“That’s the price of war, isn’t it? The rich get to sit on their asses in their mansions and drink wine while unlucky bastards do their fighting for them. People like that fisherman get caught in the middle. If everyone got what they deserved, my friend, the world would be a very different place.” When the kindling finally catches and the flame grows into a healthy blaze, Drake straightens and turns to Nerran. “As for Firesse, she’s only trying to reclaim what the people of Beltharos have taken from her and her people—what the king has taken from her.”
“If there is any justice in the world, the king will get what’s coming to him, mate. I just hope too many innocent people don’t get caught in the middle.”
Firesse and the rest of her army arrive at Fishers’ Cross the next day, one long train of people carrying everything they own on their backs and in their arms. Drake and the Strykers stand outside the workshop as the elves spill into town. They watch families reunite and friends chitter to one another in Cirisian. The language grates on Calum’s nerves.
If I never hear Cirisian again in my life, he thinks sullenly, I’ll die a happy man.
In that, at least, we can agree, my son, Drake responds.
Firesse greets the Strykers with a radiant smile, completely unaffected by the fact that so many people died here on her orders. “I trust you found your way here without issue? How is the workshop?”
“We did, and it’s fine,” Hewlin responds, “although we don’t have enough time or iron to make swords. If you have your people cut down some trees, we can craft spears and arrows for them to carry into the next battle.”
“Consider it done. We’ll find better resources when we move inland.” She turns to Drake. “Did Myris assign you a place to sleep?”
“Right across the street.” He nods to the house behind her. “Next to yours.”
“Come speak with me tonight after you’ve finished your work. We must discuss our next steps.”
“You’ve given up on the Daughters, then?”
“No, I left scouts on the road to the Islands. If the Assassins show, they’ll send them here.”
“Firesse.” Faye weaves through the groups of elves milling in the street and stops before the First. “What do you want to do with the slaves your people liberated?”
“Any who wish to fight may join our ranks. I will rely on you to train them. Those who are not capable or not willing will be granted safe passage to the Islands.”
“Very well.” Calum watches the Daughter walk away, her raven-black hair swishing with every step. They’d been friendly back at the Keep, but the Daughter hasn’t said a single word to him since the mess in Xilor. Does she blame him for Lylia’s death? He doubts it. If he’d been the one who had shoved the knife into the girl’s stomach, Faye probably would have hugged him for it. She’d loathed the Assassin almost as much as Mercy had.
When Firesse leaves to speak with Myris and Kaius, Calum realizes that the street has already begun to empty. Most of the elves will be staying in their tents outside of town, while Firesse, the Strykers, and the other Firsts take houses in the village.
“This shit is so messed up,” Nerran mutters to no one in particular. “Let’s get this over with so we can collect our money and get the hell back to Rhys.”
When Drake finishes sharpening his last arrowhead—a long, narrow one, perfect for piercing plate mail—he stands and rolls his shoulders, grimacing at the knots between his shoulder blades. Hewlin and the others had left ten minutes ago to find dinner, leaving Drake to finish his work on his own. If anyone had noticed that Calum isn’t as proficient as he had been at the forge and anvil, he’d had the grace not to point it out.
He splashes cool water onto his face from a bucket in the corner of the room, then steps outside. The nighttime sky shimmers with countless stars. Calum recognizes some of the constellations—the Maiden, the Imp, the Lost King, the Huntress—and it reminds him of all the times he’d lain beside Elise in the garden behind her home, competing to see who could count the most stars before losing his or her place.
“Do you think there’s life out there?” she had asked him once. They’d been stretched out side by side on the grass, almost touching, and the bare inch of space between them had been driving him crazy for the better part of an hour. It was the first time either of them had spoken for several minutes, and when he didn’t immediately respond, she’d turned onto her side and propped her head on her hand so she could look at him. “Well?”
