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Chapter Twenty-Four

brIAR

“B lessed Thara, Goddess of Wind, protect those who dwell in Spring.”

The words were hollow in my mouth. But I said them anyway, the ship’s deck digging into my knees.

Pink and gold dusk spread over the sky. The ship rocked gently beneath me. I mumbled my way through the rest of Thara’s devotion. Perhaps she listened, although probably not on my behalf.

No, if the goddess favored me, it was because of Tanyl. The wind had held steady through the night, and we’d crossed the Covenant shortly before noon. If the weather held, we’d skirt Mudwall before sunset.

I curled my fingers more tightly around the reedwhip’s handle. The elders of the Citadel liked to say the gods provided—and they did, sprinkling the rivers with plenty of reeds. Collecting them had been as simple as leaning over the edge of the ship and yanking the swaying stalks from the water. I’d kept watch through the night, braiding the long strands as I listened for Scarrok.

But none came. And by morning, I had what I needed to appease the gods.

“Perun protect me,” I said, bowing my head. “Perun forgive me.”

I swung. The wind swept the noise away. Another blessing. The goddess knew I deserved her reproach.

Strike after strike landed, and I clenched my jaw as blood trickled down my back.

“Perun forgive me,” I said through a tight throat. For striking her . For wanting him . For every twisted, tangled emotion that had tempted me from my vows.

When I finished, I hung my head, sweat trickling down my temple. Then I got to my feet and went to the basin of water I’d prepared. Tossing it over my shoulder, I let the water run down my back. The deck rolled, and I splashed in the pink puddle at my feet as I struggled to keep my balance.

But I’d spent just as much on ships as I had on horseback, and I quickly adjusted, loosening my knees and letting the motion rock through me.

The breeze picked up, running cool fingers over my back. Beyond the ship’s railing, the riverbank was a hazy line, miniature trees dotting the horizon. Soon, the forest would give way to mountains.

After a moment, I tugged my shirt back on and stuffed the tails into my trousers.

I tossed more water on the bloody mess on the deck, tucked the reedwhip under a bit of canvas, and made my way to the cabin.

Tanyl rested on his back in the bunk, his chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of sleep. I paused in the doorway, relief washing over me. His expression was peaceful, and he’d lost the chalky pallor that had made my hands shake so badly I’d struggled to heal him. A strip of skin had separated him from life and death. For the hundredth time since I saw the pulse in his throat flicker back to life, I touched my fingers to my forehead and lips.

Perun protect him. I itched to cross the cabin and check his breathing, but it would almost certainly wake him. Right now, he needed rest more than anything.

Which left the cabin’s other occupant. Sylvie swallowed as I approached, wariness hovering around her. She said nothing as I bent and untied her wrists.

“I’m taking you above deck to use the privy,” I said quietly, although I probably didn’t have to. We’d gone through the same routine twice already.

She didn’t respond, just flexed her fingers. They were pink and healthy looking, the burns totally healed. But she wasn’t a threat. She’d lost her magic the moment we crossed the Covenant. Now that we sailed in Andulum, she was as vulnerable as any human.

“Come on,” I said, taking her arm. She smothered a groan as I pulled her up, and I paused, giving her a minute to get her feet under her. She’d spent a night and most of the day in the chair. Undoubtedly, she was uncomfortable.

Not as uncomfortable as a sword through the chest or a blade to the neck, though.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and I clenched my jaw.

“Let’s go,” I said, moving her toward the door. I kept a firm grip on her arm, feeling like a brute as we navigated the narrow staircase to the upper deck. She blinked as the waning sunlight hit us, and she murmured another thank you as I helped her up the last step.

“I don’t need your thanks,” I said, my voice churlish in my ears. I clamped my lips shut, resentment souring my gut. Or maybe it was shame at my own stupidity. I’d let her play me for a fool, allowing myself to believe she wanted me when all along I was just a means to an end.

Wind gusted, blowing her hair across my cheek as I guided her to the small privy near the stern. She did her business quickly, and she cast me furtive looks as I took her to one of the masts and motioned for her to sit.

“Is this necessary?” she asked when I knelt and wrapped a rope around her waist, lashing her to the mast.

“I was stupid once,” I grunted, the faint scent of riverthistle teasing my nose. “I’m not inclined to make the same mistake again.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Is that what we were? A mistake?”

I stood. “ We weren’t anything.”

Her face fell. “Briar?—”

“Don’t,” I said sharply. “I brought you up here to eat and get some fresh air. You made your excuses to Tanyl last night. I’m not interested in hearing more of them.” I turned and started for the dried meat I’d uncovered in the hold.

“You’re bleeding,” Sylvie said.

I stopped—and felt my shirt stick to my back. Under normal circumstances, I would have worn a jacket or gambeson until the lash marks healed. I’d spent the first hours on the ship tending Tanyl and searching for any of Crispin’s men who might have stayed behind during the attack. Then I’d busied myself locating supplies and making sure we didn’t run aground. Clothing had fallen far down the list of priorities.

“It’s nothing,” I said.

Sylvie’s gaze was solemn. “You punished yourself.”

There was no use denying it. She’d come within inches of being a sestra.

“I offended the gods,” I said.

She shook her head. “You had nothing to do with the Scarrok attack, Briar, nor Crispin’s treachery.”

