“Forgive my sister, Maldrine. She doesn’t understand how times are changing. She spends her days lost in books, reading about the lives of our forebears rather than living her own.” Gilliad circled the Fair One, carefully keeping his distance while appearing fearless. “This is a great honour, my friend, and I’ll return it in the only way I can.” He raised his voice in proclamation. “I am Gilliad, Scion of Jern, Lord of River Holt and my word is law. I hereby name Maldrine Ket a Captain of River Holt and my personal Champion. Let every River Holter respect my word and do him every service he requires.”
Jeren frowned and then noticed Maldrine staring at her, still grinning. She looked away, before he got any ideas about services she could do him. Inadvertently, she found herself facing the Fair One.
Felan wrote that the Shistra-Phail valued two things above all else—their honour and their ability to endure pain and hardship. Several years ago Jeren had poured over his memoirs, fascinated with her legendary forebear, a beacon of hope amid the darkness of the many others. Haledren reminded her of him, of all that he stood for. His braided hair symbolised honour, and she knew with a sickening certainty what would happen when Maldrine drew his knife.
“If I may, my lord?”
Gilliad returned a vicious grin. “By all means, Captain. It’s not like he has any honour left now.”
According to Felan, a Shistra-Phail who lost his braids lost not just his honour but also his mind. He became, as the Fair Ones called them, one of the Lost. But her brother wouldn’t command that, surely? He knew their ways, had lived with them. He couldn’t allow it.
“Gilliad!” Jeren exclaimed. Her brother turned on her and she didn’t recognise his twisted face anymore.
“Silence!” he roared. “Maldrine, cut off his braids. I want to see if it really drives them mad like the stories say. I want to see one of them frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog instead of standing there like a holy idol.” He flung a blow at the Fair One, but Haledren dodged to one side, twisting to avoid the Scion of Jern effortlessly.
“Do what you will, traitor,” the prisoner said in measured tones, his silver eyes fixed on Gilliad. “We know you for what you are, and Ariah will never forgive you.”
“Ariah?” Gilliad scoffed. “You think I care what your precious leader thinks of me? I rule this Holt now. I don’t need to worry about Ariah’s forgiveness.”
Maldrine nodded to two guards who seized the Fair One by the shoulders and forced him onto his knees. This time Gilliad’s punch snapped his head back. Haledren spat bright blood onto the cobbles.
Jeren turned her horse away and no one made a move to stop her. She didn’t care if she missed the ceremony. She would make whatever amends she had to later on. Let people think what they wanted. She couldn’t watch this. Only Mirrow and Teshleith followed her as she rode back to the Citadel as fast as she could while maintaining a dignified demeanour. She didn’t spare them a glance, but fought to keep her sobs from breaking free.
Chapter Two
Jeren didn’t mean to go to the dungeons. At least she told herself that.
She gathered river jasmine and red roses from the gardens, fashioning a wreath to take to her parents’ tomb. The catacombs wound their way through the cliffs below the Citadel, a labyrinth of alcoves and chambers housing the dead of River Holt.
In the hall of the True Blood, the remains of her ancestors lay entombed. She placed the flowers beside the effigy of her mother, on the tomb nearest the door. Beside her mother another figure had been hewn out of the stone. Jeren brushed away marble dust from her father’s figure, trying to discern his face, but it was formless, empty. The sculptor had not yet completed his features, although Lord Jaren’s body was fully realized, armoured but at rest. She had never seen him so still in life.
I’m sorry, Father. But I couldn’t stand there and watch him take the throne. Not after what he’d done.
But no words of forgiveness came.
She murmured her prayers and lit tiny candles around the sarcophagi.
She couldn’t say how long she stayed but on the way back she took a wrong turn. In the torchlight, one tunnel looked very much like another, and the constant rumble of distant water lulled her senses. As she walked, the song of the river and the distant waterfall transformed into a faint voice.
She didn’t know the language or the melody, but she knew to whom the voice belonged. There couldn’t be another prisoner in River Holt who would sound so alien. The song acted like a hypnotic lure, drawing her along the narrow tunnels which led circuitously to the deepest dungeons.
The guards at the main entrance to the dungeons would have turned her back, but the approach from the crypts was not guarded. Perhaps no one saw a need. After all, who would be coming from the halls of the dead at this hour? Jeren pushed open the rusty gate.
There were no other prisoners held here. No footsteps, no voices, only a few torches. Only the sound of the river and the singing. Carefully, aware that she trespassed on ground long forbidden to her by her father, she picked her way along the corridor to the last torch affixed to the wall. In its light, she blew out the candle and let the voice be her guide.
At the door to Haledren’s cell, she stopped and a shiver passed through her body. The voice fell silent, listening to her, aware that she hovered outside. She stood on her tiptoes to peer through the grill. Haledren lay curled up on the floor, his head cradled in his hands, his face hidden. His body was pallid as a corpse in the half-light. They had not been kind while cutting his silvery braids. His scalp looked ragged and the wounds clotted with blood. When he let out a broken sob, his entire bruised frame shook with grief.
“Go away,” he hissed, his voice no longer musical. It grated, like the rusty gate. “Go away. Stop staring. Prying eyes should be pried out!” And then he laughed, an awful, hollow sound.
Jeren shifted, running her hand along the side of the door, searching for the hook on which the cell key should be hanging. No key hung there but she snagged her palm on the hook, tearing the skin, drawing blood. At her gasp of pain, Haledren’s head lifted. Two bloody hollows were all that remained of his beautiful silver eyes. Dried blood streaked his face and blackened his tongue and teeth. He smiled broadly and raised his arm. He sank his teeth into the skin of his wrist and tore.
“No!” she cried out, tugging desperately at the door. On the other side the Shistra-Phail laughed and continued to tear at his own flesh.
“Jeren?” Gilliad’s voice rebounded off the walls, deafening her. “What in Khain’s name are you doing here?” Strong arms seized her, hauling her bodily from the door.
“He’s trying to kill himself!” she cried.
Maldrine quelled her struggles effortlessly, but Gilliad pushed by them both, wielding the key like a weapon. As he flung the door open, Haledren launched himself forwards. Gilliad went down under the insane warrior. Cursing, Maldrine dropped her a moment too late and drew a long-bladed knife.
Jeren struggled back to her feet in time to see Maldrine pull the Fair One off Gilliad. Her brother coughed, gasping for air, but the Fair One was not defeated yet.
“The Wolf is coming for you,” he screamed, blood and spit splattering across Gilliad’s face. “The Wolf is coming for your life’s blood. He’ll take your sister. He’ll take your life. He’ll take all you took from us.” He twisted in Maldrine’s grip, the movement so fluid she could hardly follow it. He landed a blow and Maldrine fell heavily.