakes him off, her eyes still locked on the witch as Keelan advances with his dagger. “I think here is the perfect place to do it. You yourself taught me the value of public punishment.” Proteus flinches. “Let it be a reminder to the others that justice does not wait.”

“There's no justice,” the witch tries to say, but the guards holding her in place force her head backwards and her mouth open.

Keelan flinches as the blood splatters across his tunic, but he steps back when his work is done and looks up at Maura. She nods and he returns to her side. The physician attends to the fire witch, cauterizing the wound to stop the bleeding. She sobs quietly into her hands when he backs away. Keelan thinks of the burns across his chest and looks at Maura again. She is unmoved by the witch's pain, staring down at her with anger barely hidden behind the sharp angle of her cheekbones. Her left thumb rubs along her ring.

“Now that we will have no further interruptions,” she says to the silent court, “we can proceed with the sentencing.” She takes a moment to inhale sharply. “Execution. She has committed treason and nearly killed a member of the royal guard. The sentence shall be carried out in two days.”

“This is why magic is no longer allowed in Raedora,” the king adds, his voice echoing around the white-faced nobles who stare in shock at the weeping witch. “Its corruption may be slow, but it will only lead to more death if we allow it to flourish.” He gestures at the guards. “Take her away. The Black Cell.”

Keelan's back itches but he keeps his eyes fixed on the floor as the fire witch is led away.

“Bring the next one forward,” Maura calls, all trace of anger smoothing over into calm.

---

Keelan pushes open the door to the barracks with his shoulder, massaging his palm. His grip on his sword had been iron during the day's trials and his muscles are cramping up. Even after three weeks, he still isn't used to the constant weight of the sword or knife in his hand.

“And Princess Maura's my favorite, of course.”

Keelan's head snaps towards the conversation that's being held somewhere deeper in the barracks. He walks quietly, not wanting to give his presence away.

“If you're going to get a long shift,” the soldier continues, speaking to a group of soldiers gathered with cups of wine and plates of dinner, “you always want to get the princess. High-and-mighty Princess Maura won't talk to you, but she at least gives you something to look at.” He waggles his eyebrows and Keelan's hand tightens around the hilt of his sword. “And to dream about later.”

The barracks fall silent as Keelan's sword flashes in the torchlight, the tip resting at the hollow of the man's collarbone. “Say that again,” he says calmly.

“Sir Keelan,” someone behind him says. “We didn't—”

“Say it again.” He pushes the tip of his sword against the man's chest, pinning him to the wall. “The part about the princess.”

“I didn't mean—”

Keelan slams his hand into the wall next to the soldier's head, his eyes shooting sparks. “Let me make something abundantly clear,” he says through gritted teeth. The soldier is silent and white-faced, wide eyes darting around the barracks at the other soldiers. Nobody says a word. “If I hear the princess's name in your mouth again, I'll cut out your tongue. Is that clear?”

The soldier gives a short, terrified nod.

“That goes for all of you,” Keelan adds, glaring over his shoulder at the rest of the gathered soldiers. “Keep the princess's name off your fucking tongues or I'll remove them.”

He sheathes his sword and stalks out of the barracks.

---

Keelan knocks on Maura's door. “Princess Maura? You summoned me?”

The door flies open and she is standing there, her nightgown half-hanging off one shoulder and dark circles under her eyes. “Keys. Good.”

She yanks him into the room and shuts the door tight. Silver moonlight spills through the windows, the curtains thrown wide open. There are strange chalk markings on the floor and spellbooks scattered across nearly every surface. Maura's bed is still neatly made despite the late hour. Keelan rubs his eyes. “Maura, how long have you been awake?”

She glances at the bed. “I didn't go to bed, if that's what you're wondering. I stayed up to prepare the spell.”

“Spell?”

“Yes.” She picks her way around the books and papers on the floor, until she reaches the chalk circle. “I've been searching for a spell to find Birdie.”

Keelan rubs his eyes again, a headache pulsing to life behind them. “Maura—”

“I know—” Her voice breaks and he lowers his hand from his eyes to see her staring at the floor, her lip between her teeth. “I know you're mad at me right now. Just hear me out.”

