Mad, Bad & Dangerous

As she turned, the girl raised her arm. The shard she held was sharp and bloody. Kett twisted back, but not fast enough. The slashing point came down on her.

And something thudded into her, knocking her into the ground.

It was Bael, the piece of wood embedded in his chest.

His breath came in jerks. His mouth gaped. Blood fountained from his chest. A few feet away, Var rolled heavy against the throne, his great body heaving, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.

An invisible circle suddenly swept out from the throne, culling all the Maharaja’s men with an unseen power, throwing the concubine into the air and letting her body fall onto the upturned sword of a dying man.

But Kett barely noticed, her entire world condensed into the space by the throne where Bael’s arm stretched desperately to touch the bloodied fur of his twin. Gulping in horrible, terrifying panic, Kett wriggled from under him and grabbed his arm with her beak to yank it closer.

Bael’s human fingers touched Var’s tiger fur, and both their eyes closed.

Kett screamed, and the sound wasn’t the cry of an eagle but the wail of a soul in pain. As she watched, winded, Var and Bael began to merge until there was just a man lying there, his body torn and bleeding in a dozen places. The shard of wood stuck out of a bloody, revolting gash on his chest.

He was barely breathing.

She needed to get him out of here. Desperately Kett roused herself, grasping Bael’s shoulders in her claws and rising ponderously into the air. The fight was all but over now, the throne room eerily silent as she flapped urgently toward the high doors.

Her eagle eyes took in flashes of detail. Darson’s men fighting the Maharaja’s legions, and winning. Pradeshi soldiers huddled in small defensive groups, hiding. Kelfs tending to the injured. Women and children fleeing into the desert’s all-consuming clouds of dust.

Kett flew on, away from the palace, her wings finally failing her a few hundred yards away. The clash of steel on steel rang in the air as she eased Bael’s body down on the sparse, sandy grass of a small hill.

He was breathing, but only just. His clothes were saturated with blood. Kett turned herself human again to rip his shirt open and check his wounds, trying to find the worst so she could stop it, but her eyes were blurry with tears and her hands shook.

“Bael,” she whispered. “Please don’t die. I love you. Please don’t die.”

His eyelids fluttered.

“Can you hear me?”

“No,” said a man’s voice behind her. “He’s dying.”

It was Striker, his eyes alight with bloodlust. Behind him, the Maharaja’s palace burned.

“Do something!” Kett begged, appalled to hear her own voice breaking.

Striker shrugged. “Any one of these wounds could kill him. He has dozens-”

“So do them one by one! The worst first. Like a…a…a triage or something.”

“By the time I’ve cured one mortal wound, pet, another will have killed him. You can’t delay that sort of thing.”

“You,” Kett said, leaping up and launching herself at him. “You came with us to fight, you came and you did nothing, and if it wasn’t for you, he-”

“He’d have died there in that throne room,” Striker said calmly, holding her back as if she were no bigger or scarier than a kitten. “But I cleared it for you to get out, pet. Thank me for that, at least.”

She stared at him, eyes burning with dust and tears that blurred her vision.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve a whole swarm of soldiers to kill in interesting ways.” He chucked her under the chin. “Have fun, kids.”

“No,” Kett bellowed. “Striker, please!”

But he was already gone, vanished into the dust and the smoke, and Kett was left standing there with blood all over her and no hope left.

She stared out at the fires erupting all over the palace, no doubt Striker’s handiwork. Behind her, Bael was dying and there was nothing she could do.

She’d never felt so angry in her life. Angry because she was helpless, and she hated it.

She fell to her knees by Bael, took his hand in hers, wiped the blood and sweat from his face with her palm. If only she had more time, if she could get him to Chance or even Nuala-

Wait.

Delay.

“Bael!” She grasped his hand. “Can you hear me?”

His lips moved a tiny fraction. His head lolled. Sweat trickled down his face, mingling with the blood there.

Kett grabbed his other hand and put her mouth close to his ear. “Bael, listen to me. If you die, I’ll bloody kill you, you hear?”

The faintest smile touched his lips.

“Listen. When I was hurt, you got me to Nuala. Crossed the Wall. How did you do it? I was nearly dead.”

“Little bit of magic,” he mumbled.

“Magic? Healing magic?”

Bael made an indistinct sound. His breathing was harsh, shallow. Kett felt panic rising higher inside her and could barely keep it down. Tears burned her eyes, stung her cheeks.

“You were hurt too. Your wings. Your ribs. How did you fly?”

Bael licked his lips. “Postponed them,” he mumbled. “Had more important things to do.”

Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would break her chest right open.

“You delayed them?” He nodded. “Well, do it now! Until I can get you back to the camp, at least. Until I can persuade Striker to help you. Use those shiny new Mage powers of yours for something besides showing off, would you?” She gripped his hand tighter, her voice ragged. “Bael, do this for me. Please!”

His fingers squeezed hers faintly. “For you,” he whispered-and the blood from the wound in his chest stopped flowing.

Kett prayed to every god she could think of, invented a couple more and rose into the air on desperate wings.

***

Six months later

“A dress,” Kett said in disgust. “Another fucking dress.”

“Kett,” Nuala protested mildly.

“I’m sorry. Another fucking gown.”

Her stepmother smiled despite herself. “You look beautiful, Kett.”

“No, I don’t. I never look beautiful. I ain’t beautiful.”

“Don’t be silly, of course you are. Now, will you be all right if I leave you for a while? Since your father fired his valet, he can’t even fasten a cravat by himself.”

“He fired his valet? Why?”

Nuala sighed, but there was a smile behind it. “Because he’s a Real Man, and Real Men don’t have Poncy Valets.”

Kett covered her mouth.

“I know,” Nuala giggled. “I think this whole thing has done him a world of good. Now, you’re not going to sneak away to see Bael, are you?”

“He’s not even here yet.”

“Well, he’d better be soon. Do you have your bouquet? Good.” She sighed. “You do look so lovely, you know.” A tear gleamed in her eye. “I never thought I’d see this day.”

Kett scowled. “Don’t you have cravats to tie?”

Nuala nodded, beaming, and took her leave, which meant Kett was alone with her reflection.

Ugh. This creation even had bows. There were frills and lace and things. Served her right, she supposed glumly, for letting Nuala and her sisters have free rein.