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Jarrod held his hand before his face and stared at it. Whole. He turned his hand to see the other side, clenching and unclenching his fingers. Unmarked. What was the phrase? Knowing something like the back of your hand?
He couldn’t remember if he saw this hand, or any part of himself, dissolve when Thea forced his body, puppet-like, to walk from the waves into death. Instead of the arms of death, he had walked into Morgan’s arms. All he could recall of that moment was the pain, like a thousand knives and a thousand splintered rocks inside his body, each slashing and grinding him to the smallest particle of nothing. And Morgan’s sobs.
Morgan. She had stood between him and destruction, holding him back from the precipice of the frothing waves, forcing his body to walk in place in the sand that shifted under his feet. She had saved his life. He owed her. And he hated her for it.
He could still hear her voice, pleading for help to save him. And help had come: that impossible wall of water, rising to cover them all, saving him and his clan from death. They survived because of that water. He had seen nothing like it. What did it mean? They were Nemaro, of water; was the sea looking after its own? Did Morgan have control over the sea?
His aide, Traynor, spoke, “My lord? What do you command we do? It has been three days since your - our - defeat.”
Jarrod detected velvet sarcasm beneath the respectful tone. And sensed something more. His closest aides had watched him closely and critically ever since he let first Skye, then Hunter escape them. What had he missed, oblivious to his clan while he gnawed over his defeat?
“Is Thea really dead?” Traynor continued. “Those who tried to kill her were stunned during the attack. They did not find her body.”
Jarrod set his hand down on the arm of his throne and gripped it, knuckles white. Rise, he told himself, willing the clench of dread to push him upright and show his people he could still lead them.
“And we no longer sense each other, or the Keeper, Hunter,” his other aide, Aaron, said. “Is this also Thea's doing? Could it be Hunter's?”
“I have been pondering these things.” Jarrod pushed himself to his feet, assuming a proud posture he didn’t feel, and glared at his aides. As he moved, the faces of his court, both human and Nemaro, followed him. As ever, hanging on his every movement and word. Or were they?
His human court was not completely focused on him. He kept his face impassive, but his attention sharpened. The humans who shared the Nemaro world shared their minds as well. If their attention was shifting, it was because the loyalty of his clan was shifting. His instincts sharpened further. As if waiting for something, many of his clan looked at Traynor and Aaron.
“Hunter betrayed us with Thea,” Traynor said, watching him narrowly. “They attacked us: Thea and Hunter, together once more. He was ever her lapdog.”
Jarrod shook his head, “No, he was being controlled, used beyond his will. I alone was strong enough to break free and try to stop her.” He glared around, pleased to remind them of his superior will. “Thea doesn't have the power to control me or Hunter. There was another.”
“Another?” The two young men looked at each other.
“Who was it?” Traynor demanded.
“Could he strike us again, control us...” Aaron’s voice faded and Jarrod saw the same terror he had wrestled with in their faces, while hissing mutters swelled in the great hall as if the villain could be there among them.
“He was from an old village family,” Jarrod said, trying once more to recall Morgan’s words as they hid on Lithus Rock near Thea. He knew there was a name he should remember. But his memories were murky, overridden by the pain of disintegration that followed soon after. “Perhaps connected with the lord who cursed us.”
Traynor looked dubious. “That family died out in the giant wave sent over the land when our city fell into the sea. Whatever they wished on us, they got back tenfold. Their buildings, their roads, and the bodies of their children are sand. Not a stone, or bone, remains. Yet we live, and some of our proud city yet stands.” He gestured around the cavernous hall. “They are truly forgotten and gone.”
Jarrod shook his head. “Not all. Somehow Thea found him, and together they overthrew Hunter, and us.”
“If what you say is true, it proves our decision is the right one.” Traynor’s voice had a vicious edge.
“Of what decision do you speak?” Jarrod said, keeping his tone silky. Everyone in the court watched him now, but not with adoration or fear. The shift he had sensed was rising.
