Fallon pressed harder.
‘P… Pyron Thackeray.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hospital beds were never a welcome thing to wake up in, but Serena was grateful to be waking up at all. That, and Scruff’s snoring was always welcome.
‘Mornin’, sunshine.’ Gallows looked as weary as Serena felt.
‘What… happened?’
‘Oh, not much.’ Gallows examined his fingernails. ‘I kicked ass, saved the day and was generally a big damn hero.’
Serena’s eyes shot open. ‘Myriel. She—’
‘She’s alive.’
Serena closed her eyes, feeling all the tension leave her muscles. ‘What did I…?’
Gallows sat further back in his seat and crossed his arms. ‘You killed Marie-Aman Solassis.’
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room came from Scruff and the scratch of a needle mapping Serena’s heart rate onto paper.
‘And Ventris?’
‘Imprisoned,’ said Gallows. ‘Garald’s gonna put her on trial, kick his reign off with a decisive victory.’
‘She’ll be executed.’
Gallows scratched the back of his head. ‘Yeah, probably.’
Acid burned in Serena’s stomach. ‘Good.’
Gallows stared at her. He was scared of my siren-song even before I killed Solassis.
‘In any case,’ he started, ‘soon as you’re fit, we’re leaving. Myriel says the Musa temple ain’t far from Frosthaven. We’ll get the train—’
‘I want rid of it.’
Serena couldn’t read the expression on Gallows’ face. ‘Rid of what?’
‘The siren-song. I want it out of me, Gallows. I want to be cured.’ Serena still felt Solassis’ mind coil around her fingers. ‘This temple of Myriel’s... The people there will help. They’ll know how to cure me.’
Gallows shifted in his seat. ‘If anyone knows how to do that, it’s them.’
‘After that, I’m done. I want to disappear. When my powers are gone, the Idari, the pirates… They’ll leave me alone.’
‘Serena, the pirates weren’t after you, they were—’
‘Does it matter?’ She turned and buried the side of her face in the pillow, refusing to let Gallows see the tears boiling in her eyes. ‘Leave me alone.’
Damien strode into his father’s study. It felt small.
Garald sat behind Arnault’s ornate desk, turning a silver pen in his fingers. He wore a dark grey cavalier vest over a plain, white shirt, and a black armband around his right arm. Without meeting his eyes, he beckoned Damien to sit.
Several minutes passed in silence, marked only by the mechanical heartbeat of Arnault’s grandfather clock.
When Garald did force himself to meet Damien’s eyes, the boy shrank. ‘Minister Hallys recommends that I not be left alone with you… But I wanted to talk before I address the others.’
‘I see.’
‘You saved my life, Damien—for that, I am in your debt. However, I… I cannot forget what you came here to do. Father was… not an easy man to live with, but he didn’t deserve to die.’
Damien tilted his chin up. ‘Arnault tal Ryn-Ståljern deserved a thousand deaths.’
Garald’s knuckles whitened around the silver pen. His mouth opened and closed, but no argument came.
‘I don’t know what your intentions are,’ said Damien, ‘but I’ll save you some time: I have no desire to sit upon Ryndara’s throne. Prince Arros will remain lost.’
Garald cleared his throat. ‘Then we are of a like mind. My advisers will be most…’ The boy’s voice dwindled away, and his shoulders trembled. He let the pen clatter to the desk and pressed his palms to his eyes.
‘My apologies,’ Garald said. ‘Crying is unbecoming of a prince.’ His voice grated like an out of tune church organ. After a moment, he placed his soft hands on the desk. ‘Father always said I was too emotional—said that to display emotion was to display weakness... That it should be stamped out.’
Damien had heard the same words many times over. ‘I am relieved to see you resisted.’
Garald’s back straightened at that. ‘Anyway… Father may not have been a good man, but he was a respected one. Soon, I’ll be Ryndara’s king—and I will not make the same mistakes. I’ll ally myself not with hired guns and pirates, but with good men and women—loyal Ryndarans. I’ll do what I must to ensure Ryndara prospers.’ Taking his time, Garald stood. When he spoke next, his voice carried the same weight as an executioner’s blade. ‘If I ever see you again, I’ll have you killed.’
Whispers.
