Briony's Story - Blood Ties (Patreon)

[Author's note: This story is the longest one so far at 15,000 words. I wrote an entire 2,000-year history of Elinden prior to writing it, and then had to squash all of that down for the story, so if there are gaps, feel free to ask about them! Some other things to keep in mind: Briony's personality here is different from her personality in the game, because after she loses her memories, she becomes what I call her "natural" state: what her personality would be like without all of this awful stuff around her. Also, do not read this story if you want Briony's background before her amnesia to be a mystery! This is spoiler extravaganza!]

[Content warnings: implied threat of sexual assault, brief allusion to suicide.]

The innkeeper was serving them personally, placing another bottle of strawberry wine on the table along with two bowls of stew and a loaf of hot bread. Briony gave him her most winning smile and said, “Any chance you have an open room?”

“For a pair of pretty girls like you and your bard friend? Always.” At Ronan’s dark look he added hastily: “And for your, ah, escort, of course.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ronan rapped out. “We won’t be staying.” 

The man stared. “But it’s Floralia!”

Ronan’s glare increased. “We won’t be staying,” he repeated, a little louder, as if the innkeeper were hard of hearing. 

The man flinched and muttered, “Of course,” before scurrying away. Once he was out of earshot, Ronan turned his deadly glower to Briony and added accusingly: “We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember? And we can’t do that if you’re flirting with every villager who looks your way.”

Briony rolled her eyes as she popped open the bottle of wine and poured out their glasses without comment. The strawberry wine—specially-brewed for Mages—warmed her blood, but it didn’t make her tipsy enough to say what she was really thinking: that it was Ronan who was attracting the most attention, out of all three of them. His harsh, penetrating stare and rakish, hawklike face had most strangers cowering every time he glanced their way. If there were going to be any stories about them after today—not that there would be, with Heather Downs as crowded as it was—those stories would be about the cantankerous Ket warrior terrorizing the village inn. Not her. 

“I’m not flirting,” she retorted, just as she heard the sounds of an instrument tuning somewhere in the hot and crowded room. “I’m being friendly and agreeable, which is what any normal person would be during Floralia. Could you relax, please? And try to look happy for Kerri. She’s been looking forward to this since forever. Her first big performance!”

Ronan only grunted and sipped at his wine, surveying the tavern over the rim of his cup. Elsewhere, Kerri was continuing to warm up, strumming on her tsirai and singing a short pair of notes and ululating trills. Festival-goers were ranged around the room, laughing, clapping, and eating; they were all heady and drunk on the thrumming energy of Floralia, the arrival of spring. Children rolled around with dogs on the floor in front of the tavern’s great hearth, shrieking; young couples nuzzled each other in the shadows at the back of the room. The people of Heather Downs had been cooped inside their houses for months, waiting out the icy storms and slinking wolves. Now, with the approach of Bes, the Green Lady, they were allowed to celebrate again—and they were taking full advantage of it. Later there would be more singing and dancing, plays, footraces, archery contests, feasting, and—most likely—lovemaking. It didn’t matter that the cold was still hanging on, grasping Elinden in its icy fist; it was clear that everyone in the village only needed an excuse for joy, not a legitimate reason. 

Then Ronan paused and frowned. The only people who didn’t seem to be enjoying themselves were those strangers in the corner: two burly men in light chainmail harassing a thin, humble-looking scholar. The scholar was seated alone at a small table, its surface littered with pens and parchment; the men were leaning over him, their hands planted firmly on top of his work, speaking in low voices. The scholar had his head down, bowed, as if expecting a blow. After a few words, he pulled a coin pouch from his breast pocket and handed it to the men in mail. 

Briony had noticed all of this, too. She paused, a chunk of bread halfway to her mouth, and said softly: “Who do you think they are?”

“Run-of-the-mill thugs,” Ronan answered curtly. “Pay them no mind.”

“They’re robbing him!”

“Ignore them.”

They sat there watching the men count out their spoils before returning the coins to the little bag. Ronan continued eating, but Briony, her gaze now fixed as raptly as a hawk’s, let her food lay untouched. When one of the men seized the scholar by his shirtfront, she shot to her feet; but Ronan’s hand flashed out and seized her wrist. 

“Leave it,” he said in a low voice, his dark eyes pinning her to the spot. “They won’t harm him in the middle of the festivities. We can’t risk you being discovered.”

Briony looked in his eyes, and her own were hard and clear. Then she smiled at him, quickly, as innocent as a child picking a flower, and said: “Relax. I’m only going to check on Kerri.” 

After a long moment, he released her reluctantly, and Briony gave him such a playful wink and grin that his suspicions were almost put at ease. Then she walked away, and he swore quietly to himself: she was making a beeline straight for the armored men.

They were still harassing the scholar, asking him to turn out his pockets. Briony was walking past them when her right knee suddenly gave way, causing her to bump into the nearest man and knocking him against the table. Startled, he dropped the scholar’s coin pouch, sending danars pelting to the ground in a rain of bronze plinks. Almost instantly, some of the sound in the room died away as nearby patrons turned to look at the source of the noise. 

Ronan put a hand to his knife as a steady stream of curses kicked up in his head.

“My apologies,” Briony said demurely, bending to pick up the coins. “My knee gives out sometimes—but here, you didn’t drop much.” She set the pouch on the table, in front of the scholar. 

“That was my money, actually,” one of the thugs said, sounding only vaguely irritated. He had a civil voice, educated. 

“Was it?” Briony said. “I could have sworn it was this gentleman’s.” She was still smiling. A few of the more sober festival-goers moved away. 

“You are mistaken,” the man said, reaching over to pick up the pouch. As he moved, something dark flashed on the underside of his wrist. Then, feeling the room’s eyes on him, he looked around and scowled, tucking the pouch into his shirt. “Come on,” he said to his companion. 

With hardly a look at either of them, he turned and made his way upstairs. The other man followed, though not before tossing another look at Briony. With their exit, the cheery atmosphere of the room returned. Within moments the festivities had resumed, and no one—save for Ronan—saw Briony gently place another coin pouch onto the scholar’s table. She gave him a wink and a silent shake of the head before she turned and made her way back to Ronan’s table. 

He glared at her, but said nothing for several moments; frosty silence reigned between them before he finally said, “A glamour?” 

Briony looked up from buttering herself another hunk of bread. “Sorry?”

“You gave the thugs a fake coin pouch and the scholar the real one. A glamour?”

“Yes, that’s right.” She couldn’t help but feel just slightly self-satisfied. “It’ll look like gold to the bullies for quite a while. Then it’ll turn into something nasty. I don’t know what, though.”

“But you’re shit at glamours.” 

She flushed angrily. “I’ve been practicing!” It was true: she was wearing one herself now, a thin illusion that made her look plain and unassuming. It wasn’t as good as one of Kerri’s, and it wouldn’t hold up to as much scrutiny, but she’d thought she’d been improving slightly.

Ronan apparently disagreed. “Cover your hair,” he said, indicating her hood. The glamour also turned her blush-pink hair a lank and mousy brown. “Just in case.” But he didn’t say a word more about her interference with the scholar and his harassers: he probably knew there was no point. And it would just start another argument between them again. 

Briony sighed, picking crumbs off of her plate. It felt like that was all they had been doing lately—arguing. It was not the kind of fighting she enjoyed.

Quite suddenly the curtains on the far end of the tavern stirred, and Kerri came somersaulting out onto the stage. Briony clapped the loudest of any of the enthusiastic audience members, and her friend (actually a very distant cousin) beamed at her. Summer-skinned and lithe, Kerri was the picture of a professional bard; there was a velvet cap set upon her short-cropped white-blonde hair—though neither did much to obscure her pointed ears—and her pale blue eyes and cheeks were shining with excitement. She gave a dramatic strum of her tsirai and cried in the traditional manner: “Ay! Gather ‘round, and hear well the tale of the Serengard clan, voices and protectors of the land!”

Briony and Ronan glanced at each other as others in the tavern murmured and leaned forward. This was how Kerri had gotten this prized performance slot, so sought-after by other traveling bards and minstrels—even though she herself was only an aspiring novice. She had promised the innkeeper an exclusive insight into the reclusive Serengard clan, and apparently people had traveled from the next town over just to hear her story. 

This portion of the day was generally reserved for interactive storytelling with the youth, so Kerri directed her next lines to the eager children on the floor, all of them clamoring for her attention. “It all began thousands of years ago,” she said in hushed tones, “when the first falling star fell into the sea!”

“Galla!” the children cried, filling in the gaps of her story. 

“That’s right, my lovelies, great Galla! A flaming star as big as the Polar Candle! And from its destruction rose a great land out of the waves!”

“Elinden!”

“Yes, yes, our fair Elinden!” She galloped and pranced all over the stage, never seeming to lose energy as people clapped and laughed. “And what happened next? The first people came to the island, fleet by fleet, delivered by the gods themselves! Elves, Hunters, Ket, and Mages!” She paused for dramatic effect, strumming a little tune that rose in urgency. “Together they formed…”

“Nimith!” Wave Country, the coastal province of the Mages.

