by Jordan Rivet
She ran on through the night, getting farther from Narrowmar, farther from what she had done. She wanted to go back, to see if she really had rained down death in that corridor, but Archer and Mae would never forgive her for putting the baby in jeopardy to save them. Running away was the right choice, but that didn’t stop the tears that flooded her eyes, blurring her surroundings.
Briar stumbled, catching herself before she fell on top of the baby. The satchel of paints swung heavily at her side. She needed to stop, or neither of them would survive the night.
She slowed, blinking her eyes clear. The ravine looked different, as if a great fist had punched into the middle of it, making the ground ripple like struck flesh. The trees on the ridge were ripped up and scattered, their broken branches rising like skeleton fingers. That must be where Esteban had ambushed Lord Larke. There was no sign of him.
Briar scrambled toward a pile of ripped-up logs partway up the side of the ravine. She dropped to the ground behind the rubble, hiding from the men her parents would surely send after her. She sat in the darkness, attempting to slow her racing heartbeat and recover her strength. Clouds gathered overhead. A storm was brewing.
How far did she have to go to find safety? New Chester was more than a day’s journey away. Mae and Archer would be long dead by the time she deposited the baby and returned. Her heart stuttered, rebelling against the idea. She couldn’t lose him. They were barely getting started.
Then she heard a sound like the sneeze of a kitten. She raised her head and found herself looking into the wide blue eyes of the wide-awake infant. The baby stared at Briar, and Briar stared back.
She looked perfectly healthy with a pink face and a fuzzy shock of blond hair. Briar was relieved the tiny little sleep curse hadn’t hurt her, even though it hadn’t lasted long. The baby made a gurgling, mewling sound, still staring at the person who had carried her away from her mother. Briar felt a delicate flicker of hope, a moth wing fluttering against her cheek. Then the baby filled her lungs and began to wail.
“No,” Briar said desperately. “Please don’t cry.”
The baby cried louder.
“Please be quiet.”
The sound was piercing, echoing around the ravine, getting louder with each breath. Briar had never been more terrified of anything in her life. She looked around frantically for something to soothe the child. Nothing but rocks and uprooted trees surrounded her.
“I don’t know what you want.” She tried humming, but it came out more like a wail of her own. “Please, little baby. I got you this far. I need you to work with me.”
Her pleas had no effect on the baby whatsoever. It was probably hungry, and she couldn’t do anything to fix that. She would have to curse it to sleep again, though she feared she wouldn’t be able to make the curse small enough in the dark. As the baby cried louder, Briar buried her face in the blankets and began to sob. This was a disaster. They were going to be caught, and all their efforts, all the sacrifices that Archer and Mae and the team had made to get the little girl out of Larke’s clutches would be wasted. Briar had tried to do something good, and she had failed. She couldn’t keep from destroying things. She couldn’t save the tiny, innocent being. She couldn’t be anything other than her parents’ daughter.
The sound of movement reached her over the baby’s cries, rocks skittering away beneath heavy footfalls. Briar lifted her head, teeth bared, preparing to make one final stand—and found herself looking directly into a wrinkly face covered in slobber.
“Sheriff!”
The big dog whined and began licking all over her face. He switched to the baby next, showering affection on the tiny creature that would almost fit inside his mouth. The baby broke off crying, hiccupping softly, and stared up at the dog.
“What are you doing here, Sheriff?” Briar asked. “You’re supposed to be with the horses.”
Sheriff pulled back and gave her a reproachful look.
“You’re right. What am I saying? I’m so happy to see you.”
Briar wrapped her free arm around the big dog’s neck, wanting to cry again at the thought that she’d thrown a curse straight at Sheriff’s master and friend. How would she explain to him that Archer was lost? But the dog reminded her she wasn’t alone. She had joined a new family, and she wasn’t ready to give up on them yet.
“Sheriff, I need you to take care of something for me.”
The dog looked up at her curiously. She pretended not to see the skepticism in his gaze as she explained what she wanted him to do.
