Tomas didn’t notice Briar, and she was grateful for the semidarkness, though it made painting more difficult. She worked faster, switching from blue smalt to azurite. Then another figure emerged from the ruined fortress, and Briar’s hands slipped, smudging the paint.
Archer. Relief surged through her. He was alive. She hadn’t killed him. Battered and bleeding, he was on his feet and fighting still.
Their eyes met across the carnage.
“Hey! You there!”
Briar froze. Tomas had spotted her too. He took a step forward, his features turning ugly at the sight of the paintbrush in her hand.
“Did you curse my fort, you evil—”
“Don’t touch her!”
Archer lunged toward his brother, waving a sword. Tomas gaped stupidly at him, only just raising his own sword in time to block the attack.
The brothers traded blows, steel ringing loudly against steel. Archer’s movements lacked their usual energetic quality. He was injured, and he wouldn’t last long when Tomas figured it out. Briar gripped her paintbrush tight enough to bend it.
Suddenly, Tomas stumbled over some debris and exposed his neck, and Briar felt a surge of triumph. But Archer didn’t take advantage of the opening, holding back from a fatal blow. He wasn’t trying to kill his brother, only distract him. Tomas was angry, though. He bellowed wordlessly, his attacks becoming more ferocious by the second. Archer struggled to meet each strike, and steel clashed in the night.
Raindrops landed on Briar’s face, reminding her to hurry. Finishing her painting would help Archer more than having an anxious spectator. She needed to incapacitate Tomas, though she resisted the temptation to make the curse lethal. She’d had enough of death for one day. Maybe for one lifetime. She completed the shape of a moon over a quiet lake on the slab of stone and added the final flourish.
“Archer!” she shouted. “Get him over here!”
Archer jabbed clumsily at his brother’s toe then dashed toward her. Tomas followed close on his heels.
“Don’t touch it,” Briar called as Archer drew nearer.
He didn’t seem to hear her. He lurched straight for the curse, his brother in hot pursuit. Briar shouted his name, and Archer jumped aside at the last possible moment, clearing the painted stone in a single bound.
Tomas didn’t react as fast and ran right over the painting. He collapsed in a heap.
“Got him!”
Archer staggered back to kneel beside Briar and dropped the sword in the dirt. “That was close. I’m a worse swordsman than I am a dancer.”
“Are you okay?”
Archer prodded a lump on his temple. His dark eyebrows were singed. “Been better.”
“I was afraid you were … that I …” Her voice caught in her throat, and for a minute, they just looked at each other across Tomas’s prone form, the weight of their last encounter heavy between them.
Briar opened her mouth to apologize for blasting him off his feet at the same time as Archer said, “Don’t worry about that curse. You did the right thing.”
Briar grimaced and dropped her gaze. “I hope so. Here, help me move him.”
They adjusted Tomas’s position so he wouldn’t lose contact with the cursed stone, Archer grunting at the effort. He didn’t seem to be moving very well with his injuries. It was a wonder he’d lasted as long as he had against his older brother. He might be willing to sacrifice himself for Lady Mae, but Briar wished she hadn’t been the one to hurt him. And there had been other people in the line of fire.
“Archer, my parents—”
“Your father was just here,” Archer said quickly, glancing around the ruins of Narrowmar’s façade. “Didn’t you see him?”
“No.” Briar’s hands knotted around the strap of her paint satchel, scanning the rubble for any sign of her father. If he’d survived the wall’s collapse, he could be hidden somewhere, painting a worse curse. “What about my mother?”
Archer hesitated for a beat. “Unconscious,” he said.
Briar nodded, still searching the ruins. “Did you see Mae?”
“She was in the guard station near the door.”
“She must be here somewhere, then.” Briar seized Archer’s hand. “You’re hurt. Wait here.”
“Not a chance. We have to find her baby too,” Archer said. “Apparently, it has been born.”
“One step ahead of you,” Briar said. “The baby is safe.”
“Then all we need to do is find—” Suddenly Archer’s hand was ripped out of hers. He flew backward ten feet and slammed hard onto the ground with a sickening crunch.
Briar whirled around, scanning her surroundings. Nothing moved but shifting dust, raindrops, a breath of wind.
Her father was near. She didn’t know how he’d gotten a curse to throw Archer like that, but it had to have been done at close range. She reached for her satchel, needing to act before he finished his next curse.
Then an incredible force slammed into her too. Briar landed on her back, the impact jarring her teeth. Storm clouds roiled darkly above. She struggled to draw in a breath—and failed. She tried again, and again. At last, the night air flooded her lungs.
She rolled onto her side, groaning at the ache in her head. She had landed twenty feet from where Archer lay sprawled and motionless. Blood trickled from his ear. He didn’t get up.
No. Not now. Not when we’re almost safe.
Briar sat up, searching the rocks for the hidden mage. Her paint satchel had split open, spilling colors across the dirt.
Movement flickered to her right. She rolled to the left as a large chunk of rock hurtled out of the darkness toward her. She glimpsed the rough curse painted on its side before it struck the spot where