“Tuatha!” River Country, the central province of the Elves.

“Aesir!” Snow Country, the western province of the Hunters.

“Rhovan!” Stone Country, the northern province of the Ket.

Kerri sang a short song about each of Elinden’s provinces, likening them to the four seasons and switching to a different instrument for each piece. For a while Briony lost herself in the somber notes that described Snow Country; the powerful swells that denoted her own Wave Country. She had traveled every inch of Elinden, and the music evoked a strange longing in her, a homesickness even though she was already home. 

Then Kerri finished, arriving to the part that Briony had been dreading. She leaned in close to the children and said, “But who would lead these disparate peoples? Who would rule over star-made Elinden?”

“Gwydion Starfell!”

“Yes, yes, the Pendragon! Our first High King!” 

What came after was a long and winding history of Elinden and its people. “Gwydion Starfell” was the land’s first unifier, a man with supposedly equal parts Mage, Hunter, Ket, and Elvish blood. As such, each of Elinden’s separate factions felt they had a champion in Gwydion: he was of their blood, after all, and each had an equal stake in respecting and preserving his rule. He was by nature the fairest of any king, owing his allegiance to no one particular race or clan. 

Thereafter, his line—the Serengards—became the first kings, queens, and rulers of Elinden, each descendant marrying a consort from one of the different provinces to ensure the same equality and fairness in their rule. Gwydion’s descendants, too, boasted that they shared blood with every single person on Elinden—at least in a spiritual sense. In ancient times, and perhaps even today, it was a unifying concept—a kind of superstitious belief system—that formed the very basis of political and governmental life on the isle. 

“But then civil war came,” Kerri said, her voice dropping to the macabre tones of someone telling a horror story. The children pretended to hide, or cried out, “No!” 

Kerri swapped costumes, donning something like a hag’s cloak. “Elspeth the Betrayer ousted the Serengards from their throne! They were driven out of their own royal castle: Caer Astolat, built on the remains of the fallen star Dhracia itself!” 

The children broke into a chorus of theatrical crying and wailing. Ronan made a face of distaste at the noise, and Briony used the excuse to take a break and recuse herself to the privy. Outside, she gulped down the crisp cold air of reluctant spring, her cheeks and nose pinking in the harsh wind. She stayed for a while, taking in the village green, currently empty since everyone was inside taking their noonday meals and listening to entertainers and bards tell their different stories. Later this green would be occupied by several ceremonies: young adolescents would undergo their rites of adulthood here, and lovers would choose partners to tie to the flower-adorned springpole with colored ribbons—signifying the bonds of love.

Inside, she heard more mock shouts of dismay, muffled though they were by the icy wind and the inn’s sturdy stone walls. Ronan would be looking for her soon, but Briony wanted to skip this part as much as possible. She knew all too well what happened next: the Serengards falling from grace, the survivors exiled and pursued by their enemies to the remotest parts of Wave Country, the side facing the strange Nysos Sea. Thereafter, Elinden fell into a long, tumultuous period of upheaval and civil war, the government dissolving as warlords, rival factions, and squabbling clans all vied to fill the power vacuum—with none succeeding. The isle went without a proper ruler for the next several hundred years.  

She slipped back inside, her hearing dampening as she shut the door on the howling wind and the sounds of the crowd came rushing back. Unfortunately, she reentered at the worst time, because one of the adults cried, “But what of the Serengards?”—as if to urge the story along.

Kerri took the interruption with more grace and aplomb than Briony could have managed. “Ah, the Serengards!” she cried. “Well, we know part of the story: although their enemies tried to destroy them, the common people still loved the their old royal family! Even exiled, even stripped of their former power, they are still a symbol of our national pride! The will of the people, the voices of the land!”

“The voices of the land!” the villagers echoed.

Briony returned to the table; Ronan glanced up and said, “Your timing was poor.” 

She wanted to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “I hate this part,” she whispered to him.

The candlelight caught in his dark eyes; they weren’t soft, exactly, but he seemed sympathetic. “Kerri says it’s always the most popular bit,” he answered, not without pity. 

Briony closed her eyes as their friend went on. Although they had fallen from their former political, social, and military power, the Serengards were still respected by those who remembered the might of their rule, and over time it became something of a tradition for hopeful unifiers and would-be rulers to seek out their favor. By birth, the Serengards had "the blood of Elinden" flowing through their veins, so they seemed uniquely situated to extend their regard and judge a hopeful leader on the collective behalf of Elinden’s people. The campaigners that were recognized as potential rulers then gained the support of those who still believed the Serengards were impartial conduits for the commonfolk, representing them and sharing equally in their blood; and those the Serengards rejected quickly lost the public goodwill. In this way, the Serengards became known somewhat as oracles, arbiters and kingmakers, dubbed the koryfades: “the will of the land.” There were even rumors that the clan, with their wholly "Elinden" blood and Pendragon ancestry, possessed some sort of ability where they could “raise the land” against the unworthy; that they represented and channeled the collective will of Elinden itself; and that those they judged contemptible would somehow be swallowed whole by the earth and damned. 

This was how the Serengards clung to their last vestiges of power and influence. However, they could only maintain this belief in their status as “the voices of the people” and “the will of the land” by preserving the “equal” nature of their blood. Kerri imparted the details of this to the audience, who had no access to the mysterious Serengards, secreted away as they were in their high fortress in Nimith. Each Serengard clan-member was married in such a way that their children would turn out with equal parts Hunter, Elf, Mage, and Ket heritage, as closely as possible. In this manner, ten generations of bloodlines, lineages, and marriages were already planned out for each Serengard child, long before they were born. Their own descendants had been decided before they even took a breath. Contracts were even formed among appropriate families to begin marrying off their children to other clans, producing offspring that would serve as suitable future spouses for Serengard scions generations down the line. 

Briony’s stomach turned as sounds of awe and admiration rippled across the listening crowd. They approved of this process, thought it necessary to preserve this prestigious—but ultimately useless—bloodline. To the commonfolk, it was like something out of myth, something magical and strange and ritualistic. They did not see the thing for what it really was: the breeding of people in the same way stallions and mares were put out to stud and sire. 

Kerri left out, too, the even uglier truths behind the Serengards' constant marriage negotiations and birthing contracts. They were one of the few clans left in the isle that employed the ancient practice of taking multiple spouses or consorts. Once a Serengard had fulfilled their duty to bear the proper children, they could wed a second spouse or concubine: typically this second marriage was for love or pleasure, the first only a cold and tolerated contracted duty. The key difference was that children with the second spouse were strictly forbidden, on pain of death; that the second spouse did and could not exercise the same legal rights as the first; and that both spouses had to live within the same household: for reasons that made her head hurt, divorce or separation was never an option. Briony's own birth mother, weakened from two difficult childbirths, had not been able to withstand the shame of the situation, nor the sly and competitive machinations of her husband's other wife: she had opened her throat with her maiden's blade when Briony was barely four, and her adoptive mother—that same second wife—openly despised her. Her own father, viewing her only as a product of a business arrangement he himself had only fulfilled as a matter of duty, viewed her on the best days with apathy and indifference. 

She quelled the acid rising in her stomach just as Kerri launched into the second part of her set: a fictional story about a maiden battling a dragon, loosely based on Briony’s own disastrous exploits involving a giant wyvern. As the hours passed, she managed to dispel her own unease somewhat, shoving the tense thoughts in the back of her mind; and by the time Kerri wrapped up her performance, Briony was able to smile and cheer her on with genuine enthusiasm.  

“Woof,” the bard said, blowing out a breath as she collapsed into a chair amidst waves of resounding applause. She snatched up a goblet of the strawberry wine, long gone warm, and drank greedily. “How was it? Did you notice how I stumbled, during that poem about the king?”

“You did beautifully,” Briony assured her, and even Ronan spared a moment to nod and smile. Kerri was practically bubbling over with happiness. This was her first large-scale performance outside of their home, and it was the general belief that—if all went well—this show could launch her career. They spent some time happily reviewing the performance before Kerry suddenly stopped and speared Briony with a contrite look.

“I am sorry, you know,” she said, looking down into her cup. “About all of that Serengard trollop. People like to hear it—in fact, they eat it up, you saw—but I imagine it’s not nice for you to hear. Hael, even I felt uncomfortable, talking about it to a bunch of strangers.”

Briony forced a tight, fierce smile. “I loved it,” she said. “I hope word gets back to the clan elders and it makes them furious.”

“I don’t,” Ronan said flatly. His small smile was gone, replaced by his usual expression of impatience; Kerri had once said that he came out of the womb looking surly. “They’ll lose their minds if they find out Briony was ever near any of this. We need to head back before they notice we’ve been gone.”

They had lied to everyone in Caer Seren, of course, conjuring up some story about going for a long ride and a picnic by an inland lake. It wouldn’t be unusual for them to return after sunset; but if they wanted to make it back without arousing suspicion, they needed to leave Heather Downs now.

Kerri frowned. “I thought you wanted to take part in the sword bouts,” she said, looking at Briony. “They’re on in about an hour. We could spare the time, couldn’t we?”

