A Heart So Fierce and Broken (The Cursebreaker Series Book 2)

Since we saw the soldiers at Jodi’s tavern yesterday, I’ve been tense and irritable. I keep expecting their captain to appear at Worwick’s and drag me back to Ironrose. Or worse, to drag me into the shadows behind the stadium, where they can separate my head from my body.

These worries are irrational. So few people know who I truly am and what I know.

The enchantress Lilith—who is dead. I cut her throat myself.

My mother—who is not my mother at all. I walked out of her house with nothing. I left her with all the silver and coppers I had, and every warning I thought to give. Hopefully she took the money and left. But if anyone went to her seeking me, she’d have no answer to give beyond the truth: I showed up and I left.

Karis Luran—who, if Lilith’s threats were to be believed, would use this information to destroy Rhen, if he’d believe her at all.

My surly attitude has rubbed off on Tycho, made worse by the ongoing heat wave. Today’s weather brought a thickening cloud cover that seemed to promise storms, but only delivered a cloying humidity that makes everything sticky and everyone miserable. He’s raking the space between the stadium seats and the arena, making each drag of the tool an attack on the dirt. Dust floats into the air, settling on everything, including the expensive cushioned seats that I’ve just wiped down.

“Hey,” I snap.

He whips around, cringing a little.

“Put the rake up,” I say, forcing the edge out of my tone. I dip my rag in a bucket and wring it out to wipe the seats again. “It’s just making a mess.”

He must feel bad, because when he comes back, he brings another rag to wipe down the railing. We work quietly for a while, relishing the late-afternoon silence.

When he’s quiet like this, he reminds me of my brother Cade, who was thirteen when I was sixteen. I don’t know why, because they’re not at all alike, really. Cade would talk my ear off about nothing, while I sometimes go hours without hearing a word from Tycho. But Cade could put his head down and work when he needed to. He helped run the farm after I was gone.

After Lilith killed them all, I did my best to banish my siblings from memory. Maybe shoving away my time as a guardsman has allowed earlier memories to fill the space between my thoughts. Maybe learning they weren’t my siblings at all has done the same.

I’m not sure I like that. Especially since we’ve run out of chores.

“It’s too hot to run,” I say.

“It’s too hot to do anything.” Tycho takes a handful of water and splashes it over the back of his neck.

“Oh,” I say. “I was going to ask if you wanted to get the practice blades.”

“Wait. Really? Yes.” He stands up straight, the heat forgotten.

“Go ahead, then.”

I dump the bucket behind the storage room, then hang our rags to dry. By the time I make my way over to the armory, Tycho has a light training sword in his hands, and he’s swinging it in a practiced pattern. He’s good enough now that I’d trust him with a real blade—in another time and place. As Hawk, I don’t know any moves more advanced than simple blocks and thrusts.

We spar in the narrow space between the armory and the stables, where Worwick stores larger equipment. The scraver’s cage is back here, too, our only audience, though its dark form is motionless. Worwick was serious about five coppers, because he tried charging it last night. He was getting it, too, until a man complained that he didn’t pay to see a half-dead pile of skin and feathers.

Now it sleeps most of the day, cocooned in its wings.

Tycho is tiring, so I give him an opening. He spots it immediately and lunges. I barely have time to sidestep his blade.

He’s panting from the effort, but he grins. “I almost got you.”

I can’t help smiling back. “Almost.” I tap his blade away with my own and push sweat-dampened hair off my face.

“Play time is over, boys,” a man calls, his voice booming through the space. I recognize the voice before I see the man: Kantor. One of Worwick’s “champions.”

Worwick has two men who fight in the tourney: Kantor and Journ. They’re both middle-aged and good with a sword—they must be, to fight any challenger who walks in here—but their real value to Worwick is in giving the audience a good show. One of them is quiet and reserved when he’s not in front of a crowd, a man who carries hard candies in his pockets for children who cheer from the sidelines, then goes home to a sweet wife and three boys of his own. A good man who works hard, fights fair, and earns an honest living.

The other one is Kantor.

Kantor is a man who bets against himself, so even when he loses, he wins. Worwick shouldn’t allow it, but I’m pretty sure Kantor cuts him in on his winnings. He’s loud and boorish and lies without consideration. He makes for a good villain in front of the crowds. Unfortunately it doesn’t stop when he’s outside the arena.

Tycho moves to return his sword to the rack, but Kantor picks up one of the real swords and deftly knocks it out of his hand, sending it into the dust.

“When are you going to learn to hold a sword like a man?” he says.

“Leave him alone,” I say.

