Chapter 41
Inside, the light is dim, casting shadows in every corner, and the air smells of stale ale and something far more unpleasant—like a mix of sweat, mold, and musty wood paneling.
The floorboards creak with every step beneath our weight, and Silas keeps a firm grip on my hand.
The person behind the bar raises a drink at Silas’s entrance, and he returns the smile, signaling to bring over two drinks once we are seated.
The bartender is aged, with deep lines etched into his forehead and gray hair shining against the darkness of the bar.
A few scattered tables line the front of the space, but we continue deeper through the bar toward the back.
Various maps and photos line the walls in no organized fashion.
The place is empty except for a few men who sit alone in the shadows.
Their comfort tells me that they are here often, and I can’t help but think of the few bars in Daramveer.
When the ports were thriving, I could hear shouts and laughter from the drunks leaving the bar at all hours of the night during the summer months.
Even though this place makes me feel sorry for those who are here constantly, an unexpected thrill runs through me.
As we walk deeper into the space, the light becomes even more scarce, providing a level of concealment that I assume Cyrus prefers.
The hushed chatter fades, and a door appears before us that I didn’t notice when we entered the bar.
Silas turns his head toward me and flashes a bright smile in the darkness.
“Come here often?” I ask.
“Larkin and I used to close this place down,” he says, as he chuckles. “I met him here for the first time. I punched him in the face, then tried to kill him.”
“I heard,” I respond and chuckle.
“I knew we would be friends as soon as my knuckles touched his cheek,” Silas says.
“You did?”
“Fuck no,” Silas laughs. “I hated him.”
Silas pushes open the heavy door, and whatever lies inside is completely covered by darkness. Nerves twist in my gut, but I follow Silas inside, closing the door behind me.
As we move further into the room, my eyes quickly adjust, and I see a single cigar burning in the darkness. The smell causes my nose to tingle, and behind the glow, I see the face of a white-haired man—Cyrus Pierce.
His deep, raspy voice speaks into the darkness. “I didn’t think you would show.”
Silas pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down as he joins me. I remove my axes and place them within reach on the floor next to me.
“Things have changed,” Silas replies.
Cyrus chuckles darkly. “I’m aware.”
“Are you?” Silas bites back.
“And you brought Briar Blackbyrne, the Queen of Daramveer,” Cyrus hums. “This must be my lucky day.”
“Where she goes, I go,” Silas says, with a shrug. “She thought it was in our best interest to speak.”
“She’s smart.”
“Indeed.”
“Is she trustworthy?” Cyrus continues.
Silas leans forward, and I shift in my chair, clearing my throat.
“Hello, Cyrus,” I say. “I won’t say it’s nice to see you. The darkness conceals too much of your face for that.”
“I prefer it that way,” he says, his deep voice turning in my direction.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning closer to get a better look. “I heard you are a fan of the shadows. Are you shy or just embarrassed by your looks?”
A deep, thunderous laugh blows the cigar smoke in our direction, and I use my hand to swat away the aroma of stout tobacco, sweet spices, and leather.
“And she’s a smartass,” he continues, laughing wildly. “Even better.”
“That is for certain,” Silas adds.
A whoosh of light erupts from his palm, illuminating the room with a bright glow. The sconces on the walls ignite, and the candles on the few tables surrounding us flicker. My eyes adjust to the light, focusing my gaze on his face.
He’s older, around my father’s age, and his eyes are as dark as the bottom of the ocean. His hair is white and gray, yet his face remains hard, and his features resemble Warrick’s handsome ones.
“That’s better,” I say, observing his expression.
“I prefer the shadows, Queen, because they’re quiet.” His aged eyes meet mine. “Less sarcasm. The light can be…blinding at times.”
I smile, propping my elbows on the table. “We need to talk.”
Cyrus settles back in his chair as the door creaks open.
Without turning around, I see him wave the man inside.
The bartender rushes in, carrying three cups filled with brown liquid, and he sets them on the table.
The smell of dark ale hits my nose, making my mouth water.
It’s been ages since I had a drink, and after today, I agree with Silas. A drink—or three—sounds delicious.
“I’ve closed the bar until your meeting is over, sir,” the man whispers. “You will not be disturbed.”
“No, need Kipp, this won’t take long,” Cyrus replies, putting out his cigar. “Right?”
I meet his gaze, and I smile sarcastically, dipping my chin.
The man bows. “Either way, sir, the entire bar is yours. Take your time.”