Briony felt a sharp spark of shame in her stomach and looked at Ronan. He was looking back at her, without expression. It was if his face had turned to stone.

“Never mind that,” she said in a low voice, forcing a smile. She looked at Kerri, feeling the weight of Ronan's gaze. “We came here for you. Sword bouts can wait for some other time.” 

They rose and gathered their things with a distinctly-awkward silence hanging over them. Briony met Ronan’s eyes once as they were girding the horses; then she looked away. His family had served hers since before the Storm Age, the era of civil wars that had—until very recently—torn Elinden asunder. Ronan’s clan had been with the Serengards when they still ruled the isle, acting as their royal guard and retainers. When the Serengards were exiled from Caer Astolat, the Partholon clan had followed. Ronan had been Briony’s personal bodyguard since before they could read.

Their relationship had always been one of easy comfort and companionship—until “the incident” a year and a half ago. In a fury, Briony had run away from Caer Seren—one of the many times she’d done so—after an argument with her parents, joining a neighboring militia in a sheer, ugly act of rebellion. There had been a civil war raging, then, between parts of Wave Country and different armies of warlords and bandit-leaders still vying for domination and spoils. Briony had masqueraded as a young soldier because--well, battle was one of the few things that brought her true joy in life, to the point where Kerri called her bloodthirsty for it. Once free of the castle's impositions, fighting was the only thing she thought to do. It was what she was good at; it was what she knew. She joined a tactical strike force under a false name for over eleven months, fighting in border skirmishes and ambushes and raids under the command of a slightly grizzled Ket captain about ten years her senior. Then the war ended—summarily and decisively squashed by the new High King—and she'd made the decision to return home, if only to let them know that she was still alive. 

No one had welcomed her home with a smile, and certainly not with any words of gladness or relief. She had managed to get away with such abscondences and misadventures when she was younger: she'd trained under an Elven swordmaster for one year, ran away and illicitly joined a knight's tournament on her sixteenth birthday, and had even been allowed to travel the length of Elinden for several years with Ronan and Kerri in tow, with the hopes that such a journey would tame her by the time she was of marriageable age. But the closer she drew to her child-birthing years, the more her blood became too precious to risk—and of course, joining a warfront as a soldier was unthinkable. Upon her return, she’d been punished heavily for her insolence: her weapons were taken away from her, as well as her ahfuri and horse, and she was sentenced to confinement to the castle for the next three years. No more sailing trips around the island; no going to the shore at all. No practicing her swordplay in the training grounds. Even when she paced the castle pastures, she was watched always by vigilant Partholon Ket, called Weapons, who were ready to run her down on horses at a moment's notice.

But it was Ronan who’d endured the worst of it. He was her bodyguard, and the fact that she’d been allowed to slip out of his watch and endanger herself was unforgivable. Never mind that everyone knew about her uncanny strength and explosive magical power; never mind that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and had proved it time and time again. For his failure he’d been demoted, stripped of his titles, and publicly whipped in the castle courtyard.

“Let that be a deterrent to you,” his father had told her at the time. He'd known from the look on her face that she was contemplating running away again, this time permanently. “If you care not for the regard of your parents and elders—if you care not for the reputation of the clan and your own wellbeing—then perhaps you will think twice before harming your friends again. The next time you run away from your duty, I'll have both of them thrown in the dungeons for the rest of their lives.” 

It was a leash around her a neck, a way to ensure that she wouldn’t step out of place again. Briony—at the heights of her anger—was perfectly willing to risk her own safety if it meant freedom: she had even outright told her father he would have to kill her to keep her in Caer Seren more than once, a threat she knew he would never act on. Serengard blood could not be spilt. But she had never expected him to hold Ronan and Kerri against her. 

She had raged over Ronan’s punishment, had begged for his mercy and, later, had wept many times for his forgiveness. She had apologized to him over and over, until it felt like it was all she ever said. But what was worst was that Ronan never spoke a word of reprimand towards her, had never even given her a look of admonishment. He had taken his punishment and borne it silently. He had even helped her plan her initial escape—though it went against his Ket nature and was, she was sure, a result of her near-constant wheedling, bribing, arguing, and outright pleading. But the guilt was there, and things between them had been stilted and unbearably awkward ever since. 

He was risking much now, she knew, bringing them here to watch Kerri’s performance in Heather Downs. She thought of that as they left the village, the horses plodding along the dirt road that led back to the coast. The day was growing dark and cloudy, the sky a dull wintry grey despite the springtime energy of Floralia. Briony struggled to keep her hood up even as the biting wind snapped it back. The rules of her confinement had loosened slightly, but the clan elders would still not be happy about her mingling with the commoners in Heather Downs: the Serengard mystique had to be maintained, and there were those who would try to kidnap or even kill a clan heir for political reasons, even if she was only the second-born. She had disguised herself to keep from being recognized by both Serengard spies and any enemies the clan might still have out in the wider world. But if they had been caught… She shook her head. It didn’t bear thinking about. 

The horses walked along contentedly. The horizon was the same as ever: green, rolling, lush, dotted with the occasional farm or little dale. They passed only one rider on the road, who pulled off as soon as she heard them approaching from behind. The air was stale, in the windless, stagnant way before a storm. 

Kerri chattered on, no doubt sensing the awkward impasse between them and filling it up with easy, airy talk. Briony tried to listen, nodding and smiling along well enough to fool even Ronan—but inside, she was trying to quell the sudden strange anxiety she was feeling. Quite abruptly she just wanted to be safely home already, in from the cold… but it would an hour more before they got there.

She was still intent on listening to Kerri when she spotted the man standing on the side of the road. Ronan said nothing, only putting a hand to his waist, where he wore his belt of knives. 

Kerri didn’t seem to see the man at all: he was wearing dun-colored clothing that blended in with the dirt path and the occasional trees that lined it, so that he almost looked like an oddly-shaped signpost. It was only belatedly that Kerri stopped talking, stiffening in her saddle as she finally spotted him. Briony also tensed. She had not been allowed to bring her sword with her: the rest of Caer Seren thought they were going on a picnic nearby, so why would she need a weapon?

Ronan clicked his tongue at them, a signal for them to be on their guard. If they could help it, they would avoid a confrontation: a trio of fighters garnered much more attention than they needed, especially if anyone saw Briony fighting. It wouldn’t take anyone special to put two and two together after hearing reports of that spectacle. 

The man at the side of the road set his hand on the ironwood cudgel that dangled at his hip as they approached. Then he stepped forward, blocking their path, and said, “Ho, friends.”

At his voice Briony felt a jolt in the back of her neck: he was one of the men from the inn, the ones who had been harassing that scholar. This was the quiet one, the one who hadn’t said much when she’d interfered—but where was his friend?

She looked around, seeing nothing, and Ronan shook his head at her even as her gut churned. Briony made some quick assessments in her head. They could either attempt to pass the man, stop and indulge him, or fight him. The first would probably still lead to conflict, if he meant them ill; the second might lead to conflict but might not, especially if Kerri could defuse things; and the third was obviously not an option. 

She glanced again at Ronan. He remained stone-faced, but there was a flicker of deep annoyance in his eyes. He drew his horse to a halt.

Kerri and Briony followed suit, and the man grinned widely. Beneath his shabby clothes was that light coat of mail, as well as various pieces of plunder: an irregular cross, a gold necklace, multiple rings. A bandit, Briony thought. Though he looked a little too well-fed. Besides the cudgel, there was an array of vicious (though crude) weapons hooked through his belt. A high-pitched ringing, a familiar friend from her army days, suddenly kicked up inside her head. 

“Good afternoon,” Kerri called lightly when Briony and Ronan remained silent. They had not gotten the chance yet to tell her about the men and the scholar they'd robbed in the inn, but the bard could probably put together what his intentions were.

“Good afternoon,” the bandit said, his voice as pleasant and civil as the other one’s had been. “How do you fare on this fine day? I saw a bit of your performance, miss, and I have to say your voice is like an angel’s.”

Kerri smiled faintly, though her eyes were uncertain. “Thank you kindly.” 

Briony could feel the magic bridling in her blood, almost eager for action, and she clamped down on it, tightly. “Do you need something?” she asked in a strained voice. Out of the corner of her eye she suddenly noticed six other men standing on both sides of the road, and now she broke out in a cold sweat: how had she not noticed them there before? Eight months into her forced break from fighting, and she was getting dull and sloppy. 

The man laughed. His face was swarthy and made him look older than he really was, but his laugh was youthful. Gentle. “Indeed I do, miss. Kindly hop down from your horse.” He looked at Ronan, who merely stared back, his face set in that impenetrable way. “You too, if you please.”

Briony hesitated, but Ronan and Kerri were already sliding off of their mounts. She felt her magic flare up again, this time behind her ribs, burning like liquid fire. She wanted to bite her tongue in shame and vexation. If they made a scene or fought these men off, news of their exploits might reach Caer Seren, and then the elders would know what they had been doing when they were accosted. If they handed over their things now, they could go on their way, the bandits would leave, and they could invent some story about the horses being spooked and their belongings blowing away in the wind. 

