Curse of the Celts Clara O'Connor (new reading txt) 📖

I frowned, trying to follow the politics of the power struggle within the council. Matthias had been involved with the faction that wanted to control magic and, presumably, ultimately the entire island; Actaeon wanted to rule the island too but was happy to empty it first.

“You wanted to have the greatest of our bloodlines under your control. It was quite the stroke of luck that Cassandra dropped into your clutches,” Devyn observed quietly. He had noticed what I had missed. The two greatest bloodlines… Calchas knew I wasn’t a random latent.

“Luck, ha! There is no such thing as luck; you make your own luck. Or not.” He turned to me again. “We gave you all a girl could desire, all the comforts of the Empire, yet you threw it all away. And for what?”

My throat was dry, constricted. Not trusting myself to speak, I sat mutely. More than anything, I had wanted to be a long way from here, out of the tangle of streets and buildings, away from the overbearingly suffocating society I had grown up in; I wanted to return to the Wilds where, I had learned, my true home lay. Now, I would never see it.

I looked at Devyn. He had found me and revealed the truth to me. Tomorrow I would be executed, but at least I wouldn’t die in ignorance. And there was still hope he would live a long life, that he would see days that were to be stolen from me. I set my jaw. It wasn’t over yet.

“Ah. True love. It is enough for you to imagine he will make it back to whatever cave he crawled out of. How adorable.” The Praetor failed to suppress a snigger. “Donna Shelton, really? You think your would-be rescuer will ever see the outside of the arena again? Much less the outside of the city?”

He intended to follow through despite my announcement to the world that Devyn was not an imperial citizen. It was over 200 years since the 1772 Treaty ended the centuries of war that had ripped the island apart. Devyn’s presence behind the walls was in clear violation of the terms. But that didn’t mean his execution would be accepted by those beyond the walls.

“You can’t,” I protested. From the moment I discovered that Devyn was a Briton, I had known that capture would mean death, but the recent Treaty Renewal had reminded me of something. The Empire was not alone on this island and Devyn had friends beyond the walls. He served a house in the north. Surely that meant something. “You can’t know what the Britons will do if you kill one of their own.”

“You think they will object? Perhaps,” Calchas mocked. “But we did not accuse him of being Briton. There is no proof to be found of Master Agrestis’s true origin. In fact, we have all of that clever work he did in the city’s databases that proves otherwise.”

The insufferable Praetor Calchas actually smiled in his delight at the irony. “I do hope you’re enjoying your meal. We’ve even got some rather delicious apple cake. I thought you might appreciate it, Master Agrestis – a final taste of home. I believe it is a seasonal speciality served at your Samhain celebrations. This is the last one you will live to see begin, even if you won’t see it end.”

Devyn hadn’t spoken or even deigned to look at our host while his own imminent demise was so casually discussed; he had taken little interest in any of the proceedings, apart from Calchas’s slip-up regarding my own origin. But now his eyes wandered to the sideboard where there sat a cake with dried apple on top, surrounded by hazelnuts and chestnuts; his interest piqued at the suggestion of a last taste of home. The city didn’t usually mark the last night of October. Samhain, as the Britons called it, was a night for the Wilders and their superstitions; it had no place inside the city.

But it was clear that Calchas relished the idea of executing his captured Briton on a date that meant something to the rest of the island. Did someone as esteemed and preeminent as the praetor do something as juvenile as flick off the enemy? Before tonight I wouldn’t have thought so. He had always appeared so righteous, but the man who sat crowing at our capture and imminent executions… of him I would believe it.

We ate course after course while the praetor chattered on about inconsequential city matters as if we had all the time in the world. This was how I was to spend my last night alive?

The last course was finally set on the table – a sumptuous lemon parfait – fresh plates laid out in front of all of us but Devyn. A servant cut a slice of the Wilder apple cake and left the room, a sentinel entering as the servant exited.

“No Wilder food will ever grace my table. You are free to eat it elsewhere.” Calchas’s eyes rolled to the sentinel.

This left Devyn no choice but to leave the table after casting a last look at me. I had asked to spend what hours I had left to me with Devyn. Was that it? Would I never see him again?

“Don’t worry, girl, I’ll release you to join him shortly.” Calchas finished his last mouthful of dessert while Marcus and I sat behind our untouched plates.

Odious man! I smiled in as close an approximation of gratitude as I could manage, even as every muscle in my body unclenched at his announcement.

“Marcus, would you care to join me for a drink while Cassandra enjoys her last wish?” Calchas said, pushing back his chair.

“Not really,” Marcus replied flatly.

Calchas laughed as he made his way around the table to stand behind my chair, preventing me from pushing it out and leaving the table. “Did you think refusal was an option, Dr Courtenay? It was most gallant of you to allow your betrothed to spend her