“What?” he’d choked out. He’d had to pinch himself to keep his thoughts from returning to the way her chiffon gown clung to her soft curves, the way the moonlight turned her soft hair silver, the way her full lips spread into a grin. He was fourteen then, and he had been in love with her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Her blue eyes had sparkled with mirth. “Do you think there’s life out there?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She’d frowned, a little furrow between her brows, and lain back on the grass. He’d cursed himself for the disappointment in her voice. “I think there is.”
“If there’s life out there, then nothing we do means anything. We’re just two out of a countless number of creatures wandering around the universe, thinking we know what we’re doing.”
“You’d prefer your wandering to have meaning?” she’d teased.
“The Creator put us here for a reason. A purpose. If we can’t be certain of that, then what’s the point of all this?” He’d gestured to himself, the grand mansions around them, the map of stars spread out over their heads. “Without that, we’re like dust on the breeze or . . . or cork floating down a river. We’re nothing.”
“I would never think you’re nothing.” She’d met his gaze then, all traces of humor gone. He had never given voice to the worries which had plagued him since childhood, but she knew him too well to not have sensed his turbulent thoughts. For as long as he could remember, he’d had no place in the castle. He’d been searching for some purpose other than being the prince’s common-blooded cousin, an afterthought, a footnote in the future king’s story—and had come up empty.
“You wouldn’t?” he’d asked, suddenly breathless. He loved Elise so much it hurt, but he’d never allowed himself to dream she’d one day look at him the way she was now—the way he’d always looked at her.
She’d shaken her head slowly, her gaze dropping to his mouth. “Not ever.”
Then she’d kissed him.
When she pulled back, he’d given her a slightly dazed, dreamy grin, and she’d burst out laughing. “You look like you’re drunk.”
“I feel like it, too. Kiss me again.”
So she had.
Calum’s heart fractures at the memory. It’s not until the cool breeze snags a stray piece of his hair and sends it dancing in front of his face, breaking the spell, that he realizes Drake has not moved from the doorway of the workshop. His father had lived the memory right alongside him.
Drake starts toward the home Firesse had claimed. He lifts his hand to knock on the front door, but he pauses when he hears voices coming from inside.
“What have you done to him?”
The shutters on the windows are closed, but they do nothing to muffle Firesse’s voice when she nonchalantly responds, “Who?”
“You know who.” Hewlin’s gravelly voice is colder than Calum has ever heard it. “Calum.”
He noticed! Calum’s heart stutters. He knows something isn’t right!
Drake raps on the door, cutting off the First’s response. “Firesse? You wished to speak with me?”
The lock clicks, then Firesse opens the door and waves him inside. Drake barely makes it two feet past the threshold before Hewlin seizes the front of his shirt and shoves him against the wall, pinning him in place. “What did she do to you, boy?” Then he glares at Firesse. “What did you do to him?”
“She’s done nothing.”
His eyes don’t stray from the First’s face. “He’s differen
t. I could tell the moment he opened his mouth. You’ve done something to him, haven’t you?”
“What is it you think I’ve done exactly? Cursed him? Put him under a spell? Do you still believe your wet-nurse’s stories about the fearsome Cirisian savages?”
“Don’t be insolent with me, girl.” Hewlin scowls at Calum. “The man I knew would never condone the killing of so many innocent people, let alone help plan their slaughter. I don’t know what she’s done to you, but whatever it is, you’d better snap out of it right the hell now.”
I’m trying! By the Creator, I’m trying!
Drake shoots him an unnervingly calm smile. “Listen to Firesse, Hewlin. I’m fine. I’m me.” He searches Calum’s memories lightning-fast. “Remember that night six months ago, when Amir got so drunk he fell off his barstool in Blackhills? I’m the same man who was there that night.”
Hewlin shakes him roughly. “I don’t believe you. You didn’t blink twice at that body we saw yesterday. You don’t even care that the people of this town were massacred or that you led the elves straight to their doorstep.”