But a part of her chafed at the idea, gnashed at the proverbial bit. No. She was not going to let these thugs rob them in broad daylight!

“Cecile,” Ronan said, his voice harsh, “get off your horse.”

Feeling sick and hot-eyed with indignation, she obeyed. 

“Good girl,” the bandit said, nodding with approval. He gestured, and the rest of the men moved forward, checking the horses, examining hooves, teeth, and eyes. They were experts, moving with quick efficiency. Briony noticed one of them was the man she’d bumped—and she also noticed that all of them sported the same tattoos on the underside of their wrists. Something that looked like a black lightning bolt…

Her eyes widened. The new High King’s flag looked like that. Kaza Lightning-Cutter. These men couldn’t be affiliated with him, could they?

One man, looking over her horse Talat, suddenly clicked his tongue in approval; he exchanged a significant glance with the bandit leader, who nodded. Briony couldn’t help but blurt: “Please, sir, at least leave us the one. They belong to my cousin, who I promised—” 

The man cut her off with an abrupt gesture. “Listen, mistress, this will go along much easier if you don't speak. Excuses aren't gold, and I'd hate to give you a scar for that pretty face.” He gave her a chilly smile, but otherwise didn’t seem moved. “We’ll get this done quickly and you can be on your way.”

They had to stand there in silence, watching as the men laid down their possessions with military efficiency. They unhooked the saddlebags and pulled out clothes, blankets, flint and tinder, books, a map. They also carefully laid down the remnants of the trio’s “picnic” lunch: a bundle of soft bread, cured meat, cheese, and a few ripe larkon fruit. There was charch, though none of them smoked, and a bottle of ink. And Kerri’s songbook, where she recorded all of her lyrics, poems, and tales. 

“That’s all of it, Hulagh, except what they have on them,” one man said. 

The man called Hulagh stepped forward to poke idly through the contents now spread out on the road. Briony watched, burning, while Kerri turned her eyes away and Ronan gazed on with perfect indifference. Only a lifelong companion could detect the displeasure kindling in him, lined in the slight tension in his shoulders. 

Hulagh took the fruit, meat, and bread, as well as the charch and one of Ronan’s spare belts. Briony could feel the anger in her blazing, turning her heart to molten vinegar, but she kept still, tight-lipped and trembling. This is stupid, a part of her thought. But I must bear with it, or Ronan and Kerri will suffer the consequences. I can do it. This will hurt nothing but my pride. 

Another part of her—the ferocious, vengeful side, the one that raced along with that strange energy inside her and sometimes frightened her deeply—whispered: Tear his arm off.  

One of the men picked up Kerri’s songbook, and the bard yelped in protest; even Ronan stiffened, for there were Serengard secrets recorded there, and they didn’t want anyone to know of their association. Briony opened her mouth to protest, but it became obvious the man couldn’t read. He set the songbook back down, and they began to repack the bags.

Hulagh turned to Briony and swept her a bow. “Not so bad, was it? A king's man always keeps his word.” His eyes were loud and blue in his tanned face. Briony felt a hot itch in her heart and wanted to strike him as hard as she could. 

“King’s men, you say?” she asked through her teeth. “I didn’t realize the king was in the habit of robbing travelers.” 

But the king was another warlord, she knew, or had been one. A brutal conqueror who had united Elinden through sheer force, cunning, and ruthlessness. All of the clan heads and province leaders had long since bent the knee to him, but he had only just claimed Caer Astolat and moved into the royal castle last month, cementing his reign as Elinden’s new High King. But this was how he would treat his subjects? By allowing his men to take whatever they wanted from them?

Then again, she knew there were bandits masquerading as king’s soldiers around the island, falsely using his authority to sanction and carry out their mischief. The common people did not truly know Kaza Lightning-Cutter as their king yet, were not used to him, his laws, or his ways—so it was hard to dispute who was acting under his orders and who was not. 

The bandit leader did not rise to her bait. “Let’s have the coin pouch,” he said to Ronan.

Rigidly, Ronan reached under his cloak and drew out his coin pouch, dropping it silently into the man’s hand. The man grinned up into his face, clearly unafraid. Briony wondered if he thought Ronan a coward for his compliance. But how could anyone look up into that fierce, noble face and think it belonged to a coward?  

How can you not see how much you’re tempting fate? she wanted to demand. 

But Ronan remained expressionless, staring straight ahead as Hulagh counted out the money. “Not bad,” he said approvingly, dumping it all back into the pouch and drawing the string tight. “The king thanks you for your generosity.” 

He stepped aside to allow his men to place the re-packed bags at their feet. Kerri made to snatch hers up, but one of the men reached out and caught her wrist. Both Briony and Ronan tensed. 

“Let her go,” Briony said, feeling as if her vision had narrowed; her lips hardly moved, and she sounded airless, strange. “Now.”

Hulagh jerked his head, and four men moved to flank Ronan, whom a great stillness had fallen over. Hulagh himself stepped forward to seize Briony’s arm.

“You should be much more careful about who you kakk around with, miss,” he whispered to her. This close, she saw suddenly that he had the faintest hint of the iladrin in his eyes. He was a Mage! “There are many in these parts who’d kill you for that trick you pulled with our coin. Lucky for you, I saw it right away. Along with your pink hair.” His eyes flickered over her face. “We decided a captive Serengard was worth much more gold than some scholar’s wallet.”

She couldn’t speak. Kerri said something, but Briony didn’t hear it; and Ronan had a strange light in his eyes, his brows snapped downwards in a look of cold rage, but for the moment, no one seemed to know what to do.  

“Bring the pretty one,” Hulagh said to his men, and then he began to tug Briony towards the trees, with half of the men following: the other half remained near Ronan. Kerri cried out in protest, and Briony said finally, tonelessly: “You don’t want to do this. Just let us go and we can all go on our way.”

Hulagh looked back at her. “Do not try to resist,” he said in a low tone, “or we will hurt your friends. Badly.”

The storm in Briony’s blood broke, and she lashed out, as hard as she could, her hand erupting in a shower of white flame. Her fist connected solidly with the side of Hulagh’s face; she heard bones break. His head snapped back, and his hair ignited; he let out a low scream. One of the other men grabbed her, but no more than that; there was a quicksilver streak in the air, and the man fell with Ronan’s dagger sprouting out of his throat. 

Briony turned and punched another man in the sternum; his body flew back into the trunk of a tree and nearly shattered it, bark showering down in splinters as he slumped lifelessly to the ground. His body was as crumpled and wadded up as a piece of discarded parchment. 

Her vision whited out after that. All Briony felt was the sense of someone grimly setting to work, though the screams of the dying echoed somewhere far away from her. She did not even pick up a weapon, did not move for the maiden's blade strapped to her inner thigh, to protect her from this very kind of threat. She simply moved, hit, flamed—the golden tide of magic and arma rose within her, drowning everything else out. She sensed herself moving almost too fast to see, her limbs a phantom blur, her whole body as light as air. A pressure gathered at the front of her skull. Then released when it sensed that all were dead. 

When she blinked again, she was standing over a field of charred and smoking bodies. Ronan and Kerri stood there, tugging on her arms, talking to her, unharmed. 

Briony stirred and looked at the destruction she’d wrought. She felt nothing but a cool disconnected bafflement, as if she were staring at a painting she didn’t understand. It looked like lightning had struck the clearing, electrocuting everyone who stood in it to death. It was as if some enormous, immeasurable force had bowled them over, crushing their flesh and bones to nothing. One man had disintegrated on the spot. 

Ronan was shaking her, slapping her face lightly. Briony blinked and sensed that there was blood—not her own—dripping down her cheek. 

“That’s good,” Ronan was saying. “The dead are no witnesses. No one will miss them.”

Kerri was looking at her with concern, but her next words belied it. “We need to bury them, so no one can know what happened here.”

Briony passed a hand over her eyes; her fingers were bloody, but they weren’t shaking. “Hurry,” she heard herself say. “The storm is moving in.”

#

They returned to Caer Seren and gave no signs that anything had gone amiss. If Briony’s family—or anyone in the fortress—suspected anything, they didn’t act like it, and soon enough several weeks had passed without any ambushes or sudden confrontations about where the three had really gone. 

None of them spoke about what had happened with the bandits, though for the first few nights Briony suddenly found herself weeping out of nowhere. Killing, even for a “sheltered” Serengard heir, and even ignoring her stint as a soldier, was commonplace in Elinden; it was simply a part of life on the harsh isle, and all three of them had killed before, the first time when the girls were ten and Ronan was twelve. But she was frightened by herself, a little, by the unthinking violence of her actions and the destructive, demanding energy that bridled within her. It had always been there, even since she was a child, but in recent years it had gotten harder to contain. It was the same wild energy that made horses start sprinting out of nowhere, or children wanting to scream for no reason—something part joyful, part ferocious, part mad. Except where a child might break into a sudden tantrum, she wanted to pulverize trees, level walls with her fists. Push mountains out of shape. Make craters in the earth bigger than Caer Seren itself. She knew she could do it. That was perhaps the worst part.