They grew more insistent every day. Sometimes, in Helena’s quieter moments, she wondered if she was still inside the Gravehold—if her freedom was nothing but an illusion.
Her fingers traced the scratches on the iron floor. Aged, brown-red blood stained it. Someone didn’t want to face the drop.
Soon, the noose would take her and give her peace. Arnault was dead, and—if Tiera was to be believed—soon so would Pyron Thackeray. Ventris would love nothing more than to plunge the knife into that bastard’s gut—but her fight was done. There was nothing left but death, and the peace that came with it.
The slate-black cell panel slid back with the same sound as a knife sliding into a sheath.
‘Pirate.’
The voice belonged to Captain Thorir.
Ventris stood and peered at him through the bars. ‘I understood Garald wanted a public execution.’
Keys scraped inside the lock, and Thorir swung the door open. ‘Quickly, they’re coming.’
Ventris didn’t step out of the cell.
‘Quickly, I said.’
‘Who’s coming, Captain?’
‘Why, the mosquitoes—can’t you hear them?’
Ventris had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Of course.’
She stepped into the corridor, half of it submerged in rubble.
‘Why are you doing this, Captain?’ If it is indeed you who’s doing it…
Thorir stepped inside the cell and closed the door. ‘I serve greater masters than King Arnault—and they have a gift for you.’
Ventris started to understand. The visions of the past come back to haunt us.
‘There’s a price,’ said Thorir. ‘Not one to be paid lightly.’
Ventris considered it—she’d seen how it affected Arnault. ‘Tell me, Captain—do any of my crew still live?’
‘You still have men and women in the cells.’ Thorir slipped the keys through the bars. ‘Lock the door. Quickly, before the mosquitoes reach me.’
Ventris obliged, and Thorir pressed a hand to his heart. ‘Thank the True Gods.’
‘This gift…’ Ventris drawled. ‘It will give me power to seek revenge?’
Thorir nodded. ‘Arnault’s ward—without him, it weakens by the hour. You must accept it willingly and act quickly.’
It would be so easy to slip her hands through the bars and ram Thorir’s face into them. She imagined the warm sensation of his blood on her fingers.
‘I’ve seen what’s to come,’ she said. ‘I accept.’
A presence flitted from Thorir and slid into Ventris like smooth whisky, replacing the whispers in her head with a song. Already she felt it steal the life from her.
She sensed its fear when Arnault died, how it forced its way into Thorir in order to keep living—a once great power reduced to a parasite, forced to burrow into the thing that killed its host in order to stay alive.
But with it, Ventris would take her revenge.
‘More than half of the palace lies in ruin, countless dead, and the kingdom mourns for your father. It seems it was only from the intervention of the renegade contingent who arrived on the Queen of the North—and the pirate Tiera Martelo—that our losses were not total.’
Garald’s adviser—Minister Hallys, an elderly man with a long, white beard—recounted the news in a monotonous drone. Myriel recognised him from the Mages’ Guild, though he’d aged around fifty
years since then. Even in those days, she’d felt his beard played to the stereotype too much.
Hallys regarded Myriel with naked suspicion. ‘Excuse me, your highness, but should this stranger be present?’
‘We are knee-deep in a crisis, Minister. In these troubled straits, a representative from the Fayth can only steer us toward calmer waters.’
Seems a shame to reveal my identity to the boy now.
‘As you say,’ Hallys mumbled.
The bullet wound in Myriel’s chest stung with every movement; the medics had told Myriel she was lucky—she disagreed.
‘Minister, where is Captain Thorir?’ the prince asked.
‘He has taken administrative leave,’ said Hallys. ‘I can send word and have him back on active duty.’
Garald tried to mask the trembling in his fingers by crossing his arms. ‘I’d say he’s earned a reprieve. Anything else?’
Myriel listened as Hallys went into excruciating detail; with the king gone, a debate to abolish the monarchy had been ignited. Political factions and rebel groups were cropping up on every street corner, almost as fast as the number of additional royals laying claim to the throne—at least five people had stepped forward claiming to be Lost Prince Arros.
