Chapter 37
Zennia gripped my arm. Two figures were approaching: guards emerging from the shadows under the gate. We flattened ourselves against the barbican wall, where the thin mist laced the towers like cobwebs. If we ran, they’d surely spot us.
“Up there,” I whispered, sliding along the wall, jerking my chin toward an upper window. The barbican’s towers were squat and thick walled, but the stone was rough with jutting reinforcements, arrow slits where we could place our feet.
Zennia boosted me, clasped hands under my heel, and I hauled myself up, remembering the cove. If I could climb out of there, I could scale this wall. The thought lent a warm, fierce strength to my limbs.
“Hurry,” Zennia murmured from below. I knew she wouldn’t have spoken unless it was urgent. I squeezed through the narrow window, its sides scraping me, and a moment later, Zennia tumbled in behind me. We kneeled on the floorboards, breaths coming harshly.
A mutter; another man’s short, grating laugh. They hadn’t seen us. They were moving away.
Heart thudding, I unbuckled the rapier from my belt and moved to the opposite side of the tower. Peering through an arrow slit into the ward, I hissed through my teeth. “What is that down there?” But there was no real need to whisper up here—the space below us was teeming with activity.
Zennia came up behind me, grim faced. “It almost looks like…” She cut off, squinting downward.
A platform had been hastily erected in the inner ward: a wooden deck held up with piled timber. Placed upon it, right in the center, was a block of stone.
Just then, a small party emerged from the keep. I angled myself so I could see them more clearly. Iovawn Crake, following his father, and behind him, surrounded by soldiers—the Shearwaters.
My hands gripped the ledge, and my chest constricted. Rexim, out front, was grave faced, stoic, no longer in his useless laconite doublet but in shirtsleeves only, his collar flecked with blood. Behind him came Emment, nervous and jittery, with a cut lip and a rapidly forming black eye.
The sisters came next, Catua’s cheeks wet, Vercha’s face bleached of all color. Vercha’s eyes were on Iovawn’s back, and she was holding herself stiffly, her gaze remote.
Last came Llir, limping slightly. His face was wan, his green eyes darting. When his gaze fell on the platform, with its ominous stone block, his Adam’s apple bobbed a few times, slowly.
My own throat and tongue had turned horribly dry.
“Looks like they’re going to finish them off,” Zennia whispered.
All I could do was shake my head. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not yet.
Below, Uirbrig Crake stalked toward Rexim. “Wonderful of you to join us at last,” he said. “You realized, eventually, it would be folly to resist. Good man. Although it seems your sons did not.”
Emment, with his battered face and bruised eye, leaned forward and spat as far as he could. A burly woman next to him, decked out in steel plate, reached for her weapon, but Crake stilled her with a gesture.
Crake’s eyes narrowed as they roved over Emment, taking him in critically. He shook his head.
“Get the Brigant up there,” he snapped at last, and Rexim was hauled toward the platform.
“I do apologize,” Uirbrig continued, his voice rising over the siblings’ protests. “This is all going to be rather uncivilized. But as I said to your father, I am a man of action. Of the here and now. This is, regrettably, necessary.”
Emment was trying to shake off his captors. Llir’s mouth opened; Vercha went even paler. “Scum,” Catua bit out savagely, her voice shaking, but Uirbrig ignored her, turning to watch Rexim’s progress.
Iovawn Crake was lurking nearby, shrug shouldered like a vulture, overseeing the proceedings. At his father’s order, at the words that followed, I thought I saw surprise flicker faintly on his face…but a second later, all trace of it was gone.
“Take me instead,” Emment choked, stepping forward. The woman in plate yanked him back with a grunt. “Take me, and let my father live. Hells know I deserve it.” His voice cracked miserably. “More than any of the rest of them.”
My fingers pressed the ledge until they hurt. My chest burned horribly. He thought he was a killer.
