Kings of Deceit - R

[Mollianne]

Jessa refused to leave Odaren’s side until the guards came to take him to the palace prison. She stood between him and Alrick, eyeing the king and the woman who had been forced to torture him. Alrick did not even try to come closer. Jessa would have wondered why if she had not felt the air around her charged with magic, radiating outwards in sparks of pure energy. No one dared approach her. She had not even noticed her magic surge in her anger, and though it was ebbing now, Jessa had no idea how to rein it in. Alrick, at least, would leave here believing Jessa did not know about her magic after this. It was the tiniest consolation.

The guards arrived. Alrick spoke quietly to one while the other yanked Odaren to his feet, ignoring Jessa’s protests. Odaren, weak and half-conscious, collapsed to the ground. Jessa rushed to his side, but Alrick grabbed her and pulled her away, her magic no longer wild enough to stop him. Jessa watched helplessly as the guards clapped handcuffs around Odaren’s wrists and ankles, then manhandled him on the larger guard’s shoulder and carried him away. Jessa started forward, but Alrick’s grip tightened on her arm. “No.”

“Please let me go.”

Alrick did not, but when Jessa looked up at him the anger lines in his face had disappeared and he looked perfectly calm. It scared her more than the anger. “Why did you save him?”

The adrenaline – and magic – that had allowed her to face the king and not hold back had dissipated, leaving only fear for the repercussions in its wake. Jessa did not regret what she had done by any means, but looking into Alrick’s serene face terrified and cowed her. Somehow, one day, this rebellion would come back to haunt her.

“Because no one deserves to die like that. Because you were never going to get what you wanted from him – he was in too much pain to speak. All that would have happened was that you would have blood on your hands.”

“I’m the king, Jessa. Plenty of people have died on my orders.”

Jessa kept her expression neutral. She swallowed, her mouth dry. “But theirs was not unnecessary or… wrong,” she said, the words ash in her mouth as she lied harder than she ever had done before. Jessa doubted there was a single person Alrick had had killed – or killed himself – that truly deserved their fate. Not when Alrick was the one holding the blade.

“You will not speak of what has happened here to anyone,” Alrick said.

“Okay.”

The king let her go, but Jessa did not leave. She simply stood there, but waiting for what she did not know. Alrick turned around, and picked something up off the chair where Odaren had been. There hadn’t been anything on the chair, had there? Jessa scrunched up her face in thought, trying to remember, but her thoughts were like clouds, insubstantial, drifting away from her every time she reached for them.

Alrick presented her with the knife. It was red with blood, Odaren’s blood. Jessa had not seen blood, had she? She must have, for it was there on the blade. She nodded, before realising that no one had said anything.

“I don’t want to need to use this again, Jessa,” Alrick said. “Find out what I need from Odaren.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jessa said, dipping into a curtsey. When she stood straight again, she still did not move.

“You can go.”

Jessa nodded absently, turning and leaving the room. The door was shut behind her, and she heard it lock. She walked back through the circular room, enjoying the feel of the plush rug underneath her. And then, slowly, like a gentle breeze blowing in her mind, those far-off memories came back to her. She was nearly at the prison cells when she felt a sharp tug inside her that told her something was wrong. Hadn’t she been angry only a few minutes before? She stopped, feeling lost. Jessa turned in place as if to orient herself, then rubbed her temples.

Odaren. Alrick had had him tortured. She hadn’t forgotten that, but how had she forgotten her anger? Jessa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember, to fight the confusion. There had been a woman, torturing Odaren, cutting into him with a knife… No. Was that right? Jessa couldn’t remember. There had been a knife though, and it had been slick with blood. She must be right. Wasn’t she?

She shook her head. Now was not the time. If she didn’t hurry, Alrick might renege on their deal. Jessa had to go to Odaren, find out what he knew, report to the king, and save both of their lives—

Jessa stopped in her tracks. She stared at the ground, her forehead creasing as her memories rebelled against what she was planning on doing. She already knew what Odaren was keeping secret – it was her secret. It was something she did not want the king to know. How could she ever think that was what she wanted to do? And yet part of her did, yearning to complete the task it was so sure was right. She started walking again, glancing at the guard as he waved her down into the palace prison.

Odaren was in the first cell. His handcuffs were attached to a chain on the wall, and his arm was held at an awkward angle. He moved his head so slightly as he heard the sound of her footsteps on the stone, but he was weak and uncaring. He let his head droop. His fingers shivered occasionally. She could see no blood, but there were bandages on his arms, and his shirt was slashed at the shoulders. Jessa remembered his screams, and pressed herself against the cell bars. The bandages were small, and few. But Odaren’s screams had been long and agonised. Surely those wounds were not enough to cause that, not even with Odaren fighting against Jessa’s secrecy spell.

“Odaren,” she whispered. He looked up, his eyes blank, resigned to his fate. “I’m Jessa. I’m here to help you.”

Odaren averted his gaze, shuffling inch by inch until he had his back to her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said. “I just need to know what you know. I release y-”

She clamped her mouth shut, screaming inwardly to stay silent. Jessa recoiled from the bars, putting a hand to her head and the other to her roiling stomach, trying not to vomit as she fought against something in her head.

Something was in her head. A feeling, an idea, urging her onto the right path. Or the wrong path. Jessa didn’t know anymore. She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t do this until she knew what this was. She turned to look at Odaren, huddled in the corner. “I won’t leave you like this,” she whispered. It was the only thing she knew to be true amid a sea of confusion. Jessa swallowed hard, then ascended the stairs.

“Can I trust you to let me know if anyone else tries to see the prisoner?” she asked the guard. He was not either of the ones who had taken Odaren away from Alrick. Jessa was glad of that.

He raised his eyebrows and held out his hand. Jessa looked into his face and then down at his hand. She sniffed and pulled out three gold coins, more than the guard would make in a month. He curled his fingers around them in reverence, and nodded. “I’ll let you know.”

He was in the king’s employ, so his words did not mean much. She would just have to hope that Alrick would keep to his word and leave Odaren alone.

***

The next morning Jessa awoke groggy and tired. The room was still dark, so Jessa slumped back onto her pillow and closed her eyes. And then someone knocked impatiently on the door. “My lady?”

Jessa rubbed a hand down her face and slowly dragged herself out of bed. Wrapping her robe around her shoulders, she went to the door and opened it just as the man was about to knock again. “Finally,” he said. Jessa looked at him blankly. “I was knocking for ages.”

She finally placed him. He was the guard from the day before, the one she had paid off. She scrunched up her face, knowing she was not going to get anymore sleep that morning. Odaren was more important. At least her head was no longer spinning like it had been yesterday. Jessa felt like she could actually function now, if she did not think about the day before.

“Yes?” she asked the guard.

“You told me to tell-”

“I know.”

“I came as soon as I changed shift. Someone came to see the prisoner, right in the dead of night.”

“Someone?” Jessa asked, tiredly.

“Right,” the guard said, looking sheepish. “She had brown hair, pretty face, average height. Like your typical Etrenian noblewoman. Mighty beautiful, though. She tried to get past me, very persuasive, if you know what–” He coughed, clearly remembering he was talking to Jessa and not one of his friends, although Jessa was barely listening, caught up in her own thoughts – and her own hope. “Well, I stood my ground. I don’t want to lose my job, or worse.”

“Well, thank you,” Jessa said hastily. The guard bowed, making Jessa grimace. “You can go.”

With another bow, the guard left. Jessa wasted no time in shutting the door and dressing in whatever was to hand. She fumbled with the buttons, her mind racing too fast for her to focus on anything else. Jessa knew who had tried to visit Odaren – she knew. No Etrenian noblewoman would even know about him. It could only be one person, someone who would enjoy playing with someone to get her way, and someone who could disguise herself as anyone she wanted. And Laurita, she would know what to do about the situation. Jessa was finally not alone.

Jessa knew she shouldn’t be too hopeful. As far as she knew Laurita was nowhere near Ovis, and even if she was there was little chance that she had learned Odaren was in the city, let alone in the palace prison. But Jessa could think of no other explanation. Of course, after yesterday she could not even trust her own thoughts. Was Laurita even a real person, or had she concocted her in her mind, desperate for a friend and someone in whom she could confide openly? Laurita seemed real, but her desire to free Odaren from her secrecy spell had also seemed real, yet now she was fairly sure that the opposite was what she actually wanted. Her mind was still too confused and clouded to make sense of the contradictions.

Jessa pulled on her shoes and hurried out of the room. She had no idea where she was going. The chances of Laurita being in the castle now were slim, and Jessa did not know where else to start. Even if they did cross paths, Laurita would be disguised; Jessa would probably walk right past her.

She had walked around the entire castle, getting odd looks and annoyed glares from the servants already up and beginning the last day of preparations for Alrick’s celebration, before she realised how ridiculous she was being. Was this a result of the madness in her head, or was she usually like this?

“Excuse me,” a gruff voice said, and Jessa jumped out of the way as a servant barged past with a huge red and gold garland in her hands. Jessa decided it would be safer for her in her room. She stuck to the edge of the corridor, keeping out of the way of the frazzled servants. The corridor leading up to her room was thankfully clear, but as Jessa reached the door she slowed, frowning. An odd glow appeared from under the door, and as she drew closer she could hear the slight crackle of a fire in the grate.

There was someone in her room.

Jessa nearly went to find a guard, but then she considered that it might be Laurita. Or Nayall – he had given her a note, with instructions on where to find him, but then she had been given the necklace and had not yet thought of a way to get around it, if she even trusted Nayall enough to try. But breaking into the castle and waiting for her in her room was definitely something Nayall would do. Even if she didn’t trust him, she was not about to hand him over to the guards for Alrick to realise who he was and have him killed for the things he knew about the mage ring and the king himself.

Jessa pushed open the door and went inside. She was pulled into a fierce hug before she even had a chance to register who it was. She saw long black hair and her suspicions solidified into reality. Jessa sighed and hugged her friend back, glad to be reunited. Glad Laurita was real.

Before Laurita could speak, Jessa whispered in her ear, “They’re listening. Don’t let them know you’re hear.”

Laurita pulled back, frowning, so Jessa lifted up the necklace she wore. From Laurita’s look of anger, Jessa knew her friend recognised the stone and what it could do. Laurita gestured for Jessa to turn around. Laurita pushed away her hair and unclipped the necklace. Jessa twisted back around, shaking her head vehemently, but Laurita just put a finger to her lips and walked away. She placed the necklace by the hearth, then sat down on the bed, pulling Jessa beside her.

“Hello, Jessa,” Laurita said.

“What-”

Laurita rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, it can’t hear us. I’ve put a sound spell on us. No one but us can hear us, and the du Renes will just think you’re reading by the fire.”

“But what if-”

“Jessa, no. It’s fine. I’d forgotten how much you worried. I’ve had experience with these things, it’s fine.” Laurita stopped, pursing her lips. “I heard Oddie was here.”

Jessa nodded. Laurita swallowed hard and nodded back. “Right. Okay. He’s okay?”

Jessa opened her mouth and then promptly shut it again. That was all the response Laurita needed. “He’s alive though. That’s something.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“Ever the observant one. No, I don’t suppose I am. We’ve both seen what happens to the people who’ve been subject to Alrick’s particular brand of mind control. Oddie’s never going to be the same, and he might never recover.”

“And you think-”

“No, of course not,” Laurita said hastily. “Of course I want my brother to be alive. But until recently I’d given up hope of finding him, after basically making myself sick trying, and now here I am and here he is. I’m just in shock.”

“Laurita,” Jessa began, biting her lip. “The situation’s… not good. They found evidence of the secrecy spell on Odaren. They were-” Jessa strained to remember, but the events in that room were still so clouded in her mind. “I don’t know. I’m hazy on the details, but essentially they were-”

“Torturing him,” Laurita finished, her expression hard as stone.

“I stopped it. At least, I think. I know I have a week to tell the king what Odaren knows.”

“Wait, Jessa. What do you mean you think? It happened yesterday, didn’t it?”

Jessa leaned forwards, shrugging. She clasped her hands together to stop herself from fidgeting. “Yes… Yesterday.”

Laurita’s eyes went wide. She grabbed Jessa’s chin without warning and pulled her face closer. She stared into each of Jessa’s eyes, examining them. “No,” she murmured, shaking herself and checking again, her jaw going slack with horror. “He’s got to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Alrick. He got inside your head, and he’s twisted everything he can reach.”

“I think I’d know-”

“No, you wouldn’t. That’s the point. And I know you know something isn’t right, Jessa, no matter what your brain is trying to convince you of. You just can’t think clearly. If you could, you’d be the first person to realise what’s happened to you.” Laurita took Jessa’s hands gently in hers. “Jessa, I need you to think. How long have you been feeling like this? Just go back through your memories slowly, until everything starts to feel clearer again. Close your eyes if it helps.”

Jessa tried. She closed her eyes and tried to move back through her memories chronologically, but it was like moving through waist-deep sludge. Random memories were sucked towards her, distracting her. She pushed through it, but it was hard and painful. Jessa gasped. As if from far away, she heard Laurita asking if she was okay, but Jessa didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She just kept trying to break free of the mud in her head. Her vision darkened at the edges, and all she could see was the mess of memories surrounding her, burying her, and then everything went dark.

“Jessa! Jessa!”

Jessa did not move. She felt like she had run all the way from Ovis to Jasrah. Her head throbbed, but she was surprised to find it clearer than it had felt a moment ago.

“Jessa?”

Jessa replied, telling the voice she was fine, but all she could actually manage was a few odd noises. She tried to turn her head and bury her face in the softness beneath her, but it just sent her head spinning. She scrunched up her face, waiting for it to subside, and when it eventually did, the pain in her head was almost bearable. Slowly, she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

“Are you okay?” Laurita asked. Jessa nodded, although it was technically a lie. She cracked open her eyes and looked at Laurita. Her friend’s eyebrows were raised and her entire expression told Jessa she did not believe her for one second, but she would let it slide. “Do you remember what you were doing?”

After a moment, Jessa nodded. “It started yesterday. In the room.”

“He was probably trying to change your perception of what happened.”

“But… why? I remember arguing with him. Wouldn’t he have just gone in my head then and shut me up? It doesn’t make sense. It must be something else affecting me.”

“No, Jessa. Stop. Don’t let go of this now you have it. You know Alrick did this.”

Jessa shook her head.

“Tell me everything you remember, Jessa. From the start.”

“But-”

“Don’t worry about my feelings. I can take it.” Jessa did not believe her, but it was clear in every tensed line of Laurita’s body that she was not going to back down from this, that she needed to hear it and that she was prepared for the worst. Jessa swallowed.

“I… I heard screams. I was trying to find another way into the room, when he screamed. He was there, Odaren, staring at me. I think he recognised me, but then he walked away. There were screams.” Jessa frowned. She wasn’t telling this right. She glanced at Laurita, saw the confusion on her face, and her heart dropped. She was doing this all wrong. “I…”

“It’s okay, Jessa. You can do this. You just need to think.”

“I was angry. I saw the knife, they kept cutting Odaren with it. His screams. But they didn’t stop, not when I told them to. They just kept on doing it. And then it stopped, and the king told me to find out what Odaren is hiding, and if I don’t then he’ll kill us both. He showed me the knife they’d used on Odaren, threatening to use it again.”

“Jessa,” Laurita interrupted. There was pain in her voice but she did not cry. Jessa admired her strength even amidst all the confusion. Laurita took Jessa’s hands, and said, very gently, “I don’t think the knife was real.”

Jessa frowned, indignant. “Yes, it was. I saw it. It was… there was blood. He was holding it. I saw them cut Odaren with it.”

“Everything else you described was vague and jumbled. The knife, though… You’re determined to believe it in. It’s the one thing you see clearly. So it’s the thing that’s a lie. Alrick believes you don’t know about his magic, and that you think he hates Greater Magic if you even know about it at all. You saw Oddie… you saw him tortured with magic, but Alrick needed you to believe it was something physical, a real weapon.”

Jessa shook her head. Laurita’s words sounded reasonable but they were wrong. She knew what she had seen. Firmly, Jessa said, “If Alrick had messed with my mind I wouldn’t have stopped him torturing Odaren. But I did, so you must be wrong.”

“No, Jessa. Not if, for some reason, he couldn’t reach your mind then. You were angry, you said, and you’ve only recently got your magic under any kind of control. Did it flare out? That would have blocked your mind from him, unless he was really desperate to control you. And I doubt he would have risked his own safety for that, when he could just let you think you’ve won and then watch you fail. One week isn’t much of a delay in order to placate you, calm you down, and then twist your mind so you don’t talk about what you’ve seen. It’s easier to do it when a person’s in that state. If they’re as angry as you probably were, given you still remember it even after Alrick’s manipulations, it’s much harder to convince you of anything.”

“I’ve talked about what I’d seen,” Jessa insisted. “I’m telling you right now. You said that’s what Alrick would be trying to prevent.”

“Yes, but, well, the real parts of you know the truth, and Alrick doesn’t know that you already know about his magic, so I imagine the whole effect is a little weaker than it would normally be since he can’t know the full extent of what needs confounding in your head. You’re fighting against it subconsciously, even if you’re unable to untangle the truth and the lies when you’re actually focusing on it.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Jessa said. “I feel exhausted.”

Laurita smiled wanly, watching Jessa as she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. There was blissful silence for a short while, and Jessa was so close to sleep when Laurita sighed and said, “I want to see him, Jessa. I need to see him.”

“Pretend to be me,” Jessa mumbled. The words awoke something inside her and she bolted upright, nearly smacking Laurita in the chin. She barely noticed. “You pretend to be me and see Odaren. And you can give me some kind of disguise and I can get away from the princess spying on me for a little while.” She could go and find out what Nayall had to say. She could find out whether she could trust him.

“I’d have to wear your necklace.” Laurita looked over her shoulder at the hearth, where the object in question lay, reminding Jessa of the shackles that currently existed in her life. Laurita looked back at her and nodded. “If it means I can see Odaren, I’ll do it.”

They talked for a little while longer, considering every possibility. Jessa warned Laurita about the restrictions on what she could say given that the du Renes were listening, and Laurita practised imitating Jessa’s voice. She was remarkably good at it, although when Jessa expressed her admiration Laurita admitted to using magic to help her. Nevertheless, Jessa knew her friend just had a natural talent for imitating people, which was evidenced by the fact that her magic excelled at it.

They went over everything for so long that Jessa’s tiredness began to overtake her. Laurita smiled a little at Jessa as she once again lay down on the bed. Jessa felt rather than saw her friend climb off the bed. “We’ll do it later today,” she said, although Jessa detected sad resignation in her words. “I’ll let you rest for now.”

[Rosabeth]

Each step was agony, each breath felt like fire in his throat, but Rhys ran as he’d never run in his life. Dima was right behind him, his own breathing ragged as they darted through alleys and around corners. They couldn’t go home, not now. Miriyam would be slowed, but Rhys new she had the power to heal herself quickly, and if she sent anyone after them they’d be sure to cut off all passages back to the Marinon’s home, even those Rhys considered secret. But neither could Rhys stay out in the open. Sooner or later he knew the damage of the magic that had been used against him would come back to haunt him, and he needed to be somewhere secure when that happened.

“Hurry, this way!” Rhys shouted. They took a sharp left, and then a right, and then Rhys saw his fortress. Victor’s home was not far from the city center, a short few minutes walk from the city square and the Solena Palace. As a son of a lesser lord, their home was not as hulking as the Marinon’s or Gaille’s, but it was fully staffed with guards which in Rhys’ eyes made it practically a castle. The guards came to attention as Rhys ran forward. “Open the gates!”

“Open the gates for Lord Rhys!” The presiding guard commanded, and slowly the iron gates creaked open, the door guards on the other side already giving their commands to the servants. By the time Rhys made it to the door Victor was already there waiting with wide eyes.

“Rhys, what’s wrong? Dima?” He ushered the brothers inside, but Rhys needed no direction. He knew Victor’s house as well as Victor and led himself through the halls. As soon as he came to their favorite private sitting room he all but passed out onto the sofa. “Water.” The active servant scurried off before even Victor could catch up.

“Rhys, what the hell is going on?” Victor leaned over to a servant who’d followed, whispering some instruction and sending her off. He came to Rhys’ side and knelt down beside him, pushing Rhys’ hair from his face. “Jesus, you look terrible. What’s happened?”

“The Lanis twins. They deceived me. I believed them. They lied.” Victor looked frantically to Dima for something more coherent, but Dima too had sunk into a chair with his head between his legs. “They’re going to do something tomorrow, they said so. Something against the noble families. I dont know what it is but I’m pretty sure it’ll be violent.”

“Rhys, you’re not telling me what happened.”

“Rhys!” It was Selene, standing in the doorway with just as much shock apparent on her face as Victor. Rhys could have cried with relief. “You’re here, thank the gods.”

Selene took her place next to Victor, looking over Rhys with fear as if he was dying before them. “Please Rhys, tell us what’s happened.”

It was Dima who answered. “We broke into the Lanis’ room, the Johannes caught us and Rhys and I held him down and questioned him - well, tortured too. Miriyam came in and tortured Rhys with her mind. Well, that’s what I think happened, I couldn’t really follow it but Rhys was screaming. I grabbed a vial of acid that I’d found earlier and threw it on Miriyam’s face and Rhys and I escaped out the window.”

“So it’s true then?” Selene gasped. “They’re mages? There’s been rumors, but no one was sure.”

“Only Miriyam,” said Dima, running his hands through his hair, still hunched over with his elbows resting on his legs. “Some weird twin magic, I don’t know. She apparently has both her and Johannes’ power and he has nothing. It’s weird, don’t ask.”

The servant Rhys commanded finally returned with a pitcher of water, and Rhys took it without even waiting for a glass, sitting up and downing it all in one go as Victor and Selene watched in shock. The water cooled the fire in Rhys throats and gave his mind some clarity, making him feel more human. He could feel the sweat clinging to his whole body and he found the sense to take off his cloak and doublet, laying on his back with a sigh. “They’re Alrick’s children. Jessa wasn’t his first illegitimate child.”

“The Lanis’?” Selene and Victor said in unison.

Rhys nodded. “Their mother was a Barichean Lady. She gave them up to an orphanage at birth. They tried to tell the King about them when they were 16 and he had their mother killed and tried to have them killed as well. They’re obviously political radicals; I don’t doubt their sincerity in wanting change. However, I think they’re out for revenge against the King and all nobility. They mentioned that they’d be doing something today, something they implied was game changing. I think it’s going to target the nobility. You need to find Ero and let him know. Freya isn’t a noble so she should be safe, but I’d contact her too just in case, seeing as her family has close ties with us. Tell them to stay in their homes, to go into hiding if possible.” Rhys’ words came tumbling out so quickly they were barely understandable, but it was a release just to say them. He breathed a sigh of relief, though he knew it would be short lived. “And I need you to guard me tonight. I’m probably going to try to kill myself.”

If Selene and Victor had been concerned before they were positively terrified now. Luckily for Rhys Dima stepped in. “Don’t worry about him, I’ll watch him. You can deal with your own needs. You should go, he’s probably just going to fall asleep anyway.” The two lingered, staring at Rhys, but suddenly Selene’s eyes grew wide with terror.

“My sisters! They’re alone at home, my parents are at some dinner with Victor’s and a few other noble families. I have to go to them, I can’t stay here!” Here eyes were pleading, and Rhys knew that restraining her would only drive her to desperate means, and if anything happened...Well, she was sure to never forgive any of them.

Victor understood this as well. “Two guards will accompany Lady Selene to her home, is that understood? And I want them in full armor as well,” he instructed a servant who gave a small nod and rushed off. Selene pulled Victor into a tight hug, whispering her thanks before following the servant. “I’ll take a few guards and go find Ero and Freya. I’ll instruct the guards to be on high alert, to let no one in or out of here except for Selene and I. That includes you, Rhys. No heroics.”

“You’re one to speak.” Rhys was surprised he was able to conjure anything even slightly humorous. Victor smiled, but it was weak. “Oh, you know me. I never look for a fight.”

As soon as the servants had all been instructed and Selene and Victor were on their way, Rhys felt sleep come quickly, his body too exhausted from exertion and mental torture to handle a moment more of consciousness. He let his eyes shut, praying to all the gods that should the insanity come he be asleep, so as not to be forced to face the shame and the terror. “Dima? Thank you. For everything. I know I judge you harshly, and I’m not the kindest brother, not that you’re easy to be kind to,” Dima laughed, “but you saved me tonight. I owe you my life.”

A hand rested on Rhys’ shoulder, and Rhys brought up his own to squeeze it. “That’s what family’s for.” Dima’s hand slipped away, and Rhys could feel Dima’s body lean back against the sofa. “Now try to get some sleep.” Rhys didn’t need telling twice.

***

When he awoke he was suffocating. Hands clasped around his throat, pushing, thumbs digging into his neck. The hold was so tight the pain was almost worse than the asphyxiation. His eyelids fluttered open as he felt a weight fall in his chest, and if he could have he would have screamed. Miriyam, the left side of her face marred almost beyond recognition, straddled Rhys, her hands clasped around his neck as she held tighter. Rhys frantically grabbed at her arms and pushed with all he could, but she had such strength. He felt her arms give, if only for a moment, and there was air at last. He gasped in that moment relishing as the air filled his lungs, but soon enough two hands jammed back to his throat and his eyes went wide. The pain subsided, replaced by an adrenaline rush unlike any he’d known. He pushed against, his own fingers digging into her arms as he struggled to rip her arms from his neck. She made a noise of displeasure, almost like a growl, and slapped him across the face. The sting disoriented Rhys just enough to stop his fight for a moment, and the momentary reprive as her hands left his throat left him gasping. A horrible stinging pain ripped across his arm, and he cried out as he looked down, seeing Miriyam draw back her knife and the blood spill down his arm. In his moment of confusion his arms were suddenly drawn upwards and pinned behind his head, all of Miriyam’s weight focused on keeping them down despite his struggles. Rhys spat in her face but she hardly flinched, only closing her eyes as she saw it coming.

“Rhys, stop it!” She screamed, but the voice that came from her body was foreign, a man’s voice unsuited for her formerly fair face. Rhys blinked, and in the second everything changed. He stopped thrashing, staring up at his assailant in utter confusion. Where Miriyam had been only a second before was Dima, his face tense and his breath ragged as he continued to press down heavily on Rhys’ arms.

“Dima, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m saving your life, you ungrateful piece of shit,” Dima spat. Rhys was still; his mind raced and his body froze in an indescribable state of bewilderment. Dima, apparently satisfied with Rhys’ inaction, reluctantly released his vice grip on Rhys’ arms and shifted his weight off Rhys’ body, proffering his hand to Rhys. Helped to a sitting position, Rhys looked around the room, realizing he was in Victor’s sitting room, no signs of forced entry anywhere to be seen, and more importantly no sign of Miriyam. Dima let out a sigh of relief, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “You know, when you said you were going to try to kill yourself I wasn’t expecting that. It’s lucky your thrashing woke me or you would have strangled yourself to death.”

Rhys touched his neck, feeling the sore ring where Miriyam’s hands had taken hold. “I wasn’t strangling myself!” Surely Dima had seen Miriyam. Surely he knew what had happened. “It was Miriyam.” Dima only stared at Rhys as if he was a small child telling absurd lies. A chill ran down Rhys’ spine as the realization slowly hit. “It was me. I was strangling myself. It wasn’t real.”

“You know, you scared the shit out of me. I thought...well, I thought you were going to die. I couldn’t hold you for long. I’m sorry about that, by the way,” Dima gestured to Rhys’ bleeding arm, a wound Rhys had completely forgotten about. “It was the only way I could think of to distract you.” Dima then untucked his shirt and using his knife removed the bottom ring of cloth and wrapped it around Rhys’ arm. “I don’t think I hit any major veins. For being a last ditch resort I tried to not actually kill you.”

The relief that washed through Rhys, mixed with the horror, was enough to dim the pain of his wound. “No, don’t worry about it. In fact, thank you. Again.” Dima shrugged, continuing to wrap the wound. Rhys had never seen his brother so sobered, so obviously affected by anything. He sat in silence, watching Dima’s fingers work as he tied a knot and smoothed over the fabric. When it was done Rhys could barely even look Dima in the eye as the guilt overtook him. This was what he’d been reduced to, someone so weak that only a few seconds of Miriyam’s torturous magic left him attempting to end his own life. What if it had been a minute? How much worse could the side effects possibly get? Would there be a point at why Rhys would simply die? These were questions that haunted him, questions he did not ever want to know the answers to.

Before long Rhys heard voices in the hallway, drawing closer and growing louder. The doors burst open and Victor and Selene entered, Victor looking sober and Selene frantic, on the edge of tears. Rhys jumped up but Victor shook his head and put up a hand. “I couldn’t find Freya or Ero. Both of their houses were empty, but no signs of forced entry, so it looks as if they left of their own accord. I can’t be certain, though, give that I also saw no guards in the area.”

Rhys didn’t want to ask, as Selene looked as if one word might finish her, but as it turned out he need not ask. “My sisters are gone,” she whispered, her voice raspy, her eyes hollow. She opened her mouth to speak but choked on her words. Victor pulled her into a hug, practically crushing her against his body as she began to shake. Just then the clock struck midnight, but instead of the tolling of the bells a resonating boom shook the house.

“What the hell was that?” Rhys ran to the window, followed quickly by Dima and the others, looking out onto the horizon for anything. Suddenly another shattering boom could be heard across the city, this time amplified. It sounded like canon fire, but Rhys saw no smoke nor flames. Victor began to speak, but no more than a word passed through his lips before high pitched screeching was all Rhys could hear. Selene screamed and Dima pressed his hands to his ears, all four of them staring at one another in fear. The screeching was coming from inside their heads. Slowly it subsided into a low hum, and Rhys’ blood ran cold as an icy voice began to speak in his head.

“All residents of Jasrah are to report to the city center, to the grounds of the Solena Palace, immediately. Immediately! Failure to comply with these instructions will not be met with mercy.” It was Miriyam’s voice, cold and cruel. From the expressions of the others, Rhys was not the only one hearing a voice in his head. Suddenly the low hum cut out and Rhys was left with what felt like utter silence without it.

“That voice,” Selene said slowly, her hand held to her head. “It sounded familiar. Where do I know that voice from?”

“Miriyam,” Rhys and Dima answered in unison. They shared a quick look of disgust. “It’s starting. Whatever it is that she’s planning on, this is it.”

Victor looked as if he was about to speak but hesitated, cutting back his voice. He instead looked to Rhys for some sort of direction, to make the decision he did not want to make, to ask the questions he couldn’t. He then looked to Selene who, with her emotions clear on her face, like an open book, gave Rhys a look of defiance. He’d seen that expression before, and he knew what it meant. There was no stopping her. To Selene, this meeting was a chance to find her family, and there was nothing on earth that could stop a drive that strong. It was stupid, really, running into this perfectly laid trap just as the Lanis’ wanted, but they’d all been cornered like deer being hunted by wolves. There was nowhere left to run, only into the fray.

“Ok, we’ll go, but we stay together. No wandering, no running off even if you see someone you know,” Selene was not happy with this rule, but she did not argue. “If we want to stay alive we have to stick together. We’ll hang off by the back. There’s a few vantage points by the corners of the square, points others might not know about. Staying there is our safest bet. Am I understood? Are we in agreement?” Three heads nodded in unison at Rhys. “Ok, then grab a weapon and let’s go.”

The guard at the date put up his sword as the four approached, but Victor waved him down. “We’re leaving. You will let us pass.”

“But my Lord, you said -”

“I know what I said. This is a change of plans. You are to keep your post, no matter what. Is that clear?”

Several guards looked at each other anxiously. They’d heard Miriyam’s broadcast as well. “But my Lord -”

“Am I clear?” Rhys knew Victor had a heart of a puppy dog, but when he wished, Victor could use his intimidating towering frame rather effectively. The guards took a few steps back, nodding reluctantly. “Good. Rhys, let’s go.”

They were not the first to respond to the call. The closer they got to the Solena Palace the more people there were, the streets absolutly packed up in the distance. Some wore their nightgowns, looking around in bewilderment and hugging cloaks to their bodies. Small children were carried by their mothers who attempted to sooth their frightened cries. These were not the people Rhys worried about. It was the frightening number of people who walked calmly into the huddled masses, fully clothed and carrying weapons. Those with training who could afford them carried well crafted swords, others, the youngest and oldest amongst them, held battered second-hand swords. Some even carried unusual weapons, with one man even holding a meat cleaver. Rhys had the misfortune of making eye contact with him, for the look of malice on that man’s face sent a shiver up Rhys’ spine. “Stick together,” he whispered to the others, getting a tighter grip on his own sword hilt though keeping it sheathed.

The crowd was too thick to navigate once they reached the outskirts of the square. It was clearly not the entire population of Jasrah present, but the number that had made an appearance was staggering. Rhys gestured for the others to follow as he took a winding back route, eventually dumping them back into the square on the opposite side through a small alley. Here there was a small alcove caved into the wall of the old, barracks, the fire-raveged building only a stone shell of it’s former self. The alcove was once a vantage point for guards, but still low enough to be reached by the small stack of crates that stood below it. The four of them quickly climbed up the boxes and ducked away into the alcove, peeking their heads around the wall to get a better view of the square.