She did not know what it was, and she could not ask anyone else. Ronan didn’t know, and Kerri had once unhelpfully offered to write a song about it—and none of the other Serengards had inherited her particular abilities, some explosive mix of racial powers that never should have seen the light of day. So when the feeling came, when the energy raged in her blood and set her limbs aflame with the desire to unleash it—she held fast and didn’t speak a word of it to anyone. She resolved to bury it down inside of herself, always. If she let that energy loose again, there was no telling what it might do—or if she could clamp her control down on it a second time. 

The months passed, and Kerri began to be called away from the castle to travel to different towns and cities throughout Elinden, word of her performance in Heather Downs spreading. Even a small Elvish township in River Country invited her, keen to hear about the elusive Serengards, and she took a rivership down through the marshes into their floating village, where they lived on house boats. Briony was happy for her, but she was also keenly jealous. With her birthday approaching, she was being forced to participate in all sorts of stupid activities, like learning to sew and choosing dresses; they were preparing for the day she would meet her future husband.

Her father had proved close-mouthed on this topic, despite the fact that it had been decided long before even he was born. It was Kerri who’d gone looking in the archives, unearthing a marriage contract with some clan of fairly high prominence, promising their Ket-Mage son to Briony, whose first child would marry one of the Hunter-Elves of another noble family. From Kerri’s investigations, they had learned this much: her intended was plain-looking and taciturn, but loyal; he could be trusted to treat his wife well, having a gentle disposition, and he was good with money, as he managed his clan’s accounts. And he was likely a virgin. That was all.

Tolerable, but unexciting: that was the best Briony could say about the matter. As the day of her birthday approached and plans for her betrothed’s first visit were made, her spirits sank lower and lower, until all she did was sleep in her rooms, train alone or with Ronan in the castle courtyard, and go for long rides along the shore. Sometimes she sat and stared out at the turquoise waves, white-capped and frothing, and thought about walking out into them. It was not a desire for self-destruction; there was something comforting about her Elinden sea, the sounds of which had lulled her to sleep all her life. It would be like walking into the arms of a mother who loved her fiercely, she fantasized. Sleeping in a watery bower both protective and safe.

The day before her birthday, she looked up from a game of Tettle with Ronan and espied a carriage making its way to the castle entrance. For a moment, her heart leapt into her throat—was that her would-be husband, come here as an early surprise?—but then she saw a tall woman with slippered feet and a bob of short dark hair emerging from the carriage, and she scowled. Anwyn, her older sister by ten years. What was she doing here?

Ronan looked up and followed her line of sight. “She must be visiting your parents,” he said, his expression of dislike obvious. Although he and Briony had their differences, it had always been their habit to make each other’s enemies their own. 

Briony made a face. “I’m surprised her husband let her come this far alone.” Anwyn had married the prestigious provincial lord of Stone Country; his family had such standing that it was the first clan in several years that a Serengard had married into, rather than the other way around. As a result, the felicitous union had given Anwyn a massive chip on her shoulder—or a new “feather in her cap,” as Kerri put it more politely.

Ronan looked over the top of Briony’s head. They were sitting on the floor of the room at the top of the unused observatory tower, having made that space something of their own “clubhouse” in their youth. From this height, they could see the wide breadth of the lush teal sea, for Caer Seren sat at the top of rocky sea-facing bluffs, guarding its back against invaders. Down the coast was the faint outline of Port Cymria, Elinden’s largest bay.  

“Will you go to meet her?” he asked, watching Anwyn and her horde of servants progress into the castle.

Briony huffed. “She wouldn’t want me to,” she said. “I’ll wait until dinner: no need to charge headfirst into battle without preparing myself.”

Ronan snorted, but he did not dispute that dealing with her sister was like engaging a hostile enemy in the field. 

Later she went to her rooms and dressed, putting on her most mannish tunic and trousers: it was a pointed contrast to Anwyn’s gown and fineries. As she and Ronan made their way to the dining hall, where undoubtedly there would be a celebratory dinner welcoming Anwyn home, they ran into Anwyn herself, about to enter with a cadre of giggling attendants and ladies-in-waiting.

“Hello, sister,” Anwyn said peaceably, smiling at them. 

“Hello,” Briony answered. The clan elders had tried, on multiple occasions, to teach her how to sound friendly when she did not feel friendly, but the best she could manage was to say very little.

Anwyn opened her slender arms, as if requesting a hug. She was statuesque in height, much taller than Briony herself: where it seemed Briony had inherited a large portion of magic and arma from their bloodline, Anwyn seemed to have drawn more Elvish beauty and grace. Those who knew the Serengards often commented on the contrast: Anwyn was said to be the beauty of the island, clever and far-seeing, whereas Briony was known as the “unruly” heir, a wild child with a mutinous streak. The kindest adjectives she’d heard about herself were “proud,” “fierce,” “headstrong,” “stubborn,” and “impulsive,” things which were also used to describe a prized mule. 

She shuffled awkwardly forward to place herself in Anwyn’s embrace: her sister smelled of powder and fine perfume, and her hair brushed like silk against her cheek. Anwyn said, her voice too low for anyone else to hear: “Look at you. Your hair’s far too long—it covers your face like shag.”

Briony’s shoulder stiffened, and she stepped away. How like Anwyn to aggravate her within two sentences! Her entire life, she’d worn her hair short and been called boyish for it, especially by Anwyn; now she’d grown it out, to about her shoulders, and of course the court fashion had it so that women with short hair were now all the rage. And Anwyn acted like it had been her idea all along!

She said, her voice steady, “Why are you here?”

Anwyn laughed, and the sound was like tinkling glass. “Dear one,” she said, “how could I miss your birthday? Your coming-of-age?”

Briony faltered; she looked at Ronan, who raised his eyebrows. “You… you came home for me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Anwyn brushed past her and made her way into the dining hall. “I have to see for myself who you will be marrying.”

They went together into the hall, which was vast enough to house all the multitudes of the Serengard clan: the dozens—sometimes even hundreds, on holidays—of cousins, aunts, uncles, great-great-grandfathers and great-grand-children twice removed that lived on the Caer Seren grounds. Briony sat at the central table, a place of honor, beside Anwyn, who was the guest being celebrated; Ronan took his place standing along the far wall with the other Weapons. He often ate at her table—a privilege Briony had fought tooth and nail in her childhood to obtain—but Anwyn would never allow it, so tonight he would wait. 

On the dais raised in front of the central table, along the north wall of the room, the white-clothed table reserved for the clan elders and leaders towered like some kind of blockish ghost. Briony’s parents were at that table, too, as Briony’s father Valen was current head of the clan, though he was often more beholden to the opinions of the other elders and leaders than he liked to let on. He stared down at his two daughters at the central table and raised a glass of honey-wine in salute. 

“To Anwyn,” he said, his voice reverberating along the hall. Immediately, the other clan-members hushed.  

Beside him, their father's second wife also raised her glass. Although she had disliked Briony from the outset, dubbing the Serengard second-born daughter as useless to her ambitions, she had always endeared herself to Anwyn, who would have legal say over how the consort would be provided for should Valen meet an untimely death. For a moment Briony wondered if the woman would be able to force herself to toast Briony—it was the eve of her birthday and official coming-of-age, after all—or if she would pay her the insult of also toasting Anwyn, but Hesrae said instead: “To our newest Serengard child!”

Briony froze as everyone else in the hall raised their glasses and echoed the toast. She looked sidelong at Anwyn, who kept her eyes demurely on her plate, smiling quietly. She managed to piece it together as excited cousins and even servants came around to make their well wishes. Anwyn was pregnant with her first child. She’d returned to Caer Seren to make that announcement—timing it perfectly with Briony’s birthday celebration, of course. And leaving her sister to be the last to know. 

Briony nearly laughed. Her sister thought it would bother her, that she would swoop in and steal the show, but Briony liked having the attention on anything else but her. Her impending engagement—and her upcoming meeting with her betrothed—was not something she wanted to celebrate. She didn’t even look upon her coming-of-age with any measure of enthusiasm. So in fact she was glad to have something else for the elders to focus on; she smiled and clapped along with everyone else. Anwyn did not look at her again during the meal, clearly displeased.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t last, for soon talk of Anwyn’s baby turned to speculation about Briony’s future firstborn. Briony clenched her jaw as the elders talked, right in front of her, about what her child’s name would be, and whether it would be better if it manifested the signature pink hair of the Serengards—said to match queen’s brier, Elinden’s national flower—or if it was more sensible if the baby took after its father.  

Briony felt a little of the heat bubble up in her throat and said, “What if I’m unable to conceive? Or what if the father is impotent?”

Her words cut through the chatter and babble of the dining hall, and soon many people fell silent as they stared at her. She gazed up at the elders on their raised dais and watched as their faces changed from contented pride to disapproval and dislike. 