Tycho silently fetches his weapon, but I catch a glimpse of his scowl, even though he keeps his head down in front of Kantor.

Kantor has the brain of a child, and he’s found an entertaining diversion, so it barely takes a shift of his weight for me to see he’s going to smack Tycho’s sword away again—and this time he’s going to make it hurt.

I step forward, swing my practice blade down, and pin Kantor’s sword to the wall.

His head whips around. His mouth hangs open, though he quickly snaps it closed.

“I should take off your hand for that.” He scrapes his weapon free.

I could take off his hand before he’d get close to mine, but I shrug and look away. The best way to deal with Kantor is to not take him too seriously. “The practice blades dull the real ones. If you want to play, use your own, or take it up with Worwick.”

He frowns, but I’m right and he knows it. His pride won’t let him hang up the weapon, though. He moves away, twisting the sword in his hands, letting it cut patterns into the dust. He stops by the scraver’s cage.

“What is Worwick going to do with this thing?” Kantor pokes at it with the tip of his sword, and the creature doesn’t move.

“Don’t hurt it,” Tycho says.

“Hurt it? It’s practically dead.” Kantor steps close and jabs the weapon through the bars, his steel blade piercing flesh.

The scraver roars and spins to its feet in a whirl of wings and blood. It slams against the bars, claws reaching for Kantor, screeching so loudly that it echoes through the arena and the horses in the stable begin to stamp and fuss.

Kantor jerks back, trips over his own feet, and lands hard in the dust. Three long stripes of blood cross his forearm. Kantor swears and surges off the ground, lifting his sword as if he’s going to plunge it into the creature’s midsection.

Tycho dives in front of him, putting his back against the bars. “No!”

I expect the scraver to slice those claws into Tycho as well, but the creature falls back and growls.

Kantor looks like he’s ready to go through Tycho anyway.

I step in front of him. “Enough.”

Kantor lifts his sword a few inches. “Move, or I’ll go through you both.”

The training blade is still in my hand. My fingers tighten on the hilt.

I don’t know what Kantor sees in my expression, but surprise lights in his eyes. He gives a rough laugh. “You want to fight me, boy? Over that thing?” He gestures with his blade. “Go ahead, then. See how long you last.”

I’m tempted.

“What’s going on?” calls Worwick, his voice booming across the small area. The screeching must have drawn his attention. It probably caught the attention of half the city.

In my peripheral vision, I see Worwick come around the corner, but I don’t take my eyes off the man in front of me. Kantor doesn’t take his off me.

“Kantor! Hawk!” Worwick sounds confused. “What … what are you doing?”

“Kantor was going to kill your scraver,” pipes up Tycho. “Hawk stopped him.”

“Ah, I was just fooling around,” drawls Kantor. He lowers his sword and holds out his arm. “The damn thing got me good.”

“You got it first,” I say.

Behind me, the scraver growls again.

“Enough foolishness,” says Worwick. “The Grand Marshal has dropped off a royal decree to be read before the tourney. Rumors are running wild in the street, so we’ll have a packed house tonight.”

That’s enough to pull my attention away from Kantor. “A royal decree?”

“The prince is offering five hundred silvers to anyone who can produce someone with the blood of a magesmith.”

I freeze. The blood of a magesmith. Rhen can’t say it outright, because he’d lend legitimacy to the rumors, but he’s looking for the heir.

He’s looking for me.

“Five hundred silvers!” Kantor finally lowers his blade and turns away from me. “Worwick, I’d turn you in for five hundred silvers.”

“Evidence of magic must be proven,” says Worwick. His eyes light up. “Tycho. Hawk. You spend time in the city. You haven’t seen evidence of magic in Rillisk, have you?”

As if we’d give him someone’s name and allow him to claim the coins.

But at least this offers me some measure of safety. I’ve never been able to use magic on my own. Maybe Lilith was wrong. Maybe I’m not the heir to anything at all.

Don’t you want to know the truth? she said to me. About the blood that runs in your veins? About how you were the only guardsman to survive?

I want her to be wrong.

She’s not, though. I know she’s not. My mother admitted it before I fled.

“No one has seen magic,” says Tycho. “The magesmiths were killed off before I was born.”

“Not all of them, apparently,” says Worwick. “Hawk, are you ill?”

“No. I’m fine.” I force my limbs to move, and I hang the blade along the wall.

“Kantor, did you cut my scraver?” Worwick tsks. “Hawk, stitch it up, would you?”

“Yes.” I have no idea how I’ll do that, but my brain won’t stop spinning.

Five hundred silvers is a fortune to most. The people of Emberfall will turn on each other to claim it. Rhen must be desperate.