“Not that. I struck you.”

Her eyes widened. “You punished yourself because of one slap?”

“It’s an offense to the gods to strike someone weaker than yourself.”

Her surprise turned to indignation. “I’m not weak.”

I gestured to the riverbank. “In Andulum, you are. But you were weaker still when you melted the gate.” Color stained her cheeks, and anger flashed in her eyes, but I pressed on. “Your power is vast. When the gods give exceptional gifts, they demand exceptional responsibility. What you did wasn’t powerful. It was cowardice.”

The anger flared hotter in her eyes. She balled her hands into fists. “My mother was condemned to live eternally as a monster. So were thousands of others, all of them victims of a cruel, gruesome curse. I saw Perun’s message in the godswell. Why would the gods show it to me if they didn’t want me to act?”

I stared, an unsettled feeling drifting through me. The wind died down. The rigging creaked, ropes shifting as the ship cut through the river.

“Tanyl’s father was weak,” Sylvie said softly. “The Scarrok multiplied under his rule. Then Tanyl took the throne, and I hoped…” Her chest lifted, and pain moved through her eyes as she sighed. “I hoped he would end the curse. When he didn’t, I believed that perhaps the gods meant for me to see it for a reason, that maybe I was supposed to join my house with Tanyl’s. Our son would rule, and the curse would end. But I can’t conceive.”

The sourness in my gut returned. “So you decided to let your brother take Tanyl’s throne.”

“ No ,” she said, her tone pleading. “I meant what I said last night. I resisted the vision in the godswell. For decades, I searched for another solution. And for decades, I searched in vain.” A tear tracked down her face. “Until you rode across the bridge.”

Pain lodged in my chest. My heart, maybe. It clenched like the River Gate, the organ slamming shut so she couldn’t ruin it.

“I love you,” she said. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true. The festival and the night afterward gave me a glimpse of what life could be like. I never wanted a throne or a crown.” She gave a bitter laugh. “I never even wanted pretty clothes or fine things. I don’t need any of it.”

Emotions battered me—anger, denial, and something else I didn’t want to acknowledge. But it beat at me anyway.

Doubt.

“I love Tanyl,” Sylvie whispered. “I don’t care if you believe me. I love him whether he’s a king or a peasant.”

“You could have told me,” a raspy voice said behind me.

I turned, alarm ripping a gasp from my throat. Tanyl stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. He was pale and sweating, strands of hair sticking to his neck. He wore nothing but trousers, which I’d loosely laced after I helped him empty his bladder. A raw, angry-looking scar circled his throat. Blood soaked through the bandages I’d wrapped around his chest.

“You need to lie down,” I said, starting toward him.

“No.” He stopped me with a raised free hand, and he pinned Sylvie with a stony look. “You could have told me,” he repeated. “We were married forty-five years. You had ample opportunity to tell me what you saw in the godswell. But you kept it to yourself.” His mouth twisted. “And then you put your brother on my throne.”

“That is not true!” she cried. She wiggled forward, and then grimaced when the ropes prevented it. Frustration gleamed in her eyes as she met Tanyl’s gaze across the deck. “Your mother was devoted to Veluna. She believed in the gods. I know you’ve always honored her memory, so you must know that sestras who see visions in the godswell can’t try to prevent them from unfolding. If I told you what I saw, you would have tried to prevent it. What was I supposed to do, Tanyl? How can I subvert the will of the gods?”

His laugh was a harsh scrape, the sound loud amid the creaking and groaning of the rigging. Scorn laced his eyes as he straightened from the doorway, authority radiating from him even with his hair tangled and his blood staining the linen around his chest.

“Rich men have been putting visions in that well since my grandfather’s time. Even a village child with a thimbleful of magic can charm water. It’s a trick, Sylvie.”

Her lips parted. Shock glazed her eyes. “What?” she whispered. Then she frowned. “No. That’s not possible. The godswell is sacred. It’s…” She trailed off, her fingers clenching in her lap.

“I’m sorry,” Tanyl said after a moment. “I know you’re a true believer.”

She looked at him, her frown in place. “The gods gifted you immense power. Surely, you can’t deny them.”

“I don’t,” he said, “but powerful men can borrow the gods’ tools when it suits them. My father was a drunk, but he wasn’t entirely a fool. He taught me to question everything. Otherwise, you can be manipulated. And when kings allow themselves to be manipulated, people die.” His lips quirked in a quick, humorless smile. “I suppose it’s true for queens, too. Pity he didn’t mention that.”

Sylvie appeared to absorb this. Then she sobered. She lifted her chin a notch. “Assuming your father was right, and the vision was planted, the fact remains that the Scarrok fell.”

Tanyl tensed. He looked at me, his blue eyes searching. “Have you seen any Scarrok since we left Storm’s Hollow?”

My heart beat faster, doubt stirring again. “No,” I said honestly. “No, I haven’t.”

The implication hung in the air, unspoken but loud as a shout. If the message in the godswell was fake, where were the Scarrok? The creatures had terrorized both sides of the Covenant for a thousand years. And now they were…missing.

Tanyl held my stare for a long moment. Then he looked at Sylvie, whose eyes were soft—and pleading.

“I’m tired,” he said finally, turning toward the stairs.

I rushed to help him, and this time he didn’t stop me.