Chapter Two
Jarok
The attack on the palace rattled him, above all others perhaps, because palace security was his domain. He’d also been the one to find the murdered guards along the western wall, their throats slit before they could raise a single alarm. His mother’s warrior instincts had saved them from complete disaster. He also had to admit Piris’s quick thinking and reflexes in the moment helped a great deal. Still. Still. His defenses were breached, his mother and sister-in-law and whatever Lady Piris might be to him had been attacked on his grounds.
There’d been hours of study and discussion over the matter—more concern over security, but in the end, their best course of action was the one they already treaded; they needed to complete this mission. Find Monti and his Benders and cut the attacks off at their root. Until then, they were certain attacks would continue to come. Some of which might even come on their travels.
Jarok managed to stuff down the guilt and rage at the second attack on his family and their home and steeled himself as he entered his brother’s study. For the journey ahead and the danger it may entail.
“Are you prepared, brother?” Ghel asked as soon as Jarok stepped into the room. Slipping into his nonchalant courtly mask to cover his worry and guilt, he gave a hard snort at the question. He exaggerated looking down at himself. His fighting leathers, a grayish black which highlighted the glossy black of his hair, molded to his body while his trusty falchion, with its wickedly sharp curved edge, sat secure at his side. The leather riding gloves hung loosely around his travel belt next to his small purse. His saddlebags weren’t hanging around his neck, as they had been sent ahead to his horse, but he thought he looked damn ready himself.
He quirked an eyebrow at his brother, who looked him up and down with his own huff of annoyance, then bent back over his desk to study a map. None in his family blamed him for the most recent attack. No one questioned his security measures or methods, asking only how exactly the Bender had gotten onto the palace grounds, then mourning the loss of his men as he did. He blamed himself, however, and the prodding games he played with his older brother helped him push the blame aside. For a time at least.
When Jarok pulled closer, he noticed the map ran the course of the Great River, or at least the portion of the Great River running through the Winterlands. Smack in the middle, nestled among a visual representation of some type of evergreen forest, sat Volesion Peak, their supposed destination. Ghel managed a glance his way and a huff at his sarcastic look, but he dropped the questioning, going back to whatever he and Cylian were discussing.
“See here,” Ghel said, tracing a thick finger along the edges of the river on the map. “This is what I was telling you about. So many outcroppings, cave systems, coves and such. Unless we have more information, we’re going in blind. We could search for a year and never find Engad Monti and his Benders unless they wanted to be found.”
“How do we gather more information, beyond the normal means?” Jarok’s question was valid. He knew how to talk, to laugh… to get others to talk and laugh with him, which he could do while on the road whenever they stopped with others. More than that, and they needed a plan.
“No one knows the river and what happens on or around it better than Brettly Volesion,” Ghel said without looking back at Jarok.
“Definitely seems getting into Lord Volesion’s good graces is a necessity then,” Cylian muttered.
“Yes,” Ghel grunted. “I fear we might not be able to do so.” Jarok may have imagined the pointed tone in his voice, the accusation there, so he ignored it and feigned ignorance.
“Why, brother?” he asked, leaning a slim hip against the side of the desk. “Do you doubt my and Cylian’s ability to charm?”
Hard, dark eyes bore into Jarok with the exasperation only an older sibling can rightfully display. “I doubt he’ll be too happy to discover the secret he kept about his daughter, to ensure her safety from any in power, especially those in leadership positions in two different Fae lands, has been revealed to us.”
“That was Lady Piris’s choice,” Jarok replied. He’d known something was off about the woman. Knew in his bones she had a lurking secret, and not only because he caught her snooping on the grounds the night of their arrival, before he even knew she was his sister-in-law’s lady-in-waiting and best friend. He had seen it there, a shadow in those bronze eyes of hers, and had set himself to the task of discovering what she hid from everyone. Despite all his needling, his watchful guards, and his own watchful eyes always narrowed on her when she was in his vicinity, he’d never come close to guessing her secret. It rankled a bit. He prided himself on being a man of information, being able to gather and reveal and know whatever needed to be known, especially in and around the palace, which was his particular protective domain. Having a mimic there for weeks, without any clue, was a blow to his ego.
If he were honest, having a mimic in the Winterlands at all was a shock. Their magic was exceedingly rare, hidden away from the old hunts and persecution and forced servitude. Mimicry was a formidable power. The ability to mimic sound as Piris could might be handy, but the real force came with the ability to mimic any magic they felt or observed, ever. In their entire life. It meant Piris could conjure any magic she needed as long as she’d encountered it once. No wonder she was iron and wood, rigid and cold and unbendable. To have such power, and hide it away. Take the whispers of people who thought her powerless and do nothing to prove them wrong. It displayed a level of skill and will he might call awe inspiring if it didn’t reside in Lady Volesion.
