Donovan tried other attacks—waves of pressure, blasts of fire, nightmares formed of smoke and fear. Briar’s painted skin unraveled each curse, snuffing out each burst of power. She didn’t feel the heat and force, the intended terrors. A few strokes of the purple hue were enough to unravel most curses. Covered in it, she was untouchable.
Briar’s head spun at the possibilities her discovery opened up, but she still needed to stop her father’s attacks. She wasn’t sure how long the unravelling effect would last—and the rain was falling harder.
Shouts rose over the sounds of the curses. Larke’s men would be pouring from the stronghold at any moment. Briar’s limbs shook, and she barely stayed upright. She couldn’t fight the soldiers and her father at the same time.
Something moved in the darkness. She limped forward, weaving through the rubble as well as she could. A particularly large pile of stone had fallen into an approximation of a doorway. The lintel was still in a single large piece, scrawled with the remnants of a powerful barrier curse. That was where the movement had come from. Her father must be hiding behind it.
Briar hobbled sideways and found Donovan crouched among shattered stones and assorted jars of paint. He looked up at her, brush poised to scribe another curse. She saw curiosity in his eyes, a hint of admiration.
“Remarkable, Elayna Rose,” he said. “I’ve never heard of someone cursing their own skin to unravel the curses thrown against them.” Donovan studied the patterns she had scribed on herself, analyzing, memorizing. She knew he would take apart her discovery stroke by stroke, trying out variations with Briar’s mother. He was a student of his art more than anything else. “We must examine this further,” he said eagerly, as if he hadn’t been breaking her bones and hurling his magic at her moments ago.
“You said you wished Mother had killed me,” Briar said. Her throat hurt from inhaling so much dust, and her voice sounded creaky and thin.
Her father waved his paintbrush impatiently. “Nonsense. You will return with us, of course. We must explore the implications of your discovery. I hope you remember the stroke order.”
Briar blinked at him. The purple paint dripped into her eyes, stinging like tears. Then she understood. Her father had been bluffing when he’d said he wished she’d been killed. It was a spoken curse designed to unsettle and distract her.
“Stand still and allow me to attempt a few more curses on you,” her father said, opening up a jar of crimson lake. “Do you feel anything? I should very much like to know how long these effects last. Let’s try an incendiary.”
“Stop,” Briar said.
Her father looked up.
“I’m not working with you.”
“Nonsense. You are a Dryden. You’ve had your rebellion, but it is time to return to the work you were born to do.”
Briar swallowed, wishing her voice sounded stronger. “I’ll decide how to use my own power.”
Donovan raised an eyebrow, his owlish eyes glinting in the light from the ruined stronghold. Then he picked up an emerald-green scarf that had been lying on the fallen lintel, one Briar had often worn to hold back her frizzy hair at home. She remembered her mother wrapping it around her head with nimble, paint-stained hands. The scarf was dripping with paint now—azurite and precious ultramarine. That was how her father had placed the despair curse on her. He had been carrying a part of her with him all that time, and he’d used the Law of Resonance on it to crush her with hopelessness.
He held up the scarf, azurite paint dripping from emerald silk, and lowered his voice. “I can make you accompany me.”
Briar stared at her father, looking into the face of what she was, what she had come from. And instead of the old destructive urge, she felt a profound sense of calm.
“No,” she said. “You can’t.” With the purple curse on her skin, he couldn’t force her to do anything. For as long as it lasted, she was free.
“You could be extraordinary,” her father said. “It will never happen if you squander your talent in your youth.”
“I can live with that,” Briar said.
“Elayna—”
“You can’t make me go anywhere or hurt anyone.” Briar met his gaze steadily. “Try it.”
Donovan’s elegant hands tightened around the scarf. He understood. He no longer had power over her. His art had failed him, and in his eyes, she saw a hint of fear.
Suddenly, torchlight flooded the ruins, and shouts filled the stormy air. Fighting men in Larke burgundy charged out of the stronghold, looking for whoever had destroyed their fortress. Briar reached automatically for her satchel, but it had split open when her father hurled her across the ground. She had no way to fight those men.
Then hoofbeats thundered toward her from farther up the canyon, and people shouted in familiar voices. Half a dozen horses charged out of the darkness, their hooves shaking the earth. Lew rode the leader, with Nat close beside him. The two brawny outlaws drew their weapons and bellowed war cries as they charged Larke’s men—all of whom were on foot. Jemma rode close behind them, wielding her cudgel, red shawl flying. Esteban followed, barking rough spells in a strained and exhausted voice to hold back the swarm of soldiers. He held the reins of two additional horses, saddled and riderless.
Briar gasped in relief. She was no longer alone. Her friends were there.
Donovan reached for his paints, about to attack the newcomers.
“Don’t move.” Briar hobbled forward, placing herself directly in front of her father. He couldn’t wield his curses against her. She would hold the line against him, stopping his violence with her cursed flesh. She could take the power her parents had given her—along with her own invention—and use it to stop them from doing harm.
So, with her broken bones aching and the rain falling harder by the minute, she stood up to her father, no longer bound by her family’s curse.
Archer was pretty sure his