I care! I care! Calum struggles against the bonds, against the ice-water in his veins, to no avail. But I can’t do anything to stop them.
“You’ve changed, Calum.”
“My circumstances have changed.” Drake stares straight into Hewlin’s eyes. Ever the actor. Ever the liar. “I told you my real surname. I told you how my father died. Should Ghyslain not pay for what he has done? He destroyed my family. I can’t let that failure of a king go unpunished.”
Hewlin studies him for a long time. He opens his mouth to argue, then releases him and takes a jerky step back. He shoots a hateful look at Firesse. “You want to kill all humans?”
“All those who have wronged my people.”
“I’ll not be a party to genocide.” He stomps toward the door. “The Strykers and I are leaving first thing in the morning. I want no part of this war.”
“Hewlin—” Drake begins.
“I’ll pay you double what we agreed,” Firesse blurts. “Triple.”
“No.” He points an accusatory finger at Drake. “You fix whatever’s gone rotten in that head of yours, boy, and you’ll be welcomed back to the Strykers with open arms. Until then, I’m keeping my men far from you and these murderers.”
He turns to storm out, but Firesse darts forward and plants herself between him and the door. A knife appears in her hand. The blade glints menacingly as she levels the point at his chest, right over his heart. “Back up.”
He obeys, backpedaling until he bumps into the corner of the kitchen table.
“Sit.”
He slumps into the nearest chair. “If you think you can threaten me, girl—”
“Take off your shirt.”
Hewlin pauses, thrown off by her odd command. “My shirt?”
“You heard me.”
Without taking his eyes off the knife, Hewlin unbuttons his shirt and tosses it onto the floor. Firesse tucks the knife into the waistband of her pants. “Perhaps this will change your mind.” She leans forward and runs her fingers down the thick, ropy muscles of Hewlin’s chest. He stares at her, confused and a little disgusted by a young girl touching him in such a manner. For a moment, Calum and Drake merely watch, puzzled.
What’s she doing?
Hell if I know.
Firesse mumbles something under her breath, and Hewlin’s face contorts in agony and horror. A moan escapes his lips when his skin breaks out in a bright red rash. Boils the size of coins ripple across his chest, filled with a milky fluid. Everywhere Firesse’s fingers touch suddenly inflames. Before their eyes, the flesh across Hewlin’s torso splits and peels like wet tissue paper.
The plague, Calum realizes with a jolt of pure terror. Firesse can control the plague.
“Witch,” Hewlin spits through clenched teeth. “Demon.”
“Will you and your men help me?”
He takes a tight, pained breath and nods.
“Good.” Firesse drops her hands, and Hewlin’s skin immediately knits itself back together. He gasps as the rash disappears. The First smirks and leans forward until her face is inches from Hewlin’s. “I trust you’ll remember this little demonstration the next time you consider deserting.”
Hewlin doesn’t say a word. He just gapes at her in horror.
“Get out,” Firesse orders. She picks up his shirt and throws it in his face. Then she moves to the door and holds it wide open for him.
He slips his shirt on, not bothering to fasten the buttons, and pauses in the doorway. He looks over his shoulder at Drake. “I pray you come back to your senses, kid. The Calum I knew would never have agreed to this, revenge or no.”
13
Tamriel
“Father? You summoned me?” Tamriel calls as he strides into the throne room. He had debated not showing up at all—he has hardly spoken to his father since he threw the letters into the fire—but the messenger had been adamant that he answer the summons. It’s about the serenna, he’d said. “What do you—”
The words die on his tongue when he sees Elise kneeling before the dais.
Nerida and Pierce are standing behind her, clutching each other’s hands. All three of them are flanked by guards.
