Page 41 of From the Myths of Kings

“If I told anyone his true identity, he would’ve been killed,” Neia confirmed. “So I renamed him Rymir Barrow. From that point on, he became an orphan from one of the slums on the edge of the Under Kingdom, his entire family killed by Wyrms during a particularly brutal infestation period. I never told anyone of his true heritage. He was just a child. He shouldn’t have paid for his father’s sins. Grivur would never have let him live.

“The horrors of Grivur’s inquisition pushed me to join King Ohan’s cause. Ohan promised a world in which all of Revelore was equal, a world free of the Tournament. I wanted that world for Rymir, whose entire family had been killed at the behest of a mad king. I wanted that world so no more siblings would lose their brothers and sisters in the Tournament. And by joining Ohan?and later Hasana’s?resistance, I thought I could atone for the atrocities I committed during that time. I thought I could redeem myself.”

Time warped and buckled around Saoirse, that sickening feeling gaining potency in her chest. The child of the man who orchestrated her mother’s murder had been working alongside them this whole time. Every conversation she’d shared with Rymir flashed in her mind like bursts of lightning. Their conversation that night in the ship’s hallway surfaced: My father dreamed of an unbroken Revelore, too. One where we are all equals. That’s why I’m here. His dreams have become my dreams. I think that is the greatest honor I could ever give him.

He had known the entire time. She felt sick, remembering how she’d shared those intimate memories of her mother with him. He’d spoken with her as though his father hadn’t killed her mother in cold blood.

“How could you have kept this from me?” Saoirse pleaded in a rasp. “You knew his father killed my mother and Rook’s parents this whole time.” She wanted to keep her voice strong and unwavering, but she failed miserably to keep the pain from her voice. She knew better than most that a child was not responsible for the crimes of their ancestors, but it felt profoundly wrong for Neia to keep Rymir’s true identity from her, from Rook.

“I’m so sorry, Saoirse,” Neia said, finally turning to face her. Her eyes were bloodshot with grief. “I thought that if anyone knew the truth, they wouldn’t be able to separate him from Ballar’s rebellion. He wouldn’t have been given a fair chance to prove his worth.”

“He certainly proved his worth, all right,” Hasana scoffed. “I guess sheltering him didn’t mean much in the end. He betrayed us even after you gave him a life and raised him like your own brother. And it seems he’s been leading his own resistance and carrying on his father’s legacy right under your nose.”

Neia had a physical reaction to Hasana’s scathing words, flinching as if struck. “I should’ve told you all from the start. I should’ve told Ohan eight years ago when he first recruited me. But I didn’t think the truth would ever come to light.”

“You may not have been honest with me in the past, but I’ll give you one more chance to tell the truth,” Saoirse said coldly. “Swear to me that you had no idea Rymir was plotting against us. Promise me that his plan to carry on Ballar’s bloody vision was a secret from you too.”

Neia wrapped her hands around the iron bars separating them, fingers digging into the metal. “I swear to the Titans, Saoirse. I had no idea that Rymir was working against us. I had no inkling he had taken the helm of his father’s rebellion. His betrayal pains me more than anything I’ve ever felt.”

Although Saoirse was reeling from Neia’s secret, she believed her. The hurt in her pale eyes was enough to convince her that she was suffering from Rymir’s treachery just as they all were, if not more.

Silence filled the prison block as the truth Neia had hidden for eight years coated every cell like falling snow. Saoirse’s skin felt prickly and cold, burning like the sting of winter rain.

“What will become of us?” Tezrus whispered from his cell.

Tezrus’s question was soon answered when a swarm of Grivur’s underguards returned to the prison block several hours later. They brandished onyx spears they wouldn’t hesitate to use if one of them so much as looked the wrong way. They wore identical uniforms the color of stone, perfect for blending into cavern walls and melting into shadows.

One of the guards unlocked Saoirse’s cell door and hauled her up from the floor by her shackles. She jerked forward and nearly collided with the opposite cell before he yanked her back like an animal on a chain. She fought against his grip, but the metal bit into her skin with every movement.

“Where are you taking us?” she managed to ask between her clenched jaw. The guard said nothing, merely flashing a glimpse of teeth as white as his waxen skin.

Behind her, Neia and Hasana were dragged from their cells. The underguards left Tezrus locked behind bars. He crawled over to the cell door and curled his gnarled fingers around the iron, his eyes terror-bright as the soldiers escorted them from the prison block.

“Where are you taking us?” Saoirse asked again, her breaths going shallow with fear. She could feel the tip of a sharp spear level with her spine, ready to impale her at a moment’s notice.

“King Grivur has invited you to dine with him in his hall,” one of the guards sniggered. “Seems you’re his honored guests.” Saoirse’s stomach churned, but not from hunger.

“Guests who wear chains?” Hasana hissed.

The flock of underguards chortled and shared knowing glances with each other. Their eerie laughter sent a bolt of fear shuddering down Saoirse’s spine.

As she crossed the threshold of the prison’s exit, a black hood was once again slipped over her head to prevent her from learning the way out. Blinded by the opaque fabric, her other senses came alive. The fall of the guards’ boots against stone, the sharp jangling of their chains, and the screech of rusted hinges opening all screamed in her ears. Hot breath brushed against the back of her neck as the soldier behind her leaned in. His breath smelled of sour milk as he whispered, “When you learn what’s in store for you, you’ll wish that you died in the Tournament, little siren.”

Her heart plummeted. It seemed Larken’s prophecy was about to come true. They would soon learn what it meant to be pawns in the game of courts.

19

ROOK

Something was wrong.

Rook knew it the minute their carriage came into view of Raj’s Point. The snowflakes that had crystalized on the windowpane dissolved as he leaned forward and pressed a warm hand to the glass. He peered out the window and drank in the sight of the snow-drenched harbor, his stomach dropping with unease. Outside, Aurelia drove their team of winged horses toward the frozen harbor. She was no doubt scouring the glacial sea for any sign of Saoirse and the Tellusun merchant ship just as he was.

The northern Terradrin dockyard had been abandoned for a century. Like many Revelorian landmarks, Raj’s Point had been a casualty in the War of the Age a hundred years ago. Under the leadership of King Isandros, the Mer had launched an attack on the harbor from the sea and destroyed an entire fleet of warships. After the Tournament had been introduced as a twisted alternative to war, Aurandel did not enact the restoration of Raj’s Point. Rook’s great-grandfather had deemed the port to be obsolete and a waste of resources, leading Raj’s Point to be abandoned in favor of Aurandel’s rigorous trading revisions in the south. Skeletal, half-decimated ships lay dormant on the pier, time-worn and coated in prickly frost. The gutted hulls lay half submerged, jagged shards of splintered wood yawning open like the jaws of prowling sea monsters.

The Tellusun merchant ship Saoirse had set out on would’ve been unmistakable in the graveyard of frozen vessels. Beyond the war-torn port, the glacial Nix Sea stretched on for as far as the eye could see, its unruly waters a steel grey compared to the turquoise waves of the tropical Maeral Sea. No ships bobbed in the distance.

Rook tried to remain positive as their carriage spiraled down to the docks, fighting the apprehension that gnawed his stomach. That foreboding feeling he’d had in Tellusun pricked at the back of his mind. It was the feeling that everything had been too perfect, their luck too unsullied. For all their meticulous planning, what had they missed?

---