Watching Garald at the head of the barracks hall—one of the few places in the palace not reduced to a smouldering ruin—listening and offering non-committal answers, Myriel wondered what kind of king he’d make. He was a mite older than Serena yet didn’t possess an ounce of her confidence or courage. Or impulsiveness. Despite the bullet she’d taken, it was the look in Serena’s eyes that had pained Myriel the most during their escape.
‘I don’t need a lecture.’
Serena had been full of justified outrage when she’d said those words—justified in her own eyes, anyway. Myriel had her own thoughts about that.
‘Thank you, Minister Hallys, you are dismissed.’ Garald’s attempts at an authoritative tone didn’t suit him. ‘Please, send the rest in.’
Hallys shuffled his papers and flitted out like a lazy lemming tripping over a cliff edge.
‘Your highness.’ Damien bowed. With his impeccable manner and high cheekbones, Myriel didn’t have any trouble believing his royal lineage. The man who lusts after blood, or the timid boy-king—who is better on the throne?
Gallows, Enoch, Tiera, Morton Brunswick and Genevieve Couressa all trickled in behind Damien, not a smile between them.
Garald motioned for them to take their seats—everyone but Enoch did.
‘My apologies for the tight quarters,’ the prince said. ‘A soldiers’ barracks hall can be… Humbling.’
‘Seems fine to me,’ said Gallows.
Garald spread his fingers out on the table. ‘I am needed elsewhere, so I’ll be brief: When are you departing?’
‘Soon as we’re fit enough,’ Gallows answered. ‘We were gonna hitch a ride on the Ice Train to Frosthaven—but with Ventris behind bars and no-one after us, I’d rather use an airship, if you can spare one.’
Garald shook his head. ‘Air travel is prohibited with the skyport’s closure, and the AFR has precious few craft to lend out.’
‘Train it is. We’ll be outta your hair soon.’
‘Aulton’s service was this morning,’ said Genevieve, her voice bereft of music. ‘Fabian will remain here, but I have no reason to stay.’
Garald’s mouth opened and closed like a guppy’s. ‘Ah. Yes. I… I am sorry for your loss, Miss Couressa. And the lies my father spread will be rectified—I give you my word.’
‘They were no lies.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘I didn’t know Mister Carney for long,’ Damien began, ‘but he was a good man. Insightful. Intelligent. When he approached me in Dalthea, he knew my identity yet chose not to reveal it for fame nor wealth. I am sorry for your loss, Genevieve.’
‘At least he has you to remember him,’ said Tiera. ‘Not everyone who died has friends.’
Gallows glowered at Martelo. ‘Did Ventris always plan on killing Arnault?’
Tiera sat with empty seats at either side of her. Her thin, muscled arms crossed her chest. ‘She didn’t tell me. All I knew was that she wanted to recruit. Her plan was to found a republic free of your kings and queens, free of your wars. But when I pulled her out of the Gravehold… She was different.’
‘How?’
Tiera frowned. ‘Something inside her was twisted. Broken.’
‘Then perhaps instead of killing her, we should attempt helping her?’ Enoch suggested. ‘A lost soul can always be brought back from the brink of oblivion—always.’
‘You don’t know Helena tal Ventris. The only person who kept her half-grounded was Solassis—and she’s gone. But I reckon the boy-king here knows more about their grand plans than I do.’
Garald shifted in his chair. ‘I’m afraid Father didn’t confide much in me.’
‘Figures.’ Tiera angled her chin up at Gallows. ‘How’s Serena?’
‘She’s fine. Resting.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Garald interrupted, ‘but Serena is…?’
Myriel cleared her throat. She’d hoped to leave Rhis and avoid this part. ‘Alisabeth. Serena is her real name.’
Garald leaned back in his chair. ‘Oh.’
‘And I am Myriel, not Mathildé.’ Gallows eyed Myriel from the corner of his eye. She responded with a shrug.
The prince’s eyes widened. ‘Damien is Prince Arros, Alisabeth is Serena, and Mathildé is Myriel.’ Garald looked at Gallows. ‘And you?’
‘No,’ he sighed, ‘my name really is Tyson Gallows.’
The door flew open, and Minister Hallys strode in. He thrust a piece of paper at Garald.
The monarch’s face transformed. ‘Thank you, Minister, that will be all.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Damien asked.