Elise’s ivory dress is wrinkled and, inexplicably, soot-stained along the hem. Her long ice-blonde hair hangs in limp snarls around her tear-streaked face. When she looks up at Tamriel, he notices dark shadows under her eyes, as if she has not slept since her trial the day before. By the Creator, Mercy, what did you do to her? When Mercy had returned to the castle after her visit to the seren’s home late last night, she hadn’t said a word. She’d merely grinned smugly at him and disappeared into her bedroom.
“What is this?”
Ghyslain glares at Elise, who ducks her head and shudders under the weight of the king’s gaze. He finally looks up at Tamriel when he climbs the steps and takes his place beside the throne. “Serenna LeClair has had a change of heart, it seems. She wishes to confess.”
“Confess?” He raises a brow. “Let’s hear it.”
“Elise—” her father begins in a tight voice. Nerida places a hand on his shoulder to silence him.
Elise’s throat bobs. “I-It’s true. All of it. I helped Calum forge the contract on His Highness’s life.” Fresh tears stream down her face at the admission. “When Mercy failed to kill the prince, Calum and I framed her for the attack in Her Majesty’s house. Everything the prince said at the trial is true. I’m guilty.”
For once, Seren Pierce says nothing. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes downcast. Every hint of his stubbornness, his superiority, is gone.
Ghyslain leans forward. “Will you admit to your crimes before the court?”
“Yes.”
“And you are aware that the punishment for treason is death.”
She sniffles again and nods.
“Then you shall be executed at dawn in two days’ time.”
Elise lets out a choked sob and flings herself into her mother’s arms. Seren Pierce hugs them both tightly. After a minute, the guards force them apart and secure Elise’s hands behind her back. “I’m so sorry,” she says as they tug her toward the door.
“My daughter,” Pierce chokes out. “My baby girl—”
“Wait! Wait.” She stops and looks pleadingly to Tamriel. “I know I am in no position to ask anything of you, Your Highness, but if you ever held any affection for me in your heart, please hear me out.” When Tamriel opens his mouth to order the guards to take her out, she blurts, “It’s my brother. He was locked in Beggars’ End after the plague outbreak. You told me you’d find a way to get him out—you promised—but he’s still trapped in there. I’ve been sending him letters and haven’t received a response in over a week. It’s not like him. I’m afraid he’s fallen ill, or worse. Please, Your Highness—”
“Guards, take her to the dungeon,” Ghyslain calls.
“But my brother—”
“Now.”
She deflates, her face falling as the guards drag her out of the room.
The second she disappears from view, Seren Pierce lets out a shaky breath. He looks like he might keel over with the slightest breeze. “Your Majesty—”
“Go home, Pierce.”
“But—”
“I will not listen to any pleas for mercy,” Ghyslain says, scowling. “Elise knew what she was risking when she forged my signature on the contract. You are lucky I am not revoking your title for speaking so slanderously about me in the court.”
“I had no idea what she’d done, Your Majesty. I thought she was innocent—”
“I know. I do not hold you accountable for your daughter’s crimes. Because you have served my family for so many years, I am offering you a choice: if you are ready to return to work in one week’s time, you may—but I will brook no more complaints against me or my son. I expect your complete and utter loyalty. If you cannot abide by those terms, you may forfeit your title. Have I made myself clear?”
The seren’s head bobs up and down. “Yes, Your Majesty. Come, love.” Pierce clutches Nerida’s hand, and the two shuffle out of the throne room. When their footsteps fade into the great hall, Ghyslain turns to the remaining guards.
“Gather my advisors in the council chambers.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” they say in unison. They scatter—some to other parts of the castle, some out to the city—leaving Tamriel and his father alone for the first time since Elise’s trial.
Ghyslain eyes the bandages on his son’s hands. “Do they hurt?”
“It’s certainly not pleasant.” He flexes his fingers, grimacing when the tender skin pulls tight. The burns aren’t severe, but they ache nonetheless.
“And your back?”
“I try not to think about it.” He’d had the stitches removes days ago, but he had not yet worked up the courage to look at the gruesome scar which spans nearly the entire length of his back.
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