The Dealmaker scoffs, managing to look both mildly offended and completely nonplussed.
“I don’t know what you think my aims are, but sowing destruction and chaos are not among them. I happen to think you’re a far better regent than the former and would like to see you succeed in bringing Emerald Reach back to its previous glory. My wife quite misses the festivals around the Verdant Eclipse—consider me selfish if you must.”
I glance back at Valenar who only arches a brow in an ‘I told you’ kind of way. Maybe this Dealmaker is unusually fair. I still don’t trust it.
But right now, I don’t have any better options. I can’t let the reach or the people I promised to serve down.
“All right,” I agree, trying to bite off the end of the words before they can reach him. But it’s too late; he’s already grinning as he produces a roll of parchment covered in text so small and cramped it would take me half a year to decipher it. A wise man would take the time to read it all.
I’d like to consider myself wise, but I’m alsodesperate, and that overrides whatever good sense might be left holding me back. Before I can give myself a chance to think better of it, I’ve signed the contract, and the Dealmaker sends it off with a wave of his hand and a puff of blue smoke.
“Perfect,” he says, smiling with too many teeth. “I’ll have her delivered before the Full Moon.”
It takes a heartbeat for the words to register, and he’s already stepping back when I echo, “Her?” My gaze darts to Valenar, but he looks as clueless and bewildered as I feel.
“Yes,her,” the Dealmaker says, mischief in his yellow eyes, his grin bordering on gleeful. “Your bride,” he adds, fading into a cloud of blue smoke.
Chapter Four
Ingrid
When the bailiff stops, a new wave of dread rushes over me. The torches in this part of the hall have burned down to embers, eerie fingers of shadow dancing against the damp stone walls. The air is thick with the stench of neglected humans, the bitter cold making each breath sharp and short. The bailiff moves a heavy iron bolt, and the door to Phillip’s cell swings open. My heart clenches, guilt and despair stealing away with my voice. I’m supposed to look after him, keep him safe, but all I’ve done is...
“Phillip,” I manage, trying to sound strong despite the effort it takes to stay upright.
A single, dim lantern sways in the cell, making my vision blur as my eyes adjust. My brother is shackled, his lanky frame hunched and hobbled in the corner. One eye is bruised and swollen shut, his normally-smiling face bloodied and unrecognizable. But worse is his broken spirit.
He thinks he’s alone. He thinks I didn’t come for him.
“Phillip,” I say again, louder this time. The tremble in my voice breaks through his defeated resignation and his one good eye widens as he finally looks up.
“Ing,” he says. And then the relief in his voice gives way to hurt, anger. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I blink back tears, clearing the catch in my throat. “Neither should you. I’m getting you out.”
He scoffs, wincing from it. "How're you gonna do that?" He gestures around the cell, the chains binding his wrists rattling for emphasis.
I bite my lip, trying to figure out the best way to tell him. If I should tell him at all. He doesn’t make it easy, staring at me with betrayal in his good eye, the same way our parents used to look at the bottom of an empty bottle. I take too long to answer, and he knows. I don’t even have to say it.
He knows.
"Tell me you didn't," he says, a challenge as much as a plea.
He's statue-still as I step toward him, trying to bridge the chasm of disappointment between us, the impossible, inevitable, all-consuming rift I know I can’t avoid. I kneel beside him, swallowing the pain and fear as best I can.
“It was the only way."
Hurt flashes across my brother’s face. He turns away, blood-matted hair hiding his expression, but I know what it is. I know exactly what it is, because I feel it too.
“I had to! He was going to hang you," I insist, tears dripping to the dirty stone floor. "If there was anything else...it was the only way.”
“No,” he says, the words rough, angry. Angrier than I’ve ever heard him. “No, there has to be—”
“There isn’t,” I say, stopping him. “There isn’t. You think I’d do this if there were?”
Phillip finally looks back at me, his jaw set. Stubborn, defiant, trying to be the boy I raised him to be. The man I hope he’ll become. “He won’t kill me.” He almost sounds convincing. “He won’t.”
“He will,” I argue, and the flash in his eye tells me that maybe he believes it. Maybe he’s not just putting on a show this time. “He will, Phillip.” I put my hands over his, the mangled, twisted forms of his broken fingers strengthening my will. “He’s determined to see it through. You know he is.”