A newly constructed hangman’s gallow stood before the gates to the palace, and on the structure stood the unmistakable headman’s wood block. “Oh my god,” Selene murmured, her face pale. The rest of the bystanders’ whisperings grew louder until the whole city was buzzing with voices. The minutes passed and the tension grew as more and more people squeezed into the square, many looking down from balconies and rooftops. Rhys noticed one rooftop watcher pull out a bow, only then realizing that these observers were not observers at all, but assassins. As he watch the man a cheer broke out among the crowd, and Rhys looked back to the gallows to see Miriyam and Johannes ascend the stage. The cheers were terrifying, but the reactions of those clearly unaware of the situation were worse. Some whispered to each other in quick, worried tones, but others reluctantly joined in with the cheering, swept up into the hive mind of the crowd. It made Rhys sick to watch.

“Welcome, my brothers and sisters.” Miriyam’s voice was loud and clear, amplified by magic to reach every corner of the square. Even though she stood at a far distance, Rhys could tell that her face bore no scar. He glanced to Dima - he seemed to have noticed the same thing. “We call you here today to bear witness to the dawn of a new age. For too long you have suffered under the hold of injustice. You have sat idly by as you and your children have been enslaved by these masters you call lords, that you bow down to as if they were gods. Tell me - what makes a man a god? Nothing. Gods do not walk this earth, and there is no earthly reason for us to treat any man as such.” There were more cheers, but this time the murmuring among the disenting crowd grew louder, and Rhys could see some amongst the crowd attempt to leave, pushing their way through bodies with no avail, only to be pushed back.

“I know how you’ve suffered, for I have suffered to. I have lived under the rule of tyrannical nobles, of those who’ve subjected me to poverty with no remorse despite my pleads. Those who have seen my struggles and looked the other way. Those who have robbed me blind and revealed in their own wealth as others starve on the streets. I know your pain, but tonight your pain is no more. We come here today as your liberators, to help you onto the path to freedom. Your King is a traitor to his title, a man who deceives you, who hurts you, who cares nothing for his people. See how he treats his citizens? You, citizens of Jenya, tell us of how your city was burned, your people slaughtered, by the King’s own men!” The cheer, or rather jeer, that followed was deafening. “Kill the King!” One voice in the crowd screamed, met by a thousand cheers. It was then, in that horrible moment, that Rhys finally understood.

It was Ezaria who had sent those men to Jenya under the false pretense of being Etrenian soldiers. It was she who knew the fraility of the Jenyan economic system, who understood the state such refugees would be in, desperate in their poverty to do anything to fight back against those who hurt them - the King. But it was not Ezaria who was left in charge of how their actions played out, for she had made a mistake in entrusting that job to the Lanis’. The Lanis’ spoke of fighting against the King, but it was not the King who they planned to punish. It was the nobility. The nobility who, unable to provide for thousands of impoverished refugees would suddenly play the part of the villain. Jasrans, well aquainted with the Marinon’s established peace, would be hard to convince to fight back against their nobles - was it not the Marinons who’d kept the brasher nobles in check, who’d kept poverty low, who defended the commoners? Despite their horrid infamy, at the end of the day the only ones who feared the Marinons were others in their game of power, not the common man. But the Jenyans would not know that. All they would know was the infamy, the stories of horrific acts passed and morphed by word-of-mouth. If the Jasrans wouldn’t fight back against their nobles, the Jenyans would do it for them. With Miriyam’s power of persuasion there would be no stopping them.The plan was so perfect Rhys wanted to scream.

“But the King is not here, is he?” Johannes spoke this time, arms opened wide. “And who does he task to do his bidding in his absense?” Those among the crowd yelled out their answer, an answer that shook Rhys to the bone. “That’s right. His nobles. They are the ones directly responsible for your pain, for upholding unjust laws, for punishing those for things beyond their control.” Rhys understood the meaning behind his words. The nobles were not being punished for being noble, they were being punished for upholding the laws against magic. They were being punished for abandoning the Lanis’ at birth just as their mother had done 30 years ago. “And so here we provide you with the chance to fight back. Do you wish to bend at the knee for your supposed superiors, or will you fight?”

The response was utter pandemonium. Cheers, jeers, and screams filled the air, and those with weapons raise theirs into the air. If the distance hadn’t been so far, Rhys would have sworn he saw the Lanis’ smile. This time Miriyam moved forward to speak. “We have some of your nobles here today with us. Would you like to see them pay for your crimes?” As the crowd’s defening noise continued a line of people was brought onto the stage, all shackled to each other, their heads hung, their clothes ripped and stained from what was clearly a forced capture. If Selene had not screamed out, nearly flinging herself from the alcove’s opening, Rhys might not have seen them. There, in the middle of the line of the captured, were Lord and Lady Gaille.

“LET ME GO!” Selene screamed, fighting against Victor’s hold on her. She clawed at his hands, her eyes wild and her body thrashing. Rhys could not even make a move to help Victor hold her back for he felt frozen in place, eyes glued to the stage. Other armed men and women took to the stage and began unshackling the nobles, fighting with their attempts to escape. The first four in line were nobles Rhys recognized but did not care much for, including one who Rhys could not make out from the distance. Screaming and kicking, they were dragged to their nooses, the ropes placed over their necks and tightened while their captors tied their hands. They didn’t even give them the courtesy of a blindfold. Then, only seconds later, the lever was pulled and all four dropped to their deaths. The heaviest man, a portly tall man Rhys knew only briefly from dinner parties, fell with such force his neck snapped instantly, leaving him limp. The other three, two women and a thinner man, dangled for a minute more, their faces turning purple from asphyxiation before they too were still. If the crowd was in pandemonium before, it was out of it’s mind now. Many tried to run away, women, children, and men all crying out in fear, surrounded by those who cheered on the barbaric executions.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we present you Lord and Lady Gaille. Close friends of the Marinons, corrupt and devious to the core, they are the picture of the evils of the noblity. Would you like to see them punished for their crimes?” Rhys knew some in the crowd cried out in protest, those Jasrans who knew the Gailles for the good people they were. But Rhys heard nothing over the anguished screams of Selene.

Sobbing and shaking, Lord and Lady Gaille were brought upstage to the two wooden blocks. The man behind Lady Gaille pushed her forcefully to the ground, her head hitting the wood block with a smack. He grabbed her neck, holding her head down until it was in place. Lord Gaille, seeing his wife forced as such, seemed to give up then and there. He lowered himself without a fight.

“Selene, look away,” Rhys pleaded, but he knew there was no use. “Selene!”

“Mama!” She cried, her scream so guttural and anguished it felt as if she was ripping at Rhys’ heart. The two headmen stood back, looked at one another, and raised their longswords. The last thing Rhys saw before the swords came down was Lord Gaille’s hand reaching out for his wife’s, just managing to touch her fingers. Rhys turned away before he could see, rushing to Selene’s side and wrapping his arms around her from the other side. Her scream was like that of an animal being slaughtered, and her thrashing was greater than ever. Tears streamed down her face as horrific sobs ripped from her chest, and then Rhys saw it. A light, a fight within her eyes, all vanished. She stopped thrashing and clawing, stopped fighting back at all, and collapsed in Rhys and Victor’s arms. They looked at each other, their eyes locked in a recognition of the horror, before helping move the sobbing Selene to the corner.

Several more executions followed, but Rhys no longer cared. He wanted Miriyam and Johannes’ heads. He wanted them dead. After a time Rhys no longer heard the announcements and cheers and screams, only the panicked mutterings of a frightened crowd. “Now, people of this city, I ask for you to rise up!” It was Miriyam once more, her voice reverberating above the crowd’s clamor. “I give you this chance. Take what is yours. Fight against your slaveholders, against your masters, your nobles. Burn their houses, take their children captive, strike them down while you have the chance. Go! The night is yours!” As soon as Miriyam’s voice cut out another resonanting boom, this one surely of an explosion, filled the air. When Rhys looked out from the alcove his heart stopped. Over the edge of the hill, off towards the coast, a plume of smoke rose from near the cliffs and huge flames licked up over the cove. It was exactly where Rhys’ home was. His home was being destroyed, possibly with his family inside.

Then the screams began. These were not screams of horror, these were screams of butchering, of death. The crowd erupted. Those Jenyans and few Jasrans under Miriyam and Johannes’ control and instruction who’d brought weapons began running through the city, cutting down those who opposed them indiscriminantly. Rhys saw the rooftop archers aim at a huddle group of nobles who leaned out from a balcony, hitting a young man square in the head and leaving the others to scatter, screaming. Several of the vigilantes ran through the city with bottles full of alcohol stuffed with lit cloths. They threw them at buildings, some not even noble homes, watching them erupt with flames.

Rhys unsheathed his sword. Victor’s hand was immediately on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. “I thought you said we were to stay together?” Rhys stopped, staring for a moment, but ignored Victor’s words. “I have to kill them.”

Rhys jumped down from the alcove and began sprinting towards the gallows. He ran with his sword held high, those in his way jumping from his path. One man ran at him, swinging with his sword, but he was untrained and clumsy. Rhys cut him down with no remorse, a single slash cutting open his stomach. His mind was clear from fury, no pain able to affect him. Several others attempted to fight him, but none were even close to his match. He must have killed two or three more, but he did not care. He had only one goal in mind, and it was the blonde pair watching over the chaos with glee.

As he drew closer to the gallows there was a space cleared out for several feet in front of it with absolutely no way up. A fight had broken out beneath, and Rhys could tell that these who fought were no amateurs. They were all skilled fighers, and there were dozens of them. Before he had time to think a woman, younger than even himself swung a spear at him, nicking his arm. He swung back, making contact with the spear and pushing the woman backwards. She came at him again, her movements sharp and accurate, Rhys having to actually work to parry her expertly placed moves. The fighting seemed to go on for ages, but eventually she slipped, whether by bad footing or something on the ground Rhys did not know, and he was able to make a forward stab. His sword went straight through her stomach, and Rhys watched her die on his blade. When she dropped to the ground Rhys put one foot on her abdomen and pulled his sword out, only to be instantly be knocked to the ground.

“Dima?”

Dima held him down, and as Rhys looked past his brother he saw the threat. A man in the distance had thrown his knife at Rhys, trying to stab him in the back. The man ran at being seen, and Rhys looked back to Dima, realizing that there was a knife sticking out of his shoulder. Dima’s face was contorted in pain, his lips pressed shut so as not to scream.

“Here, we need to move,” Rhys said, rolling Dima onto his left shoulder so as not to bury the knife in his right deeper. Out from under him he helped Dima to his feet, looking around to assure they were not being tracked by any attacker. Dima grimaced as Rhys quickly removed the knife, but kept remarkably still.

“You saved my life,” Rhys breathed, suddenly awoken from his rage-induced rampage. “We need to move, to get you somewhere safe.” He picked up his sword, looking around for a good exit point. “I think through there -”

Dima screamed. Rhys looked back to his brother, and in that one glance a part of him died. A sharp end of a blade stuck out from Dima’s neck. Rhys did not even register at first that someone stood behind Dima, someone holding the hilt of the knife. They withdrew it with a sharp tug, ripping a hole in Dima’s throat as they did so, and that was when Rhys saw them. Miriyam. Her face was splattered with blood, but her expression was victorious. She shoved Dima forward and Rhys had to lunge to catch his brother as he fell. Rhys rolled Dima over in his arms, holding back his own vomit as he saw blood rush from Dima’s neck. Dima coughed, and blood came from his mouth. Rhys was no fool - Dima’s airpipe had been cut. He was going to die.

Somehow Rhys had expected to feel more at the death of a family member. Perhaps the enraged screams, the need to fight, the uncontrollable sobs that Selene had displayed. But all he felt was numbness. And as Dima continued to spew blood from his mouth and throat, as the hand the felt at Rhys went limp and his eyes went dead, Rhys felt nothing. No sadness, no anger, just nothing. And it was so much worse than any feeling could possibly be. He could only stare at Dima’s lifeless body, only clutch onto the bloody corpse of his brother with all his strength, only gape at the wound that had taken Dima’s life. Rhys wanted to die.

With that mental admission, that need for death, all Rhys’ emotions came with a rush. The feeling was almost too painful to bear. Rhys screamed but his screams were silent. He cried but no tears came. He pulled Dima to him, covering himself in his brother’s blood, and held him as he rocked backwards and forwards, unable to contain the anguish that now flooded out. No. Not Dima. He was so young, so young. Rhys could not think, only stare at his brother. The brother he’d scolded and berated so many times. The brother he’d brushed off for so many months. The brother he felt he hardly knew anymore. The regret was worse than the grief.

“I love you,” Rhys cried, but his words came out as air. He repeated it a thousand times until there was some sound, but even then the sound was no more than a choked sob. By the time he had the sense to look up, to look into the eyes of Dima’s murderer, Miriyam was gone.

[Mollianne]

Jessa stood by the fire, shifting, fiddling with the hem of her dress, and looking everywhere but at the desk. Her gaze, however, was drawn there. There was something disturbingly fascinating about seeing someone turn into her, wearing one of her eyes and then another, her nose, her hair. Laurita, piece by piece, became Jessa. When Laurita turned around, it was like looking into a mirror.

“How do I look?” Laurita asked in Jessa’s voice. A shiver ran through Jessa as the reality of Laurita looking and sounding like her hit her. It was too strange.

“Like me,” she replied, seeing the look of concern on her friend’s—her—face. She knew what Laurita was thinking, but Jessa had managed, with sleep and a few hours of stubbornly ignoring the confusion raging inside her, to reach a certain state of calm which would be shattered if she thought about any of it for too long. Knowing she was already dangling over the precipice, she went over to Laurita and said, “My turn.”

“Any particular look?”

“Just normal,” Jessa said, shrugging. Laurita set to work, first changing Jessa’s eye and hair colour. Even a change as simple as brown eyes and brown hair made a huge difference to Jessa’s appearance. But Laurita was not done. She shortened Jessa’s hair, until it rested on her shoulders, tickling her neck. With a warning that it might be a bit uncomfortable, Laurita began moulding Jessa’s face, narrowing her jawline and lengthening her nose. Jessa had undergone this particular magic one time in Asanos – the first time she had met Laurita, in fact – and she had forgotten how strange and restricting it felt, like someone was squeezing her entire body until she ran out of air. And then the pressure was suddenly released. Jessa gasped for air. “I don’t know how you can do this so much.”

“I’m used to it,” Laurita said with a shrug. “Right, the spell will hold fast for as long as you need, but I do need to return to-” Laurita stopped herself, remembering who she was talking to and how little she could reveal to Jessa. “I’ll need to leave by midnight at the latest.”

That gave Jessa three hours, plenty of time to meet Nayall in the north markets and return. Jessa nodded. Laurita handed her servants’ clothes, and Jessa gave her friend one of her own dresses in return. They changed quickly, neither wanting to linger any longer than they had must. Laurita pulled her into a hug, whispering thanks. Then, sounds from the outside world returned to them as Laurita dropped the sound spell and retrieved the necklace from the hearth. Now that they were unable to speak, Laurita simply gestured for Jessa to leave first. Nodding, Jessa mouthed, “Good luck,” and with a final glance at her friend, still completely unnerved to see her own face looking back at her, Jessa left the room.

The night was cold and dark in Ovis. The moon was hidden by clouds and so Jessa had only the light coming from the windows in the castle, and the lamps in the street beyond the castle walls, to guide her. She slipped on ice and pulled the flimsy servant rags closer to her body. However, they offered no protection against the frigid wind blowing through the grounds. She would have to hope that, in the city, the buildings would offer her protection from the chill. Nevertheless, Jessa quickened her pace.

As she left the castle grounds, she resisted looking behind her to check no one was following. Instead, she kept her pace brisk and took a roundabout way to the northern quarter of the city. Nayall’s note said that he could be found at the far end of the markets on the right. Given the time of night, the market was deserted. Jessa passed by empty stall after empty stall, with only vermin and the occasional beggar sleeping under a table. Without moonlight, the market was eerie, but Jessa was just as nervous when she reached the end of the market and looked into the black alleyway down which she guessed she was meant to go.

Jessa chewed her lip, weighing the odds. There was a chance this was a trap, although who Nayall would be working for if that was the case Jessa could not say. But if it was not a trap, then Jessa needed to know why Nayall had approached her for a second time. Making her decision, Jessa strode into the gloom of the alley. She could see nothing, and walked blindly forwards with her hands out. It did not take long for her to bump into something. Jessa brushed the surface with her fingers, feeling wood and further down a door handle. Swallowing, knowing there was no turning back, Jessa knocked on the door.

For a while, nothing happened. She could not even hear anyone moving behind the door. She waited, wondering whether she had got the instructions wrong, and was about to knock again when the door opened a crack and an eye appeared.

“What do you want?”

“I was told I could find someone called Nayall here.”

The door shut in her face. Jessa frowned, now hearing voices whispering frantically to each other. She knocked again. No one answered. Had she got it wrong, then? The voices had gone silent now. They had just left, leaving her standing outside at a loss.

And then she was yanked off her feet. A hand closed around her mouth and she thrashed, trying to break free. Whoever was holding her gripped her tighter, and something sharp pressed into her jugular. Jessa froze. The blood drained from her face. This was a trap. She was going to die.

“Who are you?” a man hissed in her ear, his voice familiar but distorted by anger. Jessa considered not replying, but the man pressed the knife into her skin, nicking her. Jessa whimpered.

“Jessa!” she cried out, “Jessa du Rene.”

“Yeah, sure. If you’re going to play that, at least look like her.”

“No, no, I am. I’ve… I’m in disguise. The du Renes has me watched too closely,” Jessa pleaded with him. Jessa knew she sounded pathetic, but she had never really had her life threatened before. And Jessa wanted to live – she had to.

“Who sent you?”

“Nayall. It was Nayall.”

“Who sent you?” The man shook her, and the knife nicked her again. Jessa gasped at the pain, feeling blood trickle down her neck. She was going to die. “No nobles come down this way, so someone must have sent you.”

“It was Nayall. Please. My name is Jessa du Rene. Nayall gave me a note – he’d followed me from a dressmaker’s to the north of the city. All it said was that he could be found here. No one else sent me.”

At her words, the man released her. Jessa stumbled, catching herself just before she fell. She spun around, not wanting to lose sight of her attacker now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He was blocking the way out of the alleyway, knife out but tilted downwards. Jessa’s gaze moved from the man’s limp hold on the knife to his face. It was Nayall himself.

“How do you know that? Did she tell you? Did she send you?” Jessa shook her head, wincing in pain from the cut on her neck. She pressed a hand to the wound, but thankfully it was only shallow. Nayall continued, “I’ll only talk to her.”

“I am Jessa,” she said, her lingering fear turning to frustration. “You can look inside my head if you want.”

“I don’t do that anymore,” Nayall hissed. His arm fell to his side, and he stood up straight. Jessa took a wary step back. “I believe you.”

Jessa gaped at him. He threatened her with a knife, insisted she was lying about her identity, and all he said now was that he believed her? He didn’t even look sorry for making her think she was going to die. At least she knew now that she almost certainly could not trust Nayall, whether he had wanted to meet to help her or not.

“You believe me.”

“There are only two people besides you who know about my magic. And if the king is watching you, you’re not going to be talking about it with anyone.” He paused. “You’re also not that good of a liar, not under duress.”

Jessa balled her fists. He was so blasé about attacking her, which was surprising after how ashamed he had seemed about his crimes under Alrick’s influence on their first meeting. Apparently he was not so ashamed of the crimes he committed of his own free will.

“I can see you’re angry-” That was an understatement. “-but I have to take precautions. We really shouldn’t talk out here. I’ll explain inside.” He sheathed the knife and nodded for her to go to the door. He knocked on it in an intricate pattern that Jessa could not hope to remember. Instantly the door opened. Jessa glared. They had kept her waiting and all this time they were right by the door.

Beyond the door was a set of wooden stairs heading downwards into the darkness. Jessa glanced at Nayall, suspicion and fear that this was a trap rising up inside her again. Nayall simply nodded for her to continue. Jessa pursed her lips, peering into the gloom, but she couldn’t see anything.

She was here now. There wasn’t anything else she could do but go down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs was a corridor. Somewhere nearby was the sound of gushing water. Jessa’s shoulders brushed the walls as Nayall urged her forwards. She could see nothing but the walls directly beside her. They walked, Nayall instructing her when to turn, until Jessa had lost all notion of where they might be. He could have taken her in a massive circle, or they could be on the other side of the markets by now.

“Stop,” Nayall said, and that was all the warning he gave her before something covered her eyes. Jessa struggled, but something – magic, Jessa realised, her blood running cold – prevented her from moving her arms to remove the blindfold. She squeezed her eyes shut, the fabric digging into her cheeks. Nayall put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off as best as she could with her limited movement. “More precautions, Jessa, that’s all.”

“How about a warning before you attack me, then?” she snapped. “I’m not here to be bullied around.”

Nayall fell silent. When he spoke, Jessa was gratified to hear a small amount of shame in his voice. “I’m sorry. I’ve had an… eventful couple of days and it’s put me on edge. Life in Jasrah, and my time on the streets here has taught me you can’t always survive by being nice. But we do want you in this. You are close to the king though, and as little as he could learn from your mind the better.”

“Well there are better ways of going about it. Like asking.” She struggled against her useless arms. “Can you release me? I’m not going to do anything.”

“…Right.” Jessa’s arms flew from her side, suddenly free. She rubbed at her forearms, trying to return feeling to them. Nayall said, “Keep moving.”

“I can’t,” Jessa said stonily. “Since I can’t see where I’m going.” She gestured to the blindfold. After a moment, Jessa felt a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, her back hitting something sharp on the wall.

“Right, a warning,” she heard Nayall mutter to himself. “I’m going to guide you. Will you allow me to do that?”

Jessa did not trust Nayall at all, and she was still half-convinced that wherever he was taking her was not going to be good, but she nodded anyway. Curiosity would be her downfall. This time, she remained still when Nayall’s hands rested upon her shoulders, although she tensed up and tried to remember the defensive manoeuvres Rhys had attempted to teach her in Novamor, and before that in Jasrah. If Nayall were to attack her again, she wanted to be ready.

Jessa had no idea how far they walked, or for how long, until she heard the quiet murmur of voices above the whisper of water in the pipes behind the walls in which they walked. There was a strong odour, a foul blend of unwashed human and excrement which got stronger the closer they came to the voices. She realised they had left the corridor when her shoulders were no longer scraping against rough stone. Jessa tried unsuccessfully to soothe her grazed arms as Nayall removed her blindfold. She opened her eyes, but instantly looked away and put her hands over her face. The light, after so much darkness, was dazzling.

By the time her eyes had adjusted, Nayall had disappeared amidst a sea of people. Jessa was amazed so many people could fit into such a small room. Groups huddled together, but there were so many of them sitting on the floor that Jessa could barely tell who was with whom. It explained the vile smell. The air was filled with the sound of coughing and sneezing, and of the many faces that had turned towards her in watchful curiosity, there were many more whose eyes were glazed feverishly.

“We’re doing all we can for them, but too many people in close quarters just breeds disease,” Nayall said, appearing once more behind her. “It’s getting too dangerous now. We’re looking into other places to stay, so we can start spreading them out. It’s difficult though, without attracting attention. We’re already known to more people than we’d like.”

Jessa did not need to ask what this place was. It was obvious from the fear in people’s eyes upon seeing a stranger. And though most of the people had clearly been living in poverty even before they came here, there were a few whose clothes Jessa could tell were once sturdy and relatively fine. All of these people where in hiding, seeking asylum, presumably from Alrick, presumably for having magic. It made Jessa dizzy to think that everyone in that room was probably a mage. It was a terrifying thought, but also amazing. These people, somehow, knew Alrick was hunting them and were brave enough to get away. Their living conditions were awful, but she could see, from the reverent glances they gave Nayall and the way those nearest him reached out to grasp his hand and talk to him, how grateful they were to have somewhere to stay and to still be with their families.

“How? When did you start this? How do they know to come?” Jessa asked, her words little more than a breath.

“It started small, as it always does. Peter and I were travelling back from the city. Not far from here, we came across a family. They were near death, sustaining themselves only from their magic. They lost their son, who gave his life to distract the guards while the rest of the family escaped. Peter remembered a name from his time in Ovis, someone he’d gone to for help when his own family was told to leave the country. They helped us, and gave us this place to hide. Me and the other mages from the king, and Peter from the queen. And I couldn’t let what happened to me happen to anyone else, so I started reaching out, quietly. News travels fast in the underworld, so here we are.”

“What do you need from me?” Jessa asked.

Nayall nodded. “It’s impossible to get supplies for everyone without arousing suspicion. People are getting ill, and it’s only going to get worse. More living space will help, but we need medicine and food for them all. And you’re the only person I could think of who has the money, or the contacts, to get it without attracting attention, who is sympathetic to our cause, and who doesn’t seem afraid to go against the king.”

“That’s not really true,” Jessa said. “He scares me.”

“Yet you’re against him anyway.” That much was true, although she had never explicitly told Nayall that.

“Yes,” she breathed, both excited and terrified to say it aloud. She looked over her shoulder, somehow expecting one of the king’s guards to be there and cut her down for her treason. But of course, there was no one.

Nayall smiled grimly. “Come. There are others I want you to meet.”

He led her through the mass of people to the other side of the room. There were two doors. Behind one, Jessa heard the sound of clanging metal. A woman shouted and a man grunted. The sounds of battle. There was a voice, too, urging them on and offering suggestions. Jessa glanced at Nayall. “What’s going on in there?”

Nayall said nothing and simply opened the other door, telling Jessa everything she needed to know. And that was that this was something she did not need to know. It was unsettling, but she understood their need for secrecy. That they had told her about this at all was surprising enough.

Inside the room, there was a small table. There were two men and one women at the table. One of the men was Peter. The rest she had never seen before. All of them eyed her with distrust. Nayall gestured for her to take a seat, and then sat down beside her. “Everyone, this is Jessa.” Peter raised his eyebrows, knowing that the appearance of the girl in front of him was not that of the girl he had met in Pontery. He said nothing, however, clearly trusting Nayall to know the truth. The others nodded, relaxing slightly in their chairs. Nayall had talked of her, then. Presumably he had had to get their permission to bring her. “Jessa, these are some of the people who are helping run this, the ones we’ve deemed it safe for you to meet. Lara and Damien,” Nayall indicated the man and woman opposite her, “are part of the family Peter and I met on the road here. They look after, as best they can, everyone here. They’re both talented with medicinal magic.”

“But it isn’t enough,” Lara said. “Damien and I don’t have particularly strong magic. We do what we can, but we need more and we can’t get it ourselves. The king will be looking for us.”

“Here’s a list of everything we could think of that we might need,” Damien added, passing a list to her. Jessa glanced down it. Nothing on the list was unexpected or difficult for Jessa to obtain. She nodded.

“I can get this for you.”

“Oh, thank you,” Lara said, looking to her husband and smiling. “Thank you.”

“It’ll probably take me a couple of days,” Jessa warned. “Where should I take it?”

“I’ll arrange for someone to meet you in the south markets,” Nayall said. “If you go in disguise again, it’ll look like a simple matter of trade to anyone watching.”

Jessa nodded. “Is there anything else?”

The people on the table all looked at each other, biting their lips. There was clearly a great many other things, but Jessa could tell that they weren’t things for her ears. “Okay. Then, can I speak to Peter alone please?”

Lara nodded, pulling back her chair and gesturing for her husband to follow. Jessa looked over at Nayall, but he shook his head. “If you’re here, I have to be. It’s a rule.”

“One you’ve decided,” Jessa argued.

“If you’re going to talk to him about the queen, I know everything he knows anyway. It really doesn’t matter to you whether I’m here or not.”

Jessa sighed heavily. She really did not like Nayall. She admired what he was doing, but she did not like the man himself. She ignored him, turning to face Peter. “Was it the queen?” she asked without preamble.

“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t know who else would know who I was, let alone care enough to run me out of my home. She must have discovered that I had not left with the rest of my family.” And found out where to find him from Jessa. He did not have to say it; the accusation was clear in his tone.

“I have no idea how she found you, Peter,” Jessa said, “And I’m sorry for the part I might have played in it.”

“Might? If you hadn’t come, they would never have found me. If I hadn’t talked to you, they wouldn’t think I knew more than I did. I’d have been left alone.”

Jessa bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

“You said you could protect me. But you’d already forgotten about me.”

“I hadn’t,” Jessa said. “I hadn’t, but I didn’t know. I’ve no idea how the queen found out. I’m so sorry.”

Peter pressed his lips together and looked away from her. He folded his arms, a defensive act that told Jessa he did not want to speak to her anymore. She understood. She understood his anger at her. She had messed up his life, after years of peace. She had had no right, but she had done it anyway. Jessa licked her lips, and knew there was nothing she could say. “I’m sorry,” Jessa said again, standing and leaving the room. Nayall followed her.

“He’s been trying to reach out to some of his old friends,” Nayall confessed, once the door was closed. The other door, the one behind which Jessa had heard fighting, was now silent. “I think he figures that if the queen thinks he knows something he shouldn’t, he may as well try and find out what that is.”

Jessa nodded. “I think I should go now.”

“Of course. One more thing, though. Earlier today, someone approached one of my contacts. A woman, a noble, badly disguised as a low merchant. She’d heard rumours about us, and said that she had friends who want to help, in return for our allegiance. My contact said he didn’t trust her, that something felt off about her, and of course there was the fact that she was lying about who she was. But if she’s a noble, there’s a chance that the king might start hearing things about us, if it wasn’t him that sent her in the first place. My contact feigned complete ignorance of course, and there was no reason for her to doubt him.”

Nayall sighed. “Just be careful. There’s something big happening in the inner city if nobles are coming to people like us for backing. And if it is just a ruse to get us to trust her, then it’s likely Alrick knows. Stay out of his way as much as you can. Trust only yourself.”

“Don’t even trust you?” Jessa asked.

“Not even me. You know how susceptible to mind control I am. I have people who routinely check that I’m working on my own free will, but that doesn’t mean something can’t go wrong.”

They began picking their way back through the crowd, when Jessa spotted a family that stood out from the rest. Nayall, who had continued walking before he realised Jessa was not following, turned back and followed her gaze. He came back over to her, a frown on his face. “They’re from Barichea,” he said. “They speak barely any Etrenian. All we’ve managed to gather is that they came to Ovis about a week ago, and something about a child. We’ve no idea what to do for them. All we can offer them is a place to stay.”

Jessa’s heart went out to the family. They looked more frightened than any of the other people in the room. It was unsurprising, given that they did not speak Etrenian – they probably had no idea what they were doing here or what was going on. Jessa struggled through the crowd to wall where they huddled together. She greeted them, in Barichean, one of the few phrases they knew. They looked up at her, wide-eyed, and the father began chattering in excitement. Jessa’s heart sank. Her Barichean was poor, and she only understood a few words here and there. She apologised, saying she did not understand. The rest of the family started speaking too, their voices a cacophony of indecipherable sound. Jessa closed her eyes, wishing Rhys was there – he could speak Barichean. He would know what they needed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She knelt down, holding out her hand. They grasped it eagerly, beseeching her with their eyes to help them, but she did not know what they needed help with. She said, “I will do what I can.”

Then, she stood up, suddenly overwhelmed, and had to leave before she started to cry for all these people, dependent and without homes. And all of it was because of a tyrant king who wanted no one else to have the power he possessed.

***

When Jessa got back to her room, Laurita was already waiting, her glamour dropped. Laurita flung herself at Jessa as soon as the door was shut, sobbing into her shoulder. “It was awful, Jessa. So awful.”

Jessa hugged her friend tightly, smoothing her hair and whispering empty placations in her ear. Laurita just cried harder, gripping Jessa as if she was the only thing grounding her. “I should have expected it, but I wasn’t ready for that. Not…”

Jessa guided Laurita to the bed, and sat down on the chair opposite her, glancing over at the hearth to check the necklace was there. She reached for her hands and Laurita gladly took them. “I’ve done the spell,” Laurita said weakly. “We can talk.”

“Do you want to talk about Odaren?” Jessa asked gently.

“No. Yes.” She shook her head, her face crumpling in indecision and in despair. “It was awful, Jessa,” she said after a long time. “He was thrashing and kept trying to pry off the handcuffs. All he kept saying was that he needed to return to his king, to tell him what he knew. He was scratching at himself until he drew blood, and I… I couldn’t. I yelled for the guard to let me in. I had to pry his hands away. I probably hurt him but he didn’t even notice. He just looked right through me. I even changed my face to my own, just briefly, and he didn’t even react. He was just… gone. I don’t know whether they were in his head right then, or he’s just so under the spell that…” She broke off with a sob. “I’m worried what he’s going to do to himself, Jessa. Please watch him for me. I can’t… I can’t be here all the time.”

“I’ll watch him,” Jessa said quietly.

“I need to get him out of there, Jessa. I need to get him away from all of this. I can’t let him stay there. I won’t let him stay there. He needs to get away from Alrick. He just needs to be away from this magic messing with his head!” Laurita ripped her hands from Jessa’s hold and buried her face in her palms. Her hair fell over her, obscuring Jessa’s view. Jessa went to sit beside her friend, wrapping an arm around her waist and dropping her chin onto her shoulder. She let Laurita cry until no more tears came.

“We’ll get him out, Laurita.” Jessa touched Laurita’s chin and lifted it until they were looking at each other. “I promise you. Odaren will be out of that prison cell before the end of the week.” Jessa certainly was not going to add that that was all the time they had, that if he was still there then he would be tortured and killed. Laurita nodded, then wiped her eyes.

She stood, her features changing into those of a middle-aged Etrenian woman as she gathered her composure. “I need to go. Thank you, Jessa, for letting me see him. It was terrible, but I needed to see him all the same.”

“Will you come back?”

“Yes,” Laurita said without hesitation. “I’ll be back in a day or so, I hope. And hopefully by then I’ll have a plan to free Odaren, and somewhere safe to take him.”