“If you spare him, and the others”—Emment glanced at his siblings—“my father will agree to step aside as a candidate. No one has to know about any of this.” He looked to his father, face drawn in desperation, but Rexim, implacable, merely shook his head narrowly.
Emment seemed to crumple, swaying where he stood.
Uirbrig chuckled. “Noble sentiments. I’m impressed. But you see, your father’s a sensible man. This is simply the way it has to be.”
I sensed Zennia shift beside me as Rexim was forced to kneel before the block. “Corith,” she murmured, a barely there warning. “Don’t look.” But I couldn’t drag my eyes from the ward.
“Stop!” came a high, brittle voice. It was Vercha. She was stiff-backed, staring at Iovawn Crake.
He met her gaze. Something passed between them. The others didn’t see it; they were distracted, devastated.
Iovawn said something inaudible to his father, but Uirbrig ignored him, a smile on his face. Uirbrig raised a hand, gestured to his soldiers, and one of them hefted a greatsword above his head.
As the siblings’ cries pierced the air below me, I felt a hot, sick lurch and turned away, squeezing my eyes shut.
But I’d forgotten to stop up my ears with my fingers, so that when the noises came—a horrible slicing, a meaty thud mingled with Vercha’s raw screams—they cut right through me, making me dizzy.
I knew I would never forget those sounds.
Then I felt Zennia’s warm hands on me, heard her voice in my ear: “We have to go. Now.”
I shrugged her away. Uirbrig was speaking again, his throaty voice raised over the siblings’ sobs.
I dragged myself up just enough to see them but angled my face to block out the platform. Black spots swam in my vision like flies.
“Now,” said Crake, pacing into my eyeline, “here’s what’s going to happen next.
I need to get off this godsforsaken island, share the unfortunate news of your father’s run-in with the Cage.
I’m told your Morning Tide—is that what you call it?
—will be heading for the mainland before too long.
I want us to be just ahead of it. We’ll turn south, move over Cormorant land. ”
I couldn’t see the fog-cloaked bay from here but knew the Waking Tide would be receding by now.
“But before that, you, my noble friend”—Crake was pointing a finger at Emment—“are going to tell me, right now, where your family keeps your hoard. I know it’s hidden somewhere on this island, and I know your father hasn’t sold it off.
You know as well as I do that’s a last resort.
The greatest of shames among the Hundred.
” He grinned, showing small yellow teeth.
“It’s not in your cellars—your coffers are too bare.
Many families stash it away somewhere secret.
I’m on a deadline here, so I’m going to need your help. ”
I looked at Emment, who was hollow eyed, haunted. His expression flickered with uncertainty for a moment, then his shoulders stiffened, his features closed tight.
“If you’re so foolish as to decide not to cooperate, I’m afraid we shall have to take measures to persuade you. And your dear siblings, if required.”
A weighty silence. Uirbrig sighed. He crooked a finger, and Emment was dragged forward. The Shearwater heir offered little resistance.
I barely caught Uirbrig’s next signal: a twitch of his chin, directed at his soldiers. As one of them hauled Emment’s tall frame straight, another delivered a roundhouse crack to his jaw.
Catua cried out. Llir’s eyes closed briefly.
Emment grunted, spat on the ground, but this time it was blood that stained the cobblestones.
“Feeling any more amenable?” Uirbrig’s tone was feather-light.
“Rot in hells,” came Emment’s drawl, his words slurring, his body listing.
All Crake did this time was glance at his soldiers. Another plated fist smashed into Emment’s face. I sagged again and turned, staring at the opposite wall.
“Corith.” Zennia’s voice was distant, buzzy. “Surely you don’t want to stay to see this? We have to get back. In case they decide to search the towers.”
A roaring sound was filling my head, Uirbrig’s words bubbling up beneath it: “I need to get off this gods-forsaken island…Your Morning Tide…I want to be just ahead of it.”
I looked dully at Zennia. She was crouching over me, her cloaked form just visible in the chamber’s thick shadows.
Something—an idea—was burgeoning in my mind.
