Chapter 36
Jarin stalked King Reynard from the gallery like a shadow, his blood simmering with anger.
His mother, the sorceress Levissina, was born and raised in the icy northern village of Tjaele, Morktland. The grave on which Reynard hoped to dance was Levissina’s.
Did the king kill her?
Jarin assumed the curse broke because a woman fell in love with Davron. It didn’t occur to him that Levissina might’ve died in the process. She always seemed bigger than life and death.
Could Jarin confront the king? Reynard might indeed be able to help with Polinth, given how much he loathed mages. Jarin could send the king and his men after Polinth like a bloodhound after a rabbit.
He had to try, for Riella’s sake.
Reynard swaggered down the corridor, away from the party. His crown caught the light, shimmering like ice and snow atop his mountainous form. None of his flesh was visible, not even his hands, which were covered by leather gloves.
Jarin quickened his pace, his breath shallow with anticipation. Within moments, Reynard would reunite with his cache of guards, and the pirate would lose the ability to speak freely with the king. So, speak he must, regardless of how ill-prepared he was for the confrontation.
“Garstang!” he shouted, his deep voice filling the high corridor.
That was all he had. Jarin didn’t know what to say next. Reynard turned around slowly, like he didn’t fear a thing in the world. Jarin strode within three paces of him.
Reynard squared his shoulders, squinting at Jarin’s masked face. The pirate was close enough to make out the king’s mismatching eyes. One was clear and pale blue, and the other was nearly closed over, the flesh red and scarred.
“The sorcerer Polinth seeks to assassinate you this evening,” said Jarin.
The lie came to him so easily. If a man like Garstang cared about anything, it was his own hide. Even if he doubted Jarin was telling the truth, the king hated mages enough to act on suspicion alone, surely.
“Then, he ought to join the queue,” replied Reynard with a growl. “And who are you?”
Jarin hesitated. Should he tell the truth about his identity? He wanted answers about his mother, and Reynard might have them. But tonight was about Riella.
Tonight could not be about Levissina, who forfeited her right to piety when she slaughtered innocents. He knew that. He just had to know one thing.
“Did you kill her?” he asked, trying to keep emotion from his voice. “Levissina.”
Garstang stepped forward, regarding Jarin with genuine curiosity. “Who are you, that you would care about that demonic wench?” He put his gloved hands on his hips. “Remove your mask.”
Regret flooded Jarin’s entire being. What had he done? Riella needed him.
“No,” he replied.
“I am King Reynard Garstang of Morktland and if you do not obey me, I will have you beheaded this very night.” From behind his mask, Reynard’s eyes drifted to Jarin’s chest, where his mother’s gold pendant gleamed in the candlelight. “Remove your mask,” he repeated.
With one hand, Jarin took off the black skull.
“I thought as much.” Garstang snorted. “You are your father’s twin. Well, I’m thrilled to inform you that your mother is dead. Gutted like a fox. I expect you’ll be relieved, no? You can crawl out of hiding now.”
The air left Jarin’s lungs. His feelings about his mother had always been an incomprehensible mess of anger and love and resentment and sadness, and hearing of her death only amplified these emotions. For all her crimes, she died alone and by violence in a foreign kingdom, like his father.
With both parents gone, and Riella living her final night, Jarin felt profoundly untethered to this world.
The sensation was oddly freeing. He had nothing to lose. With his invulnerability gone, it was almost like fate was daring him to offer himself in Riella’s place. Why else would the prophecy exist, unless someone was meant to subvert it?
Neither of his parents would sit idly by while the person they loved was in peril. They’d fight with everything they had. Perhaps they watched him from the Beyond now, urging him onward, and would lend him aid on his mission. If he succeeded, he’d meet them again soon.
Fate demanded a life tonight? Let it be his. He who’d never belonged. He who carried the weight of his mother’s crimes like lead in his blood.
“I’d ask if you ever faced her in a fair fight,” said the pirate to the king. “But I believe I can guess the answer.”
He tossed aside his skull mask, turned his back on Reynard, and went to find Riella.
