by Jordan Rivet
Chapter 24
Briar rubbed the dust from her eyes, coughing until her shoulders ached. Blackness surrounded her, as oppressive as a weight on her shoulders. At first she feared the debris from the tunnel collapse had blinded her, but she was simply in a very dark room, and her lantern had gone out.
She scrambled to her feet and felt around the mess of stone and dirt behind her. Huge rocks blocked the tunnel entirely. She couldn’t get to it without cursing the whole mountain open again—and possibly bringing it down on her head. Hopefully Jemma had made it out to where Nat was keeping watch before the tunnel collapsed. Regardless of their fate, Briar was on her own—inside Narrowmar Stronghold.
She checked on the paint jars in her satchel, relieved to find most of them intact. Only one jar had broken open, though she couldn’t tell which color was seeping through the canvas bag.
An eerie quiet filled the darkened space after the ruckus of the collapsing tunnel. She must be in one of the unused rooms at the back of the stronghold. She hadn’t expected to be there without Jemma to navigate. She had no choice but to move forward.
She crept along the wall, the stone smooth beneath her hands, seeking an opening or corner that might indicate where she was. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, the outlines of the space began to emerge, like a rough charcoal sketch. The room was large and rectangular, perhaps a former banquet hall or a training area. She grimaced. It could just as easily be a storeroom or a dungeon or an especially large privy. She wished she had a candle.
The sound of distant footsteps reached her. They were muffled, as if coming from inside the wall, or from a nearby corridor. Sure enough, her fingers soon met the scratchy wooden plane of a door. She pulled back, hoping the owners of those feet wouldn’t come inside.
The footsteps drew nearer, accompanied by two male voices.
“… see what they did? The whole damn mountain rolled up and tried to make a run for it.”
“Reckon they got the voice mage?”
“I’d be shocked if they didn’t.”
Briar winced. Were those men talking about Esteban? And were “they” who she feared they were? She inched closer to the wooden door.
“They still out there?”
“Aye. They’re with Lord Larke. He wants us to bring the little one to his quarters.”
“And the mother?”
“He doesn’t much care about her.”
“Poor girl. She’s not much older than my daughter—and with a daughter of her own already.”
Briar bit her lip, holding in a gasp. The two men passed the door at that exact moment—but they didn’t enter. She remained motionless as their footsteps continued down the corridor outside her hiding place.
“Don’t let his lordship hear it, but that son of his deserves to be castrated for using that young lady as he did.”
“Aye, and after all that trouble, the baby turned out to be a girl. His lordship still doesn’t have his heir.”
“He could give it all to the little thing anyway. That would make a change, eh?”
“I’d rather follow a girl child than Lord Tomas.”
“Aye. But that ain’t up to folks like us.”
The voices faded as they got farther from Briar. She waited until they were almost out of hearing range, then she used a gray curse stone to spring the lock on the door. She hurried down a dimly-lit corridor after the two men, trusting them to lead her to Mae.
Any misgivings Briar might have had about continuing the mission alone no longer mattered. The baby had already been born. The time for stealth had passed. If Briar didn’t rescue Mae, she wouldn’t survive the night—and the child might not either.
Briar followed the two men along the stone corridor as quietly as she could, holding her paint satchel carefully so the jars wouldn’t rattle. Alcoves appeared at regular intervals in the walls, some with sculptures and some without. Twice she jumped when especially lifelike statues leered at her unexpectedly. Sweat crept down her face, mixing with the dust. Fortunately, the men ahead of her didn’t encounter anyone else until they turned into a narrower torchlit corridor, where another pair of guards stood before a wooden door at a dead end.
“His lordship wants to see the baby.”
“Yes, sir.” One of the guards saluted and turned to unlock the door.
It’s now or never. Briar grabbed a red curse stone from her bag and tossed it in the center of the corridor. There was a bang and a bright flash of light. The four men whirled around, reaching for their weapons in unison. Briar was already running toward them, drawing sleep stones from her pocket.