He softens, because he hasn't been mad at her in days, not since the last of his burns faded to the physician's shock and he realized that she'd been using healing magic to speed up the process. It's only been a month since magic was outlawed, but the trials have progressed quickly. Keelan's lost track of how many have come before them. Maura's judgment is swift and harsh—he's gotten better at removing tongues and once, an eye. The man had stared too long at Maura's chest and Keelan had enjoyed carrying out the punishment. He doesn't think about it much, filing it away with the sick satisfaction of the raid captain's head in his hands.

“I don't think that Levi killed her,” Maura says, gathering bits of parchment off the floor and pulling Keelan back into the present moment. “I think he wanted us to think that he'd killed her, but I don't think he really did.”

“Why would he—”

“So that we wouldn't look for her.” He can see the desperate hope in her eyes and something in his chest cracks. She's been hiding this, even from him, because she's terrified of what she might find. What she might not find. He resolves not to argue any further, and is immediately challenged when she says, “I just need you to be here in case I drain myself by accident.”

“No,” he says, stepping forward over one of the spellbooks. “You're not taking any risks on this.”

“I thought you would want to help me.”

His hands clench into fists. “I won't stand here while you kill yourself.”

“That won't happen. It's not likely, but if I have to push—”

“Stop.” He reaches the chalk circle and hesitates there, not wanting to ruin the markings. He meets her eyes steadily. Her lip trembles. “You won't overexert yourself. Promise me.”

“I promise,” she says. “Come stand by me.”

He does as she asks, brushing his hand against hers. She grabs it, squeezing his fingers so tightly they feel like they might pop off. He squeezes back, offering comfort if she'll take it. He feels her relax next to him.

She speaks a few words in the magical language he's heard before and the chalk markings glow with golden light. She lets go of Keelan's hand and her nose scrunches up as she continues to speak. Crystals rise up from points in the circle and dissolve into golden threads of magic that weave together into a mirror, hanging in the air in front of Maura. She stops chanting and the mirror hangs there silently, its surface showing the two of them, pale and nervous.

“You have to speak the name of the person you're searching for,” Maura says quietly. She clears her throat. “Princess Brigit of Raedora.”

The mirror swirls with mist, the image of the two of them dissolving. The mist clears and the image that appears is one that's haunted Keelan for months. The pool of blood on the floor of Birdie's bedroom, the silver hair slowly turning red.

“No,” Maura says, her eyes brimming with tears. She curls her hand into a fist. “No, that can't be it.” She thinks for a moment. “Birdie. Show me Birdie.”

The mist swirls across the mirror's surface again before it only shows the two of them again. Keelan watches Maura's reflection as anger, despair, and then anger again flash across her face. She lets out a scream and thrusts her hand out, shattering the mirror with a bolt of golden magic. Keelan flinches as the pieces hit the ground and dissolve into golden mist. The hum of magic in the air fades.

“I spent months researching that spell,” Maura says, staring at the chalk circle. “I found it in Levi's research and I thought…” Her expression hardens. “If I found it in Levi's research, then he knows how to defend against it. I'll just have to find one he doesn't know already.”

“Maura,” Keelan tries to say, but she doesn't seem to notice, reaching for one of the books on the floor. She tips, her eyelids fluttering, and he catches her before she hits the ground. He swings her up into his arms and carries her to the bed, maneuvering carefully around the spellbooks and scrolls littering the floor. Maura's head lolls against his shoulder and he lays her down gently, arranging the blankets over her.

“You broke your promise,” he says softly, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “You overexerted yourself.”

“I'm fine,” she says, but the circles under her eyes are darker than ever and he can tell she's trying very hard not to pass out. “I'm fine.”

“It's over. It's okay.” He sets his hand on her face and smiles softly at her. “I forgive you.”

She turns her face into his hand, tears caught in her eyelashes. He stays with her until she is peacefully asleep.