“Be ready for crowds, boys,” says Worwick. “Tycho, be ready to pour. I don’t want lines for ale. We’ll turn a pretty profit in gambling alone, I’m sure.”

“I’ll make sure of it.” Kantor laughs. He smacks the other man on the shoulder good-naturedly. Worwick smiles and heads back toward the front of the tourney.

I sigh and look at Tycho. “Fetch some ropes. I’ll get the needle.”

The tourney doesn’t close until well after midnight. When we finally climb the ladder to our shared loft, Tycho doesn’t bother to light the lantern; he just falls into his bed. I expect him to tumble into sleep just as quickly, but instead he says, “I can’t imagine five hundred silvers all together.”

I don’t need to imagine it, but I say, “I’ve been hearing about that all night.”

“Do you think it’s heavy?”

“Heavy enough to make you walk crooked.” This isn’t true, but it makes him laugh, and then he falls silent.

I stare at the worn wooden rafters over my bed. The loft smells of hay and horses and holds the heat of the stable below, but I don’t mind. It’s warm and safe and dry here. I have nothing to fear from Tycho.

“It would buy my freedom from Worwick,” he says quietly.

I turn my head to look at him, barely a dim shadow in the midnight darkness. “Your freedom?”

“I’m sworn to him.” He pauses. “Two more years.”

“Why?”

“Bad luck. Bad debts.”

I’ve never seen Tycho gamble a single copper. “Not yours.”

“My father.” He takes a long breath. “I have two younger sisters, but I know what Worwick would have used them for. My brother is barely six. My family had nothing left to give. So …”

I look back at the rafters. “I once swore my life away to save my family—but my oath was freely given.”

“Mine was too,” he says.

This doesn’t feel the same. But maybe it is.

“Two years isn’t so very long,” Tycho says. “How long did it take for you to earn your freedom?”

This conversation is dragging memories to the surface, memories that are better left buried. “An eternity.”

Tycho laughs softly. “I know what you mean.”

No. He has no idea.

When he speaks again, his voice is halting. “Hawk, I don’t—I don’t tell anyone.” A note of worry threads between his words. “If people know I’m sworn to Worwick, they would … well, he might …” His voice trails off.

I consider how Tycho tends to vanish once the nights drag on and sober men are few. It makes me think better of Worwick that he doesn’t work the boy into the ground. That he allows him to hide. “I’ll keep your secret.”

He says nothing to that, and after a moment, I look over. The darkness is nearly absolute, but his eyes catch a gleam of light from somewhere.

I wonder if he’s regretting sharing this. “You have nothing to fear from me, Tycho.”

“I know.”

He says it so simply. It’s a level of trust I envy.

“Who were you sworn to?” he says.

My eyes fall closed. Without warning, my thoughts conjure Ironrose Castle, the miles of marble hallways, the arching painted ceilings. I remember the training arena, the armory, the stables—so clearly that I could find my way around blindfolded, even now.

Do you regret your oath? Rhen once asked me.

I did not. I do not. Not even now.

Tycho is still waiting for an answer. I shake my head. “No one of consequence.”

“I’d keep your secret too, Hawk.” Tycho’s voice is soft.

His intentions are good, and he may mean those words now, but he’d take my secret, turn me in, and buy his freedom.

“No secrets,” I say lazily. I roll over, facing away from him. “Just nothing interesting to share.”

He sighs, but I let my breathing go slow and even, so he thinks I have fallen asleep. Eventually, his own matches, accented by a tiny snore at the end of each breath.

Our conversation guarantees I won’t fall asleep anytime soon.

When Rhen released me from my oath, he told me to begin a new life on the other side—in Washington, DC, Harper’s home. My visits to her city were limited to one hour each season, so I am not ignorant of her world, but I could not imagine making my way in a place so very different from Emberfall. The customs, the clothing, the currency—I have seen it, but I do not know if I could mimic it.

The blood of a magesmith. If I have magic in my blood, I have no idea how to access it. I stare up at the rafters and remember how easily Lilith’s magic used to transport me through the veil into Washington, DC. I close my eyes and remember the feeling of it. For an instant, the air around me seems heavier, and I hold my breath, wondering if I’ve done it.

My eyes flick open. The stable rafters hang above me. Tycho breathes softly across the loft.

Silver hell.

I pick at the threading along the edge of my mattress, pulling slowly until the seam begins to come apart. I do this carefully so I can pull the threads back together later. I ease my hand into the opening, digging through the straw until I feel the heavy weight of silver.

