I looked dully at Zennia. She was crouching over me, her cloaked form just visible in the chamber’s thick shadows.
Something—an idea—was burgeoning in my mind.
I didn’t want to grasp it too forcefully, surprise it, for fear it would slip from my thoughts like water. My eyes roved the tower as I prodded at it, nurtured it, encouraged it to firm up and grow more substantial…
Zennia watched me, silent, understanding. We’d known each other for a decade now—she was used to my taking more time to process things. To germinate, and only later vocalize, a thought.
Below us, Emment’s beating had stopped. There was some sort of commotion. More people arriving. I folded my idea away gently, carefully, turned and peered back down into the ward.
“Crake!”
It was Avrix and Morgen Cormorant, flanked by their Orha and a few bored-looking soldiers. I spotted Nemaine, blood staining her jerkin.
“How long is this going to take?” barked Avrix. Seeing him, hatred and shame speared through me. “You said you’d get the hoard. I need to have this seen to.” He was cradling his hand, the flesh burned black, lines of pain etched into his forehead.
Uirbrig surveyed Emment, who’d collapsed on the ground. “I don’t have time for this idiocy,” he grated. “Take him up there. Start on the other boy next.”
Bustling activity. More cries from Catua. As a soldier grabbed Llir, my core turned to ice.
Emment was hauled up onto the platform—I glimpsed a red stain, a dark, slumped body—but before he could be made to kneel, like his father, Vercha stepped forward, face white as bone.
“It was buried beneath the old tower,” she said, her voice clear. “Deep below the cellar. But the tower collapsed. You’ll need a Mudmouth”—her eyes flicked to Iovawn—“but you’ll still reach it, if you don’t destroy it first.”
Emment’s shoulders slumped. Catua shook her head, despondent.
“Sensible girl,” Uirbrig said, smiling. And he walked to his son, who was standing just below us.
“Take some men and get the hoard.” His voice was low, but the words drifted upward. “I don’t care how long it takes. Then, when you have it, you can get rid of the whelps. But we need to make sure she was telling the truth, first.”
“And if she wasn’t?” Iovawn’s voice was deep, unsettling.
“Then start on them again. One by one. They’ll crack. Like I said, take as long as you need. Meet me on the mainland when it’s done. Do it properly.”
A shout from a guard broke through, drawing their attention.
“Sire. Sire! This one’s Orha!”
Uirbrig frowned. “What is it now?”
“This one’s Orha, sire. The second son.”
They were shoving Llir forward, his long legs buckling under him. One of his guards had a laconite cuff, which must have given the secret away. It was ringing faintly in the silence of the yard.
“Move away,” said Crake to his son, who obeyed.
Once it was just Uirbrig, the guard, and Llir, the Brigant stared down at the cuff in amazement. “Well, well, well,” he murmured, smirking. “Shearwater had a dirty little secret all along. All this time. We were more alike than I knew.”
“My father was nothing like you,” said Llir, his tone arctic.
In response, Uirbrig brought his meaty arm upward, smacking Llir’s chin. I heard his teeth knock in his head.
“We take the Orha with us,” Crake called. “Including this one.”
Llir raised his head, flexed his jaw with a wince. He flitted a dark, uneasy glance at the Brigant.
Behind him, the Cormorants were staring in shock. Morgen turned, murmured something to her brother, and Avrix, eyes fixed on Llir, shook his head.
“We’ve wasted too long here,” said Uirbrig to his son. “Go. Find this ruined tower. I’ll have men guard the rest of the whelps till you return.”