“I might know of somewhere,” Jessa said, thinking of Nayall and his underground asylum. “I can’t tell you anything more right now, but I’ll arrange it for you. You just focus on the escape plan.”

“Thank you, Jessa.”

“Always,” Jessa said. She stood up to retrieve the necklace from the hearth. By the time she had put it back on and turned around, Laurita was gone. Jessa sank heavily on the bed. Part of her wanted to rush to Odaren’s cell at that moment, but she knew it would be suspicious if she returned so soon after her supposed first visit.

Instead, Jessa lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep eluded her. Given everything that had happened that day, she doubted she would sleep for a long time. Her thoughts kept tossing and turning, thinking about Odaren and Laurita and Nayall and all the families hiding beneath the city. She thought about herself, finally unblocking the dam that hid the mess that was her memories of the previous day, which had allowed her to function until then. Jessa confronted them head-on, remembering Laurita’s insistence that morning that Alrick had played with her memories. She did not let herself forget it, even when the headache started, even when the pain behind her eyes struck her again and again. She acknowledged the inconsistencies and her own knowledge of what Alrick could do. And then she knew it for what it was. Laurita had been right.

Could Jessa trust anything in her head? Were her thoughts authentic, or were they guided by Alrick’s hand without her even knowing? She had been told to be wary, and she thought she had been, but his touch had been so light and deft that she had only seen it this time because of Laurita and because the fake memories had been so at odds with what Jessa knew to be true. She thought back on all her interactions with Alrick. Not one of them struck her as suspicious. All of her thoughts and memories seemed entirely her own, and she knew there was no way of telling any differently, not after so much time had passed and she had accepted it all as truth. It terrified her.

And now she knew that Alrick could do it again, could get her to think and do anything, and she would not even realise.

[Rosabeth]

He had to move the body. With all the grief, the agony, the numbness, the unbearable intensity of it all, it was the only thought that managed to break through. Though no one seemed to be paying Rhys much mind, not that he was paying attention, he was still in the middle of a raging fight and if he did not move the body it would certainly be desecrated by the murderer herself. He had to get somewhere safe, somewhere calm. Rhys was not sure such a place existed. Rhys wiped at his eyes, though that only created a smear of blood on his face. He forced himself to breath to calm the shaking of his body, and once he was as calm as he could possibly be given the circumstances he forced himself to stare at the body, to view it as nothing, just a shell of a person. If he was to get anything done he could not break down. This is not Dima, he told himself, wishing that thinking the words would somehow make them more real. This is a shell of a person, just a corpse. In a way it was true, but Rhys could barely bring himself to accept it.

The body was not stiff yet, still bleeding profusely, but Rhys knew that if he lingered too long the body would become stiff, and that would be far too difficult to carry. Rhys forced himeslf once more to look down at the body, and still he felt as if he might vomit, the rage and anguish warring inside him while he forced the small sliver of sensibility to carefully and clumsily lift Dima’s body onto his back, slung like a wounded soldier with Rhys keeping one arm around the shoulders and the other on the legs. Dima might not be Rhys height or build, but he was still a full grown man, and at that heavier than Rhys was used to carrying. At first Rhys had a hard time keeping the grip as the blood soaked everything, but Rhys gritted his teeth, hunching over to give a better surface for it to sit on. Once secure Rhys began to move, slowly at first but gaining ever so slightly as he became used to the weight, out of the square. Everyone in Rhys path moved away instantly upon seeing the body, even those Rhys knew would likely attempt to kill him in other circumstances. Whether it was out of respect for the dead or a fear of the carnage Rhys did not know, and he did not know which made him angrier. By the time he reached the edge of the square and emptied out onto a side street, Rhys realized he had absolutely nowhere to go.

Struggling onward, his grip constantly slipping as blood continued to run down onto his hands, Rhys tried to keep his head down and his pace quick. Less fighters from either side filled this street, but there were still plenty who ran through, trying to escape the violence from where he’d come. The wealthiest nobles lived nearest to the city center, and several manors lined the streets, most belonging to families Rhys did not care for. They were among the first targeted. The houses had all likely been emptied, and Rhys had recognized at least two of their owners among the victims of the gallows, and now they burned brightly, flames licking up the walls and smoke pouring from the roof. Rhys inhaled the smoke-filled air with violent coughs, but unless he was to drop Dima there was little he could do for protection except move faster. Rhys knew that this street emptied into the Square of Justice, home of Jasrah’s courthouse. Surely if there was to be one safe place in the entire city, it would be there. At one time Rhys would have thought his family’s home would be safe from anything, the impenetrable fortress he’d always grown up expecting. Oh, how his world had been crumbled. How little he’d known. How naiive, how trusting he’d been. Given is family, it was almost humorous. Almost.

As Rhys reached the end of the street, nearly ready to collapse under the weight, he realized there was a crowd formed at the entrance to the square. Judging by the sound, it was less of a crowd and more of a mob.

“Let us in!” A woman screamed. A baby clung to her chest, wrapped close to her body in a sling. It was wailing in a shrill high pitch above all the other voices, likely terrified. Rhys saw that the woman’s face was smeared with blood. He wondered if it was hers or anothers. An elderly man who stood beside her did not scream like the others but held onto the makeshift wood barrier that stood between him and the square, his head bowed in what looked like prayer. Two young men of about Rhys’ age were trying to deconstruct the barrier, hitting at the guards that stood watch as they went. The crowd went back several rows deep and Rhys pushed his way through, though just as he’d found earlier people were quick to move when faced with death and blood. The guards at the barrier glanced up at Rhys, only recognizing him a second later, standing up straight as they did a double take.

“Let him in, let him in!” One guard directed another, and the second guard hastily began pulling back the barrier as the rest worked to contain the the crowd that now pressed in, crushing against Rhys’ back. Rhys slipped through the small opening and immediately collapsed on the other side. He shifted Dima off his back as gently as he could and laid his head down on his brother’s chest. He listened there, half expecting a steady heartbeat, but none came. Dima’s skin was cool to the touch, no warmer than the air he breathed, and it already had a white cast as the blood continued to drain and pool.

Rhys felt hands on Dima’s body, trying to move it out from beneath him and Rhys clutched onto his brother, glaring at the soldiers. “Don’t touch him.”

“You need to get inside, Lord Rhys. We can handle the body.” The soldier who spoke grabbed once more at Dima’s torso and Rhys drew his knife, brandishing it at the man with no thought and no cares, a wild rage building inside. “You will not touch him,” he hissed, his voice cracking as he fought to hold back tears. “He is my brother. Mine. I will not leave him.”

“But Lord Rhys-”

“NO!” Rhys swung his dagger wildly and the soldier stepped back in shock, obviously unsure how to react. After a moment’s hesitation he seemed to give up and returned to his post. Rhys forced himself to take a deep breath, even if it was only to put on a pathetic front of composure. He lifted Dima once more onto his back, this time the strain of standing almost too much for him to handle. The courthouse was not far, only a short distance to the edge of the square, but it felt like a mile. Rhys began to slowly drag himself along but stopped as he heard a jeer behind him.

“So he can get it, what, because he’s titled? What about us?”

It was the woman with the child, her screams terrifying her own child who cried even louder. Rhys stared at the woman with blank, dead eyes, unable to feel anything even when she met his eyes with a cold glare. She was right. It was these scenarios, the injustices against the poor and the favoritism of the nobles, that started this whole mess in the first place. “Let them in.”

All the guards turned their heads. “We can’t, My Lord. It’s against our orders.”

“You will let them in. All of them. Or are you defying my orders?” In truth, it was guilt more than anything that moved Rhys, not some great need for justice. All Rhys truly cared about was the brother who he carried on his back, not the plights of the common man. But at the end of the day they were still right, and making a decision gave Rhys something to feel, some control, if only temporary. “I don’t care if this city burns to the ground - I am still your superior in command.” Rhys turned his back to the guards and continued forward, but from the sounds it seemed tht his commands did not go neglected.

Bodies littered the square, all lined up in straight lines with tarps and blankets thrown on top to mask the brutality beneath. Soldiers were posted at every entry to the square, and similar mobs gathered behind them all. Archers, this time loyal not to the Lanis’, guarded the square from the roof of the courthouse and more guards still stood at the entrance, directing people to their respective camps. As Rhys approached the doors of the courthouse there was a great comotion, someone yelling through the open doors to announce his arrival. He was guided in by a guard, directed down the hall and into the largest courtroom on the ground floor. As Rhys struggled through the halls he looked through open doors, seeing dozens of familiar faces, mostly nobles who’d been lucky enough to be evacuated from their homes early on. Rhys prayed that his family’s absence from the slaughter was a sign that they too were safe.

The courtroom was emptied of all chairs and tables, left as a massive empty gathering place with families gathered in pockets across the room. Rhys craned his head about, looking for his own family, but the call of his name from that familiar voice ended his search. His mother appeared at the end of the room, her face a mask of relief as she caught his eyes, crying out his name in happiness. She began to run forward, and Rhys’ heart dropped as he saw the exact moment she noticed what, or rather who, he carried on his back.

“No.” Her voice was no more than a whisper, and from a distance Rhys could only see it mouthed, her face contorting with pain. “No! NO!” Suddenlly she bolted forward and grabbed at Dima’s face, screaming as she saw the wound in his neck. She grasped desperatly at Dima’s body, pulling on his arms, his shirt, stroking his face. Rhys knelt down, shifting the body onto the ground. His mother let out a sob that was unlike any noise Rhys had ever heard, the pure unadulterated sound of absolute suffering. It was as if in that moment all life left her body, her face falling slack and her body crumpling onto Dima’s. She clutched at his shirt, her hands drenched in his blood. “My baby, my baby,” she sobbed. Her voice broke with every sob, her body shaking uncontrollably. Rhys knelt in silence, feeling utterly hopeless as he watched his mother, always so strong, so untouchable, break before his eyes. He extended one hand, gently placing it on her arm. She turned to him with the most hopeless look of desperation he had ever seen, her eyes bloodshot and her mouth held open mid-sob, a look that took Rhys’ breath from his chest.

“Dima,” she whispered, taking one hand and gripping Rhys’ arm. Slowly she looked back at Dima, squeezing her eyes shut in a desperate attempt to erase reality from her mind, to escape into a world with less pain, with some feeling. Rhys knew it well - he was too trapped in this hell. Rhys heard another scream and turned to find Anja standing 20 feet back, one hand covering her mouth and the other pressed against her stomach. She fell to her knees on the spot, her body beginning to shake. Rhys looked up from his sister, realizing another stood behind her. His father stood silently behind Anja, unmoving, only staring at Dima. To a bystander perhaps the look would have come across as unfeeling, as a horrifying coldness at the loss of a son. But Rhys knew better. He could see it in his father’s eyes, see his carefully built composure, his stony exterior, crumbling with every passing second. It was not that he was not sad, it was that he was empty, so far lost to the grief in that moment that, as Rhys had felt, he felt nothing.

Eventually a healer came by, pressing two hands onto Dima despite Vyserene’s protests and placing the sealing spell, the spell that preserved a body from the effects of death, to prevent rigor mortis. With her the healer brought four guards, enough to fight off a frantic, hysterical Vyserene as they insisted on moving the body. Rhys made no attempt to fight this time, instead wrapping his arms around his mother and pulling her head against his chest, holding her as tight as he could. “I know.”

Rhys and his family followed the healers into another room, more or less a morgue. Other families stood around their dead, some crying and others sitting in silence, barely able to look at the body in a desperate attempt to retain composure. Dima was laid on a stretcher at the end of the hall, and by the time the healers and guards left Vyserene had stopped crying, now staring into the face of her dead son with absolute emptiness in her eyes.

“How did it happen?” Rhys’ father was the first to speak, his voice calm but devoid of any emotion, like words spoken by the dead. In a way, that is what he was. In that moment none of the Marinons felt truly alive.

“When the fighting began after the public executions I ran into the fray. I don’t know what I was doing, trying to avenge the Gailles for Selene, I suppose. I couldn’t stand to watch her cry. Dima followed me, but I didn’t know. I got in a fight and while I was distracted someone tried to throw a knife at me. Dima knocked me out of the way and got hit, but he was fine. He would have been fine. We would have all been fine…”

“What?” Anja pressed, the despair on her face quickly turning into rage, the one emotion she so excelled at channeling.

“Miriyam. Miriyam Lanis stabbed him in the neck. He died almost instantly. I don’t think she managed to cut the brain stem, but she cut his air pipes and blood supply. He died in my arms. She was gone before I could even think about her.” The words felt like ashes in his mouth. He wanted to scrub the memory from his mind, to never think on it again. Even thinking about it felt like a whole new wave of torture.

“Why?” His mother whispered, her hand clasping Dima’s, though his could do nothing but lie limp in hers. “What did he do?”

“Last night Dima and I broke into their room at the tavern. I was suspicious of them. Miriyam caught us torturing Johannes for information and started torturing me with her magic.” Rhys did not pause at his family’s surprised expressions. That was a story for another time, a story he had no desire to explain. Even saying the Lanis’ name felt like a new wound. “Dima threw acid in her face. She wanted revenge.”

Anja’s face contorted with rage. “I will fucking kill her. I will rip out her fucking heart!” She stood up from her chair, her hands balled into fists, but Rhys’ father grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her into her chair. She stared at her father with incredulity. “She killed Dima. SHE MURDERED MY BROTHER. Let me kill her.”

Erik put his hands on Anja’s face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “In time we will have justice, but not now. Now is the time for survival, not for revenge.” He turned to Rhys, his gaze softer than Rhys had ever seen, all his hardness destroyed. “You and Anja will stay here with us. You will go nowhere without us. I don’t want either of you trying to avenge your brother. I know you are angry. We all feel the same pain. But I will not lose another child under any circumstances. You two have to think about your mother and I.” Rhys and Anja both looked to their mother, her eyes pleading with them in a heartbreaking desperation. “No parent should ever outlive their child.”

Anja reluctantly agreed, her shoulders slumping as she stared at Dima. Erik took his place next to his wife, holding her free hand tightly and pulling her to rest against his shoulder, kissing her head. Rhys watched his family, each of them coping in their own way, and then looked to his brother. Dima, once so full of life, an irresponsible and reckless young man, now lay in motionless peace. Rhys could not look a moment longer. He felt violently ill, a horrible ripping sensation tearing at his chest. He had to leave. Before his family could protest Rhys stood up and left the hall, using all his restraint to not run.

***

The night came, and with it came a deathly silence. Rhys sat on the courthouse steps, staring at the burning skyline. Jasrah was crumbling before his eyes. The fighting had stopped sometime in the early evening, but Rhys knew this was not the end, just a momentary ceasefire as both sides gathered their dead. The lines of the dead in the square had doubled since Rhys’ arrival, and he dared not wonder how many commoners lie dead in the streets, struck down for no reason but a misplaced hatred. Was there truly no justice in the world? Rhys thought of the woman with the crying baby. Was she alone? Did the child cry in a way to mourn the loss of a father, a father it would never remember? Would she ever see her family again? Rhys dared not think about it.

“Mind if I join you?”

Selene sat down beside Rhys on the steps. He breathed a sigh of relief, immediately pulling her into a rib-crushing hug. She barely put any effort to hug back. Rhys wasn’t sure if she had any energy left. When he pulled back he studied Selene’s face. She somehow looked much older, the overwhelming grief taking it’s toll immediately. She was worn, her face slack and her shoulders slumped, but most of all her eyes were empty. It seemed that there was no life left in anyone in his life. He wondered if there would be any again.

Selene answered his questions before he could ask. “I’m sorry about Dima. I heard. My sisters are still missing. I went back home, thankfully before they lit it on fire. I grabbed a few things, knowing there would be no saving it all, knowing the mob was coming. Really I was looking for my sisters.” She let out a sigh of exhaustion. “Victor forced me to come here, even though I tried to fight him. It’s probably for the best. We ran into Ero and his father. They’re both fine. Still no sign of Freya, though her house was left untouched with no signs of forced entry so we’re optimistic.”

Rhys wanted to say that that was good, that at least his friends were all alive, but it somehow seemed inappropriate. Even the life of her friends could not console the loss of her parents. It could not repair Dima’s loss. One positive could not outweigh this magnitude of loss.

“I didn’t really come here to talk,” Selene murmured, staring off into the black, smoky sky. “When I went back home I found this in my father’s study. I thought you should see it.” She held out a letter, the seal already broken. Rhys took it with hesitation. He scanned over it quickly, his heart coming to a stop. He thought the pain, the panic, couldn’t possibly get worse. He’d been naiive.

“Is this true?” he demanded. “Is this what I think it is?”

Selene nodded. “It was only delivered this morning. It came from one of my fathers’ informants in Ovis. It’s an arrest warrant for Keiran Dunvyen.”

“Alrick can’t do this!” Rhys shook the letter, feeling the rage well up inside. It was a happy distraction from the pain. “He has diplomatic immunity! He’s a prince! Besides, what are the charges? Kieran’s done nothing wrong.”

“Do you really think he needs to do anything wrong? He’s your relative, that’s his crime. The King is beyond caring about following rules. He’s kidnapping citizens, turning them into his slaves. The King doesn’t care about what is right, about what is law. He is the law. He can do what he wants.”
“They’ll kill him,” Rhys realized. He should have felt fear, but instead it was transformed into more hatred. His mind was grasping at anything that took him away from Dima, and this distraction was like a drug. His body relished it, it drew it in and would not let it go. He accepted it like a parasite, letting is spread and invade his senses. “Are you sure this is real?”

Selene nodded. “It has the king’s signature and official seal. It couldn’t be forged.”

“Why hasn’t my father told me about this?”

Selene paused for a moment, as if this thought hadn’t crossed her mind. For a moment she looked concerned, but the feeling quickly left her expression. “If he knows would he tell you now? He knows you’ll try to save Kieran, that you’ll run off, act the hero. Given that your brother just died he’s not going to give you any reason to get yourself into more danger.”

Selene’s words had truth. There was no way he’d be allowed to act on this, to do anything. Kieran was important, especially to his mother, but he knew that he was far more important in her eyes. Kieran was her brother, but Rhys was her only son left. But to Rhys Kieran was more than an uncle. He’d been a father, a best friend, every sort of figure at one point in Rhys’ life. Rhys could not lose him. If Kieran was to die, Rhys was not sure he could survive the loss. No. He had to go in secret. If no one else would save Kieran, Rhys had to at least try.

“Thank you,” Rhys whispered. He leaned in and kissed Selene’s forehead before getting to his feet and retreating back into the courthouse. Before he passed through the doors he paused, taking one look back at Selene. She was still looking at him, and her face now held a peculiar expression. He couldn’t quite place it. Guilt? But as quickly as he’d seen it it was gone, and Selene turned back to the sky.

[Mollianne]

“Are you sure?”

Jessa nodded. Laurita looked down at the piece of paper, rubbing her finger across the address Jessa had written on it. The address was the final thing Laurita needed to break Odaren out of prison. Jessa had spoken to Nayall only a few hours before, when Laurita had gone to visit Odaren for the second time. The mage had refused to allow Laurita and Odaren to live with the rest of the refugees, claiming that if the king or his mages had any lingering hold over Odaren it would put all his people at risk. However, he offered the place he and Peter had hidden out in when they had first arrived in the city, and would also provide someone to keep the siblings safe. From Laurita’s teary but hopeful expression, it was enough.

Laurita swallowed, turning the piece of paper over. “Do you trust them, these people you’ve gone to for help?”

Jessa cleared her throat, her hand moving to scratch her cheek. Laurita deflated, nodding. Jessa sighed, wanting to reassure her friend. “I wouldn’t say I trust them, not especially, but I don’t think they’d betray you. He…” Jessa looked at her friend, and made the decision to just tell her. If Laurita was going to be under Nayall’s protection, she needed to know some of what he was going. Despite the sound spell, Jessa dropped her voice as she explained, “Hiding people from the king is basically what he does.”

There was a knock on the door. Jessa jumped out of her skin, her heart thumping even as she told herself that there was no way the king had heard what she had said thanks to Laurita’s spell – a spell her friend had promised to teach Jessa. Laurita and Jessa shared a glance. The only person Jessa had expected to visit her after midnight was the girl currently sitting beside her. She bit her lip, and Laurita nodded to urge her to move. Jessa slid off the bed and went to answer the door.

“My Lady.” A man bowed, his light brown hair falling into his eyes, and held a letter out for Jessa. She took it, but she did not need to read it to know who had sent it. This man was shivering from cold; his clothing was a poor imitation of Ovisian styles, the fabric too light to be worn during an Ovisian winter, but perfect for one further south. Along with the fact that an official messenger would not come to her in the dead of night, the man could only have been sent by Rhys. Jessa tilted her head and stepped to the side so the messenger could enter.

Jessa turned around to find Laurita had changed her face. She was now the same pale Etrenian, with shoulder-length blonde hair, that she had been when she had come to Jessa only fifteen minutes before. The messenger barely paid attention to her, assuming she was no one of consequence, and turned back to Jessa. Before he could speak, Jessa looked to Laurita in question. Her friend nodded – they could speak freely.

“What news do you have from Jasrah?”

The man dropped his gaze, looking apologetic. “Everything was fine when I left, but I’m sorry to say it has been some time. There were some frightful storms a day or so into the journey, and the boat was damaged. We ended up docking in a ghost town. Everyone had either abandoned it in fear of the war, or else they had been killed, though we saw no evidence of that. There were no horses, and I didn’t know my way well enough around the middle west of Etrene to risk coming the rest of the way on foot especially given the war. So I had to wait for our boat to be fixed.”

“But Rhys Marinon,” Jessa said. “He was okay?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“A lot can change in a couple of weeks,” Laurita said. The messenger turned to Laurita as though he had forgotten she was there. He took a startled step back, for Laurita had become herself again. She laughed, the first laugh Jessa had heard from her since they had reunited, and if it was half-hearted and tinged with sadness, it was still amazing to hear. Laurita would pull through, especially as she now had the means to break her brother free.

“She’s trustworthy,” Jessa said before the messenger could ask.

“Damn right I am,” Laurita said. She pushed herself off the bed and stopped in front of the messenger. “So, what’s Rhys sent her?”

“I don’t know, my Lady-”

“I’m no Lady,” Laurita said. The messenger ignored her, turning to the desk and placing a large package he had pulled out of the folds of his cloak on top of it. The two women went to stand either side of him, scrutinising the brown packaging as if they could work out what was inside without opening it. Jessa was at a loss, however. Until now, the few messages Jessa had received from Rhys had been letters only.

“Lord Rhys instructed me never to open this. It isn’t for me to see – only for Lady Jessa.” He looked pointedly at Laurita. She folded her arms and stared straight back, refusing to yield. The messenger sniffed.

“Will you be staying long in Ovis?” Jessa asked.

“I hope it won’t be much longer. I’ve been apart from my wife too long.” Jessa could certainly sympathise with the man on that count. She smiled sadly. The messenger continued, “I will wait a short while in the city, if you need to respond to Lord Rhys.”

“Thank you. You may leave,” Jessa said. The messenger bowed, and with one final wary glance in Laurita’s direction, he left the room.

Jessa untied the string wrapped around the package. The packaging fell away, revealing a pile of papers. Jessa leaned closer. Each page was filled with words, written in Barichene from the little she recognised, and she could make no sense of any of it. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessa saw Laurita pick up a small box she had not noticed among the papers. She stood up, peering over Laurita’s arm as she opened the wooden box. Inside was a silver dagger with a red wooden handle and a ruby-encrusted ring.

“Well this isn’t very practical,” Laurita said, lifting the dagger carefully from the box. Jessa raised her eyebrows, and Laurita shrugged. “I’ve seen my fair share of weapons in the last few months. Why would Rhys send you this, though? It’d hardly be useful, and you don’t know how to wield one anyway.”

Jessa, for her part, was much more interested why Rhys had sent her any of these things – such a random collection of items. She picked up the ring and brought it close to her face. The surface was etched with delicate grooves. The pattern was beautiful but Jessa could not discern any meaning from the looping flower etchings. She frowned, noticing a dulled part of the ring. She held it closer to the candle on her desk, and her mouth parted in surprise. “This has blood on it,” she said.

“What?” Laurita exclaimed, but Jessa was not listening. She was too busy searching frantically for Rhys’ letter, which she had put down when she had been looking at the papers. Paper flew across the desk, and then she found it. Jessa ripped open the envelope, and sat heavily on the bed to read what was written within. The letter was short and simple, barely a personal touch to indicate that Rhys was writing to her. But, as she expected, it did explain her questions.

She looked up at Laurita, and took the dagger from her limp fingers. Jessa took a deep breath to steady herself. The knife really was very sharp. Jessa bit her lip and pressed the tip against her finger, as Rhys had instructed her in his note. She hissed, dropping the dagger onto the bed.

“Jessa, what in the Gods’ names are you doing?”

Wordlessly, Jessa handed Laurita the note with her uncut hand. While Laurita read, she pressed the bead of blood on her fingertip against the ring, watching as it filled the grooves until it shimmered with her blood. Then, apprehension filling her, she slipped the ring onto her finger.

Pain. She cried out as bolts of pure agony raced from her finger to the rest of her, the magic spurning and rejecting her by setting her blood on fire. She could hear Laurita calling for her, fear in her voice, but everything was muffled compared to the pain. Somehow, even with her entire body screaming, Jessa managed to wrap her fingers around the ring and pull it off. The pain disappeared immediately, although her muscles continued to twitch as though expecting it to return.

“Gods, Jessa, what were you thinking?”

“You read the letter. I needed to see if my blood would suffice.”

“Yeah. Next time tell me. I couldn’t get close to you to get the ring off you. How did you get it off, anyway? Rhys’ note said he was in too much pain to do it himself.”

Jessa shrugged, still reeling from the memory of her entire body on fire. “I don’t know. The pain was… like nothing I’ve ever known, but. I guess it was worse for Rhys. Maybe the ring recognised some of the king’s blood within mine. Perhaps that confused the magic, and it was less… violent.” Jessa shivered, suddenly feeling very sick. She hugged her arms around her stomach. “Gods. That-”

Jessa breathed heavily, using its rhythm to calm her. In, out. In, out. When the unease in her stomach settled, she said, “It’ll only accept the king’s blood. But how does Rhys expect me to get it? I can’t very well walk up to him and stab him with his own dagger. You generally notice if someone does that, and in any case he’ll recognise it. How can Rhys possibly think I could do this?”

“Well, he doesn’t have much choice. You’re our insider, Jessa, after all. And anyway, he believes in you. You know that.” Laurita retrieved the dagger, wiping it on the sleeve of her dress before returning it and the ring to the box, as if she thought Jessa would try again and needed to remove temptation. Like Jessa was ever going to put herself through that ever again.

“Not when it comes to using daggers.”

Laurita made a face of agreement. “I can always do it.” There was a fierce gleam in her eye. “I have no problem with giving him a taste of what he deserves.” Jessa shook her head. Laurita pouted. “I want to, Jessa.”

“You don’t have an easy excuse to get close to Alrick. What if you get caught? You can’t risk your life for this – and Odaren needs you.”

Laurita deflated, flopping down onto the bed beside Jessa. “I know. I know. But I’m risking my life every time I come here. I just want to do something. I just want Alrick to know he’s not safe, not even in his own castle. I want him to know he can’t do what he’s done to my brother and get away with it.”

“He will know,” Jessa said gently. “You’re going to get past his guards and steal his most closely guarded prison from him. And if you can do that, then he’ll know someone can think of a way to get to him.”

Laurita nodded reluctantly. With a sigh she pulled Jessa into a hug. “I should go. I have a brother to rescue. Stay safe, Jessa, and thank you for everything.”

***

“Why were the bells ringing last night? Did someone escape?” Harris sat on Jessa’s bed, picking absently at her threadbare sheet. He had come to her early that morning, wanting a place to hide from his mother and the gaggle of attendants who were charged with making him presentable for Alrick’s address at noon. He had brought a book with him, a hefty tome which was coming apart due to age, but it lay abandoned by his knees. Jessa, who had been combing her hair, put the brush down.

“I don’t know,” she said. She stood up and went over to her wardrobe. Inside was the dress she had bought when Maira had dragged her shopping. She had shown no one, not wanting to give anyone the chance to make her return it as she knew they would. After all, the dress was very close to being Marinon colours. Although Jessa guessed she would be able to convince them that she had not realised – Jessa was not one for knowing these kinds of things, after all – it was still a risk to wear it to the address. One that, after defying the king about Odaren, she had decided against. Instead, it would be her gown for the ball that evening. It was a less formal affair, and it would be easier to pretend it was not Jessa’s way of rebelling against the du Renes.

“Will they find them?” Harris asked. Jessa pressed her lips together, thankful that Laurita had sent someone to slip a note under Jessa’s door, which said they had got away safely. She doubted she would be able to have this conversation if she had not known.

“Maybe they already have.” She touched her dress one last time and then closed the wardrobe door. She tilted her head, noticing the worry on Harris’ face for the first time. With a small sigh, she went over to him and took his hands in hers. “Even if they haven’t, you don’t need to worry. They’ll be long gone.”

“What if they want to take revenge against father for imprisoning them?” Harris asked. Jessa squeezed his hands. Harris really was very smart, for that was exactly what Laurita wanted to do. “What if they come after all of us?”

“They won’t,” Jessa said, rubbing Harris’ hands with her thumb. He looked up at her. “They wouldn’t risk imprisonment again.”

“I’m not a child anymore. I can tell you’re just saying that. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I know. I’m not.” She released his hands. “Now, how about you read this book of yours to me. What’s it about?”

“Antascia,” Harris said, like Jessa should already have known, and perhaps she should. Jessa picked up the book with one hand, marvelling at its weight, and passed it to the prince. He rested it on his knees and began to read. He was a good reader, pausing in all the right places, and his love for the words came through as he spoke. Jessa wished they could sit there all day, him reading and her listening, but it could not be. They had responsibilities, and soon the whole castle would be searching for the prince. Jessa decided to enjoy the peace and Harris calm and lilting voice while it lasted.

As expected, it did not last long. A knock on the door broke the morning peace. Harris sighed in frustration. “It was just about to get interesting.”

“How about we sneak away from the ball tonight, then?” Jessa said, only half-joking. She went to the door, looking over her shoulder to see Harris nodding fervently. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

She opened the door to one of Maira’s handmaidens. “Lady Jessa,” the girl said. “Her Royal Highness wishes to speak to you in her rooms as soon as possible. She suggests you have your gown sent there so we can help you dress.”

“Of course,” Jessa said, managing to keep the frustration out of her tone. She heard Harris sigh behind her, which also caught the attention of the maid.

“Prince Harris! The queen is looking high and low for you! You must go to her.” The maid stepped into Jessa’s room without permission, practically pushing Jessa out of the way. Jessa raised her eyebrows. “Come, I’ll take you to her.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Harris said, rolling his eyes for Jessa’s benefit as he left the room. Jessa followed him out of the door. They walked together out of the servants’ quarters and through the castle to the family quarters. There, they parted, Harris headed to his mother’s room and Jessa to Maira’s. He called back to her, “I’ll see you out on the stage. And I’ll hold you to that offer later, so don’t forget.”

Jessa laughed, nodding at the prince before she turned the corner. Maira’s rooms were at the end of the hall. The door was open, and she could hear the pandemonium inside the room from where she stood. She was in for a hellish morning, but after the night she had, it did not seem as bad as it might otherwise have seemed. Feeling like you were burning from the inside had that effect.

Maira’s sitting room was full of people, and her bedroom sounded just as noisy. Jessa idly wondered how many people one person needed to get dressed – apparently it was a lot. However, most people in the sitting room with Jessa were clustered into groups and gossiping. No one paid any attention to Jessa, which was fine with her. She sidled past the maids and headed for Maira’s room, knowing she was walking straight into chaos. Everyone was crowded around the princess, fawning over her dress and her hair, ensuring everything was immaculately placed. For Maira’s part, she seemed to adore the attention. Jessa started fidgeting just watching her, but that was why Maira’s was the heir to the throne and Jessa was not.

Somehow, through the crowds, Maira noticed Jessa standing by the door. She called for her maids to stop, ordering them out of the room for a few minutes. A few tried to protest, claiming they would not have time to finish if they left now. Jessa could not see how that could be true, for the ceremony was still hours away. Maira waved her hangers-on away, and eventually they were all gone. “Shut the door, Jessa.”

Jessa complied, worried at the seriousness in Maira’s tone. She walked further into the room, watching the princess warily.

“You might want to sit down,” she said. “I don’t have good news.”

Maira gestured to the armchair by the fire which roared in the grate, echoing the fear and confusion inside Jessa. She sat down, keeping an eye on the princess as she came towards her. “This morning, we received word from our scouts in Jasrah.” Jessa tried to keep her face expressionless; Maira was watching her very closely. Inside her head, however, the roaring had grown louder. She swallowed, but made no other outward reaction, a feat that was surprising even to her. “Father is going to discuss it as part of his speech later, but unlike everyone else hearing it, you’ve spent quite a bit of your time recently in Jasrah. And I know that you, at the very least, were at the university there and probably made friends. Jasrah was attacked.”

The world fell out from beneath Jessa. Her knuckles went white as she gripped the armrests, staring at Maira as if she could not understand what she had just said. She shook her head. Rhys. “No.”

“We don’t know much yet. Many of our scouts and informants were also caught in the attack. What we do know is that that political radicals turned a large portion of the city against itself – the nobility, to be precise. They executed some of the most prominent noblemen and women in Jasrah-” Jessa looked up, trying and failing to keep the fear out of her eyes. Prominent… no, it could not be. “-and then urged the city to revolt. And they did.”

