Archer staggered over to the woman and dropped to his knees at her side. Saoirse looked as poorly as he felt. He brushed stone dust from her face, some of it clinging in the lines in her forehead. She looked at him, her fierce eyes dulled with pain.
“You’re … you’re here with her, aren’t you?” she mumbled. “Arrived same time … not a coincidence.”
“That’s right,” Archer said. “I’m with her.”
Saoirse’s mouth twisted in a sad smile. “Clever girl.”
“I think so too.”
Saoirse didn’t seem fully aware. Archer examined her injuries, wincing at their extent. She was hurt badly. The metallic odor of blood mixed with a hint of oil paint and burned flesh. Archer moved some debris off her body, trying to make her more comfortable. He didn’t want the woman to kill his friends, but he couldn’t let her die in his arms either. How would Briar feel if the curse she’d painted killed her mother?
Saoirse touched his sleeve. “Is she …?” She drew in a pained breath, and blood bubbled at her lips. She must be bleeding badly inside. It would take a voice mage to save her. As far as Archer knew, her husband was the only mage left in the fortress—wherever he was—and all he could do was destroy.
Saoirse tried to speak again. “Is she …?”
“What was that?” Archer leaned closer to the woman then grunted as the movement sent agony through his gut.
“Well.”
“I’m sorry,” Archer wheezed. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Is … she well?”
“Your daughter?”
Saoirse blinked, perhaps too hurt to nod.
“Yes.” At least he hoped she was.
Saoirse’s hand dropped away from his sleeve. He continued talking, hoping to keep her with him a little longer—or at least to distract himself from his own pain. “In fact, she’s better than well. She has a new life, and she’s trying to be good … or at least better than her parents.” He winced as another stab of agony jolted through him. “You know how talented she is, and she has this powerful need to do what’s right, even though a huge part of her just wants to blow things up. It’s incredible to see her fighting against the cards she’s been dealt, choosing to walk a difficult path no matter how many times she has failed.”
Saoirse’s eyelids fluttered rapidly, and more blood bubbled from her lips. He couldn’t tell how much she could hear or how much she cared. Briar had told him her parents didn’t bother with good and evil, but even they had to look at a young person fighting against injustice, though the battle seemed hopeless, and feel a little bit inspired.
“How can I help you, Mistress Dryden?” Archer asked. “After everything you made her do, I still think Briar wouldn’t want you to die.”
“Sweet … briar.” Saoirse drew in a rattling breath and blinked rapidly, her lashes tinted gray with dust. Then she whispered, “Good.” And her fierce eyes closed.
Archer put a hand on her forehead, where the warmth was already fading, and wished her redemption in the next realm.
The commotion around his father had calmed. Jasper Larke was covered in bandages, though the bleeding didn’t seem to have stopped entirely. Briar’s curse stone had worked its magic, but Larke wouldn’t allow such a thing to slow him.
“Where is the Barden girl?” he demanded. “She must not escape.”
“The curse painter went after her,” one of his retainers said. “She won’t get past that door anyway.”
“I want that child,” Larke said. “I’ll give you to the curse painters if she escapes.”
“She won’t, sir.”
Archer rolled away from Saoirse’s body with a pained grunt and began to crawl, dragging himself away from his father. His job wasn’t done yet. His father’s cruelty was different from that of the Drydens, but Archer couldn’t let him get away with it. Larke would spread his influence over half the kingdom if he controlled the Barden heir, and it would be Archer’s fault. He had to keep fighting a little longer.
Chapter 32
Briar marched on the gates of Narrowmar, her satchel of paints bouncing at her hip, a thick horsehair brush clutched in her hand. The air smelled of char, sawdust, and upturned earth, remnants of the earlier battle. A chill wind whipped through her hair, cooling the sweat on her brow. A storm was building over the mountain.
Despite everything she had been through that night, Briar felt lighter and more energetic now that she no longer carried such fragile cargo. She had left the newborn baby nestled on a bed of branches, the massive dog standing watch. Lady Mae might kill her for taking that risk, but the baby was probably better off in Sheriff’s care than in Briar’s. He, at least, didn’t seem afraid of hurting the delicate little thing.
Briar saw no sign of the rest of the team as she neared the stronghold. Their efforts at infiltration and diversion had failed, and the night had swallowed them up. She was the only one left who could challenge the fortress. This time, she didn’t intend to sneak through the back.
She planned her curses as she approached the stone door, etching out the shapes and colors in her mind in meticulous detail. She wasn’t going to unravel her parents’ work or fight them curse for curse. They’d had plenty of time to prepare additional defenses while she’d carried the baby away, but she was done playing by their rules. It was time to show her parents a curse painter could do more than harm.
With a little help from the Law of Wholes, she was going to rip open that mountain without shedding another drop of blood. Master Winton’s house back in Sparrow Village had shown her how. She had planned out a subtle curse to weave into the cracks between the siding boards and eat away at