“Yes. She made her choice,” Cylian said, breaking into Jarok’s musings about the maddening woman. “Doesn’t mean her father will be happy with her for making the choice, or with us for knowing despite her choice.”
“Which means we’ll have a harder time getting him on our side, or trusting he’ll share useful information.” Jarok said it out loud, but he knew they were all thinking it.
A big sigh came from Ghel. “Exactly. We need his help. We might even need his ships.”
“Darin has access to at least one ship, moored here, if all else fails. The Springlands king has a vested interest in squashing a rebellion so close to his own shores.” Cylian spoke as he pointed out a port on the other side of the Great River, along the border of the Springlands.
“Darin Marco? He’s our ally in this,” Jarok sneered. Now he knew why Ghel hadn't told him before this. He had a grave dislike for Marco, even though he’d only met the man in passing when he had been a teenager. Darin Marco was a known spy and assassin for the domineering royals of the Springlands.
Jarok supposed such a king, bent on retaining absolute power and control, would be more than a little concerned about any whisper of rebellion close to his kingdom. The Boraus were not happy with rebellion, but Jarok, like his family, felt it was a false rebellion, born on a need for power rather than a need for political of social change. Maybe he was biased, but he felt himself proof of the care and concern of the royals of the Winterlands—an orphan nearly dead on the Ice Plains scooped up by the family and made one of their own. It was emblematic of how they led the land, and a reason why Jarok had an ingrained drive to protect his family and help his kingdom. Not because he was born to it, expected it, but because he could help others with the political and social power he possessed.
He suspected Engad Monti did not feel the same. He knew the king of the Springlands did not, and that was part of his problem with allowing a weapon of this monarch into his land. It didn’t sit well with Jarok to have such a person come into the Winterlands, at their request no less. He’d serve his king without question, which meant they couldn’t trust what he'd do when he fought beside them, if it ever came to that.
“You need to put all your issues aside during this mission,” his brother grumbled at him as he looked at the map, setting the images to memory.
“All? Whatever do you mean, Prince?” The sarcasm wasn’t exactly warranted, but Ghel needled him, digging into old annoyances and wounds, even if he didn’t realize he did it.
Ghel straightened and squared around to face Jarok. Ghel had four inches on him, but Jarok stood tall against his brother, despite his shorter, leaner build. He’d fought him many times, in practice and in annoyance, and had never backed down from his brother. Most Fae men, faced with the anger of Prince Ghel Borau, would step away if given the chance. Not Jarok. He’d never step away, never show he wasn’t up to the task, despite often feeling like it.
“Jarok. Please. For your own good and for the good of us all, do try to curb the sarcasm and bite. With Marco and, more importantly, Lady Piris.”
“Lady Piris doesn’t require your protection, Ghel.” It was the truth. She hung heavy, a weight around his neck while in his palace. She was no damsel in distress. “A fighter with a sharp mind, tongue, and probably several blades, yes, but not a Fae woman needing protecting.”
“She is my wife’s sister by bond, so she is now my sister.”
“But not your sister,” Cylian said with a smirk to Jarok. He wasn’t at all interested in the implication there, so he left the comment alone.
“All I’m saying, brother, is she can handle herself.”
“Yes, but you don’t need to make it harder for her,” Ghel countered. With a sad whisper, he said, “Strella worries.”
Ah, of course. Ghel worried because Strella worried. He should respect his brother’s wishes, wear the congenial, pleasing mask he usually had no problem slipping on when he needed to do so. For his brother, whom he loved with all his soul, and his new sister, whom he also loved, not in small part because she’d saved the brother he loved in a number of ways. Something about Lady Piris Volesion made it damned hard for him to do this. When she was near, the mere look of her riled him, calling for words or actions he’d never consider throwing at another lady.
“I hear you, brother,” he finally said, “and I understand the concern you and Princess Strella have, the love she has for this lady. I… I will try.”
“Trying is all we can ask, right, Ghel?” Cylian looked between his friends to make sure it would be enough, always the thoughtful diplomat.
Prince Ghel’s hair, a wild, massive knot at the back of his head, bobbed as he nodded hard. Then, his bulky, muscled arms shot out toward his brother. Jarok flinched back slightly, always ready for the playful but sometimes painful hits his brother might give him, but a blow didn’t come. Instead, those arms wrapped tight around him, pulling him into a deep bear hug. The warmth of him was familiar, a comfort he’d known almost all his life, and he melted into it a touch.
