Page 31 of Thorn Season
Then I glimpsed his wrist. And my legs weakened.
Garret’s oath band was gone. The vow he’d sworn to the Capewells, the promise that had bound him for seven years... He’d been released from it.
How?
He parted his shirt, wincing, and my gaze trailed down his torso: the Hunters’ Mark tattooed over his heart, the hard planes of taut bronze skin... and then the angry red blossom across his ribs. Hedipped his fingers into the jar, and spread the salve tentatively across the bruise.
I could strike him against his injury. I could unlock the door and run. But I didn’t know where the Capewells kept their Wielder prisoners; I hadn’t even realized theykeptprisoners until tonight.
I wouldn’t find that ransom note before Briar returned.
And Garret knew it.
I drifted toward the glow of the fire and sat rigidly on the opposite sofa, the low table creating a barrier between us. The collar of Garret’s blazer skimmed my neck, and I shrugged it off, having forgotten I was wearing it.
He frowned when I tossed it aside.
“What do you want?” I asked, shaking despite the warmth.
Garret tipped his head back, shutting his eyes as he exhausted half the jar onto his ribs. I gritted my teeth at the insult; if he was closing his eyes, he didn’t consider me a worthy opponent.
The column of his throat bobbed with the words “A thank-you would be nice.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You should be. Do you know how hard it’s been to keep Briar off your scent all these years? There are thousands of Wielders in Daradon, all practicing self-restraint. Butyoulike to spin coins and trip nobles. You like to make my job that much harder.”
I straightened, baffled by the claim that Garret had been actively protecting me.
Then his other statement took hold. And my specter tingled.
“Thousands,” I breathed.
“The Avanish family on Laurel Street. The baker who runs the winter market.” He opened his eyes, watching me through dark lashes.A mocking smile ghosted his lips. “I have a list, if you like.”
“Why aren’t they—?”
“Dead?” He sat up and closed the jar, his torso gleaming. I suddenly wished I’d struck him before the salve had numbed the worst of the pain. “Two centuries ago, Wielders comprised a quarter of Daradon’s population. Kingdom-wide tensions made it easier to pass the Execution Decree, but the Crown couldn’t target them all at once. A single specter can be more physically powerful than ten Wholeborns, and even the weakest specters have the advantage of invisibility. Given the chance to fight, the Wielders would’ve won.
“Instead, the Crown anointed a group of mercenary brothers—your ancestors—as Hunters, and gifted them a Spellmade compass to track Wielders. These brothers targeted Wielders after nightfall, in every corner of Daradon, so nobody could predict the next victim. Two Wielders might have lived in opposite houses, one chosen for the Hunt, the other inexplicably spared. When enough Wielders are left behind, a phenomenon occurs. The Wielders count themselves lucky.Grateful, even. To preserve that good luck and avoid discovery, they stifle the only power that could save them. They slink into the shadows of society, and a civil war is avoided. After all, Wielders can’t unite if they’re hiding from one another. And those whotryto unite... Well, they’re dealt with harshly enough that none follow in their footsteps.” He spoke these last words pointedly—with something like satisfaction.
There had only been one attempted uprising in recent history: the Starling Rebellion. While that rebellion hadn’t lasted long enough to unite Daradon’s Wielders, it had cost many Wholeborn civilians their lives.
Civilians like Garret’s birth parents.
How had I never considered it before—his own quiet resentment? The personal vengeance that must have transformed each kill into a catharsis? Hunters had executed my mother... but Wielders had slaughtered both his parents.
“So, wealldeserve it, then?” I asked, horror-struck. “Because of the crimes of the few?”
He looked at me, long and hard, the intensity prickling my scalp. And I realized I would rather be back in those tunnels with my kidnappers. I would rather be anywhere than in this room, with the happy little teapot and the sleepy heat kissing my brow. Because despite the seven years of frost between us, I’d never felt fearful of Garret.
Until now.
Now I felt like a Wielder alone with a Hunter.
“On the contrary,” he said at last, voice pitched low over the fire crackle. “Evils require balance. Hunt too much, and we arouse rebellion. Too little, and we no longer inspire fear.”
“You’re talking about murder.”
