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Chapter Twenty-Eight

SYLVIE

I t was easy to understand how Mistport earned its name.

The city was like something out of a dream, its spires rising from a cloud of mist. Buildings sprawled up a sloping hillside, their white facades gleaming in the morning sun. Orange tiles adorned the roofs, and the occasional set of blue or red shutters offered splashes of color against the pristine white.

As our ship glided into the harbor, knights appeared on the docks, their white-and-blue surcoats gleaming in the early morning light.

“The Rivven have spotted us,” I said, turning from the railing. Briar stood at the ship’s wheel, his gaze trained on the harbor. “They’re waiting,” I added.

He nodded, his expression unreadable as he guided the ship toward the pier. He wore Skycleaver on his hip, and I knew he concealed more weapons under his clothes. If he was startled by the Rivvens’ arrival, he gave no sign of it.

Then again, the priests’ appearance was hardly a surprise. Once we’d reached the entrance to the harbor around Mistport, a vessel bearing officials from the city had stopped us and demanded we identify ourselves. Briar had complied, and then asked the officials to deliver a message to the Citadel on our behalf.

From there, our journey had slowed as we entered the bustling harbor. There were only so many piers—and a great deal of ships, sloops, and galleys angling to dock and unload their goods.

As the hours stretched, I urged Briar to go below deck and get some sleep.

“You took most of the watches last night,” I said when he balked. “Besides, Tanyl is getting worse. I’d rather a healer sit with him.”

Briar had frowned, and a heaviness descended between us. Tanyl was getting worse, the brief recovery he’d displayed during the skirmish with the pirates giving way to a fever that kept him shivering in the bunk.

With a nod, Briar had relented, and he headed to the cabin to sleep. Of course, he reappeared a scant hour later, declaring himself well-rested. Then he ordered me to go below. When I hesitated, he folded his arms.

“Go to the cabin,” he said, “or I’ll tie you up again.”

I’d bitten my lip before I could offer a suggestive reply, but the flush in his cheeks told me he heard it anyway.

He trained his gaze on the pier now, his jaw tight. As we drew closer, several of the Rivven broke ranks and moved to the edge of the dock. Briar left the wheel and went to coils of rope, which he began tossing overboard.

The Rivven caught them with impressive efficiency. They tugged the ship into the dock and secured the ropes. Their expressions remained solemn as they waited for Briar to lower the gangplank.

Once he did, the warrior-priests boarded. The first to step aboard was tall and broad-shouldered, his neck ringed with barely-there sigils. He swept brown eyes over me before settling his gaze on Briar beside me.

“Perun protect you, Brother,” the Rivven said, touching his forehead and then his lips.

Briar returned the gesture. “And you, Brother.”

“Your message reached us,” the Rivven said. “We’ve come to escort you to the Citadel.”

More Rivven boarded, their boots thumping on the deck. Four carried a stretcher between them. I followed as they descended the steps to the cabin. Tanyl’s eyes were fever-bright as they lifted him onto the stretcher.

“Be careful with him,” I said, nerves gripping me. One of the Rivven gave me a curious glance, his eyes going to my trousers and knee-high boots. But he said nothing, and the moment passed.

I followed the priests, my heart in my throat, as they navigated the tight staircase, and I walked beside the stretcher as they crossed the deck. Tanyl squinted against the morning sunlight. Brown blood stained the bandage around his chest. Fresh, bright-red blood spread around it. His golden hair spilled across the canvas. As we descended the gangplank, he looked up one of the Rivven, and a shadow passed through his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered, bending close.

His eyes met mine, pain and something deeper swimming in the blue. “This place brings back memories,” he murmured. “Not all of them good.” His gaze drifted past me to where Briar helped guide the stretcher. “But not all of them bad, either.”

Briar kept his attention straight ahead. Not once did he glance in Tanyl’s direction. Or mine. I understood immediately—he maintained his distance so the Rivven wouldn’t suspect our relationship.

We moved through Mistport in a swift procession, and I couldn’t help wondering if the Rivven rushed because of Tanyl’s condition or to minimize contact with humans. Vetrans tolerated halflings. But Tanyl and I were full-blooded elves. Nerves fluttering in my stomach, I waited for shouts to go up.

It didn’t happen, and I released an uneasy breath as we moved deeper into the city. The city streets were wide and paved with smooth, flat stones. Buildings towered on either side, flowering vines cascading from window boxes. Fountains splashed in small squares, their basins adorned with statues of Perun and his wives. The river god stood taller than his consorts, a bolt of lightning in his fist.

The humans we encountered kept their distance, some bowing their heads as the Rivven passed, others simply watching with a mix of wariness and curiosity. I had little time to take in the city as our procession moved quickly upward, climbing the sloped streets toward the massive structure perched atop the tallest hill.

