Page 26 of Thorn Season
Her eyes flicked to me and hardened. “Armed,” she confirmed.
A beat of silence. Then the Wielders snapped into fighting stances, eyes forward and feet apart. Lye’s throwing knives whistled from their sheaths; Keil moved to my other side. I bustled against them, hemmed in.
“Wait,” I said, blood rushing. “My father wouldn’t be armed. She’s made a mistake.”
Osana shot me a murderous look, fingers twitching toward her dagger.
“Easy,” Keil murmured, gaze fixed on the path.
“You have to listen to me,” I pressed. “My father is not a threat—”
Wheels clacked on the path, silencing me.
Steel flashed as Goren flipped his axe. “We strike first?”
“No!” I said. I would fight these Wielders to protect my father, but gods—oh, gods—I desperately didn’t want to.
Keil looked down at me—a brief, broad assessment—then frownedback at the path. “Let him show his hand. We retaliate if we must.” He added, with a glance at Lye, “Keep her out of the crossfire.”
Lye nodded, and I was caught halfway between relief and alarm—there was going to be crossfire?!—when an enclosed wagon rolled into view, and the air hitched in my throat.
Because riding at its seat was not Father.
It was Garret.
8
Garret’s face was darkly splotched and swollen, one eye nearly sealed shut. He held the reins rigidly, wincing as the seat jostled. Even after Briar’s attack ten years ago, I’d never seen him so battered. And though this was a fraction of the suffering he’d brought to countless Wielders—the suffering he could easily inflict uponme—my specter rushed up, ready to reach for him. To lay itself like a poultice against his tender skin as if to draw his pain away.
Garret’s cargo creaked to a stop and he unseated, his blazer drifting open. Double holsters sat tucked against his ribs, knife hilts angled for easy reach.Armed, as Osana had said—but she hadn’t been talking about Father.
Dread seeped into me as Garret faced us.Why isn’t Father here?
Keil stepped forward and the air grew charged. “You are not Lord Heron,” he said, his voice harsher than I’d heard it yet.
Garret gave him a bleak look. “You’re astute.”
“Where is he?” I asked, heart rate climbing. If Briar had caught him at Capewell Manor—if she’d hurt him because of whatever these Wielders had demanded—
“I told him to stay behind,” Garret said. My knot of worry tightened.
“He wouldn’t have agreed to that.”
“He didn’t have a choice.”
“Why not?” I pressed.
Garret cocked his head at Keil. “Do you let all your hostages lead their own ransom exchanges?”
“Answer the question,” Keil ordered.
Garret released a strained, impatient breath. “Heroncompliedbecause he couldn’t have accessed what you wanted without my help. How fortunate, then, that your acquaintances left me so generously intact.”
Keil folded his arms. Even Lye tensed beside me.
Then Garret hissed as his blazer flapped wide. His knives scraped from their holsters and thudded to the grass. His waistcoat buttons popped open; his trousers rippled; his silk pockets turned out.
By the time Keil’s specter finished disarming him, a scattering of weapons encircled Garret’s feet, each blade a bright shard in the moonlight.