Chapter 31
When Archer opened his eyes, he was severely disappointed Esteban wasn’t there to sing him a healing lullaby. Every inch of his body hurt, and he feared he’d broken his back for the second time in two hours—and maybe his head too. There had to be limits to how many times that could happen in a day.
He struggled to sit up, and no one moved to help him, mage or otherwise. Dust, smoke, and groans of pain filled the corridor. It took Archer a minute to realize most of the groans were coming from him.
His father sat on the ground a dozen paces away, his face covered in blood from a gash in his forehead. He was surrounded by his soldiers, who were making a group effort to stop their lord from bleeding to death. The blood that also ran in Archer’s veins leaked out beneath their hands.
Archer wanted to run before the men realized he was awake, but first he had to stand, and that seemed like a lot to ask right then. He prodded his dust-covered body, trying to assess where the damage was. The answer seemed to be everywhere. Again.
His back didn’t appear to be broken this time, though, and he managed to stagger upright and prop himself against the nearest wall to get his bearings. A massive crater split the stone floor not far from him, where Briar’s curse had erupted.
Briar.
The details were coming back to him. Archer, his father, and the Drydens had walked right into Briar and Mae in the eastern corridor. Briar had reacted the quickest, diving to the floor to paint the curse that had taken out half the corridor. Mae had run for it. Archer had been too busy being blasted off his feet to see which way she’d gone.
He remembered Briar’s sorrowful eyes right before the blast, though. She’d seen him running toward her and decided to finish the curse anyway. Good for her. He’d had some idea of tackling Saoirse before she reached Briar and Mae, but Briar’s curse had taken care of the threat handily—and had possibly destroyed several of his internal organs.
Let’s worry about that later, shall we? Archer needed to determine what had become of the curse painters. Donovan had been closer to Archer’s father, but he wasn’t in the crowd fussing over the lord. Saoirse had been right in front of Archer. He rubbed his dusty eyes, wondering if she’d gotten past the curse and reached Briar after all. A jolt of fear went through him at the thought of losing Briar. She wasn’t even really his in the typical sense, yet the idea of anything happening to her hurt as much as all his injuries combined. He pressed a hand against the crumbling wall, trying to summon the energy to seek out those horrible painters before they found her.
Then an object Archer had taken for a lump of fallen stone moved. There was a faint moan, and a pair of dark eyes opened. Dust sifted through thick, curly hair matted with blood. Saoirse Dryden was lying beneath a pile of rubble.
Archer staggered over to the woman and dropped to his knees at her side. Saoirse looked as poorly as he felt. He brushed stone dust from her face, some of it clinging in the lines in her forehead. She looked at him, her fierce eyes dulled with pain.
“You’re … you’re here with her, aren’t you?” she mumbled. “Arrived same time … not a coincidence.”
“That’s right,” Archer said. “I’m with her.”
Saoirse’s mouth twisted in a sad smile. “Clever girl.”
“I think so too.”
Saoirse didn’t seem fully aware. Archer examined her injuries, wincing at their extent. She was hurt badly. The metallic odor of blood mixed with a
hint of oil paint and burned flesh. Archer moved some debris off her body, trying to make her more comfortable. He didn’t want the woman to kill his friends, but he couldn’t let her die in his arms either. How would Briar feel if the curse she’d painted killed her mother?
Saoirse touched his sleeve. “Is she …?” She drew in a pained breath, and blood bubbled at her lips. She must be bleeding badly inside. It would take a voice mage to save her. As far as Archer knew, her husband was the only mage left in the fortress—wherever he was—and all he could do was destroy.
Saoirse tried to speak again. “Is she …?”
“What was that?” Archer leaned closer to the woman then grunted as the movement sent agony through his gut.
“Well.”
“I’m sorry,” Archer wheezed. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Is … she well?”
“Your daughter?”
Saoirse blinked, perhaps too hurt to nod.
“Yes.” At least he hoped she was.