“It is you, Jarrod, who lost our clan and court to the air, showing to all the world that we exist with your arrogant, foolhardy move against the village.” At Traynor’s words, the court stirred as if currents moved them, seeming to press forward although no one came closer. “We no longer know if we are Forgotten, or unseen. The humans we left behind are a direct line to us. Even if their memories can’t summon us exactly, they are an arrow pointing to the sea. Humans need no obvious target to open fire with weapons we cannot repel.” Another hiss of agreement rose and swelled.
Jarrod’s expression didn’t betray his turmoil, but shame burned. What has he done to them all? Exposed them? Certainly doomed some, although that was Thea’s doing. It was Thea’s fault they failed, Thea and her accomplice.
As if guessing his thoughts, Traynor continued, “But worst of all was your betrayal of your own.”
“What betrayal?”
“You swear the clan comes before all else. Yet it was you who banished Thea, daughter of Seers, in favour of the human girl Skye, and so destroyed her loyalty to us. You turned her black heart against her own people, to use her power as a weapon against us, instead of for us. And if what you say of her ally is true, it is you who threw them together by banishing her.”
“And you let the Keeper leave Lithus,” Aaron joined the accusations. “He has repeatedly slipped through your fingers, costing us clan lives. And now he has slipped his leash entirely. Nobody here can sense him.” For a moment, Aaron’s bitter focus wavered. “I don’t know how we are still alive without him. Could we connect his absence to the lights that pierced us two days ago? What were they?”
“It matters not,” Traynor said impatiently, pushing the mystery aside. “We deal now with Jarrod. We will attend to Hunter in due course.”
“When you say ‘deal’ with me...” Jarrod said coolly. “Do you mean to kill me? I might not let you.” The crowd shifted back a little. They were right to do so. He had more power coursing through his body than any here. He would repay any harm they brought to him a hundred-fold. And yet... These were still his people; so few left now. How many more would die if he fought for his position?
In that instant, Jarrod made his choice. “So be it. I could answer your accusations, but these are complex matters beyond your ken. If you have not the wit to trust me, I have not the interest in persuading you that I only serve our clan.” He drifted a little closer to his former aides, “I could force you to submit.” He smirked when Aaron and Traynor flinched. “I will go if you all choose this, so long as none stand in my way.”
Although many voices in the hall rose angrily, sounding eager to see him die, he saw relief on the faces of some.
Aaron and Traynor looked at each other, then drew slowly back, granting safe passage. With his head high, Jarrod left the dais and moved through the crowd towards the main arched opening. He could have soared high over their heads and fled through the broken wall, but he knew his future might depend on demonstrating he wasn’t afraid. He was hyper-alert to any movement against him. Some he passed didn’t dare to meet his eyes, others looked at him with open hostility. He didn’t want more of his clan to suffer, but he would not hesitate to defend himself.
As he neared the giant door, he glimpsed a young man turning aside as he passed. All should be as familiar to him as the back of his once-dissolved hand. This was a newcomer to their court. Had he returned with his clan after their attack on the village? How was that possible?
The curve of the boy’s averted face sent an inexplicable thrill of revulsion through him. A stranger, yes, and yet familiar. Jarrod felt his insides plummet and surge, as if tossed on a great rolling wave. Impatiently, the crowd now closed in around Jarrod, jostling him to leave, no doubt emboldened by his calm acceptance of banishment, and he lost sight of the newcomer.
“Move.” Traynor bellowed from Jarrod’s dais, the force of his words careening around inside Jarrod’s skull. “And never come back, on pain of death, unless we summon you.”
Jarrod ignored Traynor, his heart pounding, and tried to see the stranger through the pressing crowd. The familiar curve of that face, the youth’s build and manner... A name filtered past the clamour of his enemies. Davian.
And with the name came memory. Liam. This was the boy who united with Thea to destroy them. The one descended from the lord who cursed them, and descended of Lithus too. With that lineage, anything could be possible.
Jarrod lunged back after him into the crowd.