I didn’t want to grasp it too forcefully, surprise it, for fear it would slip from my thoughts like water. My eyes roved the tower as I prodded at it, nurtured it, encouraged it to firm up and grow more substantial…
Zennia watched me, silent, understanding. We’d known each other for a decade now—she was used to my taking more time to process things. To germinate, and only later vocalize, a thought.
Below us, Emment’s beating had stopped. There was some sort of commotion. More people arriving. I folded my idea away gently, carefully, turned and peered back down into the ward.
“Crake!”
It was Avrix and Morgen Cormorant, flanked by their Orha and a few bored-looking soldiers. I spotted Nemaine, blood staining her jerkin.
“How long is this going to take?” barked Avrix. Seeing him, hatred and shame speared through me. “You said you’d get the hoard. I need to have this seen to.” He was cradling his hand, the flesh burned black, lines of pain etched into his forehead.
Uirbrig surveyed Emment, who’d collapsed on the ground. “I don’t have time for this idiocy,” he grated. “Take him up there. Start on the other boy next.”
Bustling activity. More cries from Catua. As a soldier grabbed Llir, my core turned to ice.
Emment was hauled up onto the platform—I glimpsed a red stain, a dark, slumped body—but before he could be made to kneel, like his father, Vercha stepped forward, face white as bone.
“It was buried beneath the old tower,” she said, her voice clear. “Deep below the cellar. But the tower collapsed. You’ll need a Mudmouth”—her eyes flicked to Iovawn—“but you’ll still reach it, if you don’t destroy it first.”
Emment’s shoulders slumped. Catua shook her head, despondent.
“Sensible girl,” Uirbrig said, smiling. And he walked to his son, who was standing just below us.
“Take some men and get the hoard.” His voice was low, but the words drifted upward. “I don’t care how long it takes. Then, when you have it, you can get rid of the whelps. But we need to make sure she was telling the truth, first.”
“And if she wasn’t?” Iovawn’s voice was deep, unsettling.
“Then start on them again. One by one. They’ll crack. Like I said, take as long as you need. Meet me on the mainland when it’s done. Do it properly.”
A shout from a guard broke through, drawing their attention.
“Sire. Sire! This one’s Orha!”
Uirbrig frowned. “What is it now?”
“This one’s Orha, sire. The second son.”
They were shoving Llir forward, his long legs buckling under him. One of his guards had a laconite cuff, which must have given the secret away. It was ringing faintly in the silence of the yard.
“Move away,” said Crake to his son, who obeyed.
Once it was just Uirbrig, the guard, and Llir, the Brigant stared down at the cuff in amazement. “Well, well, well,” he murmured, smirking. “Shearwater had a dirty little secret all along. All this time. We were more alike than I knew.”
“My father was nothing like you,” said Llir, his tone arctic.
In response, Uirbrig brought his meaty arm upward, smacking Llir’s chin. I heard his teeth knock in his head.
“We take the Orha with us,” Crake called. “Including this one.”
Llir raised his head, flexed his jaw with a wince. He flitted a dark, uneasy glance at the Brigant.
Behind him, the Cormorants were staring in shock. Morgen turned, murmured something to her brother, and Avrix, eyes fixed on Llir, shook his head.
“We’ve wasted too long here,” said Uirbrig to his son. “Go. Find this ruined tower. I’ll have men guard the rest of the whelps till you return.”
Iovawn gave an almost imperceptible nod and strode away, his long cloak fluttering.
The inner ward became a hive of activity as the majority of the troops prepared to depart.
Soldiers darted back and forth, beginning to load wagons, to pack equipment onto mounts.
Llir was led away, kept separate from his siblings, and for a second his gaze seemed to dart around the walls, the windows, as though searching for something—or someone.
I drew back, fearful that his guards would notice, and leaned against the stone, meeting Zennia’s dark eyes.
I took a breath, trying to center myself.
“Listen,” I said tentatively. “I think I have a plan.”