Page 93 of Thorn Season
“With Heron gone and the compass lost, there’s still a space to fill in our ranks.”
“You don’t want my service. You want to exploit my sway with the king.”
“Could you blame me if I did? This secondary group is unpredictable. Dangerous. They cut my brother’s throat seven years ago, and now they threaten to topple the system our ancestors have upheld for two centuries—all while using our name. There were two more Huntings in the time you’ve been mourning. Valuable lives wasted.”
I nearly flinched again. Too preoccupied with the slow rot hollowing me out, I’d lost track of the Huntings.
I asked, sneering, “You approve of Wielder slaughter only when you’re the one holding the knife?”
Briar’s eyes narrowed. “I refer to the valuable lives ofCapewells. The people with whom you share blood.” At my blinking silence, she raised her brows. Then she canted her head in thought. “How very unlike Garret. What with his oath band removed, I assumed he would once again be yapping at your feet like a lovesick pup, telling you everything.”
“Telling me what?” I snapped, my mind already returning to Garret’s odd moments of caginess. Moments when he’d halted mid-sentence, as if cutting off the most crucial part.
“The Capewells failed the king in losing the compass,” Briar said. “Each time these copycats Hunt in his kingdom, we fail him again.” A strained, hissing breath. “And he executes one of our own as punishment.”
I startled, blood chilling.
I knew Erik would punish the Capewells... But to pluck individuals like splinters from their group—to have them looking over their shoulders, unable to predict the next slaughter. The nextHunting.
He was kindling in them the dread they’d always brought to the Wielders of Daradon.
It was cruelty poeticized. Exquisitely vicious, just like him.
“Many more Capewells will die at his hands if nobody steps in.” Briar’s mouth tightened—an expression I’d first seen when she’d talked about the Ansoran ambassador.Fear.But not fear of the Ansorans, I now realized.
Fear of the king.
I truly laughed now—a tattered, ugly sound. “What a great loss that shall be.”
Briar glanced over me. “Highborns are rarely so bloodthirsty. Perhaps you’d fit better on our front lines. Then you and Garret could spill Wielder blood together.”
My specter uncoiled from where it had been struck numb these last few days. It took more effort than I’d anticipated to rein it back in.
“You’re a demon,” I said through gritted teeth.
“And you are blind. Didn’t you ever wonder who facilitated your kidnapping? Daradonians know the Capewells as merchants. How did those Wielders discover what we really were? How did they know you weren’t one of us—a weak link in an otherwise unbreakable chain? Somebody fed them information. Somebody close to you, most likely.” Her face twisted with contempt. “Perhaps your busybody house manager. If I were you, I’d subject her to interrogation.”
My hands curled at my sides. “Get out.”
“Join my service, keep Erik at bay, and you and I will find the betrayer together.” Briar ambled forward, coaxing. “You’re the ruling lady of Vereen now. You must defend yourself from those who would harm you. I mean only to protect you. To teach you. Heron refused to train with us and look what happened to him. Maybe if he hadn’t been so weak he’d still be alive.”
My hand whipped out. The slap of skin against skin cut through the roaring in my head.
The surrounding nobles gasped. The Capewells snapped to attention, some sliding their hands under their jackets, others into their sleeves. The young woman, Mara, saluted me with her brandy, grinning wickedly.
Briar’s face slowly realigned. Even as I prepared for the retaliative blow, I knew it had been worth it—if only to watch that red splotch flowering across her cheek as it had once flowered across mine.
Then Briar looked to her Hunters, one hand lifting in an order to halt. “The poor girl has lost her father. She’s not in her right mind.”
After a tense pause, the Capewells returned to their conversations. Only Mara seemed disappointed.
I stepped closer to Briar, palm stinging, my body humming from a strike repaid. “I don’t care what you are,” I said roughly. “I don’t care what you do. Speak ill of my father again, and I’ll show you exactly how bloodthirsty a highborn can be.”
An eager look crept over her. “I was told you hadn’t the stomach for this business, but I’ve always believed differently. Thank you for proving me right.”
28
The mourners were trickling out on a cloud of brandy fumes. I fled upstairs before the last of them could ambush me in the foyer.