“What in the lower—”
Briar collided with the first man, his sword only halfway out of its sheath. She hooked one arm around his neck and stuffed the curse stone directly into his mouth. He dropped like a rag doll, and Briar landed hard on top of him.
The others gaped at the girl covered in dust who’d tackled their companion. She touched another curse stone to the nearest hand she could reach, and a second man slumped to the ground, snoring loudly. She shoved the stone down the neck of his shirt to keep him unconscious, praying it would stay against his skin.
The others finally recovered from their shock at the appearance of a stranger in their impenetrable fortress. One took off down the corridor, shouting for backup. With no time to think, Briar seized a black curse stone and threw it as hard as she could. It hit the retreating guard in the back of the neck.
He swore and clamped a hand over the wound, already gushing blood. The curse had cut deep and swift. He stumbled, frantically trying to hold in his lifeblood. There would be no stopping the bleeding.
Briar shuddered at his panicked gasps—which quickly faded to gurgles. She hadn’t wanted to kill anyone, yet five minutes after entering Narrowmar Stronghold, she already had blood on her hands. Could she never stop?
Quivering with shame, she faced the final guard. He was young, and he looked wide-eyed and nervous and far too much like Nat. Briar searched her pouch full of stones, trying to find another sleep curse. All she had were cutting stones and explosives. Death curses, always death curses.
The young guard overcame his surprise at her sudden appearance and advanced with the careful steps of a practiced swordsman. He had seen her incapacitate three men in a matter of seconds. He must know she wielded dangerous magic, but he held his blade steady, daring her to advance.
Briar shook the bag of stones, searching for the nonlethal ones. She’d had more blues than this before. Where were they?
The guard drew nearer. She would have to use a cutting stone. She would have to condemn another innocent young man to bleed to death. No matter how hard she tried, she still piled ruin upon ruin. With a sob, she drew a black stone from the bag.
Then the door behind the guard opened, and a young woman in a pink dress slipped quietly into the corridor, a heavy clay pitcher in her hands. She was plump with golden curls and a pale, determined face. She moved stealthily, and the guard didn’t notice her.
The girl caught Briar’s eye and gave a slight nod. Briar made a sudden threatening movement, keeping the guard’s attention on her. He drew in a breath, preparing to strike. Before he could, the young woman took a resolute step forward and smashed her pitcher over his head. The guard dropped to the ground without so much as a groan.
“I hope you’re here to rescue us,” Lady Mae said, facing Briar over the unconscious bodies of her captors. “He was the nicest one.”
Chapter 25
Archer crouched among the rocks and splintered timber above the ravine, watching his father speak to Briar’s parents. Lord Jasper Larke was taller than both of the Drydens, with broad shoulders and thick brown hair showing a hint of white at the temples. He always dressed impeccably—in the burgundy of House Larke today—and his gaze was hard, focused on what he wanted no matter how it affected the people around him.
Revulsion curled through Archer at the sight. He avoided thinking of Lord Larke as his father
as much as possible. Most of his team didn’t know his true identity, and he couldn’t afford a slip of the tongue. He pretended his childhood in Larke Castle had been a dream—a nightmare, really—but as he watched from the ridge, Archer couldn’t help but remember the many years he’d spent calling that man Father.
From the outside, Jasper Larke was a respectable member of the nobility, a baron who controlled one of the larger—albeit more remote—counties in the kingdom of Lure. On the rare occasions that he visited King Cullum’s court, he was treated as an honored guest. The other gentry didn’t see his cruelty. Jasper took pleasure in exercising control over his servants and retainers with no regard for fairness. And he believed firmly in his and his family’s innate superiority.
