“Gone,” Archer said. “I believe they met some of your men in the woods.”
“I see.” Larke’s mouth tightened. He wouldn’t question Archer further. He wouldn’t want these powerful mages from High Lure to know his second-favorite son had fallen in with miscreants. Archer was gambling on his father’s pride to keep himself and his friends alive a little longer.
“I don’t think we’ve met.” Archer turned to the curse painters, preparing to stall them, and recoiled from their gazes. He had seen hints of darkness within Briar, mere flickers of her destructive capabilities amidst everything else that made her her. He’d expected to find hints of humanity in her parents after hearing of the joy they’d taken in their young daughter and her work. But in the intervening years, the Drydens had scoured away anything but the darkness.
The woman was beautiful, with a crown of wild hair like Briar’s and eyes that burned with black fire. She had an energy about her, incendiary and passionate. The man looked almost studious, with patrician features and elegant hands, but there was a cruel turn to his mouth and a soulless sort of intensity in his gaze.
“This is Saoirse and Donovan Dryden,” his father said, a muscle working in his jaw. “They are here on important business from the king. Why don’t you wait in my chambers until I have time to hear about your recent activities?”
“There’s no need to send your son away,” said Briar’s mother. “Perhaps he has some insight into what happened on the ridge.”
“Insight, Mistress Dryden?” Archer asked.
“You appeared soon after the voice mage ceased his song.” A specter of a smile crossed Saoirse’s lips. “Very soon. Perhaps you saw something?”
“You mean heard something?”
The woman’s smile vanished.
Archer swallowed, hanging onto his grin as if it were the edge of a cliff. “I just thought, since he was a voice mage, it would make more sense for me to hear rather than to s—”
“Please excuse my son’s insolence.” Lord Larke gripped Archer’s shoulder hard, his eyes blazing with barely controlled fury. “He cannot always tell when it’s appropriate to speak.”
“On the contrary,” Saoirse said, “I should like to hear what he has to say. Wouldn’t you, darling?”
Donovan was staring at Archer as if he were a strange insect—one he was planning to take apart leg by leg. “I am sure it will be an enlightening conversation.”
“I’ll help however I can,” Archer said. “Shall we go inside for a drink? I wouldn’t mind taking off my boots in front of the fire in your sitting room, Father.”
Larke gave Archer a severe look warning him not to offend the curse painters. Archer smiled blandly back. Little did Larke know the Drydens had also been forsaken by a child with a conscience. Perhaps they could commiserate when all was said and done. More importantly, his father would never send for Mae while Archer was in the room. He couldn’t possibly hide the schism in his household then.
The Drydens clearly intimidated Larke, and there were currents of tension between the three of them that Archer hadn’t yet figured out. The longer he kept them talking, the longer Briar and the others would have to finish the job.
At last Larke sighed. “I could do with a stiff drink myself. Shall we?”
They approached the stronghold’s entrance, and the white-haired old captain who commanded the Narrowmar garrison met them at the large stone door. His burgundy uniform was neat but faded, and his back curved with age. His eyes were as clear and sharp as ever, though. He eyed them all with obvious disapproval. Archer had never particularly impressed the fellow, but it was the curse painters who received his starkest glowers.
Interesting. Archer might be able to use that.
“A moment, my lords,” Donovan said before Larke and Archer could enter through the broad doorway. “The stronghold gates have two curses laid upon them. The first will kill instantly unless we invite visitors inside by their full names. The second ensures that no one who crosses this threshold may exit the mountain without our permission.” He looked at Archer then. “Unless they wish to die painfully.”
“That’s very thorough of you,” Archer said. So Mae can’t leave through that doorway. Briar’s tunnel might be the only way out for all of them.
He bowed, flourishing his hands as if ushering the man inside. “Please, won’t you invite me into my own ancestral halls?”
Donovan cocked his head to the side. “Your full name, if you please.”
“Ivan Archibald Larke. That’s Lord Ivan Archibald Larke.”
The curse painters entered the fortress, ignoring the old captain’s glare. He watched them like an old guard dog—chained up and unable to stop an intruder from crossing his yard.
The curse painters spoke quietly to each other as they arranged jars and brushes along the floor. An intricate pattern of stars and moons was painted all the way around the entrance, including across the ground and over the lintel, as if stepping through the doorway signified stepping into the dark night of the lower realms. How much purple paint would it take to break that curse?
“Where did you find such friendly curse painters?” Archer asked his father while they waited for the Drydens to work their magic.
“Do not trifle with them,” Larke said through clenched teeth. He was clearly annoyed at having to wait outside the door like any other visitor while the curse painters added his name to the design in intricate swirling letters. “They are exceedingly powerful. I’ve gone to great personal expense to secure their services.”
“Why is that exactly?”
“Play the fool if you must,” Larke said. “You know about my guest, or else you wouldn’t be here. Her father will try to retrieve her if he realizes where she is.”
“And ignore the king’s orders about your fun little rivalry? Surely only you are brave enough to do that.”
Larke looked as if he wanted to strike Archer. It wouldn’t