The Citadel gleamed white against the blue sky, its domed towers reaching toward the clouds. Mist wreathed the complex, which was triple the size of the Sancta Sestra. Waterfalls spilled from the upper levels, the sound growing louder as we approached.

A wide set of steps led to the Citadel’s main entrance, which boasted massive doors carved with a scene depicting Perun straddling a network of rivers. Two Rivven priests stood guard, their expressions impassive as our procession approached. They bowed to the priest who led us, then pushed open the doors.

The Citadel’s interior was as impressive as the outside. The ceiling soared high above us, supported by massive columns carved to resemble rushing water. Light streamed through stained glass windows that cast jewel-toned patterns on the floor, which was a mosaic of polished river stones. Channels no deeper than a fingertip crisscrossed the chamber, allowing water to flow across the floor. Candles burned in alcoves along the walls, their flames reflected in the water.

A man stood in the center of the vast chamber, his white beard reaching almost to his waist. More snowy white hair streamed over his shoulders. He observed our approach with cool blue eyes, his hands folded in front of his long white robe. Chains wove among the waves that spread down his throat. Two Rivven stood behind him, chain mail glinting under their surcoats.

“Grand Master Silas,” Briar said, stepping forward and dropping to one knee. Water soaked his trousers as he lowered his head. “I’ve brought King Tanyl of the Spring Court, along with his wife, Queen Sylvie. As I stated in my message, the king needs our help…and your expertise.”

The old man studied Briar, then turned his penetrating gaze to Tanyl. After a moment, he looked at me.

The hair on my nape lifted, and the faint chains around my wrists seemed to burn. The Rivven bearing the stretcher stood like statues, their eyes straight ahead. The sound of trickling water echoed through the cavernous space.

Just as the silence grew oppressive, Grand Master Silas returned his gaze to Briar. “Rise, Brother Briar. Your message spoke of a grave wound that will not heal.”

“Yes, Grand Master,” Briar said, standing.

Silas nodded. “Follow me to the temple.”

We trailed him, the Rivven carrying Tanyl’s stretcher with measured steps. The Grand Master’s attendants fell in behind us.

The sound of flowing water grew louder as we moved deeper into the Citadel. Finally, we entered a circular chamber lit by more flickering candles set in alcoves. A stepped platform dominated the chamber’s center, its perimeter adorned with squat pillars flickering with open fires. A deep-looking pool occupied the platform’s center, its water so clear it resembled glass.

At the edge of the pool, a taller pillar rose from the platform. A wide basin of water rested on top.

The godswell. The sacred font was twin to the one at the Sancta Sestra.

“You recognize it,” Silas said, his piercing blue eyes on me. “You were a sestra before you were a queen.”

“Almost, Grand Master,” I said.

His gaze was mild. “No one almost serves the gods, child. We either serve, or we do not.”

Briar stepped forward, and he drew Skycleaver from the sheath at his hip. “Grand Master, this is the blade that wounded King Tanyl. It was forged on the Isle of the Gods.”

Silas took the sword, his expression grave as he examined it. “A weapon of significant power,” he murmured. “It carries old magic.” He handed it to one of the attendants, then turned to the men holding Tanyl’s stretcher. “Bring him to the pool’s edge.”

They climbed the steps and lowered the stretcher to the ground next to the clear water. More Rivven emerged from the shadows. Briar nodded to them, and I tried to relax as they helped Tanyl sit up. One braced him as another unwound the bandage from his chest.

Worry blasted me when they pulled the bandage away. The wound was worse than before, its edges ragged and black. Inky black tendrils spread from the center like the roots of a poisonous plant. Tanyl panted as the healers lowered him back to the stretcher.

Briar knelt beside him, his face a mask of anxiety. One of the healers dipped a golden cup into the pool and then poured the water directly into Tanyl’s wound.

His spine arched, and his mouth stretched on a scream that echoed off the stone around us. Briar gripped his hand. I fell to my knees on Tanyl’s opposite said and took his other hand.

“Stay with us,” Briar urged, emotion thick in his voice. “We’re right here, Tanyl.”

Grand Master Silas’s gaze was a palpable sensation on my nape. Briar showed too much—his feelings for Tanyl laid bare for all to see. But I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Perun protect him,” I whispered, squeezing Tanyl’s hand. “God of the tempest, shield him from harm.”

Briar’s voice joined mine, our prayers mingling with the sound of water. He placed his hand over Tanyl’s wound, and I lay mine atop his. The Rivven began to chant, their deep voices low and melodic. They spoke the Old Language, and magic brushed my skin. A breeze gusted through the temple, and the sound of leaves skittering over the ground joined the priests’ chant.

Slowly, impossibly, the darkness on Tanyl’s chest receded, the gruesome tendrils fading. Briar and I lifted our hands, and we gasped in unison as the wound’s edges began to knit together, healthy pink flesh replacing the blackened tissue.