Archer had first seen it in action when he was eight years old and he and the kitchen boy had set a pig loose in the Larke Castle banquet hall as a prank. In the ensuing chaos, a tapestry had caught fire and several valuable vases had been shattered. Archer had owned up to the stunt, insisting the whole thing had been his idea. Instead of punishing Archer, as he’d deserved, his father had taken out his rage on the kitchen boy. He’d beat the lad so badly that his skull had cracked, and he’d never been the same bright, good-natured person again. Larke had given the boy’s family a handful of silver pennies and warned Archer to choose worthier companions in the future.
Larke treated everyone except his sons as inferior beings. He’d been cruel to Jemma, making demeaning comments anytime they’d crossed paths, though Archer knew she was smarter than all of them. He took advantage of the humble folk who worked his lands, levying the highest taxes in the kingdom and ignoring their pleas for a reprieve. The county barons were supposed to offer protection in exchange for labor, leadership in exchange for sweat and blood, but Jasper Larke didn’t uphold his end of the bargain. Archer had seen nothing to suggest his brother would either.
Tomas cared only for sword fighting and chasing women. Archer had tried to talk to him about reforming their father’s practices when he became the lord of Larke County, but Tomas had just stared at him as if he’d sprouted three heads, each uglier than the last. Tomas accepted their father’s superior attitude wholesale, and he turned a blind eye to their father’s cruelty.
Jasper’s behavior had worsened after Archer’s mother had died. At age eighteen, fed up and restless, Archer had run away. He’d had lofty plans for a life of heroism that would set him apart from the other Larke men—plans that had failed within a week. Highwaymen had robbed him of every ounce of gold he’d saved up for his escape, leaving him to wander the wilds, starving and ill-equipped to do anything about it. Finally, he’d stolen from a family of honest farmers. Then he’d kept stealing.
The wide world was harsher than Archer had expected without the aid of his father’s name and fortune. He’d turned to thievery to make his way and wound up having a knack for it. More importantly, he got a taste of freedom outside his father’s dominion, and he never wanted to go back.
As he grew more successful, he tried to focus only on the wealthiest targets who wouldn’t be unduly burdened by his actions. He knew he wasn’t good exactly, but he tried to treat his partners in crime fairly, and he was never cruel. It was still a far cry from the nobility he’d once dreamed of showing, and despite his best efforts, he had been drawn back into his father’s world.
Jasper Larke must have danced for a week when he realized the strategic advantage Tomas had handed him through his indiscretion. Larke loathed Lord Barden deeply, and Mae and Tomas’s child would be Barden’s only heir as long as Mae didn’t have more children. Tomas had never shown much aptitude for leadership, but his child would have Larke blood and a Barden inheritance. It was little wonder Larke had hired the terrifying Dryden couple to keep the child under his control.
Archer surveyed the ravine, where broken trees and broken men littered the ground. He couldn’t defeat the curse painters, but he might still give Briar, Jemma, and Nat time to get Mae out of the stronghold. He would count that as a victory—even if it meant handing himself over to his father. It was better than shooting more of his men.
The sensation of descending into a pitch-dark well lingered in Archer’s gut. It wasn’t right to make other people pay the price for his and his family’s actions, but there was another way. Instead of continuing to take lives, Archer could give his up—at least the one he’d hoped to live.
Larke and the curse painters had finished instructing the retainers who were caring for the injured. They turned their backs on the carnage and headed toward Narrowmar’s great stone door. Archer couldn’t delay any longer. Bidding a final farewell to his freedom, he took a deep breath, climbed onto a large boulder, and began waving his arms over his head.
“Ahoy there! Your prodigal son has returned! Did I miss the action?”
His father’s eyes widened in shock, and the color drained from his face. It was rather gratifying.
Lord Larke recovered quickly, lifting a hand to placate the curse painters, who were reaching for their brushes. His guards brandished their weapons, too, but none moved to attack their lord’s younger son. For a moment, they all stared at each other across the rubble.
“Shall I come down there?” Archer called.
Larke looked as if he wanted to say no, but after a swift glance at the curse painters, he ordered his retainers to stand down and beckoned Archer with an impatient wave.