As quickly as the barkeep entered the room, he exits, leaving us alone once more.
I can tell that Cyrus is a man of power, based on the way people interact with him.
Even sitting before the King of Andorwood, he shows no nerves—no hesitation—and oozes confidence.
Apparently, Cyrus has been asking Silas to join the rebels for years, and I can’t help but think of what those conversations looked like.
I would have paid to be a fly on the wall for those meetings.
Silas stirs in his chair. “I’m assuming you saw the uproar we caused today?”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Cyrus says. “Although I didn’t expect Briar to jump in like she did. You were seconds away from losing your mind, Nastronde. That wasn’t a good look.”
“I don’t respond well to threats against someone I love.” Silas adjusts his shirt. “I know you don’t understand what I mean, though.”
“Can you elaborate?” Cyrus furrows his brow. “Or do you want to continue being passive-aggressive?”
I huff a laugh.
“Have you ever loved anyone, Cyrus?” Silas replies. “Other than yourself?”
Cyrus huffs a laugh. “Always bringing up my family matters whenever you can, Silas.”
“Just calling it like I see it.”
“It gets old,” Cyrus responds. “Warrick is grown. He can fight his own battles and choose to speak to me should he see fit.”
“Bullshit,” Silas spits.
“I’m always available.”
“You know that isn’t the truth, Pierce.” Silas goes still, placing both hands on the table. “Available isn’t a word I would ever use in a sentence regarding you.”
I roll my eyes at their bickering.
“What word would you use to describe me, then?” Cyrus’s anger grows.
Silas opens his mouth to speak, and I clear my throat, punching him under the table.
“Are we going to discuss what the true threat is?” I scoff, taking a long drink of my ale. “Or are you two going to throw digs the entire time?”
They glance at me.
“If so,” I prop my legs on a nearby chair, “I can gladly order a second ale and get comfortable.”
Cyrus tips his head back and laughs. The sound travels through the room, and I keep my gaze focused solely on him.
“I like her, Silas,” Cyrus says, continuing to laugh. “She’s going to ruin you in the best way.”
Silas cuts his eyes toward me. “She already has.”
I place my hands around the chilled cup, lowering my legs.
“A ship is days away from docking. It’s filled with the resurrected.
Calia Thornfield and Nolan Harte have been working to raise an unstoppable army to assist Carobon in taking full control, as he tried centuries ago.
We need your help now, and again in the future when we confront the Great Wiitch. ”
Cyrus goes quiet and traces small circles around the frost on his cup.
“And what are we supposed to do when the other Great Wiitch—Kalix—comes forward?” Cyrus questions. “Will she attempt to eliminate all Lumor Wielders to ensure the darkness regains full power once more?”
I tense. “That won’t happen.”
He studies me. “And how do you plan to stop her?”
I narrow my eyes. “Kalix has lived within me for nearly six years, and she has yet to step forward fully. I’ve mastered controlling her, and every day I’m one step closer to destroying her.
But,” I pause, glancing at Silas, “I plan to ensure that those around me have a strategy to handle her if it happens. Whatever that means for my own being.”
He furrows his brow, and Silas slowly travels his gaze toward me.
“What?” His voice snaps in my mind.
“Later,” I respond.
“Briar.”
That’s the first time I’ve said that aloud, and I know he wants to object. However, he remains quiet and lets me speak.
“I seek peace and fairness. I want all Wielders to coexist in harmony, without fear of power or death. I plan to cleanse this realm of both Great Wiitches, as others have attempted before, and quite frankly, I’m tired of power-hungry assholes ruining everything.”
He huffs, nodding his head.
I take a deep breath. “I can’t do it without allies.”
Cyrus looks at Silas and back at me. “And if you fail?”
“Then you’re dead anyway,” I answer. “We all are.”
Cyrus takes a drink of his ale.
“Help us, so we can ensure that neither of those options comes to fruition.”
He nods his head, listening to my words. He takes another long sip of his drink, and the foam clings to the stubble dusting his upper lip. He wipes it away and stares at me, dark eyes piercing into mine, but I remain firm and steady.
“What of Daramveer?” Cyrus asks.
I look at Silas; his gaze could ignite this bar. I follow in Cyrus’s footsteps and take a sip of my own ale before me.
“First on my list of things to do when I return to the mainland is reclaiming my kingdom and ensuring Eden suffers for the pain and torment she inflicted.” I lean forward. “Daramveer is mine, and I owe those people a safe home. I plan to do whatever is necessary to achieve that.”