“How did I not know?” Nell said softly. “It was right in front of me. Ville’s lewd remarks, the million subtle ways he undermined me, day after day. I think of myself as a strong woman, confident in who I am, what I’m worth, and even I couldn’t see.”
Dove had charmed Pilar, too. She’d walked right into his trap.
“Nell, I didn’t mean to—”
“Look!”
Something orange swam beneath them. Instinctively Pilar tucked her knees in to her chest.
“What was that?”
Another creature churned past, then another. The ocean was no longer dark. Arcs of gleaming orange light illuminated the water, whirling, spiraling. An eerie chatter cracked the surface of the sea.
“Nelladine?” Mia called from the boat. “Pilar? What’s happening?”
Pilar didn’t know how to answer. The whole ocean seemed to be rippling orange. The water felt thin and hot, teeming with life.
Nell’s face was radiant. “Melonfish!”
They didn’t move like any fish Pilar had seen—and she’d seen her fair share. They spun in circles, their orange fins fanning out on all sides. What had Nell called them? Lappets. To Pilar they looked more like flames.
Mia was shouting: Aretheydangerousdotheybite? But Nell was lost in her own world.
“You know, it’s funny: I thought we were still several days from the cove. But then, you have to remember, four years is a long time! And if the melonfish are here . . .”
“Then we’re almost at Pata Pacha,” Pilar finished.
“No,” Nell said. “We’re already here.”
Chapter 4
Abandoned
IT DIDN’T TAKE QUIN long to find the mark.
It was carved neatly into the trunk of the tree where his cousin had been tethered. Three triangles, one inside another. Quin had seen the symbol before. He’d spotted it above the door of a burnt-out cottage in a deserted river town, a woman’s charred body on the stoop. When he’d walked into an empty tavern a few days back, ravenous, he’d found bread crawling with maggots—and the symbol cut deep into the blood-soaked wood floor.
The closer he drew to Kaer Killian, the more triangles he saw.
Quin had a theory. The symbol was carved after some murderous act was committed—or to mark a murderous work in progress, such as Tristan strung up by his neck, awaiting fate. As if to say, Violence was committed here. Or—and this was better—justice has been done.
Perhaps, in the end, they were one and the same.
During his long, solitary trek from Luumia, he’d had plenty of time to think. There were different kinds of violence. Violent acts born of hatred and a flair for gruesome showmanship—the backbone of his father’s regime—were troubling.
But Quin didn’t feel hateful. His mind was sharp and slick and cold, like the stone head of an arrow. The violence he sought was productive, a necessary stop on the path to retribution. He would not hack off the hands of innocent women and dangle them from the ceiling, as had the king. Nor would he stack their bodies in the Hall, as had Zaga.
But if the Twisted Sisters came back to Glas Ddir—assuming Mia, Pilar, and Angelyne had not been digested by a raging sea—he would hold them accountable for their actions. They had used and abused him, wounding him irrevocably. And not just him. Wherever the sisters went, death and destruction followed. In order to resurrect himself as a just and noble king, he would first need to expunge all those whose presence was a threat.
He’d spent the last few weeks composing a letter to the sisters saying as much, continually revising and reshaping the words on a piece of parchment he kept close to his heart.
I once believed that hurting people made you weak. I don’t believe that anymore.
Not that he’d sent the letter. You couldn’t exactly dispense a courier to the Lilla Sea.
Quin knew the carved triangles were leading him somewhere. Perhaps not him, specifically—he hoped not. His best advantage was the element of surprise. No one expected the little golden prince to resurface in Glas Ddir and reclaim the throne, even if it was his birthright. No one ever expected anything of him. That was the problem.
Needless to say, he followed the symbols.
Violence was his birthright, too.
The brothel stood just outside the borders of Killian Village, which, Quin imagined, meant it was the first place a traveling merchant might stop before entering town. It also meant the women who lived within its walls were beyond the protection of the law, and hence more vulnerable to heinous acts. Though in the river kingdom, heinous acts were all but sanctioned by the state.
Quin traced the three triangles grooved into the knotty wood door. The symbol was so tiny he’d almost missed it. He took a breath. He’d encountered enough corpses in the last month to dread the stench of decaying flesh.
But as the door creaked open, there was nothing. No blood on the floor, no bodies. The brothel was abandoned.
He let the air out of his lungs.
Whoever had been in this brothel had left in a hurry. Quin noted at least a dozen pint glasses, some overturned on tables, others full of flat yellow ale. A lacy black chair had been flipped over, its four shapely legs thrust upward in a way that was almost indecent. On the ground a perfect boot print was stamped into an emerald silk scarf. Whether in mud or in blood, he couldn’t tell.
What horrors had befallen the river kingdom in his absence? He’d spent months chasing Mia and Pilar to Luumia, then returned alone. In every village, he had stopped to scrounge food and information. Most towns were deserted. Occasionally he stumbled upon a lone shop or farmhouse with a candle burning in the window, and if he was lucky, the shopkeeper or farmer would share their meager food. No one ever recognized him. He’d grown a scruffy blond beard and left his curls dirty and disheveled. After weeks of uneasy sleep in the forest, dark circles had bloomed under his green eyes.
A few days earlier, Quin had come upon a stone farmhouse. Inside he’d found a crusty old farmer, the lone survivor of a gutted village. The man had offered him a cup of rabbit stew and a thin straw mattress for the night: the greatest kindness he’d been shown in ages.
“I’m a fool to invite you in,” the farmer said, watching Quin slurp down his supper. “You’ll slit my throat for another cup of stew.”
“I won’t.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to try.”
Quin wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Who did this to your village? Was it Angelyne?”
“They said things would get better with the young queen. Another pack of lies.” The farmer scratched his gray stubble. “Used to be only women had cause to be afraid. I’m not saying that was right. I lost my wife to the Hunters long ago. But now we men got a taste of it. We all became the hunted.”
Quin nodded, his expression grim. In the castle he’d watched Zaga and Angelyne enthrall innocent men like Domeniq du Zol, sending him out into the villages to kill anyone who opposed magic. After promising to end Ronan’s reign of hate and murder, they had merely expanded it.
“It’s not done, neither,” the farmer said. “With the young queen gone, there’s a whole new pack of cutthroats rose up to take her place.”
Quin set down his spoon.