Jessa couldn’t breathe. She tried to force air into her lungs but she simply could not. “Who-” she tried to say, but no more words would come. Jessa could not look at the princess, so the only way she knew Maira had figured out what she was trying to ask was because she started speaking again. Jessa anchored herself to the awful words, needing to bring herself back into reality.

“Obviously we don’t have a full list as yet. Of the ones executed in front of the city, the whole Price family was hanged, Lord and Lady Gaille were beheaded,” Jessa stopped breathing for a second time, her heart going out to Selene and her sisters, hoping they were not dead too, “Lord Denver, Lady Elaine Grove – there’s too many to even name – all executed. As for after, it’s still all in confusion, and in any case the only name I know that will interest you, although we don’t have confirmation of his death, is Dima Marinon.”

Jessa stared at the princess. Dima was dead. Dima. He had treated her awfully when they had first met, but their attitudes towards each other had slowly changed into tolerance. He was basically still a child. And the rest of the family… She could not imagine what they were going through.

They were meant to be okay, all of them. They had been fine only two weeks ago, the messenger had said. Laurita’s response rang over and over and over in her head: a lot can change in a couple of weeks.

Somehow, Jessa remembered that Maira herself had spent a significant amount of time with Dima when she had visited Jasrah. But when she glanced at the princess, there were no signs of particular sorrow – nothing beyond the general grief of an entire city turned on itself and the loss of so many lives. Jessa was not sure why she had expected anything different – her own grief making basic thought almost impossible – for she knew that if the Marinons discovered that any of the du Renes were dead, they would not shed a single tear either. Not even for Harris, who was one of the sweetest boys Jessa had ever known. No, the Marinons and du Renes were enemies. And she was standing right in the middle of them now, grieving for one while facing another. Surely Maira would not be fooled by her now.

Maira lifted her chin. “I’ll give you a moment.”

As soon as the princess was gone, Jessa broke down. She pulled her legs up to her chest and cried into the folds of her skirt, crying for every single person that had died whether she had known them or not, but mostly for the people she did know and the pain they were going through, for the beloved they had lost. She hated to think that the first place where people had accepted her with relative ease was now in such devastation. She let herself grieve.

After a few minutes, Jessa began to calm. As much as she did not want to do so, as much as she wanted to hide in her room or run back to Jasrah right then, she knew she could not. She did not want to be so unfeeling, but she had to regain her composure. She still needed the du Renes to believe she was on their side, although she felt sure her cover was blown. Part of her barely cared, but she knew that if the du Renes knew of her deceit she would not make it out of Ovis alive. And Jessa was not about to make Rhys lose someone else he loved. She needed to be strong and hard now, so that one day she might return to him and help him with the loss of his brother. She needed to live.

“Thank you,” Jessa said to Maira when she returned, “for telling me in private.”

“I suspected that you would not enjoy hearing it for the first time in front of the entire city.” Jessa wondered why. Where had she gone wrong to give that impression? Jessa knew she was not good at deception, even if she had improved, but if she had performed so terribly, how was she still alive?

“I just can’t believe so many…” she broke off. “A whole city suffering. Somewhere I knew.”

“And of course your friends there,” Maira added.

Jessa tried to shrug nonchalantly. “I suppose. I didn’t have many friends, but that doesn’t matter. Most people in the city wouldn’t have known how to fight well, wouldn’t have had a chance.” She paused. She needed to discuss her reaction to Dima’s death, but these were dangerous waters. “I lived with Dima, you know? His family may be… ruthless, violent, evil, criminals, whatever you want to call them, but I still lived in the same house as them. I just can’t believe he’s gone. He was so young, you know? Younger than either of us.”

“I know,” Maira said, clasping her hands together in front of her. Jessa could not see a hint of suspicion in her face, or hear it in her words, but Maira was skilled at hiding her feelings and manipulating a conversation. Jessa could take no comfort from the sympathetic expression the princess wore, because it was almost certainly a lie. “But he and his family have done terrible things. To everyone. To you.”

“Dima didn’t hurt me,” Jessa said quietly. “I wasn’t worth his time.”

“But he let his brother-”

“Yes. Yes, he did,” Jessa cried, throwing all the grief she felt into her false story, even as it hurt her to do so. It was good, to be allowed to get out her frustration, even if she had to pretend it was for something else. “I don’t need to be reminded. I was there. It was happening to me. I know no one helped me. But that doesn’t mean the death of a nineteen year old boy who didn’t actually hurt me himself is not sad. I can’t be unfeeling about that. It isn’t my way. If it was Rhys Marinon who-” Jessa swallowed, shaking. She couldn’t say anymore. She could not go that far. Every part of her rebelled against the thought. “But it wasn’t.”

“The Marinons don’t deserve your sympathy, Jessa.”

“Perhaps not, but I can’t be cold about someone dying. That isn’t who I am. Whatever he and the rest of his family have done, however much I hate them, he is still a human being.” Jessa swallowed hard.

“You’re a better person than I am,” Maira said lightly. “But I do have one question.” Jessa kept her head down, fully aware that she was not going to like what came next. “If it came down to it, if there was nothing else you could do but this, would you kill Rhys to stop him killing Father, or any of us? No other choice, just he dies, or we do. Would you kill Rhys?”

Jessa felt something tug at her, something telling her to tell the truth. She fought against it, knowing from her reading that truth spells were not as potent if one was aware of its manipulation. Jessa knew she could not hesitate, and could only hope she was strong enough to beat the spell. She lifted her gaze, her chin hard and her eyes unwavering, and said the one word that felt like a dagger in her heart.

“Yes.”

Maira smiled.

***

Two hours was not enough time. Jessa was still in shock, and had let the handmaidens dress her, poke her, prod her, pull at her, fuss over her without even paying attention. The whole world was racing on around her, but she was trapped in the eye of the storm, not moving, barely even thinking. Just in shock.

Presently they were outside the castle entrance, greeting the other important guests who had been favoured with standing behind the king. Both Larend, as Elissa’s fiancé, and Lord Khalid of Barichea, as Maira’s betrothed, were there. Both attempted to draw her into conversation. Although she supposed she spoke when it was required, Jessa did not contribute to the conversation nor remembered a word of what was said. Khalid left her to speak to Maira almost immediately, but Larend lingered. All she registered was the concern on his face, and the vague notion that he had said he would stay with her as long as he could. If that was true, she was grateful. Even if she could not be honest with Larend, it was nice to have a friendly face there. She did not need to think as hard about whether she was acting the right way with Larend. She could just be.

When everyone except the king had arrived, they headed for the North Gate. Elissa called to Larend for him to join her, and with a long glance at Jessa he did as she asked. Jessa walked at the back of the group, grateful to be left alone. No one tried to talk to her until they had reached the stage, and then it was only to tell her where to stand. She climbed the steps and went to stand behind Harris and Elissa as instructed. Harris looked back at her, and when he saw the look on her face he reached back and took her hand. She doubted he even knew why she was upset, and that made her even more grateful for his comfort. She tried to smile, and Harris, smiling back, turned to face the crowds. He did not let go of her hand.

Jessa turned her attention to the crowds. It certainly looked like the whole city was in attendance. The nobles sat on rows of chairs at the front, orderly and comfortable. But behind and to the sides of them, the rest of the population stood, restless and waiting. The noise in the square beyond North Gate was cacophonous, and it pulled Jessa, just a little, out of her stupor. There were so many people.

Jessa knew the king had appeared on the stage when the whole world seemed to go quiet. Every single pair of eyes was on the king as he walked to his place between his wife and Maira. A podium was place in front of him, and on top of it was a large stone. Jessa could only guess at its purpose until Alrick began speaking. His voice boomed across the square.

“Welcome to all of you, my loyal subjects. I had hoped, as all of us had hoped, that we would be met with this day under much happier circumstances. Fate has not smiled upon us. As we all know too well, Novamor and its queen have waged war on our beautiful and noble country, and every single soldier who falls for the good of this country weighs heavily on all of our hearts. Today, I received more bad news.”

Jessa stopped listening, knowing she could not hear this again. She stared out into the crowds, watching them. As if they were one giant organism, she saw them react to the news from Jasrah. There were people shouting, many of the nobility had stood up from their chairs. The king had paused, letting the people have their moment for the truth to sink in. After a short while, he raised his hands and the crowds began to settle. The nobility sat back down, fear plain on each of their faces.

“We must not let these people break us,” Alrick was saying, “We must remain united against our enemies…”

As Jessa looked through the crowds, she saw something glint on one of the balconies at the side of the square Jessa. She squinted, forgetting all about the king and the speech, as she glimpsed a hooded figure staring intently at the stage. Jessa doubted she would even have noticed them if not for that slight movement, for their clothes blended into the wall behind them and there were people surrounding them cheering from the king’s speech. The figure did not join in with the cheering.

She blinked, and when her eyes opened she saw that the figure had disappeared, and in their place was something heading towards her. It was like nothing she had ever seen, just a swirl of blue light passing through the sky, spitting out blue bolts of miniature lightning as it moved unnoticed by the crowds. Aimed right at her heart. Jessa wrenched her hand from Harris’ grip and dove out of the way, knocking into the king and Maira who stood beside him and sending them all crashing to the floor. The king looked at her, anger in his eyes. A moment later, something shot over their hands and hit the tapestry behind them. It burst into flames. The world erupted in screams.

Jessa stared at the burning tapestry, her heart in her throat. She looked over at Alrick and Maira, both of whom had slack jaws. “You saved Father’s life,” Maira said, through the screaming, before the swarm of people descended upon them, and Jessa knew her words to be true. There had been one blue light aimed at her, and one at the king. Jessa tried to look through the legs of the people surrounding her, to see the flames licking at the tapestry where she had stood. But there was nothing there. There was only one hole burned into the fabric. But there had been two of them.

There had.

She wrestled herself to her feet, and pushed her way out of the crowds. They let her go, their main priority being the king and the crown princess. Jessa stared at the tapestry, unable to make sense of it, and saw the blood. She looked down.

Her heart stopped. “NO!”

She ran to the fallen prince, dropping beside him. She reached for his wrist, checking for a pulse. She almost cried in relief when she felt it, but it was faint and fading fast. “No, no, no, no,” she cried, pulling Harris towards her. The clothes around his shoulder had been burned away. His skin was charred, and there was a gaping wound in his shoulder. “Someone help!” she screamed, before focusing her attention on Harris once more.

“Don’t you leave me, don’t you dare,” she whispered in his ear, wiping his bloodied hair away from his face. She stared into his face, barely seeing him, unable to comprehend. Not Harris. He was fifteen, so young. Jessa clutched him to her as the people on the stage began to see what had happened. She whispered, tears clogging her words, “Stay with us, please.”

And then she heard Catrice scream.

[Rosabeth]

When the sun rose in the morning it was almost a disappointment. It did not seem right that the world should continue, so beautiful and so constant, while Rhys’ world was crumbling beneath his feet. At sunrise the Marinons all rose and began to prepare for the day, each ignoring the others studiously. Vyserene and Anja found other women to help them fix up their hair into intriate braids and styles Rhys knew not the name of, not that he particularly cared. Their clothes were brought up from the wash, the blood and dirt and sweat somehow miraculously removed to reveal proper noble attire. To an outsider it would be as if the entire oreal had never occured, as if it was simply another day out in the city. That is, if it weren’t for Dima.

It had been Rhys’ idea to keep Dima in his exact state of death, to remove no blood stains, to keep the crusted dried blood matted in his hair and on the torn flesh of his neck. It was impossible to heal a dead body - necromancy was beyond the scope of Greater Magic - but there were certainly ways to make the scene less gruesome. Rhys had no interest in that. He did not want his last look at his brother to be a glossed over version, more of an eerie, unnerving painted doll than an actual person. As Dima’s body would be placed into his coffin, into the family mosuleum, Rhys wanted his last image of his brother burned into his mind exactly as it should be - the horrifying truth of how his brother had been murdered. That was a memory he needed. That was a truth he refused to have erased with time.

Rhys waited by Dima’s beside as the morning grew brighter and the courthouse began to awaken. While his family primped and preened, trying to put on their most well structured, intimidating fronts, Rhys had only put on clean clothes and scrubbed the blood from his body. He cared not how anyone perceived him, whether they saw him as strong, as weak, as a threat to be watched, as a force unable to be put down - it was all irrelevant. Anyone with any sense would take one look at the emptiness in his eyes and know that that was not a sign of defeat, but a sign of danger.

Anja was the first to arrive. Her navy dress laid perfectly, the pearl circlet that laid on her perfectly curled raven hair shone in the dim sunlight, and her face showed no scratches or bruises or even a blemish. She looked so perfect it made Rhys sick. Yet, as Anja took a place beside Rhys, staring down at a shell of the brother they’d known, he could see it in her eyes too. That fire, that rage, the brokenness and fear and grief that boiled up inside her waiting for a release. Rhys knew it well.

“You look...rough.”

Rhys stared forward, motionless. “You look perfect.”

Anja pursed her lips, as if such a complement stung. Without warning she took out her small knife, the one kept at her waist, and pulled back her arm. Perfectly silently, like a slave trained to take pain without flinching, she drew the sword across her wrist. Before the blood could run she dropped the knife and put her hand to the wound, smearing it around and coating her entire hand with blood. When her hand shone crimson she brought it up to her neck and wrapped her fingers around as if choking herself. When she brought it back a bloody handprint marked her neck. She did not smile, nor comment, but instead held her arm out to Rhys in an offering. And to Rhys’ own surprise, he accepted. She once more coated her hand and brough it to Rhys’ neck, the feel of the warm blood unpleasant against his skin. At her release Anja immediately went to a water basin, washing off her hand and using a spare strip of cloth to stem the bleeding. She covered her bandaged arm with her sleeve as if nothing had happened, with no remarks, moving back to her place besides Rhys.

Finally, after a long moment of silence, she spoke. “Less perfect now?”

Rhys shook his head. “No. Better.” He could have sworn Anja smiled.

When their parents arrived they both paused, taking in Rhys and Anja’s new adornments without comment, but Rhys could have sworn they looked almost proud. They already knew the drill, the plan of action having been rehearsed the previous night, and thus they began without words. Rhys moved to Dima’s torso and head, his father taking the legs, and they lifted Dima into their arms. With two people the weight was manageable, though still uncomfortable. Pain is a gift. It means you are not dead. Rhys remembered that phrase vividly, spoken countless times by his father during combat training when Rhys was a child. To Rhys it had never meant much, but in this moment it meant everything.

Nobles watched as the Marinons left the courthouse, peering out windows and from doorways. The guards did not even attempt to stop them as they left the square, something Rhys wagered might be related to the blood handprints on Rhys and Anja’s necks. From the corner of his eye Rhys could see archers run across roof tops, as well as several soldiers patrol the street on which they travelled, but Rhys paid them no mind. He dared not look down, knowing that seeing Dima’s face in his hands would break his carefully built composure. He instead looked to his mother to his left, studying her blank expression. It was not emotionless, per say, for there was an anger in her eyes and in the tightness of her jaw and with every breath she took in, but it was careful. Calculated. To Rhys, she was the most frightening of all of them.

As they approached the entrance to the main square the Lanis’ guards, or rather the poor men who’d been relegated to that task, made an attempt to stop them.

“You aren’t allowed here. Go back or we’ll be forced to -”

Anja backhanded the man so hard he fell to the ground. Others came forward, this time with weapons drawn, but both Anja and Vyserene already had swords drawn themselves, and as Anja put one foot onto the fallen man’s neck, threatening to break it, the others put down their weapons. Anja and Vyserene might be outnumbered, but the two of them could take the 5 piss-poor trained vagabonds with their eyes closed.

“Now let us pass or I’ll kill you. It’s really that simple.” Anja stared the guards down. Rhys had never seen grown men move away from a young woman half their size so quickly.

The Marinons moved through the square as one, walking in a straight line with Dima’s body cradled in Rhys and his fathers’ arms, displayed for all to see. Rhys heard the whispers and saw the crowd beginning to gather, and his only response was to hold his head higher. He refused to even glance at the onlookers. They were cowards, betrayers, so far beneath him they were no better than the bugs beneath his feet. He wanted to crush them, too see them feel the same pain they caused when they stood idly by, when they aided in the slaughter. But it wasn’t them, not really. It was the Lanis’. The same Lanis’ who stood in the Solena Palace’s main balcony before them.

Seeing Miriyam’s face made Rhys want to scream. He wanted to kill her, to scream at her, to replace any happiness with the agony he knew. This, however, was not the time for that. So he stood in silence, shaking with rage, and only fantasizing about watching her take her last breath.

“Are you here in surrender?” Miriyam asked calmly. The inflection in her voice seemed mocking, yet somehow bored, as if this whole ordeal was below her. It was infuriating.

It was Rhys’ father who spoke first. “We will not play your games. We do not require your permission, nor do we recognize your claim to any power. We will bury son, the son you murdered.”

Miriyam’s expression did not change, but Rhys noticed a strange change in Johannes. He flinched, as one might when surprised yet trying to conceal it. Even from a distance Rhys could see him glance at his sister. Did he not know? Was it possible for him not to know? “These are accusations without base, though I cannot disagree that he would have deserved the punishment for his past transgressions.”

Vyserene looked ready to burst. Rhys felt murderous. He needed not look at his father and sister to know that they too felt the same. Rhys could not take it. He stepped forward, pulling the full weight of Dima’s body with him and shifting the body in his arms. He struggled under the weight, surprised with his own strength, but refused to let his pain show. Pain was life. The pain made him stronger. Rhys took several more steps until he’d crossed half the distance to the Lanis’.

“Shall I tell you all how my brother died? How he was murdered by the woman you call a revolutionary, a liberator? My brother saved my life before he died. He stepped in the path of a throwing knife for me. Earlier that day he’d saved me from myself, and the night before he stepped in and attacked Miriyam Lanis as she tortured me when I discovered too much about her past. My brother acted selflessly, more selflessly than I’ve ever seen from him in my life. He acted out of love, and in return he was brutally murdered for what, revenge? For petty revenge? Revenge against a man so young he can hardly be considered a man, but rather a boy. My brother was nineteen when he died. Nineteen! He fathered no children, took no wife, fought no wars, carried no responsibilities. He was a child when he was murdered. He may not have been an innocent, but he was no monster. The only monster here is the woman who stands before you.

“When my brother died he was stabbed in the neck from behind. His murderess was so cowardly she could not even take him face on in a fair fight, no better than smothering a sleeping baby. The moment after the attack she left, too cowardly to stay and face her actions. Is this the kind of leader you want? A woman who will kill like an assassin, who speaks of justice and change yet acts out of cruelty and revenge? Those people who were murdered in the name of revolution had families. They had children. The death of Lord and Lady Gaille has left four orphaned girls, three under eighteen whose sister is now their mother. Lord Denver left a baby grandchild, a widow, and three grieving children. You may look at us nobles and see nothing beyond power and wealth, and you from Jenya know only the rumors and horror stories of our cruelty, and you act with far worse cruelty, with the murder of innocent people, the destruction of their livelihoods, and without even taking a moment to realize that you are being manipulated through a revenge-fueled power grab. You are being used, and you are no better than them.”

Rhys’ heart was pounding, and he could barely take his eyes off of Miriyam’s sinister glare, much less move. Dima’s body weighed on his arms, Rhys using all his strength to not drop his brother and instead pushing through the pain with a newfound determination. Next Rhys heard a noise and looked back to see Anja storming forward, but instead of heading towards the Lanis’ she took an unexpected left, climbing up the stairs off the still-standing gallows. The bodies still swung, left as some sort of reminder, and Anja cut free those who still hung. A few of the nooses had been replaced, the bodies removed for some reason. The man who’s neck broke on impact was one of those Rhys recognized had been removed. Anja reached up and cut down two free nooses. Then, head held high, Anja descended the stage, marched forward, and threw the nooses at the Palace gates.

“Next time it will be you who hangs.”

The square broke into such an uproar that the people hardly noticed when Rhys and his family disappeared from the square.

***

Whatever Rhys expected, this was not it. As they’d approached their home by boat the facade seemed mostly intact, little damage shown except for some broken windows and warped walls, but when they stepped inside it was a completely different picture. Anything flammable was no more than a pile of ash, a charred mass at best. Portraits of ancestors that had somehow missed the flames were soiled with ash and smoke. Priceless tapestries hung from the walls like the shredded rags of a flag taken into battle. There was nothing left of the home he knew.

“Come on,” his mother whispered, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. Rhys could hardly take his eyes away, but as his mother tugged on his arm with more force he turned his back to the scene, following her from the house. No one spoke as they moved through the grounds, taking in the damage. Much of the grass was left untouched, the majority of damage focused on the house itself, and it only made everything look more strange. Such a serene, beautiful estate should not be accompanied by a shell of a home. Rhys’ stomach turned as he thought of all the memories that turned to ash in the fire, all the history lost. It was not just his home that had been compromised, it was hundreds of years of family history. That was the real loss.

The mausoleum sat in the back of the estate, almost near the end of the property. It was not a place Rhys visited often, though he knew his father to visit occasionally to lay flowers on the tombs of his mother and father. Despite the death which lay inside, the mausoleum was actually quite beautiful, crafted of a beautiful bright marble with delicate stained glass at the top that cast patterns of light on the floor. Icons and statues of the gods and goddesses decorated the mausoleum, but they were long forgotten, often ignored. The gods had not kept their family alive, Rhys’ father often said. It was the dead who were to be remembered, not the god’s praised.

Erik pushed open the heavy doors and Vyserene and Anja followed closely behind him, Rhys being the last to linger outside. Once he stepped through those doors he would be forced to say goodbye to Dima forever. Never again would he see his face, hear his voice, practice his fencing - all of that, gone. And Rhys realized, with time he would forget Dima’s face. He’d forget the exact quality of his voice, he’d forget about the scar near his left year given by the family cat when Dima teased it just a bit too much. He’d forget the exact shade of blue of his eyes and how his front teeth had just the smallest of gaps. One day Rhys would come back to the mausoleum to lay flowers on Dima’s sarcophagus, only to realize that he no longer knew the boy that lay inside. The terror of that thought made Rhys’ throat close up and his breath catch. This was the end.

In the end it was his mother who coaxed Rhys inside. He stepped over the threshold carefully, and once inside a weight unlike any other held him down, suffocating him. Dima was there already, brought in Erik while the others inspected the home. Given the Marinon family’s unfortunate history of early death, sarcophagi were built soon after puberty, constructed to expected height dimensions. Rhys’ eyes briefly flickered to his own, already carved with his name and year of birth, waiting in a corner. The thought made his heart race. Dima lay so peacefully, arms crossed within his coffin that he could have been taking a nice sleep. At least, that is how the dead were usually described. Dima did not look like he was taking a peaceful sleep. He looked dead. Despite the death and the coldness and the blood, Rhys forced himself to stare at Dima’s face, to memorize to memory every detail of his features, every mark and every hair on his head. He became so lost in thought that he didn’t even realize when his mother called his name.

“Rhys?” She said again, gently touching his arm. “Do you have anything to say?”

His family watched him in earnest, most likely hoping for some remark of some fond memory, of his love for his brother, of anything to shed a happier light on the ordeal. Rhys even planned on saying such a thing, but when his mouth opened only one thing came out. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking as his eyes began to tear up. “I’m so sorry you had to die for me. It should have been me, not you.”

Rhys’ mother’s arms were around him before he could say anything else. She held him tightly, her head resting on his chest as she squeezed. Rhys clung to his mother, feeling more like a child in the moment than he’d felt in years. The guilt was immense, and with each passing moment it built more and more. The mausoleum was too much, a suffocating force that continually reminded him that Dima was really and truly dead, gone from the earth, and if it were not for Rhys’ foolish attempts to act the hero Dima would not be dead. After what seemed like an eternity, his mother pulled back, putting her hands to his cheeks. “This is not your fault. Rhys, please listen to me. None of this is your fault. I would not trade you to have Dima back for the world. There is nothing I want more than to have my baby boy back, but you are still here, Rhys. I still have you. I love you, your father loves you, Anja loves you, and you must remember that despite all of this we still have you, and that is so, so important. You are irreplaceable, just as Dima was. You cannot destroy yourself over this guilt. We need you.”

Once he was released from his mother’s grip Rhys chose to stay silent, to stand and listen as the impromptu ceremony continued. Each in turn they moved to Dima, giving him one last kiss, one last touch before he was to be sealed away. When it was Rhys’ turn he could barely bring himself to touch his brother, the death he saw in that colorless face too overwhelming. Yet he pushed through, taking Dima’s hand, and in that despite the coldness he still felt flesh, still felt what used to be life. Slowly, he leaned down and kissed Dima’s forehead, committing to memory the feel of his skin. Once Rhys was done he and his father gently lowered the coffin into the sarcophagus, and then pushed the stone lid on, sealing Dima’s fate.

As his family filed out, his father holding his mother outside the masoleum in a warm embrace as she sobbed into his tunic, Rhys slipped away. He had to do it now, he realized. Now while he was in reach of supplies, while he had access to the stables and a horse. He only hoped his room had been spared from the fire.

He moved slowly up the marble staircase inside the house, thankful that it at least was unable to burn down. Rhys had never been so pleased for his family’s opulent taste. A home with less marble and stone and more wood would have been decimated. It seemed that the fire had mostly been put out by the time it reached the second floor, for as Rhys reached his room, the door charred but still standing, most of his possessions were left unharmed. His floor was badly warped, his bedframe lightly scorched, but most of his clothes, weapons, books, and gifts were left untouched. Rhys hurriedly grabbed a rucksack from his closet, throwing in a spare tunic, a few pairs of socks, a change of undergarments, and on a whim a few vials he kept hidden away - two poisons and a healing ointment. Realizing there would be no one to heal him should anything happen, Rhys threw in a few more vials of the ointment, as well as an extra cloth to rip as bandaging. Food he could scavenge for himself on the road and of money and weapons he had plenty. Grabbing lastly a pair of warm gloves and his heaviest wool cloak, Rhys closed his sack, swinging it onto his back. There was no turning back now. Hopefully in time his family could forgive him, and hopefully they’d come to understand that Rhys would not let a second loved one die, not while he could do something about it. He had to leave now. There was no other choice.

[Mollianne]

There was nothing. Someone pulled Jessa away from Harris and she went limply stumbling into someone behind her. She stared at Harris, watching blankly as a woman knelt over him with her hand pressed to the wound. It was so black, with long purple veins stemming out from it across his chest and arm. She stared at it, and barely registered someone slip their hand into hers. Maira. The princess gripped Jessa’s hand but she could not feel it, and together they watched as the woman tried to save their brother’s life.

The world was empty of sound, though in her periphery Jessa saw people speaking and crying, and to her right the crowds were in uproar as people either clamoured to get closer or ran from the square in fear. Those people were not important, not then. The only person who mattered was Harris.

Jessa knew even before the healer sat back, head bowed, that Harris was gone from her. She cried out, sound flooding back into her ears overwhelming and unbearable. She tried to reach her brother, but Edmund was already there. He pushed the healer back towards his twin, hitting her with his fists. “You can’t… Keep trying. There must be something-”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” the healer kept saying, but Edmund did not hear her. He screamed at her, forcing her hands onto Harris shoulder until his legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground shaking. Edmund pressed Harris against him, getting blood and charred skin over his jacket. Jessa’s gaze was glued to Harris’ free arm. It did not move to hug his brother like it should; it just lay on the ground, limp and unmoving like a doll.

Harris wasn’t there anymore.

Maira had gone now, yanking her hand out of Jessa’s as she went to be with her brothers. Jessa stumbled, and as she righted herself, her blood went cold. No. Guilt clawed at her, suffocating her, as she realised – realised that this was her fault. She had seen something coming for her, and she had thought only of herself. Harris had been holding her hand.

“It's my fault,” she muttered, to herself, to no one in particular, but someone heard. The queen, who had been staring out at the square, seeming to be looking directly at the balcony where Jessa had seen the assassin, turned on her. Guilt, painful and clear, wore at the queen's face, but it gave way to fury as she bore down on Jessa.

“What did you say?” Catrice hissed. “What did you do to my son?”

“I...” Jessa looked around wildly, no longer able to look at Harris after what she had done. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I... He was holding my hand.”

“Speak up!” Catrice demanded, grabbing Jessa's wrist and twisting hard. Jessa let her, knowing she deserved it, hardly feeling the pain. Wanting the pain.

“Harris was holding my hand... I must have...” Guilt and Catrice's anger weighed down on her, stopping her from speaking. She couldn't say it, couldn't admit to what she had done.

“Say it.”

Catrice squeezed Jessa's wrist, and pulled Jessa's chin up with the other, forcing her to look into the eyes of the mother of the boy Jessa had let die. The boy Jessa loved, and she had let him die while accidentally saving the king. Harris’ last act of kindness had been comforting her, and she had let him die. The look in Catrice's eyes was murderous, and Jessa knew she would let Catrice kill her if she wanted, but she also knew that would be the easy way out. Jessa wanted to suffer for what she had done. “He stumbled into its path,” she breathed. “I got out of the way, and I thought I had let go of him, but he stumbled. He stumbled.”

Catrice was suddenly pulled away from her, restrained by the king. The queen fought against him, but he held strong, staring at Jessa with an inscrutable expression. Catrice glared at Alrick, screaming at him. “It was meant to be her! She should have died. She killed our son. Let me go. LET ME GO. SHE KILLED HIM.”

“Guards, escort the queen back to the castle,” Alrick said, only releasing Catrice once he was sure the guards held her tightly. Catrice left, still screaming, glaring at Jessa, unable to look at her son as she was taken from the stage. When she was gone, Jessa looked at Alrick. She had never seen him look so old, so tired, and yet so angry as she had in that moment. They stared at each other for a moment more, and then Alrick went to his children, kneeling down beside them and gently moving them away from their brother so he could look at Harris himself.

Jessa swallowed. She knew she should leave, but she could not. Whatever she had done to cause his death, Harris was still her brother and friend. She took a step closer to the family, then stepped straight back. She felt the numb shock creeping back over her, trying to hide her from her pain and her guilt.

“Jessa,” Maira said. Jessa looked up blindly, trying to focus on the princess’ face. She nodded, telling her it was okay for Jessa to join them. Jessa moved slowly, kneeling down between Maira and the king. She looked into Harris’ face, slack and empty, and forgot about everything except him. Just a child. The sweetest child she had ever known. It should have been her in his place. For all her rage, Catrice was right.

“It wasn’t you,” Maira said, taking Jessa’s hand and placing it into Harris’. It might have seemed a cold move on the princess’ part, returning Jessa’s hand to the hand she had been holding before everything had gone to hell. But somehow, for the first time, Jessa knew Maira was not doing it to be cruel. And somehow, feeling Harris’ skin against hers comforted Jessa. Maira nodded, her own hand also clutching Harris’ fingertips. She felt the same way. “It wasn’t you.”

***

Harris had been moved to his rooms, where he would stay until the day before his funeral. The family had been away from him only long enough for him to be cleaned and preserved with a magical stasis that would slow down the processes after death until he was buried. Elissa had taken one look at him, cleaned and arranged on his bed and ran out of the room crying, and had not returned since. Alrick had left in the evening, determination, anger and grief at war on his face and a vow that he would find who had done this. Jessa did not even know when Maira had disappeared, but now, a full night and day later, only she and Edmund remained. Edmund sat across from her, still staring at his brother’s face in disbelief. He had not spoken a word since he had pleaded for the healer to save Harris. He had barely even moved.

Jessa reached over and brushed a hand across Harris’ face. He was cold and stiff, as always, but it still surprised her. She was still expecting him to wake up, to ask them why they were fussing, even though it was ridiculous and foolish. She just wanted him back. They all did. Jessa looked away.

She saw a book resting on the table by the empty fireplace, and with horror Jessa recognised it. It was the book Harris had read to her less than 48 hours before. They had promised to read it together during the ball. Jessa stood and retrieved it as if in some kind of trance. Slumping back into her chair, she opened the book, then looked at Harris’ face. She inhaled, exhaled, and then, swallowing her tears, she began to read.

Jessa did not know how long she read, the words blurring together. She spoke the words but did not register them. All she could think about was Harris devouring these words that had set his heart on Antascia and finding the truth. A truth the world would probably never know, now. And Harris would never see those caves.

She read until she heard the door open. Edmund blinked, clearly as lost in the words and his own thoughts as Jessa, but he did not even glance at the door. Jessa looked over her shoulder and saw Maira. She tilted her head and Jessa, with a long look at Harris, stood and followed Maira into the sitting room. She could not leave entirely, however, and positioned herself so she could still see Harris and Edmund through the door.

“Father’s arrested someone,” Maira said, drawing Jessa’s attention away. Her heart raced, anger and hatred rising up inside her.

“Who?” she breathed. Her voice was dry after all the reading she had done.

Maira hesitated. She was almost as quiet as Jessa when she said, “Ambassador Kieran Dunvyen.”

Jessa stared. “What.” It was not a question. It was not anything but flat refusal.

“Father has been questioning people near the balconies since last night. All the evidence points to him.”

“Then the evidence is wrong,” Jessa said. She looked at Maira, but her gaze was fixed upon Harris in the other room. Jessa waited, unable to speak through her anger. She was surprised she could feel anything but anger on Harris’ behalf, and the grief and guilt that came with it, but it was there still, anger for Rhys’ uncle.

“I agree,” Maira said finally, surprising Jessa. “And I’m almost certain Father knows too. But we can’t ignore the evidence, and we need to question him. If someone is framing him, we need to know why. And if Ambassador Dunvyen knows anything that can help us, we need to know it.”