#hhh my job is sucking my time and soul so i'm gonna throw a lacuna chapter at u and disappear hope that's ok <3 #i see all the tag games and asks and i will answer some when i have like. more time to think. #until then it's the start of the school year and the teacher that had my classroom before me didn't clean out any of the cabinets #so that's been my life for the last week. bc my classroom is enormous and there are a million cabinets #anyway personal rant over #this chapter is...a lot. in a lot of ways. it's the last chapter of act one #so yeah. enjoy :) #lacuna #rb original #writeblr #writeblr community #original fiction #indie author #fantasy novel #dark fantasy #keelan #maura

[clubofinfo]

Expert: In the United States today, the Declaration of Independence hangs on schoolroom walls, but foreign policy follows Machiavelli. — Howard Zinn, 1922-2010 When the US, UK and their fellow destroyers of nations embarked in October last year on erasing Iraq’s ancient Mosul in order to save it, did they reflect on the enormity of the cost to humanity and history of their actions now and that of their genocidal, illegal invasion and fourteen year occupation – and counting? (Not forgetting the bombing of the country from 1991-2003.) There was a quasi pull-out in 2009, but a reported 16,000 mercenaries remained in the US Embassy compound. Mosul, situated on the Tigris River, was first mentioned in name by the Greek writer Xenophon in 401 BC, although the area was inhabited from probably the 25th century BC. As Fallujah, near destroyed by the US in 2004 was known as City of Mosques, Mosul has been known as City of Churches. The population however, has been richly diverse: Arabs, Assyrians, Armenians, Turkmens, Kurds, Yazidis, Shabakis, Mandeans, Kawliya, Circassians. Sunni Islam has been the largest religion, but Salafism, Christianity, Shia Islam, Sufism, Yezidism, Shabakism, Yarsan and Mandeanism all coexisted in and around this ancient, hauntingly beautiful city. Mosul, as so much of Iraq, has suffered unimaginably under ISIS – but it is hard to spot the difference from how Iraq suffered under the US and UK (and are again.) The US bombed the city during the 2003 invasion, murdered Saddam Hussein’s two sons and fifteen year old grandson there in July 2003 – no Judge or jury, just US/ISIS style summary executions – as across the nation. Robert Fisk wrote of US atrocities in Iraq as related to him by an American veteran. There is a US Army “Warrior creed” which: … allows no end to any conflict (but) total destruction of the ‘enemy.’ It allows no defeat… and does not allow one ever to stop fighting (lending itself to the idea of the ‘long war.’) It says nothing about following orders, it says nothing about obeying laws or showing restraint. It says nothing about dishonourable actions… Fisk writes (September, 2006): “From Abu Ghraib to Guantanamo to Bagram, to the battlefields of Iraq and to the ‘black’ prisons of the CIA, humiliation and beatings, rape, anal rape and murder have now become so commonplace that each new outrage is creeping into the inside pages of our newspapers.” Note “inside pages”, as so “commonplace.” “Looser Rules of Engagement” In April this year, it was revealed that the US Air Force on a bomb-fest over Mosul – and indeed wider Iraq and Syria – were operating under “looser rules of engagement.” Moreover: Lt Gen McFarland, now orders air strikes that are expected to kill up to ten civilians without prior approval from U.S. Central Command … And this is “liberation” from ISIS? (Emphasis added.) Presumably the family of eight reported killed by a US bomb in late October, including three children, one just two years old, were one of the General’s “expected” kills. Air strikes in Iraq and Syria have:   … destroyed 6,000 buildings with over 40,000 bombs and missiles have inevitably killed much higher numbers of civilians. Apocalyptic horror. Of course, US and UK presence in air and on the ground in Syria are entirely illegal. So the people of Mosul and Syria’s cities, towns and villages are hostage to ISIS/Daesh and other head chopping factions fighting with US weaponry. US forces on the ground are “advising” the Iraqi army – which has absorbed militias every bit as terrorizing as ISIS. US forces themselves have, of course, a gruesome history of terror and gathering body parts as “souvenirs.” In World War 11 it was skulls, ears, teeth; in Vietnam penises. In Afghanistan it was fingers “and other body parts”, and in Iraq it was reportedly fingers, with dead bodies being tied