Tanyl’s breathing eased, the lines of pain on his face smoothing. He opened his eyes, and they were clear, the haze of fever gone.

“Beauty,” he breathed, staring up at me.

A tear splashed his face. Mine. My throat burned as I curled my fingers more tightly around his. “I’m here,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Leave us,” Silas said suddenly. The healers and other Rivven exchanged glances but quickly filed from the chamber. When the distant sound of a door closing echoed through the space, Silas looked at me.

“You read the prophecy true, Daughter.”

Surprise straightened my spine. “I…did?”

He came to me and extended his hand. I looked at Briar, who frowned but gave a small nod. Nerves prickling, I let Silas help me to my feet.

He drew me to the godswell, and my heart knocked against my ribs as he waved a hand over the basin. The surface shimmered, and then words formed in the water.

The king must bleed to put the rivers to rest.

I stared at the prophecy, my heart skipping beats. Vaguely, I was aware of Briar and Tanyl moving behind me. They stood at my shoulders, their body heat caressing my skin.

“It’s real,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. I’d hurt Tanyl, but it hadn’t been for nothing. The Scarrok were gone. I’d broken the curse and freed my mother.

Silas rounded the other side of the godswell. “Magic doesn’t last forever,” he said. “Sometimes, curses must be refreshed.”

The water shimmered again, Perun’s words forming into visions of people and places I knew. Events I’d witnessed. The water swirled, and Crispin led his knights in a charge, Skycleaver pointed toward a stormy sky. The Scarrok collapsed as one. Tanyl knelt on the riverbank, his eyes snapping with fury as he glared up at Crispin.

The water swirled again. Then it stilled, Perun’s words floating to the surface.

“You were meant to break the curse and put Crispin on the throne,” Silas said, his tone matter-of-fact. “And Tanyl was meant to die.”

I tensed, my gaze flying to his. I’d misheard. He couldn’t have said what I thought he said.

Tanyl stepped to my side. “What did you say?” he asked, the quiet menace in his voice more terrifying than a shout.

Silas shrugged, the nonchalant expression at odds with his shocking declaration. “I didn’t count on Briar saving you. I shouldn’t have permitted him to journey to Storm’s Hollow, but he has a way of making a person want to give him things.” Silas smiled thinly. “I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

Anger rolled off Tanyl. “No, actually, I don’t. And I dislike riddles, priest. Whatever you’re trying to say, spit it out.”

Silas braced a bony hand on the edge of the godswell. “I’ll try to make this easy for you to grasp. It was time for a change of dynasties in the Spring Court. Once Crispin was king, he was supposed to place the blame for Tanyl’s death on Sylvie. But executing his own sister would have been a bad look for a new king trying to cement his rule.” Silas clucked his tongue. “Killing a sovereign is always a messy business. Fortunately, the solution was right in Crispin’s lap.” Silas looked at Briar, his thin smile reappearing. “As I said, I hesitated to allow you to venture into Spring. It’s cruel to show a man his heart’s desire and then forbid him to reach for it. But you had a role to play. Crispin was supposed to order you to bring Sylvie to the Citadel for trial and execution.”

I stood frozen. Beside me, Briar looked like he might be sick. He stared at Silas like he’d never seen the Grand Master before. And perhaps he hadn’t. Not like this.

“I don’t…” Briar began, his voice raw. “The Rivven don’t dethrone kings.”

Silas’s expression turned fond, but his tone was pitying as he said, “Dearest Briar, not much mystifies me. But I confess I’ve never been able to figure you out. I can’t decide if you’re truly as innocent as you seem or just woefully stupid.”

Tanyl growled, his shoulder brushing mine. I found his hand without taking my eyes of Silas, and I squeezed Tanyl’s fingers. We were in danger. We couldn’t afford to lose control.

“We created the curse that spawned the Scarrok,” Silas continued, gesturing to godswell. “We secured our place in a world that preferred our destruction.”

“That’s not possible,” Briar whispered, his voice hollow. “We’re sworn to protect?—”

“We’re sworn to do what’s necessary,” Silas corrected. “We exist because we have a reason to exist. The Scarrok are disgusting creatures. But like us, they serve a purpose. They further our interests.” He turned to me. “Your brother understood this. The arrangement was mutually beneficial—he would rule Spring, answerable to us, and we would maintain the illusion of fighting the curse.”

My mind reeled with the implications. Everything I believed, everything I had fought for—it was all built on lies. My mother. Crispin.

He’d struck a deal with the Rivven. My own brother had traded my head—and Tanyl’s—for a throne.

Silas watched me, a patient look on his face while I puzzled everything out.

“You didn’t count on Briar saving Tanyl’s life,” I said slowly.

Silas’s eyes went cold. “No. But that’s love for you.”