Tomorrow was to be Jeric’s official coronation. In all the chaos surrounding the death of his father and brother, there hadn’t been a moment to spare for a crowning ceremony. Godfrey had finally arranged for it, and mostly behind Jeric’s back.
“One last drink before you’re officially thrown to the vultures?” Braddok winked.
“You just don’t want to pay.”
“That’s not the only reason.”
Jeric chuckled. “You go on.”
Braddok realized Jeric was serious. “Oh, come on, Wolf! It’s your last night! You could use a drink and a good bed.”
But Jeric had made up his mind. He smiled, and Braddok grumbled things Jeric chose to ignore.
“Have a pint for me,” Jeric said, turning his horse away.
“You’ll regret this tomorrow!” Braddok said after him.
“Probably,” Jeric agreed, then tossed a small coin pouch over his shoulder.
Braddok snatched it from the air, the coins inside jangling. “Bastard.”
Jeric urged his horse onward, away from Braddok, away from the main streets and commotion and light. The snow fell harder, turning the world quiet, almost peaceful, and he thought of Sable.
No, Imari.
Surina Imari Masai.
He still found it difficult to think of her by her true name. To him, she was still Sable. The healer from Skanden, who had saved his life multiple times, though she’d had every reason to let him die. She probably would have let him die had she known who he truly was. As it turned out, he hadn’t known the truth about her either: that she was the surina of Istraa, Sar Branón’s illegitimate daughter, long thought dead. The one who had accidentally killed her sister with music—with magic. One of the Sol Velor’s Liagé.
The very ones he, the Wolf of Corinth, had spent his life hunting.
And he had kissed her.
He’d almost done it again, right in front of her brother, their saredd, and all of Jeric’s closest advisors. The only thing that’d stopped him was the added danger it would cause Imari. Jeric held no delusions that the long-standing rift between Istraa and Corinth would be mended over one rescue mission, and that sort of unsanctioned attention from a Wolf King would only increase Istraa’s mistrust of their newly-returned surina. Jeric’s advisors wouldn’t have approved either, but they could all go to hells.
He stopped his horse at the edge of Aryn’s Temple, or what remained of it. It had collapsed the night Astrid had attacked two weeks ago. Witnesses claimed the ground had shaken and great cracks had splintered the marble walls before the dome had come crashing down, crushing everything—and everyone—beneath. All of the inquisitors were dead, buried deep in Aryn’s ruins.
All except for one: Rasmin, Corinth’s Head Inquisitor. Rasmin had flown away that night, and no one had seen him since.
That godsdamned lying piece of scat.
Jeric dismounted. The snow muffled his footsteps as he approached the temple remains. He stopped beside a massive skal face, broken in half down the center. Lorath, the god of justice. The god for whom Jeric had named his sword. The god for whom Jeric had built his life.
A life Jeric was no longer certain of.
Jeric stared at the broken face, at the cold and vacant eye. At the mouth that never spoke.
What have you become, my darling Jos? Jeric heard his mother’s words instead.
Jeric gazed upon the ruin of his religion. The gods had always been his mirror, the reflection by which he’d shaped his decisions. But by Imari, that mirror had shattered—broken, like the temple before him, and now he felt suddenly…lost.
Lost, and about to be crowned Corinth’s king.
Jeric shut his eyes and breathed in deep. The cold burned his nose, filled his lungs. For a moment, he simply stood there like a fixture in a graveyard, but he found no answers. Only more questions.
At last, he opened his eyes. There was still one problem he could solve, and it needed solving tonight.
The snow was falling hard by the time he’d handed his horse to the groomsman and stepped inside Skyhold’s great fortress, where warm and cheerful air engulfed him. The hall was busier than usual, as late-arriving guests dined and drank and thawed themselves by the many blazing hearths. Jeric ducked through a doorway before anyone could stop him, though the corridors weren’t any emptier. Servants tended to needy masters, and at one point, Jeric stopped to redirect a lady from Rodinshold, who’d emerged from the wood closet in her night robes looking adrift. Eventually, traffic thinned and disappeared completely, and Jeric reached the door to the old dungeon.
This dungeon had been retired for storage decades ago, until Hagan had found Imari. It was here, in the belly of the fortress, that his brother had kept her. Where no one would know what he’d taken.
Jeric would never forgive himself for that.
Now, this dungeon kept his sister, Astrid. She was the source of the commander’s anger—the entire council’s anger. Astrid was a traitor and a murderer. A demon in the flesh. Her death should be their retribution for the horror she had wrought. But Jeric could not bring himself to do it.
She was the only family he had left.
He pushed through the door and into the guardroom. A handful of guards glanced up, their game of Spades spread on the table between them.
One guard stood. “Sire.”
“Any improvement?” Jeric asked.
“No, sire,” the guard replied.
A second guard stood, grabbed a lantern from the wall, and opened the door. Jeric ducked through, and the two guards followed behind with the lantern.
At the turn of Astrid’s corridor, Jeric stopped and held up a hand. “Wait here.”
“But Your Grace—”
“If she gets through that door, a few paces will be the least of your concerns.”
Uneasy quiet.
“Yes, Your Grace,” one guard replied, and they both stayed put.
Jeric walked on and stopped before the door to Astrid’s prison. Her cell was pitch black and silent, and the air reeked of urine and feces. Jeric glanced back at the guards, who waited faithfully down the hall, and he took a step closer.
Torchlight danced upon the door’s shining skal-black surface, giving shadow to the ancient etchings. Jeric wondered at a world where Corinth’s skal smiths had worked harmoniously with Sol Velorian enchanters, though he doubted those enchanters had anticipated just how this door would later be used. Jeric’s men had extracted this relic from the temple remains. It had been enough to hold the inquisitor’s Liagé prisoners; Jeric hoped it would be enough for Astrid. So far, it had been.
He grabbed the torch from the wall and held it closer, straining to see Astrid through the small square of bars in the door. “Astrid?” he called out.
No answer.
“Astrid… Talk to me. Please.” He studied the shadows, listening for the slightest shift in the air.
Nothing.
Perhaps she was dead already.
It would make this easier, he thought grimly.
Jeric’s fingertips hovered over the door’s surface, as if he could reach out and touch her, bring her back. As if he could take away her suffering, and all of the horrible things she’d endured at the hands of their brother, Hagan. All of the horrible things Jeric had not realized, because he had been too busy hating and hunting the very power that protected them now.