Archer hoisted his bow on his back and scrambled down the sloping side of the ravine, plastering on a wide grin. “I sure am glad to see you, Father. I was hunting in the woods nearby when I heard the commotion.”
Larke’s face could beat a statue in a staring contest. “Hunting.”
“That’s right. When I saw the mess here, I was afraid you were hurt, but it looks like your new friends have the situation well in hand.”
“They do.” Larke cast a tense glance at the curse painters. He looked embarrassed at his son’s sudden appearance—or that he hadn’t seen it coming. Lord Larke knew of Archer’s exploits—as he’d communicated when he offered rewards for every member of the team except Archer—but he clearly hadn’t expected him to walk up to Narrowmar’s front door. “Where are your … hunting companions?”
“Gone,” Archer said. “I believe they met some of your men in the woods.”
“I see.” Larke’s mouth tightened. He wouldn’t question Archer further. He wouldn’t want these powerful mages from High Lure to know his second-favorite son had fallen in with miscreants. Archer was gambling on his father’s pride to keep himself and his friends alive a little longer.
“I don’t think we’ve met.” Archer turned to the curse painters, preparing to stall them, and recoiled from their gazes. He had seen hints of darkness within Briar, mere flickers of her destructive capabilities amidst everything else that made her her. He’d expected to find hints of humanity in her parents after hearing of the joy they’d taken in their young daughter and her work. But in the intervening years, the Drydens had scoured away anything but the darkness.
The woman was beautiful, with a crown of wild hair like Briar’s and eyes that burned with black fire. She had an energy about her, incendiary and passionate. The man looked almost studious, with patrician features and elegant hands, but there was a cruel turn to his mouth and a soulless sort of intensity in his gaze.
“This is Saoirse and Donovan Dryden,” his father said, a muscle working in his jaw. “They are here on important business from the king. Why don’t you wait in my chambers until I have time to hear about your recent activities?”
“There’s no need to send your son away,” said Briar’s mother. “Perhaps he has some insight into what happened on the ridge.”
“Insight, Mistress Dryden?” Archer asked.
“You appeared soon after the voice mage ceased his song.” A specter of a smile crossed Saoirse’s lips. “Very soon. Perhaps you saw something?”
“You mean heard something?”
The woman’s smil
e vanished.
Archer swallowed, hanging onto his grin as if it were the edge of a cliff. “I just thought, since he was a voice mage, it would make more sense for me to hear rather than to s—”
“Please excuse my son’s insolence.” Lord Larke gripped Archer’s shoulder hard, his eyes blazing with barely controlled fury. “He cannot always tell when it’s appropriate to speak.”
“On the contrary,” Saoirse said, “I should like to hear what he has to say. Wouldn’t you, darling?”
Donovan was staring at Archer as if he were a strange insect—one he was planning to take apart leg by leg. “I am sure it will be an enlightening conversation.”
“I’ll help however I can,” Archer said. “Shall we go inside for a drink? I wouldn’t mind taking off my boots in front of the fire in your sitting room, Father.”
Larke gave Archer a severe look warning him not to offend the curse painters. Archer smiled blandly back. Little did Larke know the Drydens had also been forsaken by a child with a conscience. Perhaps they could commiserate when all was said and done. More importantly, his father would never send for Mae while Archer was in the room. He couldn’t possibly hide the schism in his household then.
The Drydens clearly intimidated Larke, and there were currents of tension between the three of them that Archer hadn’t yet figured out. The longer he kept them talking, the longer Briar and the others would have to finish the job.
At last Larke sighed. “I could do with a stiff drink myself. Shall we?”
They approached the stronghold’s entrance, and the white-haired old captain who commanded the Narrowmar garrison met them at the large stone door. His burgundy uniform was neat but faded, and his back curved with age. His eyes were as clear and sharp as ever, though. He eyed them all with obvious disapproval. Archer had never particularly impressed the fellow, but it was the curse painters who received his starkest glowers.
Interesting. Archer might be able to use that.