“Briony,” Hesrae began to say severely. “That is not—”

“It is a necessary question, Mother,” Briony said, her voice still quiet, although it felt as if the sound carried far. “I find it hard to believe that in all the generations of Serengards since Gwydion, we haven’t had any ancestors who were infertile, or simply uninterested in sex with their intendeds.” She paused, her brain telling her to shut up, but something urged her on. “I suppose it would be easy enough to find a baby to adopt,” she continued, “or a surrogate or even a lover to meet needs where a spouse might not. No one would be able to tell the difference, not really: we don’t have any way to test if someone really has the Elinden blood. You can just say you do, and no one could prove otherwise.”

“Briony,” her father said then, his voice like cut steel. “Sit down and be quiet, or suffer the consequences.”

The air around her flared dangerously; Briony gripped her clay flagon hard enough for it to crack. What kind of father threatened his daughter so casually? And about such a stupid topic, anyway?

She met Ronan’s eyes, then, but she couldn’t read his expression. He at least wasn’t shaking his head, so she forged onward: “If you think about it, multiple people in the clan could be frauds, if they wanted to be. All the Serengard name is that—a name. You can put the name on anything.” She stared up at her father; stared into the strange violet eyes that she had inherited. Their blood was so tarnished, so patchwork, that at times she felt she was part of some motley collection of dolls with mismatched parts. “It takes nothing to pretend at former greatness.”

Something shattered, then, and Briony nearly toppled to the floor; her father had broken the legs of her chair with his magic, unseating her. She shot to her feet in an instant, and for one hot, dangerous moment, she thought about unleashing the fury within her, the heat coiling madly in her heart like a wound spring. A part of her nearly set his chair on fire, and would have been glad to see it burn. 

Then she looked, and Anwyn was staring at her, her hand pressed to her still-flat stomach. All the anger fled out of Briony then; suddenly she felt very tired, and very small, and very sad. Her limbs felt watery. 

“Leave,” her father said, practically spitting it. 

Briony shoved herself away from the table and fled.

#

No one came to check on her that evening except for Ronan, who slept in the room beside her quarters, and Kerri, returned from her latest trip to Aesir, or Snow Country. They were left in peace by everyone, family members and servants alike, and, at midnight, they celebrated together with a little cake that Kerri had filched from the kitchens. Neither of them dared to report what others in the castle were saying about Briony’s outburst; and she was not in the mood to ask. 

Shortly after midnight, a star shower began. Elinden was a land known for its shooting stars, meteors, and comets: in the days before the Storm Age, travelers had come from far and wide to observe the heavens here. Not so much now, with the country rocked by war—but perhaps with the new king in place, others from the Autarchy or even beyond might trickle in once again.

Briony fell asleep to the sight of the heavens weeping dazzling stars, the fiery teardrops plunging into the black line of the sea. She dreamed of meeting somebody—somebody from the Autarchy, she thought, or something like that—and exchanging stories with them. Telling each other about where they came from. Sharing memories, both happy and sad. She awoke to the pale grey of dawn with a sharp sense of longing in her chest—but longing for whom, or what, she didn’t know.

She did not go down to breakfast, though Ronan brought up her favorite glazed buns, coated in nuts and honey. She did not leave her rooms at all, and for the most part, the rest of Caer Seren left her alone—even though a grand feast had been planned that night for her birthday. Kerri alluded to a present, but said she would wait until later that day, to give Briony something to look forward to. 

“When do you think he’ll come?” Briony asked her friend as they read and drank tea by the fire. Ronan was dozing on the couch by the window. “My plain-looking husband, that is?”

Kerri shook her head. “They never wait that long after the coming-of-age ceremony,” she said. “A month, I’d guess, maybe two.”

Briony paused, staring out the window. In the light of day, the clouds had rolled in again, and everything had a strange, simmering air. “If I go,” she said softly, “what will you and Ronan do?” She had never dared to ask before. 

“Follow, of course,” Kerri answered, without hesitation. She leaned forward and put a hand on Briony’s shoulder, smiling. “You couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

Before Briony could answer, a frantic knock startled them, and they both looked at the parlor door. Ronan was awake and on his feet in an instant; he opened the door and revealed a maid standing there, an old kitchen helper who had chased them out of pies when they were little. “Lady,” she said, addressing Briony. “There’s a guest. You must come.”

Briony exchanged looks with Kerri and Ronan, who frowned. Caer Seren rarely received guests who weren’t relatives or marriage prospects... A chill came over her heart. “Who is it?” she asked the maid. “Is it my…” Then her throat closed up, and she couldn’t say it.

The maid, whose name was Melry, was shaking her head. “It’s the High King,” she squeaked. “The king! Kaza Lightning-Cutter himself!”

Everything that happened after that was a mad rush, a blur that Briony couldn’t pick out individual scenes from. Before she knew it, Melry had shoved the others out of the room and cinched her into her birthday robes, a ridiculous sheath of silk and ornate designs so clamped at the waist that she found it hard to breathe. “What does he want?” Briony asked, breathless—because of the corset, she told herself—as Melry lined her eyes with kohl. 

The woman dusted pale pink rouge on her cheeks and said, “It is not a servant’s place to guess, my lady.” Then she paused, grabbing a pot of red lip paint. “But if I were to guess, I would say—he seeks the Serengards’ blessing. For his reign.” 

Of course, Briony thought as she hurried out of her rooms, nearly tripping on her hem. Ronan and Kerri fell into step beside her—“You look gorgeous!” the bard whispered, while Ronan looked at her as if she’d grown another head—and together they hurried down to the reception hall, where they were told King Kaza’s entourage was waiting. It made perfect sense that Kaza would come now, just after he had claimed Caer Astolat; by seeking the favor of the Serengards, as was tradition, he earned the early trust and goodwill of the people. If he could secure the clan’s approval, in a way be vetted by them early, he could begin his official reign as High King on promising terms, with his subjects more willing to wait and see how he ruled before stirring themselves to rebellion.

They entered the reception hall just as the Weapons were closing the doors. Kerri and Ronan moved to the back of the room, where other observers and audience members stood, while Briony headed to the front. As a member of the clan’s head family, she was expected to be the face of the Serengard line (unfortunately for the rest of them), on-hand to welcome any guests alongside her parents. She took her place with them at the round table in the center of the room, where it was tradition to receive visitors, careful to avoid anyone’s gaze. Anwyn was there, too, glaring at her.  

Then Briony froze in surprise, for she had been so focused on slipping into the hall without being noticed by the other Serengards that she had not even seen the High King already sitting there, relaxing in the seat across from her. He took her in, smiling slightly at her shocked face, and said, “You must be the lady of the day. Good afternoon, Briony.”

Briony, he called her, no formality to it at all. As if they were already very good friends. And how did he even know her name? Surely her parents hadn’t mentioned her, not willingly. She half-rose to her feet and tried to make a curtsy—was that protocol, for Elinden’s first king in centuries? “Your, um, Your Highness,” she said, her voice high and reedy.

Kaza waved her back down. “Do not trouble yourself,” he drawled. “I care little for formalities and obeisances. Please, sit.”

She sat, staring. This was not the Kaza Lightning-Cutter of her imagination; the image of the terrible and bloodthirsty warlord disintegrated before her eyes. She had heard violent stories about him, about his campaigns to wrestle the provinces under his control—the executions he’d performed, the battles he’d won through raw strength and military maneuvering. A powerful Weather-Mage, it was said he could call lightning from the sky—hence his title. It was said he’d once blown away an invading fleet with his own conjured storm, and set a forest ablaze to drive his enemies out to be slaughtered.

But the man in front of her looked nothing like the stories. Rather than the behemoth she had pictured, he was simply a tall and wiry Mage, muscled enough, sharp-jawed, roughly-handsome in his own way, with broad and scarred shoulders and hands, and grey eyes that were intense and calculating. He did not wear a crown, or even a medallion signifying his kinghood: only a signet ring on his smallest finger. Other than that, he was plainly-clothed, maybe seven or eight or ten years older than she was. There was something distinctly leopard-like about him; a loping feline manner to the way he slouched at his ease. He did not seem the type to strut around, peacocking and throwing his chest out and barking orders. On the contrary, he spoke quietly, politely, seeming almost lolling and boneless. 

But like a leopard, there was something of a lazy deadliness to him, too. As if he could be roused from his nonchalance at a moment’s notice, leaping on his prey and tearing it to pieces before it even had the sense to scream. 

Briony tore her eyes away from him just as her father said something, to the left of her. He frightens me, she thought, with some incredulity, avoiding Kaza Lightning-Cutter’s keen gaze. She had never been afraid of someone like this in her life. But the power thrummed from Kaza—she could feel it—and he was staring at her as if he were assessing an opponent in a match. But what game were they playing—and why were they on opposing sides?

The five of them made small talk for a while, exchanging pleasantries as all the clan-members in the audience waited and watched. Briony saw that Kaza had brought along few people of his own, just a pair of bodyguards and what looked like a secretary or a footman. Doubtless he was confident in his own abilities to protect himself. 

As the conversation moved from topic to topic, Briony felt the king’s eyes lingering on her, far too frequently for her to feel at ease. Tense and nervous, she said, “Are you aware that there are bandits running around these hills, masquerading as your soldiers? Or have you sanctioned them to rob your citizens blind?”