“I worry for you too, you know.” Ghel’s gruff confession in his ear made Jarok’s hard smacks on his brother’s back too jerky.
He pulled back, slipping the cocky mask in place, and said, “No need to worry about me, Ghel. I’m far too handsome to die.”
Ghel wasn’t amused by the joke, not in the least, and clapped Jarok on the shoulder, gripping him tight. “Ensure Lady Piris remains safe from any undue pain, and ensure you return to this palace.”
The brothers rarely went off without one another. Only a handful of times had Jarok gone out on a campaign away from the palace, much less without Ghel at his back. He’d thought little of it until the realization hit. He was off, without his brother close, to a mission which might well mean battles. Gem would accompany there, and he loved his cousin fiercely. Cylian was as close as a brother in some ways. Still, neither were Ghel, the gruff, silent Fae he remembered chasing away his nightmares when he had been a boy of four and new to the palace. The one who had taught him tricks in the practice ring. Who teased in his own, dry way. Neither were his older brother. He joked with Ghel, riled him, teased and fought and everything in between, but he knew beyond doubt Ghel would lay his life down for him. Just as Jarok would lay his life down for Ghel.
If the hidden Monti wasn’t stopped, he’d come after Ghel again, as he’d done in the Ice Plains battle. The idea steeled Jarok, made him shove the initial fear down so it remained quieted by more important things like duty and respect and love.
“I will, Ghel,” he said, no trace of his sarcastic charm or jokes. He stood firm, all seriousness in the face of what could possibly come.
“Good. Good,” Ghel said, and Jarok was struck by how much he sounded like their father, the king, when he said that often-used phrase. “Now come. We need to discuss possibilities.” Gesturing toward the map, he stepped back to the desk, Jarok following, with Cylian close behind. The three heads bent, searching for answers there, or with each other.
Jarok triple-checked the hooves of his horse. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the grooms of the palace. They had exceptional magic and cared a great deal for their charges. One would serve as coachman along the way to keep the magic in place. However, he’d heard, in detail, what had happened with Princess Strella when she had gone off to battle to save his brother, and the idea of the magic wearing off was fresh in his mind.
“All right, cousin?” he heard from behind him, the familiar timbre of the voice telling him it was Gem even more than the words she said. He eased the lifted hind leg of the horse to the ground and spun to sail her way, a genuine smile extended to her twin at her side, her brother Stone. He figured he was seeing her off, as most of the royals were doing with everyone in the party.
Gem stood, her right hip hitched as her left hand sat on the pommel of her short sword. She was in light travel leathers, or light compared to the pile of furs and leather and wool Aurora Clan warriors usually wore. Better for her to mix in with the usual Fae traveling the main roads in the Winterlands. She still stood out clearly as a warrior, what with her stance and her sword and her hard eyes squinting in the abnormal afternoon sun, taking in the scene before her.
“All is fine, cousin,” he said, walking up to smack both on the back in greeting. Stone and Gem stood strong against it, and Jarok braced as both hit him, each delivering a punishing blow on the backside of both his shoulders in quick succession. His knees eased, his core flexed, and he prided himself on taking the blows without stumbling a step. Gem and Stone smiled broadly at him, their royal cousins passing their usual little test.
“Aye, all looks fine,” Stone said with a touch of admiration in his voice, his warrior’s gaze landing on something in the distance. Gem elbowed him in the side and shook her head at his antics, all of which made Jarok turn back around to see Lady Piris in her gray traveling dress saying good-bye to Princess Strella.
“Your brother is a lucky man,” Stone said, making Jarok both rankle and breathe easy at the same time for some reason. A long pause stretched before Stone said, “And some other lucky Fae will take on the tall warrior one day.”
Jarok ground his back teeth, his jaw flexing while he shifted his shoulders, finally deciding on a noncommittal grunt in response.
“Enough, Stone.” Gem shoved him away. “Good-bye.” She grunted without fanfare, moving toward the carriage. Her brother didn’t let her go far, reaching his long, massive arm out to snag her and give her a big sideways hug. Gem hit him yet again, which he should’ve seen coming, but the man chuckled and let her loose to go stand with the woman she was supposed to guard as she also played companion and chaperone.
Apparently following Jarok’s own thoughts, Stone said, “Seems a little silly, giving that woman a guard.”
Jarok said, “Yes,” the S a hiss across his lips. He could say a great deal about Lady Piris, most of which would not be flattering, but he’d never be able to say she was a woman who needed a guard along a standard Winterlands road.