“But arrest him? He can’t-”

“Our brother is dead, Jessa. Father can do whatever he wants, in my opinion. I don’t know why he’s arrested him – maybe to make whoever was actually behind this feel like they’ve won – but I’m going to let him do what he wants. We’ll face Aquena later, but if they’re against us questioning someone who is clearly linked to whoever did this, even if he wasn’t involved himself, then I don’t particularly care. Do you?”

Jessa looked at Harris, and shook her head. “No.” That did not mean that she would let Alrick do whatever he wanted to Kieran. Jessa knew well one of the ways the king liked to question people. “Can I see him?”

“I doubt it. Father’s questioning him in the prison interrogation room in ten minutes. Privately.” Maira gave Jessa one final glance, and Jessa watched as the princess’ grief came back to the fore, now that she had given her information. Without another word, Maira went into Harris’ bedroom. She sat beside Edmund and put her arms around his shoulders, hugging him hard and pressing her head against his back. After a moment, Edmund moved. For the first time, he looked away from his brother and collapsed against his sister. Jessa watched Maira stroke her baby brother’s hair for a moment more, and then left. It felt wrong for her to stay, and she now had something else on which to focus her energy. She wanted to do something, anything, to bring Harris’ killer to justice.

She met Alrick outside the interrogation room. The look in the king’s eyes was one Jessa would never forget. His eyes were as cold as ice. His grief had been warped into a terrifying fury, and Jessa was glad she had come. Kieran needed her.

“Leave, Jessa.”

She shook her head. “You shouldn’t question him alone.”

“I should and will do what I need to do. And I will not have you and your sentiment ruin the interrogation.”

“It won’t,” Jessa said quietly. She drew in a shaky breath. “I want to find out what happened, too. Someone else should be in there. Kieran Dunvyen is still the Ambassador to Aquena, after all. There are boundaries-”

“And you think I would overstep them?” Alrick demanded. “No, Jessa, you will leave.”

“I want to help,” she said, helplessly. She looked at the door, wishing she could see Kieran through it. She hoped he was okay. She glanced at Alrick. She hoped he would still be okay once the king had finished with him. “Please.”

“Leave.”

Alrick did not give her chance to respond. He threw open the door and stormed inside, slamming it shut before Jessa could even catch a glimpse of Kieran. She went to the door, but did not even try opening it. Instead, she pressed her ear against the iron, fruitlessly trying to hear what was going on within. There were no screams, only silence. Was that good? Jessa did not know. She closed her eyes, her burst of energy dissipating now that she had nothing to direct it towards. When the guards came to move her, she went willingly. There was nothing she could do. Not for Kieran, not for Harris.

She was useless.

Jessa wandered listlessly from the prison, heading vaguely in the direction of Harris’ room. She cut across the castle courtyard, feeling the cold winter sun on her back. It mocked her, telling her the world would still be beautiful despite the horror and sorrow. She hated it, looking up as if to tell the sun to go away, and instead saw Catrice standing at the window, not too far from Harris’ room. It reminded her of when she was a child, after her mother’s death. The queen used to stand there, watching her with a sneer. Now, though, Catrice was staring off into the distance. Instead of a sneer, her face was twisted with grief and guilt, her hands balled into fists and resting against the glass. Jessa quickened her pace, hoping the queen would not see her, but it was not to be. All of a sudden, the queen’s expression was filled with hatred, and Jessa was transfixed. She stopped walking. The sun burned her back while Catrice’s glare burned her mind. The queen had always hated her, but this was something more, something worse. The queen was ready to kill Jessa with her bare hands.

Jessa ran the rest of the way across the courtyard. No matter how much she wanted to be with Harris, she decided against returning. Catrice would be there, and Jessa did not want his bedside desecrated by hate. Instead, she went to her room.

She pulled off her clothes as soon as she was inside. Jessa had not yet changed, and her clothes were crusty with blood. She refused to let herself think why, for she knew she would only break down. Instead, she stuffed the dress out of sight and pulled out the first plain dress from her wardrobe. It was tattered and frayed, matching Jessa’s mood. She sighed, wondering what was happening with Kieran. And then, inevitably, her thoughts drifted back to Harris. Jessa slid to the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and cried.

In her grief, she nearly missed the crumpled piece of paper near the door. Jessa wiped her eyes. The last time she had received a message in that way, it had been Laurita telling her she and Odaren were safe. It felt like a year ago. She crawled over to the door, and picked up the letter with shaking hands.

Lady Sophia Darr tried to kill the king. –N.

***

Lady Sophia Darr was the tall woman Jessa had seen at Arrowbridge, and was one of the two women who Jessa had heard conspiring at the Janes’ ball. She was generally well-liked in Ovisian society, by all accounts, for her dry, often acerbic humour. And now she sat in the interrogation room, opposite Jessa and the king, and did not even seem to care. Jessa’s blood boiled with rage, but she kept quiet. The king had agreed to let her sit in on this interrogation, knowing she had no attachment to the noblewoman and knowing that Jessa would not have let the situation lie.

Bring Sophia Darr in for questioning had not been an easy task. The king had wanted to know who Jessa’s informant was – she had told him she did not know, although privately she was fairly sure it was Nayall – and then why the writer might have sent it to Jessa instead of the king. Jessa had had no answer for that, and all she could hope was that the king had not tried to read her mind. Given she was free and on this side of the interrogation table, she could only assume he had not. Jessa supposed that the king would only think her capable of minor transgressions which were unworthy of thought compared to Harris’ death. Jessa bit her lip, swallowed her pain, and focused on the woman in front of her.

Sophia was looking around the room in disinterest. It was like she did not even care that her actions had caused the death of a fifteen year old child. Jessa began to get out of her chair, but Alrick put a hand on her and forced her down. His gaze was murderous. Sophia finally looked at them. “Why am I here?”

“You-”

Alrick silenced Jessa with a glare. He folded his arms and rested them on the table in front of him. “Can you tell me why you were not at the assembly yesterday?” His voice was calm, despite his rage. Jessa did not know how he managed it.

“Your Majesty, I was there,” Sophia replied. She sounded neither offended nor angry. She spoke as if it were a fact. If Jessa had not been so angry, she might have believed the woman.

“In fact, no, you were not. I believe one of your maids sat in your place. She looks remarkably like you, so she went by unnoticed. I’ve already had her questioned. She told me you were ill and asked if she would take your place. One of you is lying.”

Sophia pursed her lips. “I asked her to go in my stead, yes.”

“For someone who was apparently so ill the day before they could not venture out of doors for half an hour, you look remarkably well,” Jessa said through gritted teeth.

“Healing magic is a wonderful thing.”

That much was true, but Jessa knew she was lying. The king did as well. Jessa wondered why the noblewoman was continuing with this charade when she knew she had been caught.

“Did you kill my son?”

The question tore at Jessa’s heart. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw the tiniest flicker of emotion in Sophia’s eyes. “I would never hurt a child. And Prince Harris was the kindest of all of you.”

“Did you accidentally kill my son? We know there were two assassins. One for me, and one for her.” He indicated Jessa. “Who were you ordered to kill?”

“I wasn’t ordered to kill anyone. I haven’t killed anyone.” Sophia crossed her legs, placing her hands flat on the table. “I am sorry for your loss. But I had nothing to do with it.”

Suddenly, Sophia screamed. She flung her head back and her hands lifted. The chair pitched backwards and she clattered to the floor. Jessa tried to get Alrick to stop, but the screams did not abate. Jessa stared in horror. Harris wouldn’t want this, but she could not say the words. She could not use Harris’ memory against his father. And she had to admit that part of her… part of her wanted Sophia to suffer, in the same way Jessa felt she herself ought to suffer for what she had done.

Eventually, the screams became whimpers, and Sophia was a cowering mess on the floor. Alrick pushed back his chair, the wood screeching against the stone, and towered over the fallen woman. He watched her impassively. “Speak.”

Sophia did, as if in a trance, though her words were broken by her fear and her pain. “I found a mage in the city. He has a great power few possess – the ability to put his magic into objects so that anyone can use them. He keeps to himself, obviously, and no one really knows what he does. I don’t know his name, but I found him. I sent one of my servants to him, poorly disguised as Ambassador Kieran Dunvyen, and made sure there were rumours about his visit. The man believed him without question, probably because his experiments have become his life and so he knows nothing of the world. We acquired three of his spells-”

“Three?” Jessa interrupted. “There were two assassins.”

“There were three. Myself, my servant disguised as Ambassador Dunvyen. I don’t know the third, but we wouldn’t have needed three if there wasn’t another.”

Alrick bent down. “Under whose orders, Sophia? You aren’t the kind of woman to do this alone.”

“Bitch let me get caught,” Sophia hissed. “What did I ever do to her?”

“Who, Sophia?” She began to spasm, her head rocking from side to side. Alrick just stared at her, not moving, not reacting. And then she went still. Alrick stood, his expression hard, and called in the guards.

“Take her to a cell. She’ll be hanged in the morning.” Two of the guards went to lift the unconscious woman, while the rest stood to attention. Alrick glanced at Jessa, and then back at the guards. “Arrest Lady Magrethe Janes – and bring the rest of her family in for questioning.”

[Rosabeth]

By the end of the third day Rhy’s legs felt as if they might fall off. Rhys was used to long rides, but the strain of being on horseback for so many hours a day was a pain he could only grit his teeth and push through. He wondered how Jessa had managed it all that time ago. During the nights Rhys stayed in inns along the way, grudgingly accepting the fact that the bitter winter that seemed to linger on as they approached spring was far too cold to sleep under the stars. Still, he countered by going well out of his way to find those not on the main road. The last thing he wanted was someone recognizing him who might tell his parents, or worse, Alrick. Though Rhys had committed no true crime, as far as Alrick was concerned Rhys was guilty at least of assault, and depending on what story Jessa had spun attempted murder and rape as well. Even if he was suspected of no crimes, Rhys was sure the royal family would jump at any excuse to capture a Marinon, no matter the fallout.

At night Rhys found himself thinking often of Jessa. This was partially to quell the never ending guilt and memories of Dima that haunted him, but it was by no means the real reason. In a few short days Rhys would be in the same city as Jessa, the closest they’d been in months. It was dangerous to dwell on these thoughts, Rhys knew. Under no circumstance could he allow himself to take a chance to see her. The timing was not right, not yet, and Rhys knew that if he attempted such a meeting his desperation would take over and he’d become messy in his plans. If he was so much as recognized by one person and taken by surprise it was all over, not just for him but for Jessa as well. No, he refused to let Jessa fall on a sword over his own loneliness, his longing. He would risk himself for Keiran, but he would not risk Jessa’s safety. Still, Rhys secretly hoped to catch a glimpse of her, perhaps from afar. Just one. Just to know she was safe and well. Rhys had to laugh at his own assumptions. How could one ever be safe in a den of lions?

Each morning Rhys rose before he knew the innkeeper would be up, leaving a generous sum that he hoped would buy silence and stem anger when they realized he’d stolen a rested horse and left his exhausted one from the previous day in its stead. With his early rise and late rest Rhys had several hours of darkness cover each day. Though the darkness brought with it the most bitter cold Rhys had ever experienced, a chill that grew worse each day as he worked his way north, Rhys simply tied his scarf around his face so that only his eyes were visible, able to at least stem the pain of the whipping winds as he rode. Each day’s ride was more straining, with the previous day’s pain only amplified, but mostly it just wore on his mind. When riding for hours a day there was not much to do but think, and Rhys’ thoughts plagued him. He’d never wished to escape his mind so much. The only thing that brought him comfort was knowing that each day was one less day on the road and one day closer to Ovis.

On the seventh day Rhys realized he was growing close as his pace dropped dramatically, the snow so thick his horse could only go at a walk, not even a trot. A few hours of the slow pace continued until Rhys finally came to the end of the tree cover, immerging onto the top of a hill to see the most beautiful and horrifying sight. Stretched out before him was the sea, grey under cloud cover, and on it’s banks the city of Ovis. Rhys had only ever come to Ovis by ship, so seeing the city from hilltop was truly a sight unlike any other. It was larger than Jasrah by a considerable amount, extending as far as Rhys could see, all the way to the eastern and western woods. In the center of the city stood the du Rene’s castle, and all Rhys could think about was that somewhere in that castle was Jessa. He was so close, yet… Rhys had to shake off the thought. He was not here for Jessa. He was here for Kieran. At least, that’s what he told himself.

A ways outside the city walls Rhys abandoned his horse, knowing some poor farmer would surely find it, happy to have such a powerful animal. Entering the city on such an animal would only raise suspicion, as only the wealthy were fortunate enough to own horses such as that. When Rhys entered the city he needed to blend in, to become just another commoner, a person of no consequence. His clothing was rather high in quality for a commoner, he realized, but it was far to cold to discard the thick wool cloak or padded doublet. He pulled the hood up and drew the cloak in close, hoping no one would bother taking notice of just another man bracing himself from the winter winds. These small details of Rhys’ patchwork plan were the things that forced him to acknowledge how bad of an idea this all was. At this point, though, there was little point turning back.

Getting into Ovis proved to be much easier than expected. Given the current turmoil Rhys wondered if perhaps there would be guards at the entrance, officials checking papers and grilling incomers on residency, but Rhys found himself ushered in without a second look, disappearing into a group of merchants lugging about crates for market. The city was much different than Rhys had remembered, though he knew that was only a matter of perspective. Rhys had only ever been to Ovis twice, and both times at court. It was Anja and his father who often conducted business in the city, Rhys and his mother taking care of Jasrah in their stead. He did not know what it surprised him so that the outer circles of Ovis should be so different, so drab and dirty and crowded, but a life of privilege would give anyone a skewed perspective. A stay at court was opulent and full of comforts. Life for a commoner in Ovis was nothing short of a struggle, and the conditions for the poor were far worse in Ovis than in Jasrah. If the Ovisian commoners ever staged a revolt like the one that had taken place in Jasrah he could only imagine the destruction.

Before Rhys could even think about settling, about staking out somewhere to stay where he could be certain no one would recognize him, he needed to know about Kieran. Any and all plans on how to contact Kieran, much less get into the castle, could only be successful if he knew what was happening. He thought briefly of going to one of his father’s men. There were many in the city and he knew them all to be trustworthy, but he also knew the moment he appeared his father would be notified and Rhys would be back to square one. No, he’d have to find other methods. Create his own contacts, do his own work. For this, Rhys was completely on his own.

Gaining information from the commoners was unlikely to be of any help, for what little information they receieved was second hand and trickle down, often embellished with incredible lies and outdated. Going into the wealthy sector of the city would be far more reliable, but infinitely more dangerous. There was not a noble in the city who did not know his face. Rhys decided to compromise with the middle district, a sector of Ovis the nobles rarely patronized but that remained far better connected than the lower districts. It also happened to be home to the less-savory parts of the city where criminals and gangs were known to live and frequent. To most, the Thieves Row was a part of Ovis talked about with contempt; to Rhys it was perfection.

Rhys knew of one tavern in the district of Thieves Row that his father’s informants frequented for information. Though not known for being particularly dangerous, it was undoubtedly a shady establishment as Rhys could be certain of from the moment he touched the door handle. The door rattled, locked, and suddenly a man on the other side pulled back the a wooden slat, exposing a small square for a set of eyes to peer out from. It was so much like something out of a fantastic tale of thieves and pirates that Rhys nearly laughed. The eyes looked him up and down, before asking in a gruff voice, “You a red?”

“A what?”

“You from out of town, yeah? A red. A palace guard. Someone who works for the king. You know, a red? Like the color.” Rhys nodded in understanding. “So, you working for the king?”

“No,” Rhys said in confusion. If this was their form of security Rhys was deeply disappointed. It was the shoddiest he’d ever seen. Regardless, the door opened and Rhys was lead in.

“Weapons?” The man asked. Rhys took a quick glance at the man and jumped, seeing nothing but a pair of eyes in the dim lighting. The man wore all black, including black fabric tied around his nose and mouth. Rhys nodded, showing the man the sheathed sword and dagger on his hip. The man only shrugged, not bothering to confiscate them, apparently not taking Rhys for much of a threat.

“You know, asking me if I work for the king isn’t exactly top notch security. I could lie.”

The man in black guffawed, even snorting. “No, you couldn’t. That door and a four foot radius in front of it is enchanted with a truth spell. Unless you’re a mage you couldn’t lie if you tried, and if you were a mage we’d know. Now sit down somewhere, I’m not the damn barman.”

Rhys took his cue. He found a place in the back of the bar, ordering a drink and some food to hold him over. He sat with his back to the wall and his hood still up, head down. He wanted to be able to see all the entrances. Even if there was security in place Rhys was not one to put trust in others he did not know. When the serving woman came back to his table, food and drink in hand, Rhys gestured for her to stay a moment.

“I’m not here to chat. I’ve got work to do.” Her voice was gruff but Rhys brushed off her dismissal.

“Just a couple questions, I promise.” The woman looked skeptical but the fact that she didn’t leave meant to Rhys that she at least was willing to listen. “Have you heard anything about Kieran Dunvyen? I heard some things…” Rhys tried to keep his question general enough to not raise suspicion, given that he was not aware of how public the arrest warrant had been, or even if Kieran had been arrested at all.

“Last I ‘eard he was still locked up in the palace. Heard from an insider they interrogated him just the other day, that he wasn’t harmed but wasn’t free. Everyone’s real hush-hush on that, given that he’s a royal himself and they can’t very well treat him like a criminal, but word is that he’s suspected of being behind the assassination of the prince.”

“Assassination?” Rhys’ heart dropped. The blood rushed to his head, his ears pounding, his stomach in so many knots he thought he might vomit.

“Gods, you aint from around here, are you? Where have you been, hiding under a rock? Prince Harris? The King’s birthday celebration? The family’s all very quiet about it, you know, but the official story as far as I’m aware is that someone from a balcony tried to assassinate the King and his redheaded bastard,” Rhys’ heart lurched and he balled his hands into fists, trying not to draw attention to his distress. “The girl pushed the king out of the way but somehow the boy got into the line of fire. One arrow in him and he was dead as a doornail, gods rest him. Too bad, too, for such a young boy. I wouldn’t have mind seeing the king take a hit but don’t be spreadin’ that around.”

“And the girl?” Rhys breathed. He could hardly get the words out. He prepared for the worst, but he hardly knew what he would do if those words were spoken.

“Eh, she’s fine as far as I know. Just the boy was hit.” Rhys felt bad for his relief, knowing Jessa’s pain must be great, but he could not even find the sadness to feel for the loss of the young prince when all he could think about was that Jessa was alive, and unharmed at that. “When was this again?”

“A few days ago. I don’t know, time seems to all meld together in this shit hole.”

For a moment Rhys had been elated at the news about Jessa, and all at once it came crashing down. If Kieran had only been arrested a few days ago, if his supposed crime had been committed after Rhys received the warrant, then… Rhys wanted to scream. The warrant had been a fraud. Undoubtedly sent by the king, but a fraud at that. If Kieran had only been arrested days past then the only reason the king would ever issue a false warrant in advance would be if his purpose had been to deceive. Rhys had never felt like such a fool in his entire life. Kieran’s arrest was no more than a happy coincidence for the king. The original warrant had been bait, a trap set up to lure Rhys here, and Rhys had taken it without question. He had to leave now.

Before Rhys could even stand up every patient turned their heads towards the booming pounding on the door. “In the name of King Alrick, ruler of all Etrene, open this door!”

There was an instant flurry of activity. Some men jumped to their feet, immediately running into some back room opened through a secret door Rhys had not even seen. Others began hiding contraband, stuffing it into clothing and bags and rearranging their tables. Rhys did not wait to find out who was on the other side of the door. He jumped up from the table, all but sprinting for the back door. The serving woman didn’t even bat an eyelash; she’d likely seen so many incidents just like this it was another day in the life. The front door was already open by the time Rhys reached the back, and he thanked the gods that there was a curtain barrier between him and a view to the front. Rhys could only just see around the curtain, but he took one look at the tall blonde guard now standing in the tavern, and saw the door guard point to the back, exactly to where Rhys had been sitting moments before. That was all the conformation Rhys needed. He was being tailed. Someone knew he was here, and he had to go now.

Rhys slipped out the back door onto a side alley, darting behind buildings and into crevices as he wound his way through the labyrinthine city. He could hear voices behind him, words of command to search, but Rhys forced himself to remain calm. He ducked into a narrow alleyway, pressing his back against the wall as two guards jogged by. Rhys’s head was spinning. How had be been so stupid? It was not even a particularly well laid trap, it was a trap laid by someone who knew Rhys’ weaknesses, wo knew that he would be dumb enough to come racing after his uncle like the hero he was. A logical person would have never fallen for something so transparent, but Rhys had not been logical. It was so sick Rhys wanted to scream. Taking a few breaths to calm himself, Rhys pushed off from the wall and peered around the corner. There were no guards in sight. Rhys would have moved, but before he could even take another breath a cold metal knife was on his throat, and before Rhys had time to register what was happening, much less fight back, a bag was pulled over his head, his arms tied behind his back, and his body stripped of weapons. It was not the work of one man but many, and Rhys felt ashamed he’d be so easily taken by surprise. The shame was worse than the fear.

Rhys was pushed to walk quickly, one silent man on each arm guiding him along. He heard sounds of the city as they went, but they were muffled, and the lack of gasps and whispers made him fairly confident they were not taking any main routes. Their walk seemed to go on forever, enough time for Rhys to dwell on his idiocy. He’d fallen so perfectly into the trap, going so far as to isolate himself from his family and come in secret, so that not only was he captured, but no one knew where he was, a fact he was certain his captors would keep under wraps for as long as possible. There were darker thoughts, far more morbid, suffocating truths that bubbled up inside, but he refused to acknowledge them. Not yet. He couldn’t.

After some time his feet met steps and a musty coolness that he knew far too well. After a few minutes and the slamming of many very heavy doors, the bag was finally released from Rhys’ head. He was in some sort of prison, a very dark, very cold stone hell, with halls just as labyrinthine as the city streets. From the silence Rhys knew he was either the only prisoner in these stone walls, or any others were very silent. Rhys’ captors did not speak to him, only grunted occasionally, pulling at his arms to lead him one direction or the other. After enough twists and turns through halls that all blurred into one, Rhys did not know if he was simply in the largest abandoned prison he’d ever seen, or if the guards were taking him on a wild goose chase to only confuse him. Either way, their method worked, for when they finally stopped outside a small, dank cell with no light source but from the faint glow of the torch-lit halls and no source of fresh air, Rhys was completely disoriented. He was thrown into the cell head first, landing with a smack on the ground, getting his knees under him fast enough to avoid cracking his head on the stone, given that his arms were still bound. The bars were locked behind him instantly, not that Rhys made any attempt at escape. He was not a fool - he knew when his odds were against him.

The guards left him as soon as he was locked, and Rhys moved to the back of the cell, sitting with his back against the cold wall. He heard movement nearby and low voices, as well as the opening and closing of another cell. Rhys had been so certain he was alone, given that he’d seen no other occupied cells. He heard footsteps on the stone floors once more, and then the guards were back, this time with a prisoner in tow. The moment Rhys saw the prisoner’s face his heart sunk. Kieran, dressed in fine clothes and looking undamaged, stopped in his tracks as he saw Rhys. Rhys’ eyes were pleading with his uncle, wishing more than anything for him to go, to see no more of Rhys’ shame. Kieran’s face fell slack, his eyes full of sorrow as he pressed them tightly closed, letting out a sigh. When he opened them the guards tugged on his arms, pulling him away, but Rhys knew better than to think Kieran was being taken away so as not to see Rhys. He’d been brought there purposely, to taunt Rhys, to show him just how far into the trap he’d fallen. Rhys felt defeat take over, numbing all of his senses. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

What had he done?

[Mollianne]

Long after Lady Darr had been taken from the room, Jessa continued to stare at the door. Her thoughts were wild, a confusing blur of shock that Lady Magrethe was behind the assassination, fear that people she had trusted and liked might have also been involved, betrayal, and terrifying, bottomless anger. It was a fury she had only ever felt towards the king. The anger was for the Janes’, but also for herself, for the fact that they might have duped her. She had believed their loyalty to the crown. She hoped it was not true, and indeed Larend, his sisters and his father may not have been involved. The arrest warrant was only for Lady Magrethe. If it was true, she had fooled them all, pretending to be a frail, sick woman who kept herself from society. A woman like that could have few friends, let alone a following willing to commit treason and kill the king in her name.

Had Alrick been mistaken? Jessa turned to look at the king, who was now sitting in Sophia’s vacant chair, his shoulders hunched and his energy withered now that there was nothing he could do immediately to avenge his son. Jessa frowned as the king lifted his head to look at her, his gaze burning. Sophia had only been magically coerced into telling her story, but she not actually said the name of her leader. Except – she had. Yes, she had. It was silly that the king could have learned the name without her speaking it. Jessa just had not been listening. She had been too focused on screams – screams she had imagined in her desire to hurt one of the people involved in Harris’ death. But really, Sophia Darr was a disloyal, selfish woman who had jumped at the chance of giving up her leader to save herself.

The dank grey room began to sway. Jessa bent forwards and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She remained like that as she said, “If Lady Darr could so easily betray her, why would Lady Janes have trusted her?”

“Arrogance. Trust had no part in this. She thought they would get away with this.”

“It was a mess. We discovered Lady Darr too easily.” Jessa was not complaining, of course. It was just too strange. “They would have had contingency plans. Wouldn’t they have hired someone – a professional, or at least someone who would not tie so easily back to Lady Janes?”

“Lady Darr is a professional, Jessa. She told us so. My men will find out the names of the other people she has slaughtered.” He stood up, and for the first time Jessa saw something other than his anger. His shoulders drooped, and for just a second, he looked an entirely broken man. By the time Jessa had blinked the expression was gone as if it had never been. “It was simply arrogance. Either they believed everyone who knew wanted the same thing, but one of them remembered a conscience and leaked information, or they just weren’t careful enough. But it’s all arrogance in the end.”

He pulled open the door for Jessa. She stood, but did not leave. “We have the Janes to question.”

“I do. You will leave.” Alrick nodded his head the door. Jessa hesitated, but then she suddenly realised how tired she was, and how the king would do much better on his own. She nodded, and was halfway out of the door when the king said, “You will not talk to anyone of the events of the past few days. Understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jessa said, bowing her head in acquiescence.

***

Jessa awoke to the castle servants whispering in the hallways. Usually, the morning would be filled with the sounds of work: maids rushing past her door with piles of laundry, the valets and handmaidens carrying trays of the family’s breakfasts and accidentally clanging the spoons on the mugs as they went past, the head servants barking orders to their underlings. The relative silence hit Jessa like a tonne of bricks. She curled up into herself, her heart heavy, and wished the last two days had been a dream. She wished she could even pretend that Harris would come knocking on her door, wanting to read more with her. But she couldn’t. The castle would not let her.

She knew she could not hide away from the world forever, yet still Jessa lingered. The longer she stayed, thinking about everything and nothing all at once, the more her head began to protest. It started as a sharp jab of pain, and became a constant throb. She shifted in her bed in discomfort, willing it away, but it came back stronger until she cried out. She clawed at her sheets, muttering for the pain to stop, for everything to go away and for it to just end.

Suddenly she lurched forward, smacking her head against the wall, although she barely felt the collision compared to the wildfire within. Flashes of memory and fiction came next: Harris’ face, white and dead; Sophia, writhing in agony and begging her to stop; Maira, telling her it wasn’t her fault when Jessa knew it was; Rhys, Laurita and Odaren lying dead at her feet; Magrethe, telling her the world would soon be a better place; and the king, watching her, always watching, until the pain went away and her thoughts became clear.

Jessa found herself on the floor, and did not know how she could have got there. She tried to think, remembering that she had woken up to silence and that she had not been able to face the day. But then, nothing. There was a vague feeling of something, a pain that would not go away. It had to be the hole in her heart, the one that could never be healed. Harris.

She had to see him. She stood and came face to face with some servants. Her door was open and they were staring at her as if she had grown an extra head. Jessa watched them warily. Without saying anything, without apologising for intruding unnecessarily, they all scurried away. Jessa decided she did not care, and shook off the servants’ strangeness. Instead, she dressed and hurried to Harris’ room.

Jessa pushed open the door to find an overwhelming hush. Light bathed the room, giving it an ethereal glow that contrasted with the dark, cavernous hallways outside. Jessa stepped in further, feeling like she was intruding on the stillness. Edmund lay on a sofa, sleeping fitfully, his cheeks stained with tears. He still wore his ceremonial clothes from Alrick’s address. The prince looked as if he had been torn in half, separated forever from the twin he had spent most of his life overlooking. But he, too, was just a boy, impatient and unable to understand his brother’s passions and so he had done the only thing he had known how. And now, they would never have the chance to know one another. Jessa turned away.

She peered into the bedroom, but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Catrice and Elissa. They held hands over Harris’ body as if they needed each other to stay in this world. Catrice was murmuring something, an apology to her son. Elissa was silent but for her tears. Jessa swallowed, knowing she would not be welcome, and turned to leave. She did not move fast enough and Elissa saw her. “GET OUT!” she screamed into the silence, causing her mother to turn. “MURDERER. GET OUT!”

Elissa picked something off Harris’ table, and Jessa only had half a second’s warning to begin pulling the door closed before the princess threw it across the room. It shattered against the wood, and Jessa flinched. She heard footsteps, and someone crying heavily as they stepped on pieces of broken glass. Jessa did not linger. She ran out of the room, ignoring Edmund who had been woken up and watched her blearily as she left. She ran until she was out of breath, and found herself in the castle entrance hall.

Larend was there. He sat on one of the benches lining the walls, his head in his hands. Jessa tried to sneak past, but her breathing was too loud from her run and her footsteps echoed in the vast arched room, and Larend looked up.

“Jessa,” he breathed. Jessa kept walking, bowing her head. She could not see him, not then. Perhaps not ever.

But then something made her stop. She kept her head down, focusing on the rise and falls of her chest. Jessa had no idea why, but part of her wanted to hear what he had to say.

“Please,” Larend said, his quiet voice resonating like a thousand spirits begging her to wait and listen. Jessa turned around and lifted her head. She did not move closer, even though they were half a room away from each other. Jessa folded her arms across her chest.

“What do you want, Larend? Why are you here?”

“I’m waiting for my sisters.”

Jessa clenched her jaw and pressed her hands so tightly against her ribs she began to ache. “You’ve already been questioned?”

Larend nodded. “I don’t know anything, Jessa.”

She exhaled sharply, a humourless laugh that made Larend wince. “How can you not have known what your own mother was? Not even the tiniest clue? Nothing?” Her voice rose as she spoke, and she did not care as Larend’s face crumpled before her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She was sick so much and kept to her room. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.”

Jessa swallowed. She could hear the feeling of betrayal in Larend’s voice. His pain did not compare to the pain his mother had caused, but Jessa’s heart softened, just a little. She believed him, but largely only because he had already been interrogated and she knew the king would be thorough. She took a single step closer.

“It’s just little things,” he was saying, “Little things she said that I didn’t even think about but now seem to have some completely different meaning…”

“Has she been questioned yet?” Jessa’s words were emotionless. Jessa hoped she had not missed Magrethe’s interrogation. She wanted to look in the eyes of the woman that had ordered her killed, was responsible for the Harris’ death, and ask why. It would never be enough, but she needed to hear it.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Then why are you so sure she’s guilty?”

Larend said nothing. He looked away, staring instead at the dark flagstones beneath his feet. Jessa pressed on. “You said she never showed any signs of working against the throne. Yet you believe her capable of trying to assassinate the king. Surely she must have given some indication that she hated him enough to do that. And what about me? Why did she want me killed? If her goal was to rule Etrene, I’m not standing in her way.”

She turned away, leaving Larend standing there alone in the dark hall. He could not answer her questions, not really. There was only one person who could. Jessa headed outside to the palace prison. She would wait all day if she had to, but she was not going to miss Magrethe Janes’ interrogation for anything.

And so she waited, sitting on the floor in front of the door. She ignored Larend’s sisters as they each entered and left the interrogation room, although thankfully neither of them tried to talk to her. Larend’s father was brought in halfway through the afternoon, and still Jessa had not moved. She was numb, obsessed, but it was easier than thinking. She had done enough of that, and every time she tried her thoughts roiled until she felt she would be sick. It was easier to simply stare and the door and wait.

By the time Lord Janes was escorted out of the room, the hallway was in darkness. The king appeared, looking haggard and nothing like the proud, immovable king he usually was. He noticed Jessa only when he nearly tripped over her. He demanded, “What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“I am handling this, Jessa. Not you. Go back to the castle. That’s an order.”

“I have as much right to be in that interrogation with her as you do.” She looked up at him. It was the first time she had moved in hours, and her neck was stiff and ached. “You can keep me away from the rest, but not from this. You let me sit in for Sophia Darr’s.”

The king was silent for a long time. After a while, Jessa felt the sudden need to apologise. She did not know why. Alrick was wrong. She kept silent, fighting the urge within her – wherever it came from – and eventually Alrick sighed in annoyance. “Fine. We’ll be starting in half an hour, but it won’t be for long tonight.”

“I’ll wait.”