to US tanks in Fallujah and as Ross Caputi wrote:1: Some of my closest friends mutilated dead bodies, looted from the pockets of dead resistance fighters, destroyed homes, and killed civilians. Destruction – a “Partial” List And ponder further on the US “liberation” of Mosul. As Nicholas J. Davis has written earlier this year, Award-winning Iraqi environmental scientist, Mosul-born Souad Al-Azzawi2  compiled a partial list of air strikes on the city: * Many government buildings have been destroyed. U.S. officials told USA Today, attacks are often conducted at night to minimize civilian casualties, but security guards and civilians in neighboring buildings have of course been killed. * Telephone exchanges have been systematically bombed and destroyed. * Two large dairies were bombed, killing about one hundred civilians and wounding two more. * Multiple daytime air strikes on Mosul University on March 19th and 20th killed ninety two civilians and wounded one hundred and thirty five, mostly faculty, staff, families and students. Targets included the main administration building, classroom buildings, a women’s dormitory and a faculty apartment building. (Note: Mosul University was one of the largest educational and research centres in the Middle East. Near unbelievably, the murderous ISIS primitives are thought to have destroyed over 8,000 books and 100,000 manuscripts – but the US destroyed near the entire faculty.) * 50 civilians were killed and 100 wounded by air strikes on two apartment buildings, Al Hadbaa and Al Khadraa. * A mother and four children were killed in an air strike on a house in the Hay al Dhubat district of East Mosul on April 20th, next door to a house used by Islamic State that was undamaged. * Twenty two civilians were killed in air strikes on houses in front of Mosul Medical College. * Twenty civilians were killed and seventy wounded by air strikes on the Sunni Waqif building and nearby houses and shops. * U.S. air strikes on April 24th damaged the Rashidiya water treatment plant in West Mosul and the Yarmouk power station in East Mosul. * Banks and a bottling plant were bombed, more dead and maimed. * An air strike on a fuel depot in an industrial area ignited an inferno with 150 casualties on 18th April. * Bombs have damaged a food warehouse, power stations and sub-stations in West Mosul, and flour mills, a pharmaceutical factory, auto repair shops and other workshops across Mosul. More US destruction and arguably war crimes are listed here. General Mattis’s “Annihilation Tactics” To further assess what a US “freed” Mosul might look like, here is a brief summary of what Fallujah’s 2004 “freedom” cost: The 1st Marine Division fired a total of 5,685 high-explosive 155mm artillery rounds during the battle. The 3rd Marine Air Wing (aviation assets only) expended 318 ‘precision’ bombs, 391 rockets and missiles, and 93,000 machine gun and cannon rounds. When the Iraqi army re-took the remains of the city from ISIS/ISIL, as ever advised by the US, The Telegraph headline said it all: “Fallujah in ruins after Iraqi forces retake ‘90%’ of the city from ISIL. On Sunday 28th May US Secretary of Defence James Mattis stated that the U.S. military is to use “annihilation tactics” to defeat ISIS fighters in Mosul telling CBS’s “Face the Nation” that “civilian casualties are a fact of life in this sort of situation.” Mattis knows a bit about “annihilation tactics”.  He headed Camp Pendleton’s Ist Marine Division in Iraq which were integral to the massacres in Fallujah in April and November 2004. Speaking to a group of soldiers about how to behave in Iraq during a 2003 speech he ordered: Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet. Fallujah’s mass graves are silent witness to the diligent obedience to Mattis’s orders. “Actually, it’s a lot of fun to fight … It’s fun to shoot some people. I’ll be right upfront with you …”, he told a conference in San Diego, in 2005. When the US is not shooting and bombing Mosul’s families in the cursed name of liberation, it is displacing them. Figures to 19th May show in excess of 526,000 men, women and children fleeing their homes and all they own. In the month to 2nd December 2016 over one thousand civilians were killed. On May 26th one hundred and five civilians were killed. On 30th May in the Az Zanjili district of the city, at least two hundred people were reportedly killed in a bombing lasting several hours and dozens of homes “completely flattened.” (Al Araby, 30th May.) The figures in human cost, hour by hour, day after day, would surely fill volumes. On 27th May the US had dropped leaflets telling people to leave the Old City, Mosul’s ancient heart, a city referred to as Al Fayha (the Paradise) and the “Pearl of the North.” US forces, however, care as little as ISIS for life, limb or the Middle East’s haunting Pearls and Paradises. Mosul Will Be “Destroyed Hoshyar Zebari, Iraq’s former Deputy Prime Minister, Finance Minister and Minister of Foreign Affairs, has stated that Mosul, formerly home to two million souls, will be completely “destroyed” and “uninhabitable” by the time the terrorists have been driven out.3 Another ancient jewel destroyed in the name of “freedom.”