Stone hit him again, absently checking the saddlebag at the horse’s side before saying, “Be safe, cousin,” and striding away without another look.
He was used to the odd mix of jokes and quiet from his cousin, so he took no offense. Instead, he looked around, quirking a dark eyebrow at Cylian, who stood checking his own horse a few yards away. Nodding at the prince, both mounted and reined toward the carriage where he saw Gem, then Lady Piris stoop into the confines. Both women were tall, Lady Piris a little taller even than his cousin, so he wondered how comfortable they’d be stuck in the carriage for long hours.
Princess Strella stood back as Prince Ghel closed the door tight and moved them to their parents. The king and queen stood back a few steps from the ground, waving good-bye to the two in the carriage. Prince Jarok rode up, pausing his horse in front of his family. He’d said his good-byes earlier, but he wouldn’t leave without saying something again. Just as they worried about him on the road, he’d worry about what might happen here in the palace with him gone for weeks. He trusted his brother to keep the palace safe, but it was still his responsibility, one he left behind for this mission. He couldn’t imagine ever trusting anyone else to take over security. Before he could say anything, his brother’s gruff boom sounded. “Take care of yourself, Jarok.”
“I will. I always do,” he said, getting a small smile from his father and his mother, though his brother shook his head. Not wanting to extend the scene further, he smiled big at the family he was leaving behind and spurred his horse. Pulling into the lead position, he left his home behind, worry over himself and others a ball of heat in his gut.
They’d made it four slow miles past the palace along the winding forest road leading to the main traveling thoroughfare of the Winterlands. It bypassed the Ice Plains and the emptiness there, but the cold, evergreen woods and snow-packed lane felt tedious to Jarok, and he blamed it on the carriage. He knew why they needed it. Part of the plan was for them to appear as protection for Lady Piris as she traveled home, which was completely understandable to most Fae they’d encounter along their route, as everyone knew Lady Piris was a null noblewoman. If only people knew the truth: she was a mimic in their midst. No, he snatched the thought back almost as soon as he had it. She didn’t need anyone else knowing about it. Gem, he trusted. She’d obviously been told so she wouldn’t be surprised if it came up while they were traveling. Suddenly, a different, exceedingly distasteful idea wormed its way through his head.
“Cylian,” he called to his right side. “What exactly have you told Marco?”
Lord Padalist didn’t turn his flame-red head to his friend as he scanned the road ahead. “Only what was necessary.”
“What was deemed necessary?”
“The outline of the rebellion so far, information regarding Engad Monti past and present, what the Winterlands royals wished as well as what they were willing to do in order to achieve those wishes.”
He knew those things too. He’d hashed it out with his family in private before they relayed it all to Cylian, who’d presented them with the opportunity of an ally. The Winterlands royal court was willing to give a great deal to ensure the ex-Monti leader stopped being a threat to their lands and their family. He agreed with it in theory, the high price, but knowing it was Darin Marco, or the Springlands royals, who’d reap the reward made him uneasy.
None of it answered his real question in the moment. “Anything about our party?”
Cylian looked at his friend then, eyeing him up and down from a few feet away as their horses clomped along. His silver eye with its slashing scar flared as the smile spreading across his lips reached his other gold-tinged eye. “I told him who was in our party.”
“Come on, Cylian.” Jarok was done with the back-and-forth, especially when he saw the tease on his friend’s face. He took a second to look back at the carriage, not able to see the woman he wanted information about in the moment. “You know what I’m asking.”
“Then why not come out and ask it, friend?”
“Cylian,” Jarok growled, sounding oddly like his far gruffer brother in his annoyance. He was a man who rarely became annoyed with others, or at the very least, a man who was able to easily hide his annoyance with a smirk, clever comment, or joke. The mask he wore so often.
The lord beside him barked out a laugh. “If I didn’t know better… Ignore my musings, friend. I told him enough, which was there was a Fae noblewoman with us, a formidable fighter who for her own reasons hid her nature from others in this land.”
He needed more assurance. “He doesn’t know she’s a mimic?”
Cylian stopped his teasing with his next words. “He does not, but he very well could, quite soon. Darin Marco is a friend, a sometimes ally, and one of the shrewdest Fae I’ve ever known. If something happens, if Lady Volesion must use her powers around him, he won’t miss the implications.”
Jarok jerked his head in agreement. All true, and all worrying. They did not need yet another powerful Fae with knowledge of Lady Piris’s powers, if only because her father would be even more displeased with it. At least, that was what Jarok told himself as he worried over the possibilities of her exposure to the Springlands assassin.