When the woman finally appeared, arms held by two guards at her side, Jessa could barely contain the urge to scream at her. Magrethe had the gall to look confused, walking weakly as if her illness – if it was even real – would earn her sympathy despite her unforgivable crimes. Her gaze locked with Jessa’s, and although she tried to plead with her, Jessa was unmoved. The woman was led into the interrogation room, and Jessa watched from the corridor as her hands were bolted to the table. The guards stepped back, standing to attention at the corners of the room behind the prisoner. Jessa, hearing the king approach, went into the room. The king swept in behind her, and the door was closed with a resounding bang. Although Jessa sat, Alrick did not. Instead, he began to pace.

Magrethe coughed, but that was the only sound in the room for what seemed like hours. Then, finally, Alrick said, “Your friend has been hanged. And her servant.”

“My friend, Your Majesty?” Magrethe looked confused. Jessa hated her more. She was the best actress Jessa had ever seen. But an actress she was. Jessa had only needed to look into her eyes once to see her guilt, even though it was carefully hidden. Jessa just knew.

“Lady Sophia Darr. Your assassin.”

“Assassin?”

“Don’t-” Jessa began, but the king spoke over her and Jessa fell silent.

“Would you say you and the late Lady Sophia were friends, Lady Janes?” Alrick stopped moving, turning to face the table. His gaze did not waver from Magrethe’s face, but she just looked back at him in confusion. She glanced at Jessa, and Jessa heard Alrick make a sound of frustration behind her.

“I barely knew her,” she said, clasping her hands together, which had to be uncomfortable due to the shackles around her wrists.

“Funny then, that she swears it was you who recruited her to your cause, who urged her to commit treason, who gave her the orders to attempt to assassinate your king.” The king was behind Jessa now, his shadow falling over her and the table.

Lady Magrethe shook her hair, her forehead knotting in confusion. She lifted her hand as if to rub it across her brow but it slammed against the metal shackle instead. Jessa saw her inhale heavily. “I don’t understand…”

“Don’t test me!” Alrick punctuated his words by slamming his fists on the table. The room reverberated with his ire. Jessa tried not to show her fear, instead focusing on her own anger. The king glared at Magrethe, and she stared right back. It was not a defiant look, or indignant. Magrethe looked for all the world like a woman wrongly accused. Jessa refused to let her win. She was guilty. She was. Alrick exhaled out of his nose. “You were seen leaving only a few minutes into my address. Why?”

“My illness,” Magrethe said. “I thought I would be okay, but I had one of my dizzy spells.”

“This is a regular thing?” the king asked. Magrethe nodded. Alrick looked to the guards, gesturing for one of them to come forwards. “Can you verify this? Has the prisoner suffered any signs of illness since her arrest?”

“Aye, Your Majesty. One two hours ago, and another four hours before that. Looked very ill, she did.” Then it may well have been true. But Magrethe did not need to prove where she had been on the day of the address. Both the king and Jessa knew well that Magrethe had not attempted the assassination herself. She was just the one pulling the strings.

The interrogation continued in much the same vein for the next hour. Alrick posed questions of her, none of them important to Jessa, but necessary to gauge Magrethe’s situation. It was clear Alrick could not crack her. Her answers were perfect – perfectly reasonably, perfectly crafted, perfectly perfect. Jessa could see Alrick’s resolve wavering, until he eventually waved the guards forward to take her away for the night.

“No!” Jessa shouted, standing up. The guards hesitated, looking to their king for guidance. Jessa did not wait for Alrick to stop her. She leaned across the desk, balling her hands into fists and practically yelling, “Why do you want me dead?”

“You?”

“Why did you want me dead so much that you would risk Har...” She breathed heavily. “WHY?”

She felt arms come around her, pulling away. She struggled, but whoever was holding her was far stronger than she, and Jessa was taken from the room. Tears streamed down Jessa’s face, and she kicked at the king. He did not put her down until they were outside the prison, and even then he blocked the door to prevent her going inside. Jessa fell to the floor, not caring about the cold snow on her legs. “She killed him. She killed him. She killed him.” Jessa covered her face with her hands. “She killed him.” She sat there until Alrick called a guard to escort her back to her room. And when she got there, she cried herself to sleep.

The next few days were quiet. Jessa did not dare return to the interrogation room, both because she knew she could not handle it and because she doubted she would be allowed inside anyway. Instead, she heard about the proceedings second hand. They were getting nowhere. Magrethe would not speak, and gave no indication that she was responsible for collapsing the du Renes’ entire world. Jessa despised her, and though they never spoke of it, she knew the rest of the family did, too.

Jessa had spent all of her time, whenever Catrice or Elissa were absent, reading Harris’ book at his bedside. She had been determined to finish it until he was moved to the castle chapel the day before his funeral, when select members of the nobility would be able to see him and pay their respects. The family had decided on a private funeral, and Jessa was also not invited. She had cried when she heard, but had not had the strength to argue. Catrice would not have her there, and a part of Jessa did not think she deserved to be there either. Harris’ death was still in large part her fault. So, although it hurt to be shut out, Jessa decided to relish the remaining time she would have at Harris’ side.

The day of the funeral, Jessa stayed in her room, whispering her own eulogy. She spoke until her words ran dry and she could say no more. And then she remembered, pushing the wildness inside her head that had been present since Sophia Darr’s interrogation. She remembered every last detail about her brother, both from the last time she had seen him, inside his coffin in the chapel, and from when he was alive. She was scared at the prospect of forgetting. How could she forget? She couldn’t, so she committed everything to memory. Even in her dreams that night, it was all about Harris. She would never forget.

She awoke late the next day, exhausted. She did not think she had any emotions left within her. She simply sat on her bed, staring at the wall. Someone knocked on her door. Dully, she called them in. They handed her a short letter, written in the king’s hand, then bowed and left. Jessa picked the letter up off the tray, barely caring what it said. It would just be another repetition of his previous missives about Magrethe. She almost did not even bother reading it.

When she did finally unfold the paper, her gaze caught on a single name. She blinked, her blood going cold. No. She blinked again, but the name refused to change. Her heart pounding against her ribcage, her head heavy and throbbing, Jessa forced herself to read the entire letter, not believing it. It was some kind of cruel joke, she told herself, over and over because her brain would not listen to her. Her fingers gripped the edges, crumpling them, and her breaths came so fast she nearly started to choke. Her vision blurred. “No,” she breathed.

Jessa ran, leaving the letter on the bed behind her.

[Rosabeth]

ANJA

It had been eight days and no one had heard from Rhys, and the family was beginning to panic. It was no uncommon for Rhys to disappear for a day or two, falling asleep at Victor’s or Ero’s after a long night out, but never had he gone without contact for more than three days, especially under such circumstances. By the third day Anja had sought out Victor and Selene, but both denied knowing anything about his wherebouts. On the fifth day Ero and Freya appeared, having been in hiding with Ero’s father for several days, both oblivious to Rhys’ disappearance. Mother and father sent out scouts, all of which came back unsuccessful. For someone to escape completely unnoticed was unheard of, but if anyone could sneak past the Marinon’s surveillance, it was a Marinon.

“Do you think it’s the Lanis’ are behind it?” Anja asked for what was probably the tenth time. She sat at a table with her father, poking at a plate of cheese with a knife.

He sighed without even looking up from his papers. “We’ve been over this before. I’ve had people look into it multiple times. No one saw Rhys with them, and they’re not the type to hide that sort of information. If they had him, we’d know it.”

“Well, it’s the only thing that even makes sense.” Anja was growing frustrated. Some days it felt like she was the only one who gave a damn about Rhys’ absense, the only one who spent her days questioning everyone she knew, scouting out places she knew he liked to frequent. Everyone else was too drawn into the Lanis’ and their daily threats, the growing conflict between groups, the stalemate that left the city divided and under constant pressure. It wasn’t that Anja didn’t care about that, but rather that she cared more about Rhys.

“He’ll turn up, Anja. Maybe he needed to get away for a while, I don’t know. He can be reckless, you know that.”

Anja couldn’t take it. She brought her knife down into the wooden table, the wood splitting a few inches in both directions in a clean line. Her father only looked mildly surprised. “Yeah, he can be reckless, and that’s why we should be worried? What if he went off on some stupid revenge quest? Why am I the only one who’s conserned with the fact that Rhys, who’s never been gone for more than a few days, has suddenly gone missing for over a week without so much as a note? It’s not like him and you know it, you just refuse to accept that you let your own son slip through you little net. Do you want this to be another Dima? Do you even care?”

She’d overstepped her boundaries and she knew it, but Anja couldn’t bring herself to stop. Finally her father looked up from his work with a piercing stare, his jaw tight and his lips drawn thin. Anja refused to look away, locking onto his gaze with her own stony expression. “You think I’m not worried?” His words were slow and careful, his voice obviously holding something back. “You think that after losing a child and then having another disappear only a day later doesn’t hurt? I’m hurting, Anja, I really am. But some of us can’t afford to show it. We have to deal with the issue on hand before we can let our emotions get the best of us.”

Anja could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her blood boiled. “Rhys IS the issue on hand. What ever happened to our loyalty? Family above all else?”

“Anja!” Her father’s tone was now a warning. He stood from his seat, palms flat on the table. Anja mirrored his position. She refused to stand down. “When something turns up we will put all our efforts into locating your brother, but as of now we have nothing. I don’t know how he slipped away but he did, and for now we just have to accept that.”

“Fine.” Anja yanked her knife out of the table, turning on her heels and storming from the woods. If her father wouldn’t do anything then she’d have to take matters into her own hands. “But if Rhys ends up dead I will never forgive you.”

Anja slammed the door on her way out, leaning back against the shut double doors and letting out a drawn out sigh in frustration. When she looked up therer were a few passers by and a small group of women talking in the corner, all now staring at her. “What are you looking at?” Anja hissed, she bolted up, staring the women down until they looked away and scattered. She shoved her knife into its sheath and stormed out of the hall, looking for anywhere private. Living in the courthouse was growing tiresome. Anja had never been one to enjoy close quarters, and being cooped up with so many timid, fearful little nobles who could barely handle themselves without a handful of servants was testing her last nerve. All she wanted was to go home. But she didn’t have home anymore, not really. It would take some time before the damage to the lower floor could be repaired. Until then, she was just as much of a vagabond as the rest, and if there was one thing she hated above all else it was being helpless.

Walking into the open air was refreshing, but there was still no ridding herself of all the others. Was there to be no place of solitude in the entire courthouse? Of course not, Anja knew, but that did not mean she couldn’t complain. The courtyard in the middle of the building was often empty due to the wealthy’s general adversion to all things less than comfortable, and Anja had made it her one escape over the past few days. Today, however, three other women joined her. Anja groaned as the tallest and oldest of them turned at her entrance. Even dressed in all black with a lace veil wrapped around her head, Anja couldn’t, unfortunately, forget a face like that.

“Anja,” Selene said quietly, nodding her head. Anja didn’t bother giving any pleasant acknowledgement back. This wasn’t their usual exchange. Ususally Selene looke about as pleased to see Anja as Anja was to see her, and even if the woman irked her to no end, Anja had to respect Selene’s unwavering confidence. Among so many cowards who all but pissed themselves if Anja gave them a dirty look, she had to admire some courage, even if she’d never admit it. But this, this passive, almost fearful look was not like Selene.

“What, no telling off? No snide remarks?” Anja sunk onto a bench, leaning back on her arms. “I’m hurt.”

“I’m really not in the mood,” Selene mumbled, turning back to her sisters. The girls had appeared just the other day after having been missing since the night Selene’s parents were murdered. Anja remembered that night well, for she’d watched their reunion with jealousy. She certainly did not envy the loss of Selene’s parents, but she envied every moment of those girls running into Selene’s arms, hugging her, crying with her, sharing her pain. It only made Anja think of Dima, and even thinking of him made her insides twist and her breath stop. The pain was too intense still. She didn’t know if it would ever go away.

Anja watched the girls play with their sister for some time, their laughter feeling out of place in light of everything. She envied them of their innocence, of their ability to feel happiness in spite of darkness. Anja had trouble feeling happiness even in the best of times, and in her current state happiness felt like a pinprick of light at the end of tunnel that had no ending. Selene laughed along with her sisters, but Anja heard the hollowness in the sound. It was no more than a farse, though an impressive one at that. Eventually Selene could no longer ignore Anja’s presence, and Anja caugh her taking wary glances Anja’s way more than once. After what was the fifth prolongued glance, as if she was weighing some important decision, Selene ordered her sisters back inside. Left alone in the courtyard, Selene began to approach.

“If you think you’re not in the mood -”

“I have something I need to tell you. About Rhys.”

Anja’s breath stopped. She stared Selene down with suspicion. “Didn’t you tell me you didn’t know anything about him when I asked you five days ago?”

“I lied.”

If looks could kill Selene would have dropped dead on the spot. Anja didn’t even bother restraining herself as she jumped to her feet and shoved Selene back in rage. “YOU WHAT? YOU LIED TO ME ABOUT RHYS?”

“I had a good reason,” Selene pleaded, her voice cracking. “You have to understand.”

“You better have a really fucking good reason,” Anja seethed. With anger so thick it felt like it clouded her vision, Anja had to grab onto the collar of Selene’s dress just to keep herself from doing something worse.

Selene let out a deep sigh, collecting herself. Anja had never seen her more unnerved, more guilty looking, and it only made Anja’s patience worse. “The night everything happened Rhys warned me about what the Lanis’ might do. I went home to get my sisters, but when I arrived there was someone else there with them. I walked in to see them all gagged and bound, several men and women guarding them with knives to their throats. They were the King’s men, I’m sure of it. They gave me a warrant for Kieran’s arrest, a warrant with the King’s signature and seal and everything. I was told…”

Anja gripped Selene’s dress more tightly, her hand wavering on her dagger. “Go on.”

Selene didn’t even look afraid, only shamed. “I was told to give it to Rhys, to make sure he ‘made the right choice.”

“And what was the right choice?” Anja forced herself to say the words. She already knew the answer, her hands beginning to shake as she realized how Rhys would interpret such a thing, but she wanted the confession. She wanted the confession so she could cast the blame.

“I had to make sure Rhys would go to Ovis to try to save his uncle. The King wants him there. It’s a lure, I just had to push him into it.”

Anja slapped Selene so hard her own hand throbbed in pain. She felt nothing but rage, and the only benefit of the rage was that it was so all encompassing that it washed away her pain with ease. “How could you do this?” Her words were a choked out, half-screamed mess, a sound that itself was so frightening it almost scared herself. “You loved him. You loved him and you betrayed him, you worthless, cowardly -”

“I made a choice!” Selene held one hand to the angry red mark on her cheek, her eyes alight with a similar rage to Anja’s. She was no longer cowering, no longer consumed in guilt. She was furious. “I made a choice and I chose my family! Do you know what they were going to do if I refused? They would have killed all three of my sisters in front of me. That was a choice I couldn’t make.”

“So you chose to kill Rhys instead?”

“Yes! Yes, I chose to sacrifice my best friend, the only man I’ve ever loved, for my sisters. And don’t act so high and mighty because I know you would have done the exact same thing. I love Rhys, but these are my sisters. These are innocent little girls and they’re my family. I would die for those girls, I would kill for them too. And don’t think that if anything happens to Rhys that I won’t feel guilty about it every day for the rest of my life, but guilt I can live with. I could not live with myself if I let my sisters die.”

It took all the restraint Anja had to not kill Selene right there on the spot, for in her rage, her fear, she needed some sort of release. She pushed her hands out and shoved Selene away with no small force, turning her back as she began to feel tears well in her eyes. Rhys was going to die. If he’d walked into a trap there was no way he’d be able to escape, not alone in a city brimming with spies and soldiers for the king. There was no doubt in her mind that Rhys had been captured, the only thing she could hold onto now was the possibility that he still had his life. That was something tangible, something Anja could cling to, and cling she did. If Rhys was alive she would find him. If her brother was alive she would get him out. There was no plan B.

***

RHYS

When Rhys awoke he could not tell if it was day or night, not that it mattered much anymore. With no natural lighting in the cell Rhys’ days and nights blended into one never ending time stream. And with no meaning to time, there was no need for measurements. Rhys lost the ability go grasp even the feeling of a minute, much less an hour or a day or even a week, within the first few hours. With no light, with no time, with nothing to do but stare into the darkness, there was no meaning to life. If this was to be his fate Rhys would rather take an arrow to the head. At least with death there was no consciousness. Consciousness without time was not living, it was torture. Rhys could think of no physical pain that could be worse than this psychological hell.

With nothing else to do, Rhys took to sleeping as his main form of enteratinment. Sleeping offered an escape from these bars, and even with a dreamless sleep Rhys was blissfully unaware of what awaited him upon waking. Yet the problem with sleeping was that when he woke he had no idea for how long he’d been asleep, and thus he lost all hold on time within hours of being put into the cell. For all he knew he’d been there for days, or perhaps no more than a few hours. Not knowing was it’s own brand of torture.

The King had not even been kind enough to give him a bed roll, and as such Rhys’ joints ached upon waking, the cold stone floors wreaking havoc on his body. His only reprieve from total agony was that he’d not been stripped of any of his clothes, giving him at least warm boots and a thick cloak to provide some protection from the freezing cell. His two amenities were an empty pot, for which Rhys could think of only one practical use, and a small basin of water. At least they were not planning on dehydrating him to death, though it did seem that, at least for now, starvation was on the menu.

It was in one of Rhys’ brief periods of wakefulness, sitting up against the wall and watching the torch across the way flicker in the darkness, that Rhys heard voices. They were not worried voices, not tinged with the insanity he felt licking at his own mind, so he knew immediately they were not from fellow prisoners, were there any out there at all. The voices moved and grew louder, coming Rhys’ way, with footsteps to match. Rhys listened carefully to the patterns, trying to guess how many were on their way. Four perhaps, maybe five? When the steps grew louder and faces and bodies were put to the voices, Rhys was almost disappointed to see six instead of five, and more disappointed to see the face of the sixth.

“Hello, Rhys.”

King Alrick did not sound in the least bit like he was enjoying this, though Rhys knew he must be. His voice was perfectly calm, no hint of gloating, and there was even a tiny hint of boredom. Rhys wondered if he should feel insulted.

“Don’t you think ‘Lord Rhys’ is a more appropriate form of address?” Several of the guards looked at each other in surprise that Rhys would dare speak to the king so informally, but to Rhys his snark was his only amusement of the day. Besides, he was fairly certain the time for ass kissing was up. He would address his captor however he wished - it wasn’t like it was going to save him anyway.

Alrick did not seem amused, but neither did he seem offended. “I’d heard you were this way.”

“I hope I’m living up to expectations.”

“I really don’t think we have any reason for formalities. You’re in prison, so we obviously know who has the upper hand here, and we both know why you’re here so I really don’t think there’s reason for me to lie to you about motivations.” Alrick talked so calmly, in such a business-like manner that they could have been discussing the prices of the silk trade. His composure was almost infuriating. At least if he was gloating Rhys could jest. Here, he could only play along.

“The warrant, I’m assuming, was a fake?” Rhys asked, trying to mimic Alrick’s uninterested tone.

“No, actually, it was quite real. We had suspicions of conspiracy. Of course, we weren’t too worried, but it was too good of a ploy to lure you in that we couldn’t let it pass. I had no idea he’d be actually involved in a crime, even if indirectly. That was simply a happy accident.”

Rhys scoffed. “Your son’s death was a happy accident.”

Alrick’s expression changed so abruptly it took even Rhys off guard. The king obviously regretted his slip of tongue, but more than that Rhys saw a hint of hatred that Rhys even dare mention it. “Of course not,” he hissed. An uncomfortable silence followed while Alrick composed himself, clearing his throat to break it. “None of that is relevant to this.”

“My uncle?” Rhys knew it was not what Alrick wanted to hear, but Rhys didn’t care. If he’d made it this far for Kieran he’d at least know what was going on. “Is he alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” Alrick said with a shrug. Held until more information regarding the assassination attempt comes to light, of course, but his purpose surrounding you has been fufilled.”

Rhys had no interest in these games, in these lies and politics. All he wanted was the truth, for someone to answer his questions and treat him like a rational adult who could handle the truth. “What do you want me here for?”

“It is well reported that during your marriage to Jessa -”

“We’re still married.” Alrick stared at him unamused, but Rhys continued. “There’s been no annulment. We’re still married.”

“Regardless,” Alrick’s tone had a bit more edge, but Rhys took anything aside from stony faced apathy to be an improvement. “During your time with Jessa it is well reported that you physically and mentally abused her.” Rhys could hardly stand hearing such words, but he knew when an act was required. He continued to stare back without reaction. “What I want is some clarification, some truth from your lips.”

“A confession?” Rhys asked dubiously. “Let’s be honest with ourselves here, it’s not like you cared at all whether or not I did hurt her. You were the one who essentially sold her to me expecting me to kill her. In fact, seeing as she’s not dead this could be seen as a disservice on my part.” Rhys knew he was treading dangerous territory but he didn’t care. “So how about we stop pretending any of this is about your bastard child? Why don’t we just acknowledge the fact that this is because you hate me, because you want to punish me and kill me. We’re both adults here, Alrick. Let’s not play games.”

Suddenly Rhys felt a tingling in his head. It wasn’t a pain so much as a discomfort. He furrowed his brow, pressing on hand to his head.

“Tell me about the nature of your relationship with Jessa.” Alrick’s question was straight and to the point, his eyes hard as he stared Rhys down. Yet, somehow it was not so straightforward. The tingle in Rhys’ head grew more intense, becoming a throbbing pain, growing with intensity each moment. Alrick’s expression grew more concentrated, even bordering on angry. Rhys felt something inside his head, like someone was reaching in and trying to grab something specific. Rhys could feel himself thinking of all sorts of things, jumbled memories all racing to the forefront of his mind at once, creating a mash of gibberish that only made his head hurt worse. The probing in his head grew more intense, and then a pain unlike any other hit, and then Rhys felt as if his skull was cracking in two. He screamed, holding his hands to his head and crumpling into a ball on the floor. It was like fire consuming him, ripping him apart. And then, as soon as it began, it stopped. Rhys gasped for air like a fish out of water, his cheeks wet from tears he did not know had been spilled. When he looked up at Alrick, his vision blurry and his head aching, he saw the king staring at him in what could only be described as disbelief. Anger, even. Alrick said no more about Jessa. Instead he took his hands off the bars and stood up straight, locking eyes with Rhys with a cold, unforgiving glare.

“I hope you enjoy your solitude, Lord Rhys.”

In a moment he was gone, and Rhys was left with nothing but questions and agony.

[Mollianne]

The frigid fingers of the wind tangled in her hair and its teeth bit at her cheeks, but Jessa did not care. If anything, she relished the cold; it reminded her that, despite the dullness inside her, she was not actually dead. She stood still against the battering force, staring at the dark castle looming over the middle of the city. Rhys was in there. Finding that he was in Ovis – finally close again – should have been cause to rejoice, but Alrick had poisoned it. He had Rhys. Jessa could not let Alrick keep him – not Rhys, not the person who meant more to her than anything.

She longed to be there now, but she kept her feet planted on the ground. After reading Alrick’s missive, Jessa had been halfway to the prison before she had realised that, not only did she not know whether Rhys was even held there, but that rushing in thoughtlessly would only get them both killed. Jessa did not care for herself, not if it meant Rhys would be okay, but she needed the best chance she could muster to save him. And that meant they needed to be alive. She needed to have some kind of plan. So, instead, she had turned on her heel, fetched her cloak and a horse, and rode as far from the castle as she could until the temptation to return had waned. She stood now by the cliffs in the east of the city, and after an hour she knew what she had to do. Knowing was not the same as succeeding, however, and Jessa did not know if she had it in her to do this. So she remained, repeating the words over and over as if doing so could make her believe her own lies.

She hated the Marinons. She hated Rhys. She would not react to the news of his capture in front of Alrick. If she saw him, she would be cold and distant, and unless she had to she would not speak or look at him, because Rhys had ruined her life. She would hate him to save him. And Rhys would be okay.

Eventually, Jessa turned away from the castle, unable to look at its imposing and controlling façade. Instead, she watched the sea in all its wildness and freedom. She wished that she and Rhys could be part of it. She shook her head. No, she could not think of her and Rhys as together in any regard. They were separate – not friends, not lovers. They were nothing together.

Could she really do this? Could she really look at Alrick and lie about her feelings when her heart was breaking for Rhys, trapped and alone, at Alrick’s mercy? At least her true thoughts about Rhys would be hidden from him by the spell on her mind. It would be dangerous to think of it, for any small expression might arouse Alrick’s suspicion, but at least he could not read it from her mind.

Jessa’s heart shuddered in her chest? Had he read it from Rhys’? They had not given him the same protection from Alrick’s magic – he was never meant to come into contact with the king. She looked over her shoulder, not even wanting to think the worst. Rhys could already be dead, and every moment she stayed here gave Alrick longer to learn the truth. She had to go, ready or not.

Decision made, Jessa climbed down the cliff path to the horse she had tethered to a post at the bottom. She stroked its face, thanking it for bringing her here despite the cold, and promised her warmth and comfort when they returned to the castle. She nickered at her, and was clearly impatient to return. With a final stroke, Jessa mounted the horse and began navigating it through the streets, which had been swept of the snow which had recently fallen.

Half an hour later, Jessa fed the horse some treats in the castle stables before handing her over to the stable boy. The boy gave her a disapproving glare upon seeing how cold the horse was, but Jessa did not have it in her to care as much as she usually would. The last week had weighed too heavily on her heart, and she had nothing left to give. She paused outside the stable door, staring at the door into the castle. She steeled herself, pushing all her thoughts and emotions deep inside of her, and hoped it would be enough.

As she did not know where Alrick might be found, she asked the first servant she saw, and when he did not know, the next, and then the next. Finally, she learned that he was in the interrogation room, part of the way through the sixth day of interrogating Magrethe Janes. Jessa asked when he might be done, but the servant did not know. Jessa considered heading to the prison herself, but she did not know if she could face it if she saw Rhys while she was there. She needed to gauge Alrick’s position first. Seeing Rhys now would just crumble the resolve she realised in that moment was too fragile. Instead she went to her room.

The letter was still on her bed. She felt tears pricking at her eyes but forced herself to move. She picked up the letter, and without glancing at it put it on the grate. Lighting the fire, she watched the paper curl and burn. Jessa did not know how long she watched the flames, but all she knew was that when there was a knock on the door, her cheeks were wet with tears. Jessa swallowed, and rubbed her face until it was red and raw.

“Come in,” she said. A servant entered, bowing low. He took in her face, the tear-stained cheeks, but showed no sympathy. Jessa could only hope he would take her appearance for grief over Harris, as much as it hurt her to use his death as an excuse.

“His Majesty has requested your presence in the west wing.”

The west wing. The west wing was the abandoned part of the castle where Jessa had stood up to Alrick about Odaren. It was isolated and dark. Did Alrick know? Would Jessa be walking to her death, without even the slightest chance of rescuing Rhys? She did not know, but it would achieve nothing not to find out. She followed the servant, repeating her mantra from the cliffs. It had to be enough.

She was led down a long, twisting corridor. At the end was a stone door, which might have just looked like part of the wall if it was not opened, and in the doorway stood the king. Behind him, it was dark. She had no idea where it might lead. The servant stopped halfway down the last stretch, bowed and left Jessa to walk the remaining way to Alrick on her own. The silence was unsettling, as was the blackness that awaited her.

She considered greeting him formally, but quickly decided against it. If Alrick was already suspicious of her, acting abnormally would not help her cause. Instead, Jessa stopped a few steps away from him, and waited for him to speak. She looked up at him, into his hateful face, and hoped the venom within her did not show.

“I trust you heard the good news.”

“Yes,” Jessa said shortly.

“Would you like to look into the face of the man who abused you, Jessa? To see him behind bars and defeated?” Although it did not show in his voice, Jessa could tell he was positively gleeful. Finally, after all these years, he had a Marinon in his reach. How had he done it? What could possibly have brought Rhys here?

“Yes.” Jessa swallowed, looking tentatively past Alrick into the gloom. Jessa doubted Rhys had any comfort in such a dark, dreadful place. She could not even bring herself to think what such isolation must be doing to him. The only silver lining, slight though it was, was that he could not already be dead. Neither had he killed her; Alrick might not know the truth. Unless he wanted to kill one of them in front of the other. Jessa clenched her hands behind her back.

“Come.” Alrick turned, and headed down the steps. Jessa followed hesitantly, holding a hand out on the rough stone wall to guide her. Guards waited for them at the bottom of the stairs, and as a group they began walking through the labyrinthine hallways of the old, abandoned dungeons. They passed empty cell after empty cell, with only their footsteps and the sound of water dripping somewhere far away to break up the monotony. Each turn they made had Jessa’s heart in her throat, wondering whether the next corridor would reveal Rhys to her. She was in a constant state of worry and fear.

The king finally stopped, though the guards continued into the corridor. Jessa could not see past, but she already knew what she would find. Jessa’s heart leapt into her throat, elated at hearing that beloved voice, defiant if subdued, even though it was tempered by Rhys’ dreadful predicament.

“Back already?” Rhys asked. “Can’t you keep away?”

Alrick did not deign to answer. He stayed in the doorway, blocking Jessa from Rhys and Rhys from Jessa. The silence dragged on and on, as if Rhys and Alrick were in some sort of stand-off, waiting for the other the crack first. Jessa wanted to push Alrick out of the way, to see Rhys, but she resisted. She was not supposed to be eager to see him.

“It really would be so much easier for you, Rhys, if you did not act so much like… you.”

“We both know you have no intention of making things easier, whatever I do. Do we really have to go through this charade again? Cut the crap.”

“Tell me about Jessa.” There was no inflection to Alrick’s words. Jessa swallowed, fear rising in her gut. She knew Alrick did not actually care about her, that he was doing this to test her and Rhys.

“She’s your bastard. I’m sure you know more about her than I do.” Jessa could not help it – she flinched at his words. It hurt, hearing Rhys talk so dismissively and terribly of her. At the same time, she knew he had to say it. He was playing a role, in the same way that she was. She was sure she would have to say something cruel to Rhys before this was over. She needed to hear him say this. It meant she was not alone. If he could say this about her, she could say it about him.

Instead of responding, Alrick simply moved out of the way. And then she saw him.

He was standing, but his hunched shoulders showed that it was immensely painful for him to do so. He looked haggard and tired, his hair limp. But his eyes held defiance as he watched the king move further into the room. He had not noticed Jessa. She was not sure if she wanted him to see her. It would be easier for him if she left so that he never had to see her standing with Alrick on the other side of his cell, pretending to be against him.

But then, for a reason unknown to her, he glanced back at the doorway and saw her. Their gazes locked, and Jessa fought to keep her emotions down. She had not known how hard it would be, to look into those eyes again. Jessa felt as if she was stuck in time, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare into Rhys’ eyes and feel the impassable gulf between them. Jessa had no idea what Rhys was thinking from his face. He was a far better actor than she could ever hope to be.

Eventually, he looked away.

“Do you have anything to say to her?” Alrick asked, holding out his hand for Jessa to come into the room. She moved woodenly, and had barely made a few steps across the room before she could go no further. She stopped, swallowing hard, and let only the fear she felt – the fear for Rhys’ safety, but that Alrick could interpret as fear for being in the same room as her abuser – show on her face. “The girl who was so scared for her life that she ran away from her own husband?”

Rhys stared at the king impassively, tilting his chin upwards in a clear show of insubordination. Jessa could not even tell if her presence had shaken him. Part of her hoped it had, so that she was not the only one.

“Nothing?” He turned to Jessa. “Do you have anything you want to say to him?”

Jessa shook her head, looking down at her feet. Her mind was blank. She did not trust herself to speak. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Jessa. Look at him, locked up like an animal. He can’t do anything.”

She looked up. She looked into Rhys’ eyes, and almost thought she saw him nod, telling her to do this, that she needed to do this. “I’m glad Jasrah fell,” she whispered. “I’m glad you had to watch as it was taken from you, like you took my life from me. I’m glad you’re-” She stopped, unable to go that far, even if she perhaps should. She swallowed hard, dropping her gaze. “I hope you die in here.”

“Oh, he will, Jessa. But not yet.” Jessa looked up to see a small, sinister smile on Alrick’s face. It was gone after a few seconds, replaced by the stony expression he had worn before.

“If you refuse to talk about Jessa, for now, let’s discuss Novamor.” Alrick stared at Rhys, and Jessa felt a prickling in her mind, telling her not to think too much about why Rhys was beginning to wince and hold his head, and focus instead on the fact that he was in pain, and how she wanted him to be in pain. Jessa watched Rhys, unflinching, as he suddenly cried out and dropped to the floor. This was what she wanted. The prickling told her so.

No, she did not. Feeling sick, Jessa realised what had happened. She turned away from Rhys, his screams piercing and shattering her heart. She looked over at the king, whose gaze was fixated on Rhys, his eyes glinting with power and magic. He did not notice her as she leaned heavily against the wall and gripped the stones protruding from it. The rough edge sliced into her, drawing blood, but all she could hear was Rhys’ screams filling the air. She gasped, wanting to scream for Alrick to stop. Jessa’s fingers turned white as she forced herself to stay where she was instead of killing Alrick right there, right then.

And then it stopped. All she could hear was Rhys breathing heavily. She did not dare look at him, instead focusing on the king. He looked frustrated, and Jessa felt a shiver of triumph. Somehow, he had not learned what he wanted. But then she felt dread, because how had Rhys concealed it? And what would Alrick do instead to find out what he wanted?

“Come, Jessa,” Alrick said, surprising her. They were just… leaving. She did not want to go; she could not leave Rhys there, on the floor, shaking after Alrick had tortured him. Rhys. She wanted to run to him, but knowing that she could not she stayed where she was. Alrick did not realise she was not following him until Rhys’ voice stopped him and he turned around.