Saoirse’s hand dropped away from his sleeve. He continued talking, hoping to keep her with him a little longer—or at least to distract himself from his own pain. “In fact, she’s better than well. She has a new life, and she’s trying to be good … or at least better than her parents.” He winced as another stab of agony jolted through him. “You know how talented she is, and she has this powerful need to do what’s right, even though a huge part of her just wants to blow things up. It’s incredible to see her fighting against the cards she’s been dealt, choosing to walk a difficult path no matter how many times she has failed.”
Saoirse’s eyelids fluttered rapidly, and more blood bubbled from her lips. He couldn’t tell how much she could hear or how much she cared. Briar had told him her parents didn’t bother with good and evil, but even they had to look at a young person fighting against injustice, though the battle seemed hopeless, and feel a little bit inspired.
“How can I help you, Mistress Dryden?” Archer asked. “After everything you made her do, I still think Briar wouldn’t want you to die.”
“Sweet … briar.” Saoirse drew in a rattling breath and blinked rapidly, her lashes tinted gray with dust. Then she whispered, “Good.” And her fierce eyes closed.
Archer put a hand on her forehead, where the warmth was already fading, and wished her redemption in the next realm.
The commotion around his father had calmed. Jasper Larke was covered in bandages, though the bleeding didn’t seem to have stopped entirely. Briar’s curse stone had worked its magic, but Larke wouldn’t allow such a thing to slow him.
“Where is the Barden girl?” he demanded. “She must not escape.”
“The curse painter went after her,” one of his retainers said. “She won’t get past that door anyway.”
“I want that child,” Larke said. “I’ll give you to the curse painters if she escapes.”
“She won’t, sir.”
Archer rolled away from Saoirse’s body with a pained grunt and began to crawl, dragging himself away from his father. His job wasn’t done yet. His father’s cruelty was different from that of the Drydens, but Archer couldn’t let him get away with it. Larke would spread his influence over half the kingdom if he controlled the Barden heir, and it would be Archer’s fault. He had to keep fighting a little longer.
Chapter 32
Briar marched on the gates of Narrowmar, her satchel of paints bouncing at her hip, a thick horsehair brush clutched in her hand. The air smelled of char, sawdust, and upturned earth, remnants of the earlier battle. A chill wind whipped through her hair, cooling the sweat on her brow. A storm was building over the mountain.
Despite everything she had been through that night, Briar felt lighter and more energetic now that she no longer carried such fragile cargo. She had left the newborn baby nestled on a bed of branches, the massive dog standing watch. Lady Mae might kill her for taking that risk, but the baby was probably better off in Sheriff’s care than in Briar’s. He, at least, didn’t seem afraid of hurting the delicate little thing.
Briar saw no sign of the rest of the team as she neared the stronghold. Their efforts at infiltration and diversion had failed, and the night had swallowed them up. She was the only one left who could challenge the fortress. This time, she didn’t intend to sneak through the back.
She planned her curses as she approached the stone door, etching out the shapes and colors in her mind in meticulous detail. She wasn’t going to unravel her parents’ work or fight them curse for curse. They’d had plenty of time to prepare additional defenses while she’d carried the baby away, but she was done playing by their rules. It was time to show her parents a curse painter could do more than harm.
With a little help from the Law of Wholes, she was going to rip open that mountain without shedding another drop of blood. Master Winton’s house back in Sparrow Village had shown her how. She had planned out a subtle curse to weave into the cracks between the siding boards and eat away at the pitch—then a quick slash had turned the carefully threaded curse into absolute demolition. There were cracks in stone, too, and after tunneling through the mountain, she understood them well enough to put them to use.
The wind picked up, howling up the ravine as Briar reached the pale-gray wall at the front of the stronghold. Dark clouds amassed quickly in the night sky, and the scent of rain hung in the air. She didn’t have much time before the storm broke.
Ignoring the stone door and its elaborate protective curses, Briar studied the broad wall, which had been built across a natural fissure to form the stronghold long ago. It was a stone charmer’s work, one of the finest examples in the kingdom, formed as an extension of the mountain itself, but that didn’t mean it was faultless.