Anwyn looked like she was going to slap her, but Kaza merely cocked his head and said: “I am aware of the problem. Justice will be meted out accordingly.” Rather than looking angry, he continued to watch her with interest. “Has any of these bandits done you harm?”

“No,” Briony said quickly, thinking of Ronan and how much trouble he would get into if it sounded like he hadn’t been guarding her. “I… I’ve simply heard about it, that’s all. From a friend of mine. A bard who travels throughout the lands.”

Kaza nodded, seeming to accept this, but his eyes danced in amusement as the discussion moved on. All at once, he shifted, and Briony caught sight of the sword resting upright on the side of his chair. Her heart jolted; no one had ever been allowed to sit in the reception hall while armed before. 

Then she registered the runes inscribed on the hilt of the long blade, the blue gem set into the pommel stone, and she nearly jumped out of her seat. That sword wasn’t just any sword—that was Gonturan! The blade that had served the kings and queens of Elinden since the days of Gwydion Starfell. It was a legendary sword, almost a weapon of myth, having disappeared during the Storm Age: some said it had been forged from the fallen star Dhracia itself, while others claimed it had been borne from a place across the sea. It was said that only a rightful ruler, accepted by the blade, could lift it and set it aflame. Kaza was the first person to wield it in over three hundred years. Briony longed to ask him about it, about where he’d found it and what else it could do, but the conversation was already shifting, and she could find no place to break in. 

“Well,” Kaza said finally, leaning forward and placing his hands on his knees. “I prefer to waste little time and get straight to the point: life’s too short for anything else. You are wondering why I am here.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Briony’s father said stiffly: “We are honored to receive the new High King of Elinden.”

Kaza waved away the nicety as if it were a wisp of bad air. “I came all this way,” he said, “to ask something of you.” He looked significantly at Briony, who tensed again: was he going to ask her personally for the blessing? “I would like to ask for Briony’s hand in marriage.”

Briony’s jaw dropped, as did her father’s, and at least half of the people standing in the reception hall. Somewhere in the room, Briony heard Kerri squeak. 

There was a beat of incredulous silence before Valen said, “I am sorry. She is engaged to another.”

Kaza opened his hands a little, easygoing, friendly. “Who?”

“Lord Lucien Iliniat, of the Ysol clan.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” Kaza said blandly. “Who is he, some nobody lord in Stone Country? I am a king. The king. If she marries me, she will be High Queen.” 

Briony sat there, frozen stiff; the room swayed a little, as if she were in a dream. Something roared and thundered in her head, so that everything else sounded muffled. 

“I will speak plainly,” Kaza said, steepling his fingers in an unconcerned way. “This is a fitting match. Having a Serengard queen—reinstalling one of the Serengards on the throne—will earn the people’s enthusiastic favor. It is a powerful symbolic gesture, one of renewal, unification, and the beginning of a new era. It will instill confidence in my reign, to have ties to the old royal line, and it will revive your own name to the public. This idea must tempt you: to have one of your flesh and blood in Caer Astolat once again.” 

He paused, but when none of them spoke, he continued in a leisurely way. “Briony is the best wife I could have in this country,” he said, his expression frank. “I do not want the daughter of a Mage clan, or a Hunter heir, or what have you; or even a foreign princess. I want blood-ties to all of the people in my lands. A line directly from my lineage to theirs. I want their loyalty, to me, my wife, and my bloodline.” He gave Briony a significant look, loaded with a meaning she didn’t understand. “And I have no doubt she will make a fitting queen: why, you saw how she chastised me on the state of my kingdom, not moments ago. And if our marriage is blessed by the regard of the Serengards, the will of the land, I’m sure ours will be a reign of prosperity and peace.” Again he paused. “If it’s a matter of a dowry, again—I am king.”

“As I said, she is engaged to another,” Valen said, his voice trembling with some emotion. “It would be dishonorable to break that contract.”

Hesrae said: “How did you even know of her? Her name…?”

“I am king,” Kaza said again, simply. “I know all.”

Anwyn said: “And you are of pure Mage blood—that’s not what’s set to be next, in the cycle of Serengards. Any children you might have would disrupt our bloodline.” 

“Any children of ours would be the rulers of Elinden,” Kaza drawled with a hint of sarcasm. “I would say that’s a fair price to pay, wouldn’t you?” To Briony he said: “You are of age today, no? That means you can make your own decision.”

For some reason that struck Briony more than anything else he had said; she felt as if a hole had been punched through her side. She nearly reeled. What was he saying? That now that she was old enough, she could decide for herself? Was it really that easy?

I don’t know you, she wanted to say, absurdly, but of course she hadn’t even met Lucien Iliniat, her actual groom-to-be. You don’t know me. Valen was saying, in more controlled tones: “It is an honor, Your Highness. But Clan Serengard must decline.” He cast his eyes about the reception hall. “Perhaps, if given time… something may be arranged with one of our unattached clan daughters…”

Kaza made a sonorous sound, clearly having lost interest. “No,” he said in a bored tone. “It will be Briony, or no one from Caer Seren at all. But I will not force the issue, if you are truly so unwilling.”

Then he rose, and some people in the crowd flinched back; the way he moved was unnerving, like a panther rising from its crouch. Before he turned away he said to Briony, “Let me know your thoughts on this matter, my lady. I look forward to hearing your true thoughts.” 

Then he picked up Gonturan and left. 

Briony sat there for several more paralyzed moments, struck dumb and speechless; she had not spoken or moved a muscle since she’d asked him about the bandits. Beside her, her parents and sister were all talking to each other in rapid-fire, hushed tones. Briony heard Anwyn say, “Perhaps we can send a missive to the castle, when it’s proper—tell him Cara is suitable, or young Thessily, if he would just wait until she comes of age—”

“It must be one of them,” Valen said grimly. “There are no other women who aren’t already promised to another. This has never happened before.”

“We must send Briony to the Ysol clan before that,” Hesrae said. “Get her out of his sight, or else he will continue to covet her; it would be an insult to trot out other heirs for him, when the one he asked for is right there. Once she is removed, we can invite him back.” 

What? Briony thought. No—if I’m going to be removed, I’d rather it be to Caer Astolat!

Then, before she could stop herself, she was rising to her feet and turning stiffly away. Her family hardly noticed her departure. She pushed through the murmuring crowd, breaking into a run once she was out of the reception hall. 

Outside, she found Kaza at the bottom of the castle steps, almost as if he had been waiting for her. Gonturan shone like a line of fire at his side, and something else in the distance caught the dying light, too: Briony looked and saw that a ship was anchored at the bottom of the castle cliff. The king had sailed here, probably from Port Cymria! How had she not spotted it before?

Kaza saw her staring at the enormous barqentine. “Do you sail?” he asked her.

She stirred. “I love the sea.” 

Kaza smiled at her. It was not exactly a friendly smile—it lacked the warmth of the friend—but it was not a dishonest one, either. “If we were to marry,” he told her, “I would take you across the sea to be wed on the Continent. As a true king and queen should, recognized by all. Even the Autarchy. Have you ever been there?”

Hope surged within Briony, warring with her fear. Her thoughts lurched crazily. “No,” she said. “I’ve never left Elinden. But I’ve always wanted to go.” 

Kaza put one foot on the step above him, as if to climb back up to her. Briony did not know if she wanted him to approach or stay well away. Feeling as if she were watching herself, from the side or perhaps even from the sky, she said, “I’ll marry you. I’m going to be married off to someone anyway, so it might as well be you. And at least I get to choose, if it’s you. And—” She shook her head, as if trying to pull herself out of fog. “And I don’t care about children: whether we have them or what kind of blood they have.” She looked at him, not knowing what she was looking for. 

Kaza took one step closer. In this golden light she could see the shards of the iladrin in his eyes. This close, he smelled of metal and lightning. Dizzily Briony thought that he was within a good enough range that she could assassinate him: it was what her old arms-master had always taught her, especially when it came to using her concealed maiden's blade, that white dagger intended to protect her purity. Close enough to kiss, close enough to kill.

“You will be High Queen of Elinden,” he said softly, as if he might spook her into running if he spoke too loudly. “Free to go where you please. All the power that you could want and ask for.” He glanced back up at the castle. “No one will decide your fate for you ever again.”  

Briony felt the sting of something in her eyes, her heart. “Yes,” she whispered, almost too afraid to hope for it. A stray thought came to her then: would not her husband have power over her, ultimate control? But perhaps the High King was still better than all of the Serengard clan put together—and at least he seemed reasonable enough. Handsome enough, strong enough, clever enough. She could not hope for love, but a measure of freedom? Yes. 

“I want to bring people,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t shake. “My bodyguard, the bard friend I mentioned. Whoever would want to go with me. My horse and my ahfuri.”

Kaza smiled, and this time it was all teeth. “You will have whatever you want,” he said, his gold-glinting eyes seeming to devour her. “My queen.”