‘Helena tal Ventris. She’s escaped the palace.’
‘Escaped?’ said Gallows. ‘From a cell with a remote lock and a time-synced floor that opens up and sends you to your death? Belios, is everyone here as corrupt as your dad?’
‘Tyson,’ Damien cautioned. ‘This is not the time to be snarky.’
‘Reckon it’s exactly the time.’ He swept his hands through his chestnut-brown hair. ‘Shit, we gotta go—if Ventris finds out where Serena is, she won’t stop. Myriel, you well enough to travel?’
Myriel strained to keep her voice from breaking. ‘It’ll take more than a gunshot to stop me.’
‘You mean to run, Tyson?’ asked Damien.
‘Damn right. Serena killed the woman Ventris loved—she won’t stop gunning for her. Let the Ryndarans go toe to toe with the pirate, they’re the ones who made deals with ’em.’
‘The same Ryndarans whom you’ve just insinuated let her go?’
‘We got our own shit to deal with, Damien—you want her so bad, be my guest.’
‘Tyson is correct,’ said Myriel. ‘Serena is our priority.’
‘Not just her.’ Prince Garald dabbed at sweat on his forehead. ‘I… should not be telling you this, but… The Queen of the North was to be used as Helena tal Ventris’ capital ship. My father instructed her crew to launch a strike against Dalthea, masked as a visiting delegation while he attacked Tarevia.’
Gallows swore. ‘Why the Queen?’
‘It can soar above the Steelpeak mountains,’ said Tiera. ‘Arnault had the Ryndaran air force fit it with weapons. The plan was to knock Dalthea’s skyport out in one hit.’
‘Damn it.’
‘Reckon I agree with that sentiment,’ said Morton.
‘I tried to buy time for Dalthea,’ Garald insisted. ‘But Father demanded we strike before Dalthea built another Schiehallion. I, I tried.’
‘The pirates are done,’ Morton pointed out. ‘Ventris wouldn’t attack alone… Would she?’
‘She’s not alone,’ Damien said. ‘As Tyson implied, it seems factions within the Ryndaran government are supporting her. If that’s the case, we have to assume her strik
e against Dalthea is a credible threat.’
Morton chuckled beneath his breath. ‘Damn the Gods. If the world finds out the Ryndaran government attacked Dalthea…’
‘Following the Idari conflict,’ Garald started, ‘the terms in the Imanis Union Treaty were redrafted to state that an attack on one member state is an attack on all member states—my father needed a proxy army to wage the war while publicly decrying it, all the while moving against Tarevia when everyone else was preoccupied.’
‘Arnault knew how to keep his hands clean,’ Gallows muttered.
‘Father was obsessed with taking Tarevia and Dalthea—obsessed with accomplishing what his ancestors could not.’
Morton chuckled and rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’m done. Nice to meet you all, in between all the killing and destruction, but this is more’n I signed up for—and I didn’t get bloody paid.’
Enoch placed a slate-grey hand on Morton’s shoulder. ‘You cannot run from your sins, friend.’
‘Reckon it’s worth a try.’
‘Commander Brunswick,’ Garald started. ‘There may be work for you yet.’
‘I’m commander of jack-shit, your highness. No offence.’
‘You’re a hero to my people. Your intervention with the pirate… Qitarah?’
Morton’s lips pursed. ‘Aye. Qitarah.’
‘You saved lives. Without your quick thinking, who knows where the remaining bombs would’ve ended up? I’m sure you could teach the cadets in the AFR a thing or two.’
‘We’re wasting time.’ Gallows’ head hung low and he clenched his eyes shut. ‘Damn the Gods... Myriel—tell Serena I’m sorry.’
‘Whatever for?’ she asked.
‘I… have to go back. I have to warn Fallon about Ventris.’
‘So send a messenger.’
Gallows shook his head. ‘Fallon’s a paranoid bastard—he won’t trust ’em.’
Myriel sat straighter. ‘Serena needs you by her side—our journey is not over.’
‘I can’t stand by and let Ventris destroy my home. Serena has you and Enoch—and I reckon Tiera owes us for not slinging her ass in prison.’
‘I owe nothing,’ Tiera spat.
Wrath of Storms Page 29