“Miriyam and Johannes send their regards.” Rhys was looking straight at Alrick, pushing himself on shaking arms to a sitting position. “Although… They’ll probably say it themselves soon enough.”

Jessa had no idea what was going on, but Alrick clearly did. His face had turned white. His eyes narrowed, becoming little more than black slits. He moved back into the room, then turned that terrifying gaze on Jessa. Jessa withered under the stare, the small satisfaction she had felt from the reaction Rhys had garnered turning to dust. This… this was not going to end well.

“Jessa,” Alrick said smoothly, rage bubbling underneath his veneer of calm, “I don’t think our friend has had enough just yet. What do you think?”

Jessa did not know what she thought. Her head felt suddenly clear, all her worries and fear dissipating into smoke. She felt herself nod, and then she walked forwards. She was right in front of Rhys’ cell, and she held the bars and looked down at Rhys. He looked pathetic, and Jessa realised her king was right. He could not hurt her, but she could hurt him.

And she wanted it.

Her gaze locked with Rhys, and she watched his confusion with glee. She felt her magic spit, pouring out of her as if it was out of her control. It flooded towards Rhys, flinging him backwards into the wall and pinning him against the stones. She heard the cell door click open, and she walked through it. Jessa was in front of Rhys in two strides. Unbidden, she said, “You can’t touch me anymore.”

Rhys screamed, as she tore into his mind. She ripped his mind apart, and watched as his face contorted in agony. He could not move, could not cower. He was hers, entirely, as she had once been his plaything.

No. That was not right. The thought was far away, hidden from the burning need to make Rhys scream, but Jessa faltered. And then there was a knife in her hand. She idly noted that it was the same one Alrick had used on Odaren, and wondered how it had come into her possession, and then she cut down Rhys’ arm. She watched the blood stream out of him, landing on her and on the floor. She cut him again and again, until his arms were in shreds.

Then the knife was gone, and Rhys’ wounds with it. But to Jessa that was normal. She focused again on his mind, no longer hearing the screams for the hidden voice was screeching at her now, begging her to stop, trying to reason with her. She did not want to do this. She loved Rhys. She would rather die that hurt him. Jessa screamed, stumbling away from Rhys and collapsing to the floor. Her vision darkened, and she lay there, crumpled on the floor, alone and filled with horror. Her entire body shook, as she realised what she had done. The emptiness in her mind left her, the voice telling her what to do. The one who had taken over her mind and made her torture the person she loved. She wanted death, but it did not come.

What had she done?

[Rosabeth]

The moment the connection broke Rhys was free from his pain, though the memory of it lingered, leaving him breathless. He lie crumpled on the floor, the cold stone pressed against his cheek as he stared blankly ahead. The pain had all started so quickly, and he’d hardly known what was happening as the fire ripped through his body, only realizing as it began that it was not Alrick doing the torturing, but Jessa. Rhys’ eyes eventually found Jessa, her image mirror his as she lay in a ball on the floor staring back at him, only the bars of his prison cell between them. He could the tears in her red eyes, staining her cheeks as she shook. It was his only chance to look upon her, to see the face he had so longed to see, and it was full of pain.

“Jessa,” Alrick called abruptly, visibly angered by Jessa’s lack of rage, by her tears and regret. He nodded to the guards when Jessa did not move, and she was pulled to her feet without a fight, looking too numb to even speak. Her mouth opened slightly, as if to cry or speak Rhys couldn’t tell, and her lips trembled for a moment before closing. She looked away from Rhys finally in shame. Rhys wanted to yell out to her, to tell her he did not blame her for what she could not control, to assure her that Alrick’s manipulations were entirely on him, but he knew he couldn’t. Even if he could, he knew she would not believe him. Jessa held onto guilt as readily as others passed it onto others. Jessa would not recover from this for a long time, and Rhys dreaded the feeling that this would not be the last occurrence.

Jessa was physically taken from the hall first, dragged on by the two guards. It was Alrick who lingered back, glaring down at Rhys’ weak and broken form on the ground. He looked as if he wanted to say something, to lash out and break his perfect composure, but he only stared in contempt. If Rhys had not mentioned the Lanis’ this might have never happened. Still, even with the pain, Rhys couldn’t help but feel that that brief moment in which he’d stricken Alrick’s world was worth the punishment.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” Rhys managed to breath out, his words no more than scratches.

“I will,” Alrick replied, his voice calm but his fits in balls, his jaw tensed. Rhys knew he’d gotten under Alrick’s skin, and he relished in it. It was his only relief.

“No, you won’t,” said Rhys, closing his eyes from exhaustion. “My family would destroy you, you know that. Unlike the botched assassination attempt on your life, my family doesn’t make mistakes.”

Rhys could not see Alrick’s face, but from the lack of immediate response he could only guess the man was not pleased. At first he thought perhaps Alrick had left Rhys to his sleep, but then he heard his voice. “Where is your family now, Rhys? Are they here?” As soon as the words were spoken Rhys heard footsteps, and when he opened his eyes once more he was alone.

Time passed and Rhys did not move from his spot, the cold floor beginning to make his face numb in a strangely pleasant way. The longer he laid the less he felt, and all he wanted was to forget, to escape everything. For so many months he’d anxiously awaited his reunion with Jessa, and now it had gone and passed, a mockery of everything they’d attempted to accomplish. Together yet separated by the bars of a prison, one of them condemned to die and the other condemned to a life of hell. What sort of life was Jessa now subjugated to, thanks to Rhys’ one moment of rash feeling? What sort of hell was awaiting Rhys? They’d seperated in the effort of helping build a better world, and where were they now? Rhys’ city was a battlefield of a perverted revolution started in the name of revenge. Jessa was the prisoner to her father. It seemed as if all their work had been for nothing, that they’d wasted what might have been the last months of Rhys’ life apart.

Though Rhys’ words to Alrick had been confident, he knew better than to believe his own threats. If he was to die his family would certainly do their best to take down the king, and Rhys knew they would likely succeed, but it would not be in the right way. And Rhys knew that even if Rhys’ threat worried the king in any way, it was useless in the end. In just the past day the amount of magic torture inflicted on Rhys was to him no different than a few drops of poison slipped into his drink. Just as surely as arsenic would kill a man, this magic would kill him. He did not know how long it might take, or if the magic outright would do him in rather than self-inflicted wounds brought on by the delirious after effects, but somehow it would end him. His only hope was escape, and Rhys was not fool enough to expect that in time. Rhys had accepted his fate. He only wished it would come sooner before Jessa could be its cause.

That night Rhys woke up from his sleep with a throbbing headache and drenched in sweat. Sweat poured off his brow and he wiped it clean with his sleeve, finding it thicker than expected. He glanced down at his sleeve and realized that it was not sweat at all, but blood. Rhys held his breath, moving his hand to the spot on his head that throbbed the worse, he skin stinging beneath his fingers. He winced in pain, bringing his hand down. His fingers which had only lightly touched the area were coated with blood, and as the blood trickled down his neck and back, he began to see it staining his shirt. A small pool of it laid where his head had been moments before and as he touched his cheek he felt the sticky substance coating his skin. His mind was a blur and the throbbing did not help his scour his memories. He could remember nothing that would have led to this, nothing but the long sleep he’d been enjoying until the pain had woken him. Through squinted eyes he scanned the cell in the dim light. At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary, and then, splattered on the back wall like a painting, was his own blood, all running from one sharp rock that protruded from the wall.

It only took a moment to put together the pieces. It seemed that his suicide attempts were evolving, that they could now happen without his knowledge. If his mind was so taken, so warped by the magic that he could now self-harm in his sleep, Rhys doubted he had much time left. Rhys’ mind was at it’s breaking point. It wanted him dead, and alone in a cell, Rhys doubted he could fight off the inevitable much longer.

***

ANJA

“Rhys is in Ovis.”

The words were out of Anja’s mouth before the door even shut behind her. She was breathless, having wasted no time in coming back to her father’s private study. Her mother now stood behind her father, her hands on his shoulders as she looked at the documents on the table. At Anja’s words her mother’s head immediately snapped up, her eyes wide and focused. Her father was slower to respond, but slowly he lifted his head and looked at Anja expectantly.

“I think he’s been captured by the King. He was lured there as a trap, baited with a false warrant for Uncle Kieran’s arrest. I can’t know for sure, but he’s probably already been caught.”

Anja’s mother let out a small whimpering noise, putting her hand to her mouth and closing her eyes, leaning heavily on the chair. Even her father couldn’t hide his frustrations as he sighed deeply, massaging his temple with his fingers. “There is a time and place to be noble. How is it that he never seems to know when that is?”

“Why didn’t he come to me first?” Anja’s mother bemoaned, throwing one hand up in frustration. “I could have checked with Kieran; we have so many resources in Ovis. Why would he be so stupid?”

“Because he knew you’d never let him go.”

“Of course not!” Her mother exclaimed. Her hand came down hard on the table, papers rustling from the shock. Anja’s father’s hand was there quickly, sliding over his wife’s and squeezing. She looked down at him with frustration, and in some silent communication they seemed to convey some understanding with nothing but their eyes. “We have many people in Ovis who we could use to help Kieran even if the threat were real. Why would he go?” She needed not ask the question, for as they all looked at one another there was a mutual understanding. “Dima.”

Anja knew her request would be denied before she asked it, but she would ask anyway. Not for permission - permission she did not require - but as warning. She would do what Rhys hadn’t done, what he should have done. “I want to go to Ovis. I want to help Rhys.”

“Absolutely not.” To Anja’s surprise, it was her father who spoke. “Like your mother said, we have plenty of contacts in Ovis, inside the castle and out. We will not endanger you for your brother’s mistakes.”

“I wasn’t asking permission.” Anja stared her father down, unflinching. She was no child. She did not fear him or his words. She would do as she wished. Her father began an angry retort but she would not hear it, cutting off his words before he had barely started. “I know Rhys better than any of those men in Ovis. I know how he thinks, how he’d act, what he wants. If anyone can help him it’s me.”

“What if this is just what Alrick wants? To lure in as many of us as possible? You’d be walking right into his trap,” her mother pointed out.

“I know Ovis better than Rhys. I’m the one who went there with father multiple times a year for business trades. I know all our contacts, all the best places to hide, all those who can be trusted and who can’t. I would not walk blindly in with no plan. I know what I’m doing!” Anja grew more frustrated, more insistent. She was not asking for permission. “I am not a child. I am 22 years old. I am old enough to marry, to have children, to own property, and I am old enough to make my own decisions. Just because Dima died does not mean you get to dictate my decisions out of fear. This is my choice, not yours, and I am choosing Rhys.”

Anja expected some form of backlash, some telling off for bringing Dima up in a time like this, but instead she was met with only silence. Though taken off guard she refused to show it, instead staring down her mother and father with a new found resolve. “You can either support my decision or you can not, but either way I will be gone by nightfall.”

With heads bowed towards one another, speaking in hushed yet fervent tones, her mother and father discussed, leaving Anja impatient and in the dark. Without warning her father stood up from his chair and walked from the room, refusing to meet Anja’s eyes as he passed her, his response in the form of the slamming of the door. Anja refused to let it shake her. She kept her expression defiant and determined, turning to her mother. To her surprise, there was no anger there, only reluctant acceptance.

“You’ve always been strong-willed,” Anja’s mother smiled, coming to Anja’s side and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I think as your mother I would know from experience that trying to stop you is like trying to stop a storm.” Anja dared not respond, unsure if this was some sort of clever trick by the woman that had taught her all she knew about putting on a pleasant face with a lie. Yet she continued to speak, and Anja realized the words were not lies. “I’ll arrange safe passage for you to Ovis, and...let that be a secret between you and me. If your father asks you ran away.”

Anja could hardly believe what she was hearing. All through her childhood it had been her father standing up for her, allowing her privileges where her mother put a stern foot down. Her expression must have giving her thoughts away, for her mother smiled knowingly. “Let me deal with your father. At the end of the day he knows who’s in charge. I have my ways of influence.” Anja thought she even saw a small smirk, and Anja couldn’t help but smirk back.

Something came over Anja in that moment, and the next thing she knew her arms were around her mother, holding her in a warm embrace. No one was more surprised by the gesture than her mother, for Anja could feel her body tense at first in surprise, and then quickly relax as Anja was enveloped by a tight hug, one hand stroking her hair. Anja had never been the physically affectionate type, or really the affectionate type at all, but in the moment it somehow felt necessary. When she pulled back she knew she was not mistaken when she saw tears in her mother’s eyes.

As night came Anja dressed herself accordingly. At Dima’s funeral she’d salvaged some of her clothes from the wreckage of her room, clothes that reeked of smoke but took no damage. Her favorite riding pants and boots were among those, both black and the boots of the finest leather. Her top was more complicated, as her disguise was that of a man, not a woman. Using a sturdy cloth she bound her breasts painfully tightly, thankful they were small enough to go nearly completely flat when bound. She wore a black men’s tunic over the top tucked into her trousers, and her long dark hair she wound into a tight bun that could be tucked neatly into a cap. When she looked at herself in a mirror, taking in her full image, it was not too poor of a disguise. Her narrow hips and lack of her mother’s more dramatic proportions made the disguise far more believable. Though her sharp nose and cheekbones gave her face a hard edge, her soft jaw and large eyes and lips detracted from it, but it was nothing that couldn’t be hid by simply keeping her head down and avoiding anyone staring for too long. From a distance she could easily pass as a rather short boy. That was good enough for her.

Her passage was to be by way of boat, her mother having left her detailed instructions of who she was to see along with a fully packed sack of supplies. Anja crept through the night, taking the long route around the main square. When she arrived at the docks there was already a small fishing boat waiting for her, the fisherman smoking a pipe to pass the time. He recognized her immediately but said nothing, only grunting as acknowledgement. Anja climbed carefully into the boat and sat her things on her lap, waiting patiently as the fisherman untied the boat from the dock. Two of the Lanis’ lap dog guards patrolled the docks, but two midnight fisherman were nothing of consequence to them. All ships leaving and entering here heavily monitored and inspected for stowaways, but a row boat to them was as dangerous as a kitten. They escaped easily, though the upshore ride took some time. Several miles up the coast, well hidden behind cliffs, a ship awaited her. Once aboard the ship it would be only two days until she reached Ovis, and from there it was all up to her. Rhys’ life was in her hands now, and she did not intend to let it slip through the cracks.

[Mollianne]

Death would be a relief, but Jessa knew she did not deserve to feel nothing. However, it did not stop her staring at the swords behind Alrick’s desk, wondering as her gaze followed the sharp edge of the blades whether Alrick would kill her when he arrived. The guards had said nothing when they brought her to Alrick’s study. They had simply stuffed her into the chair and left the room. She had not even tried to move. She was too numb. Whenever she was not contemplating how Alrick would punish her, she replayed her torture of Rhys over and over in her mind. She remembered the rush of power, that she had enjoyed it. She had enjoyed one of the things that she hated so much she had never even considered inflicting such pain on another person. And it had not been just another person – it had been Rhys. Why?

Because he hurt you. The thought was fleeting and foreign, and Jessa shook her head. Her memories told a different story. She remembered his touch on her skin, the smell of his hair as she lay beside him, words of comfort whispered into her ear, his tight but caring embrace. Those things were not lies. Rhys had not hurt her. But she had hurt him. Her head was too fuzzy to remember why. Only the actual act – cutting him and hearing his screams – were clear to her. Jessa put her head in her hands as she felt her temples begin to tingle, then ache. She hissed in pain, but it was the least she deserved.

Alrick still had not returned. She feared what he might be doing to Rhys at that moment. Her breathing quickened as she saw Rhys’ face, contorted in agony, with Alrick standing over him. He shook her head, trying to dispel the image, but instead she became Alrick. Jessa squeezed her eyes shut. Rhys would survive this. He would. He had to survive. This could not be their end. Rhys would be okay. He might never want to see her again after what she had done, but he would live. Jessa vowed then to do anything to help Rhys escape.

Would she kill Alrick for him? Her gaze drifted again to the swords, and she realised that she would. But not then. She had no plan for escaping the castle by herself, let alone with someone who would be weak and exhausted like Rhys. She swallowed, pushing aside thoughts of Rhys’ state. But no, she could not strike now. She had to wait, which meant she had to stay in the castle. She had to convince Alrick that whatever he wanted of her was true. Jessa had to do it – for Rhys. It did not matter to her that this would not even remotely make up for what she had done to him; she still wanted to do it. It did not matter that she would probably not survive the endeavour. Only Rhys mattered.

The door slammed shut. Jessa flinched, but did not turn around. Alrick lingered behind her, and for a moment Jessa was sure he was going to kill her. She heard the ominous click, click, click of his shoes as he drew closer to her. And then he skirted around and went to stand behind the chair on the other side of the desk. His hands rested on the dark wood frame. He stared at Jessa, who looked away after a few seconds. His expression, hard and cold like the one he had worn for most of Rhys’ interrogation, only reminded her of what had transpired that evening. With it came another wave of guilt, bitter and strong in her throat as though she would be sick.

“Why did you cry for your abuser?” Alrick was unforgiving. She felt an itching sensation in her mind, and she wanted to answer him. But there were too many conflicting thoughts inside her, and she did not know which one was true nor which one she should say.

“I didn’t,” she said, although Jessa was sure she had paused for too long. She glanced at Alrick. His expression was unreadable, but his offensive stance – standing tall to intimidate her, fists clenching – told her that he did not believe her. Jessa wanted to drop her gaze, but she forced herself to look him in the eyes and keep her posture open. To stop her fingers from fidgeting, she placed them on the desk.

“Tell me why you cried for him.”

“I didn’t. I cried for myself.”

“Yourself.” His voice was low and dangerous. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, and did not want to fall into the same trap of talking too much as she had when she had learned of Dima’s death. She had nearly lost everything, then. And now there was so much more at stake. Jessa nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“Torture is wrong. I don’t care that it was Rhys Marinon. I care that I was the one doing it.”

“So why did you?”

Jessa stared at him. Anger rose up inside her as, for one startling moment, it became exactly clear why. Alrick had taken over her mind. He had used her, and now he dared to ask why she had done it. She wanted to ask him the same thing: why would he use her when he could have hurt Rhys much more effectively by himself? The only thing she could think of was to belittle Rhys, showing him how far he had fallen by using the girl he had supposedly hurt to torture him. Of course, it did not make Jessa any less culpable. She could have fought against his magic harder. But she was weak, and that weakness had cost Rhys.

“I…”

“Rhys essentially tortured you for months. You think he does not deserve this?”

“I don’t want to be like him!” Jessa sprang up from her chair, knocking it over. One of the legs smacked her in the shin but she was too riled and guilt-ridden to care. Alrick looked livid. She wanted to scream at him that Rhys did not deserve any of this, and had to bite her cheeks to stop herself. She hated these lies, but she had to do it. For Rhys, she reminded herself. “I can’t be like him. That’s why.” Tears clutched at her throat and she could not go on. She breathed heavily, her gaze still locked with Alrick’s. This approach was not going to work. Emotion had not worked with Maira when she had learned about Dima, and it would certainly not work with Rhys. She needed something else. When she felt like she could speak without crying, she said, “Leaving him in solitude is a better way to break him than with physical pain. So leave him alone for a few days, wondering what might happen to him, wondering when you’ll be there next and why you haven’t already been back. But the Marinon family know pain well, and he’s prepared for it.”

Jessa despised herself for speaking so clinically, especially when the suggestion would cause Rhys more suffering, but it was better than speaking with her heart. She needed something to distract Alrick from her actions, and it had to sound like she did want Rhys to hurt. And although she was not sure he believed her, she could tell in the way his chin lifted that he was considering her suggestion. “Three days. I will call for you when we will visit again.” He nodded brusquely, dismissing her. She turned, and as she walked away he said, the words turning her cold, “Next time, you will not cry.”

Next time. Jessa’s legs almost gave out, but she forced herself to walk. Somehow, she managed to get to her room before she collapsed on the bed. She hugged her knees to her chest and cried, the tears staining her dress. She cried for the hell to which Rhys was currently subjected, and for the days of loneliness she had now forced on him. Was she only making things worse? She hated this, and she hated herself. She cried harder, burrowing her face into the folds of her now wet dress.

This was all her fault. If she had not pressed Rhys to do something about the king, he would not be somewhere below her feet at that very moment, starved, tortured and alone. If she had not been so determined to do the right thing, she would not be making all the wrong decisions now. She wished she could take it all back. Let Novamor fight this battle. She had hardly helped by being here anyway. The only thing she had done for the war effort was tell Rhys that Barichean forces were arriving to join the Etrenians, and she had no idea if that news had reached the front lines before the Baricheans. Really, though, all her presence in Ovis had done was hurt the person she loved.

Jessa sighed shakily, then slid off the bed and went to the desk. She needed Laurita. They had not spoken since the night she broke Odaren out of prison. Jessa had wanted to give the siblings time together, and she had been too torn by grief to want to talk to anyone. But now, Jessa needed her friend. The note was short, but once it was written she realised she had no idea where she should send it. Or how.

She went in search of one of the servants she knew to be loyal to the Marinons. She was in the kitchens, beads of sweat rolling down her face from the hot ovens around them. Jessa approached her silently, keeping her head high as if she belonged there. She walked straight past the kitchen maid, dropping the letter and some instructions beside the woman’s hand. Then, she headed for the pantry, stole some bread, and left. She bit into the bread as she walked, but it was dry and tasted like water. Jessa just had no appetite for food. Her stomach churned uncomfortably as she realised that Rhys had no choice on whether or not he wanted to eat, and there she was, dismissing a meal. She forced the bread into her mouth, chewing it the rest of the way to her room. Then she lay down on her bed, and waited for a sleep that would not come.

Jessa had not slept all night, so she was surprised when she opened her eyes and felt disoriented. The light coming through her window was the colour of apricots. She had slept all day. Jessa sat up, rubbing her face. The grogginess made her head spin, and she simply sat for a moment, tangled in her sheets and waiting for the world to right itself.

She saw the note pushed under her door at the same time as the knock came at the door. Jessa shuffled over, picking up the piece of paper. It was from Laurita. Jessa could not bring herself to smile, but she was a little uplifted as she opened the door and was engulfed in her friend’s embrace. Laurita squeezed her until Jessa could not breathe. When she released her, Laurita pushed Jessa over to the bed while she kicked the door closed. Jessa already had the necklace in her hand by the time Laurita came over, and Laurita took it to the fireplace as usual before sitting down next to Jessa.

Laurita began without preamble. “Rhys is here?”

Jessa nodded. She had wanted to speak, but no words would come. Laurita took her hands and gripped them. Her nails dug into Jessa’s skin. “When?”

“A couple of days, I think. I don’t know. I don’t know how long he was there before Alrick told me…”

“Oh, Jessa.” Laurita pulled her into a hug, but this time, Jessa resisted. She shook her head vehemently. Laurita’s expression changed from one of sympathy to one of confusion. “What is it?”

“I-” Jessa floundered. She looked away from Laurita. She could not bear to see the moment Laurita began to hate her. Laurita was the first friend she had made on her own without connections to another acquaintance or family member. It was a mistake to want her here. Jessa slipped her hands out of Laurita’s grip as she whispered, “I tortured him.”

She could feel Laurita staring at her, burning her neck. She withered under that stare. For the longest time – too long – Laurita was silent. Then, “No, you didn’t.”

“I had a knife, Laurita. There was so much blood.”

“No. This was Alrick.”

“I let him.”

“No, Jessa!” Laurita stood up, grabbing Jessa by the shoulders and shaking her. “No, stop. This is not your fault. You did not let him. He’s a powerful mage, Jessa. The mind is his forte, and you only recently learned you even had magic. Even if you had known it for years, this would not be your fault. This-” Laurita stopped suddenly, as if she realised her words were futile. Jessa had let Laurita shake her without complaint, and now sat hunched over and nearly in tears. She heard Laurita sigh, and then she was enveloped in another bone-crushing hug. “Alrick did this.”

“I need to get Rhys out,” Jessa breathed into Laurita’s hair. “He can’t… But he’s so well-guarded.”

“I’ve done it.”

Jessa shook her head. Although they had both decided that Jessa should never know exactly how Laurita had managed to escape with Odaren, Jessa knew this was not the same. It would not be as easy. “He’s not in the prison. He’s under the castle. It might be possible to get past the guards to see him, but with him? I don’t know. The hallways down there are a maze, and I’d be too busy worrying whether he was okay to follow the right path. And then the guards would find us.”

“Then first, just see if you can get to him.” Laurita’s voice was calm, reasoned. Did she not see how that was impossible? Jessa stared at her. “What?” Laurita asked. “Why not? I can pretend to be you and wear that stupid necklace.”

“I can’t.”

“Why-”

“I can’t!” Jessa bowed her head, breathing through her nose. She instantly regretted her momentary anger. She felt the bed sink as Laurita sat beside her again. The woman rested her chin on Jessa’s shoulder and her forehead just touched Jessa’s cheek.

“You can, Jessa. And you want to. If you don’t try, you will regret it. And Rhys will want to see you, too. He may have hidden it well, but it hurt him to be separated from you. If you have the opportunity, you need to take it.”

“He won’t want to see me,” Jessa said.

Laurita sighed heavily. “I have never met someone so stubborn or so sure of their own guilt in my life. Do you know he won’t want to see you? Have you asked him? Or have you just made that decision for him, Jessa, because you don’t want to face him? Don’t put your fear on him, Jessa. You want to see him. He will want to see you. So try.”

Instead of having the desired effect of making her run off to see Rhys, Jessa only felt more guilty. She was selfish, hiding away from Rhys for fear of what he might say. But whatever he said she would deserve, and she needed to give him the chance to say it. Yet, she still did not move.

“Jessa?” At Laurita’s words, Jessa blinked. She found herself holding the box Rhys had sent her. The box used to sit in Rhys’ room, which she remembered despite having spent very little time there. Her fingers traced the floral pattern engraved around the edges. Inside was Alrick’s knife and blood ring. She had forgotten all about it, and it had remained hidden in the space between her mattress and bedframe since she had received it. Rhys had asked her to get Alrick’s blood, but she had no idea how to do that without Alrick realising her deception. He would want to know how it had come to be in her possession. Rhys could use it, but Jessa doubted the guards had left him with any weapons, which would lead Alrick to the conclusion that someone had given it to him since being in prison.

But Rhys was sneakier than her. And if he had no weapons, then he could use something that could potentially be used in defence. And they did need to know what was in those papers – it was the last missive Rhys had sent her, so he considered it important. He would want Alrick’s blood in their possession. And even if Rhys could not take the knife and ring himself, he might be able to think of a plan that Jessa could carry out.

Jessa felt disgusted with herself for even thinking about this when Rhys was in danger. But Rhys thought it was important. And Laurita was right – Jessa did want, so very much, to see Rhys without Alrick present. Maybe he would hate her, maybe he would want her gone, but it really wasn’t her decision to make.

“How will I get past the guards?”

Laurita squeezed her shoulder, telling her she had made the right decision even if Laurita did not know why. “You have magic, don’t you?”

“I don’t know how to use it very well. I’ve read books, but I haven’t really put much of it into practice.”

“Have you read how to alter people’s perception so they don’t notice you? Surely that’s something you’d want to know, given why you’re here.” Jessa nodded. Laurita waited as Jessa fetched the book of magic she had hidden. When she returned, they both leafed through it until Laurita pointed a finger at one of the pages. “There.”

It was the same one as the spell Jessa had practised a few times. She had had very limited success, but she had not been trying too hard. And Jessa’s magic seemed to have a way of working if Jessa willed it badly enough. She ought not trust in that, but it was a start. “Let’s practice.”

They tried for hours. Laurita linked their magic with the explanation that Jessa would be able to feel what Laurita did and then could recreate it for herself. After all, subterfuge was Laurita’s speciality. Jessa knew Laurita would not rest until Jessa could do it successfully. Each hour, Laurita was unable to find Jessa for half a second longer. By the time Laurita collapsed onto the bed, Jessa could hold the spell for a little under five seconds. As long as she was quick, and the guards were not positioned along long straight corridors, it would be just about enough. It would have to be, for Jessa was straining too hard to manage any longer.

“I should change your appearance,” Laurita finally said.

Jessa shook her head. “Not my face. Rhys deserves to see me as myself, not someone else.”

Laurita nodded, biting her lip. “I’ll make it so that, at first glance, you could pass for a guard. Clothes are a little harder to manipulate than flesh, but I can do it. I just normally choose not to. But we don’t really have a choice unless you have a guard’s uniform lying around.” Jessa shook her head. “Okay. It’ll take around twenty minutes.”

They stood in front of the mirror. Jessa stared at their reflection as her body changed, becoming less feminine, though Laurita added no weight or muscle to Jessa’s form. She grew in height, and her hair became a dusty brown, short in the style of Alrick’s guards. She looked strange, with her normal face on this new body, but there was little else they could do. The dress changed slowly, becoming red trousers which felt too tight on Jessa’s legs, used as she was to airy skirts. She looked up, watching the top of her dress become a military jacket.

“Is that okay?” Laurita asked, taking a step back. Jessa shook her head, pointing out a few flaws in the design compared to the guards’ attire she had seen in the dungeon. It felt nice to be focused on such a menial task. Although Jessa’s worries and fears were not gone by any means, they were stifled now that Jessa was not blinded by inaction. She was finally doing something to keep busy.

Jessa hugged Laurita when she was finished. Laurita pulled back and handed her a cloth, advising her not to breathe it in. Jessa recognised what it was; she had used it before, when she had sneaked into Alrick’s private chambers. Laurita said, “Just in case.”

Jessa nodded and pocketed it. Then she frowned. “How do I get in in the first place? The door will be shut, and it looked heavy. I won’t be able to get past in five seconds. The corridor’s too long for a start…” Jessa trailed off as her hand brushed against the cloth. The maps she had copied from Alrick’s – they showed secret entrances. There was a high chance Alrick would already know of it, but he would not think others to know its location. If it existed, it would be less heavily guarded. Jessa ran to her drawings, sifting through them until she pulled out the correct one. She had no idea where it would lead, for the map had not shown the dungeons – presumably Alrick had removed them for his own personal gain – but there were two other entrances to the dungeons. From the floor above, one was not too far from the main entrance, which would likely mean she would be able to get to the main corridor more easily. She looked at Laurita for advice, pointing at the opening in question, and Laurita nodded.

“Thank you,” Jessa whispered, and then hurried from the room before she could see Laurita change into herself. Given the late hour – nearly midnight – it was doubtful that anyone would visit Jessa. And if they did, Jessa would have to hope that Laurita could manage it. Jessa pushed that from her mind as she neared the entrance to the dungeons, knowing all her attention would need to be on the task at hand.

Jessa peered around the corridor. A lone guard stood by the wall. He looked disgruntled, and considering Jessa could not see any entrance herself, she imagined that was because he had no idea why he was guarding an empty corridor. Given his despondency, it was surprisingly easy to creep up on him and put the cloth over his nose before he could realise. She wished she did not have to, knowing the guard would probably report his sleepiness to Alrick – unless he believed it was his own fault and did not want Alrick to punish him – but she needed him asleep to find the entrance. It was going to take more than a few seconds.

She felt her hand across the rough stone, her fingers dipping into grooves and cuts. She found nothing unusual across the entirety of the back wall. She retrieved the guard’s light from his side where she had placed it. Although it had illuminated the wall where it was, she needed a brighter light. She shone it at the wall, but the shadows did not fall in any strange pattern. Finally, she noticed a slightly darker patch of stone in one corner. She brought the light closer. It was a dark, crusting red-brown. Dried blood. Jessa got the dagger out of the box and pressed it against her finger. She hoped the du Rene blood inside her would be enough, if that was even what it required. This castle was built by the du Renes, centuries before, after all.

Her suspicion was proved correctly. She wiped as much of the fresh blood off the wall as she could, and fervently hoped no one would realise, even if the guard did tell his story, that someone had got through the secret door. If they did, the suspect pool would basically whittle down to her. Perhaps Jessa should have given it more thought, but instead she checked that the other side of the door had a similar discolouration, returned the candle to the guard, and hurried on.

There were no guards in the first few corridors, but Jessa had expected that. She was quickly becoming lost, and growing frustrated that she did not recognise any of the corridors from the first and last time she had been there. This was a foolish plan, hasty and likely to result in Jessa’s arrest, but given everything that had happened she was barely thinking straight. At the sight of the first guard, after an uncountable amount of time, Jessa nearly sighed in relief. She was nearly on the right path, at least. She slipped past the guard easily enough, and only had to hope she was going the right way.

More time passed, and Jessa fell into the rhythm of walking, using her magic, and running past. The appearance of the guards did not change in frequency, telling her she was still on the right path, and she felt sure that if she had gone the wrong way she would be at the entrance by now. There was nothing to indicate how much further, however. As before, every single cell looked the same.

And then suddenly, after slipping past one more guard and hurrying around the next four corners, she saw him. She waited by the corner, feeling like something was stopping her from moving closer. She watched him, tossing fitfully, and guessed he was asleep. Part of her wanted to leave the knife and ring and run away, but she did not let herself. Instead, her feet began to move towards the cell, almost of their own volition, until she was right by the bars. She sat down, taking in every inch of Rhys’ face. He was much thinner, much paler, and she longed to reach out and touch him, but he was too far away. She was confused that there were no cuts on his arms, but there was dried blood in his hair and on the stone wall behind him. Jessa’s heart and mind raced, worry and guilt filling her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the silence. She grabbed the bars with her hands, wishing she could pull them apart and go to Rhys’ side. She ached to hold him, to soothe his restless sleep – as well as to simply feel him so close to her again, his heart beating against her chest – but even if she could she doubted she would have. Her knuckles whitened against the cold bars, and a chill breezed through the corridor, ruffling Rhys’ hair and causing him to stir. After a few seconds, he awoke. Jessa froze, but Rhys did not see her at first. She knew the moment when he did, for his previously restless eyes stopped and focused on her.