#

Predictably, Clan Serengard disowned her: the dishonor of her breaking her marriage contract and running off with another man—never mind that it was the High King—was unspeakable, and the Serengards had never heard nor seen the like of it in all the long centuries of their existence. Briony received a scathing farewell from each of her relatives in turn: Hesrae called her a whore and her father spat on the floor at her feet. It was made clear that she would bear the name Serengard no longer.

All of this, Briony had been grimly expecting, but she had not expected Ronan’s fury—or the terrible words he would throw her way. In the middle of her packing, he materialized in her room, and the look in his eyes was murder.

“Selfish,” was the first thing he called her. “Greedy, power-hungry, stupid! You are selfish beyond belief, Briony Serengard, and I cannot believe what you have done! You idiot!”

For a little while, she took the brunt of his harsh words in silence, kneeling by her wardrobe with her head bent. But finally she jumped up and snapped: “Call me selfish, fine, if choosing for myself for once is selfish! I put myself first because no one ever has—I’ve always had to bend to the whims of others, be controlled by others—and if refusing to do that any longer is selfish, then call me selfish!”

“No one’s ever put you first? What about me? Or Kerrigan?”

“I’m not talking about that! And power-hungry? Greedy? How dare you!”

“You are marrying a man for his wealth, his power,” Ronan shouted. He rarely yelled, but when he did, his deep voice used to make her quail. Now it only grated on her. “That is the definition of what I said. Ambitious, yes, I always knew that, but power-hungry, ladder-climbing—”

The gorge rose in her throat, that he could think these things of her. “I don’t give a hare’s rat-ass about being queen!” Her vision was sparking now, Ronan nothing more than a blurry shape of colors and light, and at first she thought her vision was dimming from the heat of her anger. Then she realized that it was tears in her eyes, and that only made her angrier. “I don’t care about the power, about being High Whoever—I only want the power to choose for myself, to marry someone my bleeding, kakking ancestors didn’t choose for me!”

“If that were true,” Ronan returned, “you wouldn’t marry anyone at all. That would be true power.” He gazed at her with contempt. “And marrying someone you barely know isn’t powerful; it’s stupid.” 

She flung her clothes to the ground in frustration. “What choice do I have?” she cried. A tiny tremor went through the walls, and the candles on the mantle guttered with the force of her emotion, but they both ignored it. “What else do you suggest I do, Ronan? I’ve tried running, living on my own; that didn’t work. They always found me and dragged me back, or else I was recognized, or hurt too badly to make it on my own, or—!” She ground her teeth. “And I’ve tried disobeying them, living here in defiance; they whipped you. And if it’s not you, it’ll be Kerri, or Melry, or someone else I care about.” She threw her hands up. “And if I stay, I'll marry someone I don’t know, anyway. I’ll get turned out like some kind of brood-mare, left to pop out babies for the rest of my life. Don’t you see that?”

“And it’s any different when it’s for the king?” Ronan rebutted. “You’re fine to churn out his whelps? He’s a monster, Briony! His bandits attacked us—”

“They weren’t his,” she snapped. “And if I’m going to whelp for anyone, at least it’ll be at Caer Astolat, where maybe my husband won’t object to his wife taking up the sword, or having a mind of her own, or wanting to do some things for herself, for once!” And at least if I go with him, they won't hurt you. It's not as if you could stop me from eloping with the king—it's not like running away to be a soldier, slipping out to go to the shore. You won't be held responsible, so you won't be punished. And neither of us will be chained to the other one anymore. 

He glared at her. “You’re giving up,” he declared, turning on his heel just as Kerri slid into the room, wide-eyed. “You’re a gods-damn coward. For all your talk of fighting, you’re just fleeing to a different kind of leash. I hope your new master treats you better than these ones did.” He gazed at her for a long moment, then left, shaking his head. He said something as he exited, but Briony did not make it out: her insides curdled as she considered what kind of epithet it was. What kind of insult he had called her. 

Briony looked at Kerri, who in turn looked shocked, and for some reason that owlish, dumbfounded expression made Briony’s heart tremble dangerously. Do not cry, she told herself. Do not let any of these bastards see you cry. 

But the tears were slipping down her face anyway, unbidden and uncontrolled. That was how Briony felt herself, a little. Untethered, like a thing bobbing away on a sea she did not know.

Kerri helped her pack; Kaza was waiting for her, down in his ship at the bottom of the cliff. She would leave immediately, to prevent anyone from barring her way or keeping her captive, and Kerri would follow her to Caer Astolat as soon as she was able to make her arrangements. 

“Wait until I send you a letter,” Briony mumbled, feeling swollen and water-logged with weariness—and sorrow. “I think—I think he said something, about going to the Continent to get married soon. Courtshore. I don’t know when we’ll leave. Maybe immediately. You might have to come after; I don’t know.”

She was tired; she just wanted to sink down onto her bed and sleep. Or cry more. But Kerri was nodding, anchoring her, giving her direction. “I’ll do that, then,” she said. “But Ronan will go with you now. He can leave now, anytime; his whole life revolves around you.” 

The thought gave Briony pause as she was doing up the buckles of her sword-belt. She thought of the terrible things he had just called her; his fury and his disgust. Would he even want to go with her, when he was so obviously opposed to this marriage? And would he even be able to? His family was employed by hers; they gave him a salary to protect her. But she was no longer a Serengard; no longer a part of the clan. Did that mean her Weapon, then, was no longer hers, too? What could she offer him instead, if he would not follow her out of friendship? She did not even have any money of her own, and she doubted he would take it from her husband the king. 

Kerri read her stricken face and rose. “I’ll go talk to him,” she said, quietly slipping out. 

But when she returned, an hour later, she said that Ronan was nowhere to be found. She’d checked the observatory, the training grounds, every nook and cranny they’d ever explored as children. Nowhere. He’d vanished. Her bodyguard had never been more than ten feet from her, and now he was gone. And he knew she would be leaving any moment. He wouldn’t even come to say goodbye?

“He left?” Briony echoed. Is that how it is? This, of all things, was finally the straw that broke the camel's back? He tolerated everything else. But this pushed him too far—and now he doesn't want anything to do with me. 

Years of friendship gone, just like that. It had all hinged on something that she hadn’t been aware of, apparently; it had been contingent on her behaving the way he expected, it had been conditional based on her status, or her name, or her obedience. The thought left her hollow inside, as if someone had taken a knife to her guts. She briefly wanted to retch, the glazed buns roiling in her stomach. It hurt worse than everything her parents had said to her, put together.

But finally she only slung her bag over her shoulder and said dully, “To Hael with him, then. I don’t need him, either.” Aside from Kerri, there was nothing left for her in this place to miss. Ronan—and her precious family members—had made that abundantly clear. 

Her own bitter words shocked her, but Kerri only looked sad and confused. She stepped forward to give Briony one last tight hug, burying her face in her shoulder. “I’ll come right after you,” she whispered to her, kissing her cheek. “You’ll see me soon, at Caer Astolat—don’t worry.”

Then she stepped back and wiped her eyes quickly, digging into her pocket. “This was our birthday present to you,” she said, her eyes downcast. “One of them, anyway: I wrote a song, and Ronan—well, he did something, but that will have to wait.” She faltered, meeting Briony’s stony expression, then forged on: “It’s dyed from queen’s brier. Since it’s your favorite flower, and it matches your hair. It turned out more red than pink, but—we thought it suited you.” 

Briony accepted the gift with reverence, squinting at it through the sudden ache in her throat. It was a hair ribbon, simple but sweet, meant to keep her now-long hair out of her face when she battled or trained. Just a little fluttering scrap of satin, dyed blood-red from a common flower. Looking at it, she wanted to cry again.

“Thank you,” she whispered, wondering if this would be the last token she ever received from the two of them: the two people she cared about most in this world. She gathered her hair up and tied it with the ribbon, feeling as if her neck had turned lighter, less burdened. But her eyes had begun to throb as if the sockets were filled with acid. She stepped forward again to hug Kerri, fiercely, and then they both began to weep. For some reason it felt like a farewell, as if they would never see each other again, though neither of them could say why.

Briony moved down the castle steps just as dawn began to shatter across the horizon. The heavy blanket of the night began to lighten, and in the soft glow of things she turned to look back at the castle that had been her home all her life. She looked up at the ramparts, expecting to see her parents, her sister—but none of them would even acknowledge that she had ever existed, now. It would be as if she had never been born.

Kerri was not there, either, and of course Ronan had never appeared. In that moment Briony understood what it was like to be Elinden, Elinden-blooded. To be an island herself. She was unmoored. Unattached. Alone. Adrift by herself on a cooling sea. 

She went down into the king’s ship, bringing her horse and her ahfuri with her. It took no time at all for the crew to lift the anchor, for Kaza to come to her and crush her possessively in his arms, as naturally as if she had always belonged to him. He was smiling, an inward, triumphant smile, as if he had won a game he’d been playing alone. He slipped a hand through her hair, kissed a strand. In what felt like moments, the ship was gliding silently out to the horizon, with hardly a whisper or a word of protest to stop it. It moved around Caer Seren, slipped into a bank of fog—and just like a memory, it was gone, departing finally for shores unknown.