And some say all of us do. Our ancestors sinned against the gods, when they stole our inherited magic, and we will always pay for it.
The gate cried out for oil as she opened it, shuddering under the force she applied. The archway felt cold, but after a moment she stepped into the inner courtyards and sunlight flooded her with warmth. On the far side of the glistening waters of the Burgeoning Well, she saw Gilliad.
He sat at the feet of a marble statue. Although his choice disturbed her, she gave no reaction. He sat in the shadow of Biran, the infamous tyrant, but he faced Felan the Just and stared at the thing cradled in his own hands. Felan’s sword.
Jeren stopped beside Felan’s statue and looked up into his emotionless face framed by Shistra-Phail braids. In his time it was unheard of for a True Blood lord to live amongst savages like the Fair Ones, but Felan had defied that convention. Jeren admired that in her ancestor, that he did what he wanted and lived his life the way he saw fit. He had been the finest ruler River Holt had ever known and had laid the foundations for all the good that came after him. After learning from the Fair Ones how to master his magic, and thus keep his sanity, Felan had created the pact that remained the only hope for sanity for any Lord of River Holt.
Five years ago, as part of that pact, Gilliad had been sent to live among the elite warrior sect, and that experience had changed him forever. He had not found them to be the noble warriors and comrades Felan’s history described. They were monsters, he said, born and bred only to kill, savages who never bowed to the gods. Even their own kind shunned the Shistra-Phail warriors. The Fair Ones did not welcome having trained killers in their midst.
In their mother’s folktales they resembled silver ghosts, with skin like snow and a hunger for death. Gilliad had found those tales to be true—horribly true. His stories compounded the terrors of her childhood. Even now, Jeren sometimes woke from nightmares where ghostly white figures gathered around her, ready to carry her off to the endless snow plains they called home. She shivered at the thought.
“Gilliad?” Her voice echoed strangely in the courtyard, sounding far more self-assured than it did within her.
Her brother raised his head, though his shoulders still hunched forwards. He shifted slightly, his elbows scraping his thighs, rucking up the black fabric of his trousers. The dark hues suited his sallow complexion but made the circles under his brown eyes look like bruises. His mouth formed a thin hard line.
“Is it time?” he asked. His voice had never sounded so bleak, not even when they learned that their father’s illness had no cure. Jeren nodded slowly and Gilliad forced a smile. “Father didn’t tell me, you know? About the voices.”
Jeren’s heart thudded abruptly.
Seeing her confusion, he got to his feet and started towards her, the sword held out like an offering. “I mean, he told me I’d hear them when the magic came to me, when I inherited it from him, but he didn’t bother to describe it. I hear our ancestors as clearly as I hear you now, little sister. Sometimes…sometimes more clearly. Felan, Biran, even Jern himself.” He stopped less than a foot from her, and Jeren saw how hard he fought to stop his body trembling. “He never explained that it sounds like someone whispering in your ear. He said the only way to control it is this thing, but he never…” He lifted the sword, but his hand shook too much to hold it out for long. “It makes me feel like…”
He thrust the hilt towards her. Jeren hesitated before taking it. Felan’s sword was long and slender, its blade bright as quicksilver and its hilt shaped like a grasping hand, reaching out for her. Forged by the Fair Ones to allow Felan to control the magic devouring his sanity, it had been passed down through his line, and each heir had been sent to the Fair Ones of Sheninglas to learn how to use it.
Jeren turned it over, feeling the unfamiliar weight. A prickling sensation spread over her skin. Ice crystallised around her tightened shoulders and her stomach lurched inside her. The blade was reacting to the magic of the True Blood inside her. She felt a deep revulsion for the way it sought to control a fundamental part of what she was.
“Makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it?” Gilliad asked.
She swallowed on a dry mouth before offering the weapon back. “But you need it. Just like he needed it. No one wants another Biran terrorising the Holtlands.”
He took back the sword and grinned suddenly, as if in response to a joke she couldn’t hear.
“What am I going to do without you, Jeren?” He linked his arm with hers. “You don’t have to leave. My word is law, remember?” He chuckled to himself. “It’s not like we desperately need an alliance with Grey Holt. I’ll explain to Vertigern that I need you here, and find you another husband, someone worthy of you. Then you could stay here in River Holt forever. With me.”
Jeren clenched her teeth behind a fond smile. “Vertigern’s a good match for me, Gilliad,” she replied patiently. “And the trade agreements are beneficial to our miners and craftsmen. No. I’ll go to Grey Holt as Father planned. It isn’t far and I can always visit.” She squeezed his hand. “We’ve never been apart for very long.”
Gilliad returned her smile, but his eyes were filled with ghosts. “Only when Father sent me to the Shistra-Phail. And that was hell.”
As Jeren and Gilliad rode into the Greeting Square, the throng gathered there burst out clapping and cheering. When they crested the bridge the sound erupted into something close to a frenzy. Silence descended as Gilliad’s friend Maldrine Ket crossed the square and bowed low before Gilliad. He beamed, his grey eyes bright.
“My Lord, Scion of Jern, I offer you my service, my fealty and my eternal friendship.” Maldrine looked up and grinned. “And I’ve brought a gift.”
Jeren’s horse shifted restlessly beneath her. Maldrine’s men brought something over the outer bridge, a captive figure, bound to a horse, his body held stiff and silent. Even from this distance the sunlight illuminated his snow-pale skin and white braided hair.
“Bright Lord,” the girl whispered, unable to accept what she saw. Her eyes snapped back down to Maldrine. The same skull-like grin spread further across his face.
As the captive came closer, Maldrine reached up and untied the bonds so that he tumbled from the mount. With his arms still tied to his side, he fell heavily. His head struck the cobbles with a sickening crack, and Jeren gave a cry of alarm.
Maldrine just laughed and hauled the figure to his feet by a fistful of braids. “Don’t worry, Lady Jeren. The Fair Ones don’t hurt so easily, and Haledren here is no less than a Shistra-Phail. He’s their warrior elite, the most skilled, the strongest. Blows that would kill a human, they can shake off as we do a scratch.”
Jeren clenched the reins until her knuckles turned white. The Fair One turned his gaze on her. His silvery eyes gave no hint of emotion, no fear nor hatred. He had the bearing of a hero. An innate nobility clung to every line of his body.
From within her, outrage rose like bile. “Are you trying to insult our forefathers?” she began, but Gilliad’s laugh drowned her out and silenced her.
“What a glorious gift he is!”
She looked on in horror as her brother dismounted and approached the Fair One. Haledren’s eyes flickered over him and for a moment, just a moment, she saw something in his expression. It looked like loathing. The flawless mask snapped back into place instantly. He looked like Felan’s statue. Tears stung her eyes.