“There is no fair fight where demons are concerned!” called the king after him. “But justice will always be done, in the end.”
As he strode in the direction of the ballroom, Jarin privately agreed. He, the son of a renowned murderess, would save a siren—a defender of innocents. Vengeance would not come into play. This was about justice. And he was prepared to take anyone with him who tried to stand in his way.
“Are you Jarin?”
A black-robed acolyte stepped into his path, her hood down.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Neve and the High Magus sent me to assist Riella. She’s looking for you. And Polinth.”
“Well, where is she?”
The acolyte gave a faint smile. “She’s very precious to you.”
“More than you know.” He exhaled. “I must find her.”
“And we shall. I was with her just minutes ago. Follow me, I’ll show you where.”
He accompanied Neve to a hallway over the main gallery, littered with partiers and empty champagne flutes.
“We’ll check every room,” he said to the acolyte. “We don’t stop until we find her.”
Jarin banged the doors open, not bothering to be subtle or close the doors afterward. He barged in on drunken guests, some passed out and others mid-copulation. After scanning the room and finding no Riella, he’d move on.
Finally, he reached the end of the hallway. There he stood, considering the shadowy labyrinth of walkways and halls and galleries comprising the rest of the palace. The place was enormous, and she could be anywhere by now.
From the corner of his eye, something glimmered on a console partway down the darkened hallway. He frowned, walking over. Riella’s butterfly mask lay discarded on the marble top.
“Riella?” he called.
He went to the balcony railing, and shouted her name again. There were only drunken shouts in return.
Neve appeared at his elbow, her face pinched. “You found her mask?”
He nodded and gave it to her wordlessly, a concrete block forming in his stomach. He was too late. Something had happened to her.
The acolyte held Riella’s mask, waving a pale hand over it.
“I might be able to pick up her essence. Her energetic signature.” Neve frowned in concentration, staring into space as she continued waving her hand. “This isn’t my specialty, but if I can detect it, we can follow it.”
“What is your specialty?” asked Jarin, hoping it was something like vanquishing dark sorcerers with the snap of her fingers.
The corner of Neve’s eye twitched at his question, but she didn’t answer.
Unable to stand still, Jarin paced, running his hands through his hair in frustration. What if he’d seen Riella for the last time? He couldn’t believe he voluntarily walked away from her.
Neve drifted toward the nearest staircase.
“She went down here.” The acolyte jerked her head, as if catching a scent or hearing a sound. “A mage was with her. There’s a strong imprint.”
“Gods,” said Jarin with a groan. “Polinth has her, and he wants the amulet. He’ll be taking her out to sea. Let’s go.”
The streets were feral with revelers in the humid night. Berolt and Drue spotted Jarin from the porch of a tavern where they’d been waiting for his instruction. They ran to catch up.
“Where’re we off to, Captain?” asked Drue.
“To get ourselves the fastest vessel we can find. We’re going after Riella.”
The four arrived at the docks, which were eerily quiet compared to the chaos of the city. There was no movement or sound except for water gently lapping against hulls.
“Are you sure she came down here?” asked Berolt.
Jarin boarded a cutter, leaping onto the sleek vessel directly from the dock and climbing over the railing. He slammed down the gangway for Neve, Berolt, and Drue to board. At the helm, he found a spyglass and scanned the shimmering indigo horizon. The moon splashed silver across the water, illuminating a lone vessel sailing away mid-distance. He squinted. Was that Polinth and Riella?
Movement on the side of the vessel made his heart drop. Half a dozen pirates scaled the hull with ropes, having snuck aboard. Polinth may’ve been a powerful sorcerer, but he knew nothing about checking a ship for stowaways or pirates.
Artus and his lackeys had beaten Jarin to the punch. Artus, whose tongue Jarin had cut out, would want more than just the amulet—he’d be out for revenge. Jarin’s beloved Riella was on a ship with a deranged Polinth and barbarous Artus, and no one to help her.
He would not let her die alone. He would not let her die at all.
“Haul the anchor!” he roared over his shoulder.