Briar took a deep breath and laid a hand on the pale-gray stone. Her fingers tingled, almost to the point of pain. She was tired, but she hadn’t reached her limit yet.
She opened a jar of umber and began to paint.
Archer was pretty sure he had cracked several ribs. That would explain most of the pain. He had cuts on his face, too, lacerations of the normal, clotting variety. He should be pleased about that. He had always thought a few scars would make him a more convincing outlaw.
But despite his best efforts, he couldn’t be glib. As he lurched down Narrowmar’s torchlit main corridor, it was difficult to believe he’d ever claimed to care for nothing but his dog and his bow and the open road. Archer cared a great deal, for his team, for his friend who had been ill used by his brother and kept captive by his father, for the girl who could slay him metaphorically with a look—and literally with a flick of her paintbrush.
Deep within the mountain, Archer once again felt like young Ivan Larke, who had been trapped within the walls of his station and his father’s name, who’d thought he lacked the power to change anything around him. Despite the callous household he’d grown up in, he cared about the people under his father’s dominion, those who had suffered, those who had been treated unfairly. And now Jasper Larke was trying to grab more power, no matter who got hurt along the way.
Ivan Archibald Larke had had enough. He’d once raged ineffectually against his father, his anger righteous but weak. He’d run away from his family’s name and legacy, believing he couldn’t change them. But after traveling with Briar and seeing the way she tried to use her dark power for good—albeit with varying results—he knew he could do better. He might never leave that mountain, never walk free on the open road, but he was his father’s son still, and he could right at least one of his wrongs.
He had put a patch on his youthful rage before. Now it had returned, but new-forged, focused. He let his new wrath drive him down the corridor, propelling him through the pain in his body. It wasn’t enough to be angry. He had to stand up and fight.
The stronghold reverberated with the shouts of men and the pounding of footsteps. They were searching for the missing prisoner in every chamber and exclaiming about a tunnel. If Mae and Briar had decided to go out the way t
hey came in or hide instead of trying to leave through the cursed doorway, it wouldn’t take the soldiers long to find them. He wondered what had become of Jemma and Nat. They were all supposed to be in there together.
Archer stuck to the main corridor, and no one challenged his right to be there. The torches flickered as he hobbled past, marking his progress toward the front of the stronghold. That was where Briar and Mae had been headed when he’d seen them last, so that was where he would start.
As he neared the end of the main corridor, he spotted Donovan Dryden crouched by the stone door. A full selection of paints lay before him, and he was embellishing the curse on the threshold. Beside him loomed a familiar pair of broad shoulders topped by a mop of thick brown hair. Archer’s steps faltered. It was his brother, Tomas.
The firstborn Larke son watched the curse painter work, a sword in his hand, blood dripping from the blade. Archer hadn’t expected Tomas to remain in Narrowmar for the birth of his child after delivering Mae there. He had washed his hands of her months ago, casting aside his responsibility and leaving Archer and their father to clean up his mess, as usual. Archer clenched his fists. Tomas was so frustrating. He bumbled through life with a smile on his face, not noticing how much damage his carelessness caused.
Archer stopped ten paces from the door, eyeing the blood dripping from Tomas’s blade. His brother never cleaned his weapons promptly either. The owner of the blood sprawled on the ground between Archer and the pair, the old captain who’d kept Narrowmar faithfully for decades.
Archer didn’t understand why Tomas would kill the captain. He’d been their father’s man for decades, as much a part of Narrowmar as the great stone door itself. Whatever the reason, the captain’s sword was still in its sheath at his belt, its hilt wrapped in burgundy leather.
Archer checked the corridor behind him to make sure no one was coming then studied the weapon. Dare he reach for it? Tomas was the better swordsman, and Archer was injured. He didn’t fancy the idea of stabbing his brother in the back, but what if he could take out Donovan while he was occupied? Would his death break the curse on the door?