. Behind the figures are people living the unimaginable. As this was being finished, a message came from a Mosul-born friend, who writes: The American Coalition are lying … Civilians in Mosul are getting killed by the bombing and Iraqi and coalition ground missiles. They keep bombing each area for one or two weeks killing hundred of civilians and when the area is empty from any snipers … Two of my mother’s cousins houses in Thawrah area were bombed three days ago. Fourteen family members died. Four women, eight children the oldest is ten, and two men. People reclaimed seven bodies and other seven still under rubble. They couldn’t save any survivor under the rubble because the bombings are still going on intensively on the area. Those are my relatives and I know very well that they have nothing to do with IS. This is the New US/(Prime Minister) Abadi strategy … In Hay al Refaiae, last week my other cousins moved into five houses with their families with also an eighty seven year old old mother to avoid the American Coalition bombing.  All five houses were destroyed – with the whole surrounding area. Three of them were injured. “Why Do I Get So Angry?” Another letter was sent to a friend by his father, also used with permission and gratitude: People ask me: Why do I get so angry? Below is a scene today from Mosul, my home town. It is a scene repeated a thousand times over, all around Mosul. Yesterday the U.S. Air Force undertook 158 bombing missions over the city of Mosul. Every bridge across the Tigris in Mosul is now destroyed, the Sugar Factory has been bombed, a 5-Story medical centre has been demolished, the entire airport has become rubble, much of the city’s infra structure including water and electricity have ceased to function, the University of Mosul buildings have been levelled, thousands of homes have been rendered unlivable, and of course no one is counting the civilian dead and the refugees. And all for what? To destroy the Islamic State? Is this the same so-called Islamic State whose factions have been supported, financed, and trained by the CIA over the past five years in order to bring about regime change in Syria? Since 2003, the United States has bombed Iraq, Syria, Libya, Yemen, Somalia, Sudan, Afghanistan … and presently it has its eye focused on Iran. And yet, we have the gall and temerity to talk about the savagery and barbarism of the Mongolian hordes of eight centuries ago. I really do wonder why people keep asking me: Why do I get so angry? Thinking the Unthinkable In the title I query the outcome of this criminal decimation and cite Hiroshima. Parts of Iraq already have higher cancer and birth defect statistics than Hiroshima and Nagasaki, linked to the depleted uranium weapons used by the US and UK from 1991 to now. Donald Trump has demonstrated his casual fecklessness with weapons of mass destruction by dropping the largest “conventional” weapon ever used on Afghanistan and fifty nine radioactive and chemically toxic Tomahawk Cruise missiles on Syria, neither country had been proved of doing anything but simply existing. On the Presidential campaign trail, Mark Halperin of Bloomberg asked  Donald Trump, whether he would use nuclear weapons against ISIS. “Well, I’m never going to rule anything out”, replied Trump. When pushed by Chris Matthews of MSNBC on this issue, Trump said: “Somebody hits us within ISIS – you wouldn’t fight back with a nuke?” Iraq is near destroyed on the Blair and Bush lies that Saddam had weapons of mass destruction. Trump does and it seems, is prepared to think the unthinkable. Will the UN, the relevant world bodies, the “international community” wake up, before it is too late, before a swathe of Iraq and Syria’s people are vapourised, with twenty seven centuries of history? * Guardian, 13th March 2012 * Ph.D., Colorado School of Mines * Independent, 15 February 2017. http://clubof.info/