“Jessa.” He spoke with little more than a breath. Jessa stared at him, her heart in her throat. She swallowed hard. Rhys was watching her with such a gentle expression, one she did not deserve, one surely brought on by sleepy forgetfulness, that she almost started to cry.

“I… I should,” she muttered, unable to look away from Rhys even as she finished, “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry... I’m sorry.”

[Rosabeth]

“No!”

Fatigue weighed heavy on Rhys’ mind, but Jessa’s broken words were like a slap to the face. Clumsily and with all the effort he could muster, Rhys lurched forward. His head throbbed and his limbs felt like they were made of mush, but he managed to practically throw himself at the iron bars of his cell. Jessa flinched in surprise, but as Rhys extended his hand through the bars and grasped her arm he could see her relax. It was, he realized, the first real contact they’d had in months. He let his hand drop to grab hers, putting his other arm through the bars to slowly, gently touch her cheek. Jessa closed her eyes, leaning into his hand. Rhys watched as a tear rolled down her cheek into his hand, her body shaking slightly as she fought to hold back tears.

“I’m so sorry, Jessa. I’ve ruined everything.”

Jessa’s eyes snapped open immediately, wide with shock. “Rhys, I –“ her voice cracked, her lips pressed together to hold herself together. When she spoke again her voice trembled. “I tortured you. Rhys, I hurt you. How can you be sorry? I shouldn’t even be here – you don’t deserve this.”

She tried to move away but Rhys held more tightly to her hand, holding her in place. “Jessa.” She did not look, keeping her eyes averted in shame. “Jessa,” he said again, this time more forcefully. “Please look at me. Please.” Hesitantly she complied, her green eyes flickering up to meet his. Rhys had so many things to say, so many apologies to make and confessions to give, but he was at his core selfish. He stared at that beautiful face. He could bring himself to put more hurt behind those eyes.

“How can you even stand me?”

Her voice was no more than a whisper, but to Rhys it was as if she’d shouted. He stared back in disbelief. Could she really be so deluded, so brainwashed into blaming herself? “Jessa, I need you to look at me and believe me when I say this. This is not your fault. None of this. You did nothing to me. Nothing. I know Alrick was controlling your mind, it doesn’t take a genius to see that. I do not blame you for a single moment. You are being used by a manipulative, cruel man and you are not to blame yourself.” Jessa nodded weakly, but Rhys knew that in typical Jessa fashion she could not let the blame go so easily. “Come here,” he murmured, bringing both hands to her face and gently cupping her cheeks. Jessa leaned forward, slowly being brought forward by Rhys’ touch, until their faces were only inches away.

“I’m so sorry,” Jessa whispered. Rhys would not hear it. He closed the distance, bringing her lips to his. The bars were just wide enough, and Rhys had never been so happy for the mocking bars that were just too narrow for any human to slip through. Jessa’s lips were sweet and the sheer release of it all was a small moment of ecstasy. How he’d wanted this for months, and yet never in these conditions. Jessa’s response was just as fierce, her kiss desperate, her hands sliding through the bars to hold Rhys as best she could. When they finally pulled apart even Rhys could feel tears brimming.

“I… have something for you,” Jessa finally stammered out after a moment. She pulled herself away from the bars for a moment, a loss that stung Rhys when he knew how rare this moment was. From behind her she picked up a small box, a box Rhys recognized instantly even though he had not seen it in some time. “I never got the chance to gather Alrick’s blood, and I learned the hard way that mine does not work. But I was hoping perhaps you could think of a way.”

Jessa slipped the knife from it’s casing and handed it to Rhys. “Now I know you probably can’t just keep it, because if they were to find you with this they’d know someone snuck it to you and I don’t imagine it would take them long to trace it back to me. But I was thinking you might know of a way, any other way -“

“That doesn’t involve you having to attack Alrick yourself?” Rhys knew her thoughts before she spoke them.

“I just can’t do it,” Jessa sighed. “I’m not cut out for that sort of thing, and I don’t have your training. I’d just mess it up and then I’d be in prison too, if not dead.”

Rhys knew what she said was true, but as Rhys turned the knife over in his hand no thoughts came to mind. He mulled over a handful of ideas, all stupid and rash, the kind of ideas that had put him in prison in the first place. It had to be subtle and it couldn’t raise suspicion, and it was hard to think of a single way to draw Alrick’s blood that even remotely followed even one of those guidelines. Jessa chewed her lips anxiously as she watched Rhys stare at the knife. The pressure was certainly not helping. If he had it his way he’d slash Alrick’s neck. Certainly that would draw enough blood. Though his own violence directed towards the kind would not raise suspicion, he knew his wishes were futile. Or were they?

“How does this magic work?” Rhys asked, his voice suddenly more animated. The hint of an idea gave him a surge of excitement he was only too eager to feel.

“I don’t know, I suppose it’s just a spell on the blade, but I have little idea how this blood magic works. I would have thought this would be something you’d know more about, given your family’s history with blood magic.”

Rhys barely listened to the rest of her words, for the first few gave him all the confirmation he needed. He took the blade and set it gently between his first two fingers so that just the tip stuck out. Jessa made a sound of protest, but the blade was away from his skin before she could even get a word out. He hurriedly handed the blade back in exchange for the ring.

“I need you to take that blade to a blacksmith. Preferably someone in the shadier part of town, somewhere Alrick would never go. I don’t want you accidentally running into the person who crafted that blade. Get them to break the knife, to cut off just the tip, something small enough that I could put it between my fingers and not have it be too noticeable, no more than an inch or so long. When you’ve done that bring it back to me. As for the ring,” Rhys slipped it in his pocket, pleased that it was easily concealable. He withdrew it just as quickly and handed it back as well, “bring that back when you bring me the tip of the sword. Then, all I need you to do is to get Alrick close to the bars. Once you’ve done that I have the rest covered.”

It did not take long for Jessa to piece together his plan. “No,” she hissed. “You can’t possibly think this is a good idea.”

“It’s a fantastic idea,” Rhys insisted.

“Even if they don’t find the piece of sword they’ll torture you for daring to lay your hands on the king. Besides, how would you cut his face from a punch?”

“You hit the right place, like if I broke his nose, and the blood will flow effortlessly. Even if I don’t manage that they’d just think I’d found a particularly sharp rock – this cell is filled with little pebbles.”

Jessa looked distraught, trying to grasp for some reason this idea would be horrible plan, but it was clear to her as well that this was the best chance they had. It wasn’t until she was once more near tears that Rhys finally understood what was upsetting her.

“Jessa, I need you to do this. For me. Please.” He reached out to caress her cheek, knowing nothing he could do would be adequate consolation for what he was asking of her.

“If I’m here, if I make sure that everything goes according to plan, he’ll make me torture you again. I can’t. I can’t do that,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she fought to hold back tears. “Please don’t make me do that.”

Her pleas broke his heart, but Rhys forced himself to swallow his guilt. “You have to. I know you don’t want to but please, it’s the only way for us to move forward. I will never, ever fault you for what Alrick forces you to do. I will always love you, no matter what happens.”

Jessa was clearly at her breaking point, her tears having turned into panic as her breathing grew heavy. She held the box with the knife and ring clumsily, trying to stow it under her arm but unable to do anything without shaking hands. She turned from Rhys, looking for composure, and Rhys realized that she was also looking for an excuse to leave. For a moment he almost let her, but he knew he could not. This was perhaps his last chance at honesty. This was his last chance to save his own life. He could not let fear get in the way.

“Jessa, wait!”

Jessa’s shoulders fell slowly, her breathing relaxing just enough for her to turn around and face him without panicing. The grief in her eyes was almost too much to bear. What he said next he knew would break her heart, but he could not allow himself to stop.

“I need to tell you something…serious.”

Though her panic-stricken expression did not leave, it faded slightly into worry. She took a step closer and Rhys reached out to touch her arm.

“Before I tell you must promise me you will not blame yourself, that you will realize that this is completely out of your control.”

Jessa stared. “You can’t tell me something like that and not expect me to worry!”

“I know, I know it’s not fair but I just need you to promise. I just need you to not be Jessa for one moment, to not worry about everyone else and blame yourself for others’ misfortune. I need you to know that I love you, that this will not change anything between us, and most importantly that this is not your fault.” Rhys knew his words were not helping Jessa’s anxiety whatsoever. Her eyes grew and her lips pressed so tightly together he thought they might turn white.

“Do you promise?” He pressed. Her word only meant so much, for he knew she would blame herself regardless, but he hoped that hearing him say that he did not blame her might help as she processed this later, even if only slightly.

Jessa was reluctant, but she eventually sighed. “Yes, I promise.”

Rhys squeezed Jessa’s hand in hopes of finding the strength to say what he needed to say. There was no reason to avoid the topic any longer. It was only hurting them both.

“My family has an aversion to magic. Using magic on me will, with enough time, kill me.”

The silence was so think it could be cut with a knife. Jessa stared open mouthed, lost for words, and Rhys could only stare back anxiously, awaiting some response. Several times she tried to say something but seemed too taken back to draw up even a single word. “But…how…what? Is this real?”

“I only found it out recently since you’ve been gone. My family didn’t know about it either. It seems to be passed through bloodlines, just like magic, but rather in reverse. It’s passed through my mother’s side so my father’s the only one it doesn’t effect. None of us are able to use magic, not even the most basic common magic. You saw once how Anja was so frustrated at her inability to heal while Selene is a natural. It’s not Anja’s stupidity – she physically cannot control magic. And those hallucinations I had in Asanos when I was stabbed? Those were not common reactions to magic. A common side effect would be some sickness, perhaps a bit of delusion or minor hallucinations as if ill with a fever. But seeing someone so vividly commit a murder right beside you? That is far beyond normality.”

Slowly Rhys could see the sense of the matter becoming clearer to Jessa as she too remembered these small details, details that had seemed like nothing at the time. As the truth dawned her expression turned from disbelief to horror.

“You said you’d die?”

Her last word was so quiet, so weak, Rhys could barely hear it whispered. He could barely stand to nod, to affirm her worst fears. “It’s already happened three times already. The first time was after I was shot on the battlefield. Queen Tula and I were due to leave the next day, and the amount of magic they had to use on my wounds to allow me to even sit on a horse in such a small time was staggering. That next night when we camped out in the woods and I woke up and saw hallucinations of you. You drew me into the woods and I followed, and then you took me to a cliff…” Jessa covered her mouth in horror, “and I fell. Luckily it was just about then that the hallucination broke, that I was able to hold onto the cliff face until Tula could come and help. That’s when I knew.”

Jessa’s expression was so far beyond heartbreak Rhys could not stand to look at it. He had to continue on. “Then when I confronted the Lanis’ Miriyam used some extremely powerful torture magic to incapacitate me. Later that night I hallucinated her choking me. I was really choking myself. Dima was there to hold me down or else I might have killed myself.” Jessa let out a small, ripped sob, but she could not seem to look away. “Then here in my cell the night after you – Alrick – tortured me I woke up from my sleep in a pool of my own blood, my hair sticky and matted. I’d tried to crack my skull in my sleep. I wasn’t even conscious for it.”

Rhys knew that would be the final straw and he was right. Jessa held her mouth, trying to control the sobs, trying to stay as quiet as possible. Her whole body shook though no tears came from her eyes. This was not a cry, it was a breakdown. Rhys could only hold her from afar, from behind the confines of his prison, and all he wanted in that moment was to hold her close. It took some time before Jessa calmed herself enough to speak, and her words were so weak they sounded as if they were from a dying breath.

“Why did you never tell me?”

“How could I?” Rhys stroked her cheek but Jessa recoiled. “I knew it would break your heart. You have Greater Magic, how could you not blame yourself for this?”

“But I’m not just blaming myself, it IS my fault!” Jessa cried. “I tortured you. Whether or not it was Alrick doesn’t matter, because it was my magic. Mine. I nearly killed you.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Rhys insisted, repeating the phrase over and over. Still, he knew it was worthless. The damage was done. He almost wished he’d kept that story to himself, but he knew Jessa would have put the pieces together in an instant. He grabbed both of Jessa’s arms firmly, facing her to him square on. “Jessa, please listen to me. I know this is difficult to process but I needed to tell you this for a reason. Alrick’s torture is too much for my body to handle. If he continues like this for much longer I’m going to either die from the magic or end up killing myself in the aftermath. I need you to stop him. Do whatever you need to do. Convince him to torture me physically with blades or fire. Starve me, strip me naked and leave me to die of exposure, whatever you do just please keep him from torturing me. Anything physical I have a chance of fighting off. But this? There’s nothing I can do. If you have to even request to torture me yourself and only use half the magic. Even just a little magic would be enough of a release to keep me from doing something drastic.”

“I can’t.” Jessa looked horrified at the suggestion, but Rhys refused to take it back. “I can’t torture you. Please, Rhys, please don’t make me.”

“I’m not making you do anything, but it would be a far better fate than the alternative.”

Jessa turned her head from Rhys, unable to stomach staring into his eyes while she was wracked with so much guilt. Rhys knew that look, he knew that reaction, but there was simply nothing he could do but wait and hope that she too would see that there was no other way.

“Jessa.” Jessa remained as frozen as a statue. “Jessa, please. Please look at me.” Once more Jessa did not move, though she twitched slightly and Rhys saw her eyes glance his way. “Jessa.” Rhys took both of her hands in his, bringing them to his mouth with a kiss. “Please. Whatever you have to do you must help me. I know this is asking a lot of you, but there’s just no other way. Either you help me or I die.”

Before Rhys could say another word, Jessa tore her hands from his grasp and ran, clutching the box as she went. Rhys’ heart felt as if it had been stabbed. His hands slid down the bars until he hit the ground with a soft thud, leaning his weak body against the cold iron. Without Jessa the cold returned once more and Rhys slowly crawled to the back wall, each movement a feat of it’s own. Pressed against the back wall Rhys brought his knees to his chest, holding himself tight as the dank air filled the cell. With no light and no time, there was little Rhys had left to dwell on but his own thoughts, and those were more demons than company. He’d done his part. Now the waiting game began. Letting his eyes close, Rhys prayed for sleep, and also for a merciful future in which Jessa would do the right thing, the brave thing. He knew she could, the only question was if she could make that choice before it was too late.

[Mollianne]

Jessa’s world was a pile of rubble at her feet, and she did not even know where to begin to try and put it back together. She stood only around the corner from Rhys’ cell, somehow having the presence of mind to know that if she had run further the guards would have caught her. She could hear him moving, and her heart yearned to return to him. But she couldn’t. Her feet was fixed to the floor as she hunched her shoulders, squeezing her stomach. Silent sobs racked her body, making her shoulders bump into the sharp stone of the wall behind her. It was hard to stay so quiet that she didn’t attract either the guards’ or Rhys’ attention, but it was easier than thinking about Rhys’ secret, or that she had not known about it until now, when it felt like it was too late. A suffocating ball of guilt and sadness welled in her throat. She despised herself, too, for her selfishness – for telling Rhys she could not do something he needed her to do. This was not about her.

But not only could Jessa not bear to be in any way involved in Rhys’ torture, she was not even sure how she could do it. She could not very well go up to Alrick and ask him to use something other than magical means, because she was not meant to know about Alrick’s magic. That did not mean she would not try. Rhys needed her and she wanted, more than she could express, to help him. But torturing him herself – no. She could not. Jessa could not bear the thought of hurting Rhys physically, but she also could not help but think logically. Alrick would see her weak attempt to torture him with a knife or whip. And magic was not a possibility because Alrick did not know she knew about her magic, let alone how to use torturing spells. The latter was true, at least. In any case, torturing Rhys herself… Bile rose up in her at the thought of it.

She hugged her arms tighter around her body, and decided she should leave upon hearing faint footfalls. A guard could come past at any time. Gathering what was left of her wits, Jessa set off through the labyrinthine corridors, repeating the same sequence of using magic to hide herself and running past the guards as she had on the way here. It was comforting in a way, allowing her to ignore the fact that, aside from simply seeing and touching Rhys, she felt worse now than before. She had to get him out of there. She had to.

When Jessa reached the door, after many wrong turns and a few near-misses with guards which had her heart racing, she paused. She pressed her ear to the stone in a vain attempt to ascertain whether the guard posted there had awoken. But the stone was thick and Jessa stepped back in resignation. She knew the guard would have been knocked out for a while, but she had no idea how much time had passed since then. All she could do was hope that the world was on her side. The hope barely kindled within her, however, given how much the world had betrayed both her and Rhys lately. Steeling herself, Jessa pricked her finger once again on Alrick’s dagger and wiped the bead of blood onto the stone.

The mechanism inside the stone sighed quietly as the door unlocked. Jessa inched it open, and was relieved to find the guard still slumped on the ground, his candle snuffed out beside him. She tiptoed past him, tugging at her guard uniform uncomfortably. Once she reached the end of the corridor, she straightened and tried to walk confidently so that anyone who saw her might mistake her for a guard. It was no mean feat, considering the thoughts swirling around inside her head. She thought about Rhys, wondering how he was now, and fiercely regretting that she had run off without a word. She should not have left him, but her own selfishness and devastation and pushed her to run – and her guilt, she knew. But all of that centred around her; she had ignored that Rhys needed her even as she had seen it in his eyes. The fact that he still loved her, still wanted and needed her, had in many ways made it more unbearable. Jessa held back a sob.

She reached her room, slipped through the door, and then stopped. Laurita was, obviously, still there wearing Jessa’s face, but Jessa was now safe to act however she wanted. And she just stood there, staring at the wall as if she was frozen. She could feel Laurita watching her. When her friend’s arms wrapped around her, she flinched. When she realised what was happening, she relaxed and held her friend tightly. It was only then that she noticed Laurita’s usual black hair, and that Jessa’s own body was herself again.

And then she began to cry. Heavy, heaving tears that refused to abate. Her heart tightened painfully, like the skin of a drum pulled taut, as it beat hard against her ribcage. Laurita murmured comforting words in her ears, but Jessa would never have been able to repeat what was said if asked. Jessa had no idea how long they stood there, Laurita holding Jessa up as she broke down, but the fire was a mere glow in the grate when her tears dried up and Jessa awkwardly pulled away from her friend. She wiped her face, muttering an apology. Laurita shook her head, but Jessa had already moved away to the fire, needing to do something, anything. She restarted the fire, coaxing it to a blaze. It crackled and popped as she let the dancing flames mesmerise her.

“Jessa?” Laurita was tentative. Jessa felt her friend sit down beside her in the tiny gap between Jessa and the bed. Jessa said nothing, not because she did not want to, but because she could not think. The words just would not form. How could she even begin to talk about this?

“Jessa?”

“Y-” she breathed, the word catching and dying in her throat. She swallowed hard. Laurita took Jessa’s hands and unfurled her fists, which Jessa had not even noticed. Her palms stung where her nails had dug into the skin. She pulled her gaze from the fire and instead fixated on the moon-shaped grooves. “You… should get back? Odaren…”

“I’ll go soon.” Laurita spoke as if she was reassuring Jessa rather than telling the truth. Jessa pursed her lips.

“Sorry,” she murmured. When she continued, she spoke so slowly, every couple of words punctuated by a deep inhale and exhale. “I… I didn’t ask about Odaren. How is he? How are you?”

“I’m okay, Jessa. Odaren – it’s not good. But...” It was clear, even to Jessa in the state she was in, that Laurita did not want to talk about her brother. That meant it was bad – really, really bad. “What happened with Rhys? Did you see him?”

Jessa swallowed, and nodded. Similarly to Laurita, Jessa did not especially want to talk about Rhys, but she was not the only person who needed to think about something other than her loved ones. She opened her mouth, but what came out was little more than a breath. “He told me something.”

Laurita did not speak for a while. Jessa forced her gaze away from her palms and glanced at her friend, who was waiting for her to continue expectantly. But Jessa couldn’t. It was like her mouth and throat was filled with drying mortar.

“Jessa? What… did he say?”

There was something in Laurita’s voice, hesitant and wary, but also… resigned. Jessa’s lips parted in realisation and she tore her gaze away, staring hard into the flames. “You already know.”

She heard clothes rustling above the fire’s hiss as Laurita stood and went to the other side of the small room. “He asked me to help him test his resistance. I was going to, if he told you, but then-” Laurita stopped herself suddenly. “Well, I guessed he wouldn’t tell you, and then something came up.” Her voice grew small as she added, “I made him promise to tell you before something went seriously wrong.”

“Well it did,” Jessa said, more harshly than she intended, though her anger was not directed at Laurita. Her friend may not have told her, but it was not Laurita’s secret. And then there was Odaren, who had rightfully taken nearly all of Laurita’s attention. And even if Laurita had visited and warned her before Alrick had summoned her to Rhys’ cell, Jessa’s knowledge of the truth would not have prevented Rhys’ torture by her own magical hand.

Jessa sighed, bringing her knees to her chest and at the same brushing her hands up her arms to clutch her upper arms in a tight hug. She rested her chin on top. “It’s always going to be wrong.”

“What?” Laurita’s footsteps stopped abruptly. Although Jessa did not look, she could tell Laurita was staring at her incredulously. “What?”

“How can we possibly make this work? I can barely control my magic. Sometimes it flares without me realising. How can Rhys be around someone like that? Just being with me could… k-” Jessa breathed out shakily through her nose. “Kill him. He can’t. I-”

“Jessa.” Laurita rushed over to Jessa’s side, seeing her friend was tipping over the edge. She pulled Jessa’s arms out of their death grip and took Jessa’s hands in hers. “Jessa. Jessa.” Laurita squeezed Jessa’s fingers. “You will figure it out, okay. You both love each other. You need each other. He was miserable without you and you are without him-”

“He’ll always be in danger with me-”

“So you’ll find a way,” Laurita finished, raising her voice over Jessa. “Okay? Look at me, Jessa. Okay?”

Jessa didn’t reply.

***

Jessa did not sleep that night. She lay in bed, staring at the darkness above her. Her thoughts were consumed with Rhys. She worried how he was doing, what any lingering magic inside him might be doing to him, and just generally how he was coping with being locked away and in confinement. She wanted to go to him, but every time she had that thought she knew she couldn’t. So instead Jessa would guide her thoughts to how to get him out. In the many hours she had been awake she could not conceive of any kind of plan. All she knew was that the dungeon was a confusing web of hallways and the chances of both her and Rhys – in whatever state he would be in, Jessa thought, swallowing the lump in her throat – navigating them without attracting the attention of a guard was nigh on impossible. There was no way to do this without help. Laurita, of course, would do all she could, but Jessa still did not think that would be enough.

Could she somehow contact the Marinons? After all, before Rhys had – all too infrequently – found a way to talk to each other through dreams, they had sent the occasional letter. Would one of the contacts she had used then be able to get a letter to the Marinons? She did not know how they could help though, given they were in Jasrah and could hardly enter Ovis without the king knowing. It was still worth a try. And it gave Jessa something to do.

Her pen against the paper, she hesitated on to whom she should address the letter, for the family would be grieving for Dima. Jessa shook herself, and began writing, knowing she was being ridiculous. They would not want to grieve over another son, as well, especially if they could do something to help. The letter was brief for her pen shook too much as she wrote. Sighing and pursing her lips, Jessa signed her name. Then, she hid the letter at the bottom of her drawer. She unfortunately had something else she needed to do first.

Jessa dressed slowly, wanting to put off the inevitable. She could hear the servants moving around frantically now. At least someone in the royal family was awake and in need of service. Jessa opened her door, peered through, and called over the next servant who passed. The man came reluctantly, with that awkward, forced smile all the castle servants wore when speaking to her.

“Is the king awake?”

“Yes…”

“Could you get someone to tell him that I would like to request a meeting with him?”

“You don’t get to request meetings.” The servant spoke quietly, as though he was unused to refusing someone, but also did not want to aid the woman who had kept herself away and lowly as a child but had always had the option – as she had now taken – of associating herself more closely with the servant’s employer. Jessa would probably hate herself too.

“It is important,” Jessa said. The servant stared at her, and then without a word nodded tightly and left. Jessa called after him, “I’ll be in the library.”

Not long after, Jessa could barely be seen over the wall of books in a wide semicircle around her. She sat on the library floor, in a nook she had found years before. It was her place of escape when she just wanted to read undisturbed. After all, she doubted the servant would actually bother to make her request known. A thick, dusty tome rested on her knees as she scanned the pages for anything that could make Rhys’ aversion to magic real to her. Of course she knew there would be no reference to Greater Magic, but Rhys had mentioned that Anja could not even manipulate the basic lesser magics. And lesser magic was in no way forbidden. She needed to know if there were others like Rhys.

When the servant made his surprise reappearance, she was scanning through the third book, unable to decipher whether the mentions of people not using magic were people who could not, or simply those who would not. None of the books so far had made the distinction. The servant coughed to get her attention. She could just see only his head and shoulders over the towers of books, and he had to crane his neck to see her sitting at the base of it.

“His Majesty has denied your request. But the king will see you in the west wing again tomorrow at dawn.” The servant waited, while Jessa’s blood ran cold, for her to agree. After an age, she nodded stiffly. Jessa’s heart pounded, and she could practically feel her blood thumping through her skull. She could not do this. He could not make her do this again. But of course he could, and had – she had failed him last time by crying for Rhys, and he would want her to prove herself. And she would need to – but to Rhys, not Alrick. She needed to go into the city tonight.

***

Jessa fidgeted with the clothes Laurita had brought as she walked, and tried not to brush her hands through her new short hair again. Jessa kept her head up, however, so that she did not look too suspicious or out of place in this dark, grungy part of the city. She could feel the eyes of the locals upon her, and felt sure they knew she did not belong. She hoped her disguise would have been enough to fool anyone who might have followed her from the castle – that they had taken her for the servant who had entered Jessa’s rooms moments before Jessa had left in the same disguise. Jessa had made sure to duck through an open gate into someone’s tiny backyard at one point as if she was just a servant going home, and had waited there for ten minutes. She had noticed no one following her since, and she had been checking.

Presently, Jessa turned the corner onto a remarkably busy street for so late at night. Jessa shifted under the weight of their collective gaze. They began to whisper to each other. From somewhere behind her, Jessa heard someone jeer, “You’re not welcome here, Red,” but Jessa did not know what they meant – except that she now knew that she was not from here – so she hunched her shoulders and pressed on. Eventually – finally – Jessa reached the end of the road. She looked around her, seeing no one in the connecting streets. Laurita had told her that Nayall had arranged for someone to meet her, since they were no longer using the same entrance to the safe house as before. But whenever Jessa tried to make eye contact with the people on the main thoroughfare, they turned away and pretended to be busy while they shuffled off. Some glared at her. Jessa bit her lip in fear. She was entirely alone in an unknown, dangerous part of town. Not only that, but she desperately needed to complete her task for Rhys. Where was her contact?

A hiss came from above. Jessa looked up warily, but she was unable to see anything in the darkness but a shapeless shadow. The shadow dropped from the sky and landed cat-like on the cobblestones, just out of view of the main street. For a moment, the shadow and Jessa watched each other, and then, “Come.”

Jessa stood her ground. “Who are you?” She hoped the woman – for it was a woman’s voice that had spoken – would answer correctly, otherwise she was undoubtedly in danger. For a tense moment, Jessa waited.

“I am a friend of the people of this beautiful city.” Anyone who passed by would know that this line was code – and Jessa could practically hear the eye roll on the word ‘beautiful’ – but in this part of the town no one would bat an eyelid. Jessa nodded, and took a step forward into the dark alley.

“It is very beautiful,” she replied, repeating the phrase Laurita had told her. From the glow of the light behind them as the woman turned to walk away, Jessa saw her wry smile. The woman led her wordlessly through the cobbled streets of Ovis until they reached a road which faced out onto the sea. There she stopped suddenly, whipped out a blindfold, and placed it around Jessa’s eyes before Jessa knew what was going on.

“Ow.” Jessa winced, the blindfold tight against her head. “Don’t you people ever ask?” A few strands of her hair were caught in the knot, so that when she moved her head, it pulled at her scalp. She scratched at the knot but the woman batted her hands away before she could loosen it. Then, she took Jessa’s wrist and guided her away. Jessa had no idea where and concentrated on stepping carefully over the uneven stone floor. It was not easy. Nothing in Jessa’s life was easy. She stopped herself before her thoughts to turn to Rhys, instead forcing herself to focus on the twists and turns the woman was guiding her through.

A door creaked quietly open and the woman yanked her through it. Jessa heard whispers around her as the door was shut, but she could not work out anything of what was said. And then they were moving again. Jessa had the sneaking suspicion that they were walking back the same way they had come. She would not be surprised if the underground safe house had actually been located directly beneath her feet when she had met the contact. She knew they were close when the rank smell of unwashed bodies and sewage reached her nose. From behind her blindfold, she could just about see the world lightening as they came closer to the end of the tunnel.

She felt someone remove her blindfold, and this time she was prepared. She kept her eyes shut tight, opening them only a little until the light no longer blinded her. When she could see again, she found Nayall in front of her and her guide was nowhere to be found.

“Hello again, Jessa.” He tilted his head, surveying her. “Laurita really is a master.”

“She is,” Jessa said quietly. She was not here for idle chitchat. Jessa cleared her throat, and tried not to shift. She needed to appear more confident than she felt. “Do you have any blacksmiths staying here?”

Nayall appraised her, looking almost confused. Laurita really had not explained much about why Jessa had needed to see him. That was good – she did not trust Nayall enough to know the full truth about Rhys. “You’re going to need to give me something.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, but I don’t-”

“-trust me. I know. I don’t blame you. But I still need something to go on, here. Any small reason.”

Jessa sighed and pulled out the king’s blade. “I need someone with magical knowledge to remove the tip of this blade. About an inch. And before you ask why,” she continued, “I can’t tell you.”

Nayall rubbed his temple but eventually nodded. He turned away, heading towards the congregation of people sitting on the floor wrapped in blankets. The crowd looked somewhat smaller than last time, and Jessa realised that the room itself was different to before. Clearly they had found another location in which to house their asylum seekers. Jessa was glad. From where she stood, she could see open door with more people huddled together. The previous location only had one cavernous room for the people to stay. This looked a lot better, although when Jessa looked at the individuals as she hastened after Nayall, she saw that their faces were darkened with grime and they looked thin. She realised then that, with everything that had happened in the castle since the first time she had visited Nayall, she had not held up her end of the bargain and found supplies for them.

Nayall had bent down to speak to an old man by the far wall. Jessa was a little unnerved to see how, if the people in the room were not staring at her in suspicion, they were watching Nayall with something very close to reverence. Like the people who had been there the first time, they all seemed to adore him. He was truly their leader.

Nayall straightened and beckoned her over, thankfully not calling to her with her name. That would only make the people terrified of her if they recognised the association to the du Renes, and if any spies had got in through the cracks of Nayall’s network, it would end in disaster.

“This man is a blacksmith,” Nayall said quietly to her. “But he says he cannot help. He himself has no knowledge of magic infused into objects – in fact he has no magic himself, it is his wife and daughter – but he knows of someone still in the city who he believes can help you. They can be found on Shrove Street northwest of the market. I believe that is in a dangerous enough part of town that your business there won’t get back to the king.”

Nayall smirked. Jessa nodded. “Thank you. And – about the supplies-”

Nayall shook his head. “I know things at the castle have been dire. I have my own contacts, and of course Laurita has shared some things with me. I know that something very distressing happened to you recently, although I know nothing of the details and my other spies have similarly heard nothing. But if you would, you can arrange supplies with Laurita. In any case, we have survived until now. We have some means of gaining food, just little in the way of medical supplies.”

Jessa nodded. They began walking back to the entrance of the room. They were stopped many times by people calling out to Nayall. He went to each one, speaking privately to each and every one, allaying their fears or trying to help them with their problems. Jessa just stared as he looked after his charges with such care and affection. Yet she knew him also to be harsh and determined. The two contrasting personalities were difficult to mesh together, but there was no denying the truth of it.

They were nearly out of the crowd when a piercing cry echoed around the room. Jessa looked around, trying to determine its location. Nayall, for his part, did not look even slightly concerned or confused. In fact, he looked happy.

“What was that?”

“Oh,” Nayall said. “Do you remember the family from Barichea?”

Jessa nodded. She could not forget the desolation that had surrounded them. Nayall had told her that no one knew why they were there, and that they spoke very little Etrenian. “You know why they came to Etrene?”

Nayall nodded, though he did not look pleased. “They were looking for their son. They had been told who to meet in the city, but things got lost in translation and they found their way here. But eventually, their contact found them. And just today, we learnt that he had found their son.”

“They’ve just been reunited?”

“Yes.” Nayall said, smiling. It was not a full smile, however. Whatever he knew about the boy and why he had been brought to Ovis was definitely not good. Dozens of scenarios passed through Jessa’s mind but they all led back to one person: Alrick. “I believe you may even know the person who was working to find the boy.”

“Oh?”

Nayall pointed at a man who was ducking into the room from one of the other doors. Jessa recognised him pretty easily. He stood out, given that he was tall and had the typical pale Barichean skin. She had danced with him at the Janes’ ball, although she had seen him little since then. More importantly, he was nearly engaged to Maira. And he was also here, in a underground safe house opposed to the king. Jessa stared at Nayall.

“Lord Khalid Farani?”