It’s a bracelet—or it was, until I traded a day’s worth of hard labor for a blacksmith to get it off my arm. Now I have a scar on my wrist and a crude three-quarter circlet of silver. When I was trapped in the curse with Rhen, Lilith bound it to my arm with magic to allow me to cross the veil to the other side.

I have no idea if it still works. It’s the only magic I’ve ever been able to work, and it’s not mine, it’s Lilith’s. The bracelet is enchanted with her magic.

I close my fingers around the loop of silver and close my eyes. Almost against my will, my brain imagines a wall—then just as quickly imagines me passing through it.

The scents of the barn and the loft disappear, and the air is suddenly cool. The quiet sound of movement from the horses has been replaced with a low hum, and I open my eyes. White walls, long, tubular lights overhead, though they’re dim. Towers and towers of books stretch on forever, surrounding me. More books than I have ever seen, even in the royal library at Ironrose. This place is nothing like the castle, however. Aside from the books, everything about this room is smooth and sleek and almost unnaturally white.

I’m not in Rillisk. I’m not in Emberfall at all. I’m in Washington, DC. Or possibly miles away, wherever Rillisk would correlate in Harper’s world.

The bracelet still works.

For a moment, I sit and inhale the cool air, such a relief after the weighted humidity in Emberfall. I have no idea where I am, but it’s quiet and I’m safe. Rhen can’t reach me here. Likely no one can reach me here. It’s tempting to stay.

But where would I go? What would I do? No one on this side needs a swordsman—nor a stable hand, from what I’ve seen. The girls I used to kidnap for Rhen rarely had skills with weaponry or horses, and while I’m certain they had skills of their own that would be useful in this place, they are not skills I share.

Something metal rattles, followed by a squeak, and I scramble to my feet. I wish for a weapon, but the only thing clenched in my hand is the silver bracelet.

An older woman pushes some kind of cart around a corner. Her hair is long and gray and tied into a braid that hangs over one shoulder. She startles when she sees me, but her expression quickly smooths out. She gives me a kind smile. “I know the library is twenty-four hours, but students aren’t allowed to sleep here.”

I take a breath. “Forgive me.”

Her eyes skip down my form, taking in my clothes from Rillisk, which are nothing like the clothes from this side. When she gets to my bare feet, her lips turn downward. “Do you have somewhere else to sleep?”

I wonder what she would do if I said no. I wonder where I would go—or where she would send me. She appears kind. I wonder if I could find refuge here.

A man appears around the corner, younger and heavier than the woman, and he frowns when he sees me. He looks as startled as she was, but his eyes are more coolly assessing. He speaks low, under his breath, but I hear him anyway. “Homeless?” he whispers. “Should I call the cops?”

She gives a tiny nod, but then she takes a step closer to me. “Are you hungry? We can get you something to eat.”

My ears are stuck on his question. The cops. Enforcers on this side. I’ve run into them before. They mean nothing good to someone like me.

I can find no refuge here. Not now. Not like this.

I close my eyes. Imagine the wall. Pass through.

Silent darkness, quick and sudden, presses against my eyelids. I’m safe. I’m back. I take a long breath and open my eyes.

Tycho is standing right in front of me.

Silver hell. The bracelet slips from my fingers and clatters to the wood floor.

He’s wide-eyed and breathing like he’s being chased. “You vanished.” His eyes flick to my bed, six feet away now, then back to my face. “Then reappeared just there.”

I say nothing. I can’t deny it.

His eyes search mine in the darkness. “Is it you they’re looking for?”

“You’ll seal your fate with that question.”

Tycho swallows. “Hawk. Is it you?”

Tension has joined us in the loft, a silent judge, trapping me in place. “Yes.”

“What would they do if they found you?”

“They won’t.”

The words come out like a threat, and he flinches. It should summon sympathy in me, but it doesn’t. I’ve learned how to lock away emotion and do what is necessary. Too well.

Tycho takes a deep breath, and he must steel his nerve, because he straightens and looks at me. He’s braver than he thinks. “Tell me what they’d do.”

“I do not know for sure, but it likely would not end well for me.”

“They’d kill you?”

“Yes.”

His voice has grown quiet. “Did you do something very bad?”

“The answer to that is long and complicated.” I consider his expression. “But no. Not in the way you mean. I am not hunted for what I’ve done, but for who I am.”

He studies me. I study him. I could break his neck in the space between breaths. I could drop his body from the loft so it would look like he fell from the ladder in the night. No one would question it. Tycho is a shadow. Likely no one would mourn.

I would.

The thought hits me like an arrow, piercing and true. I rub my hands over my face. I would mourn. I don’t want to hurt him. He trusts me. Possibly only me.

His hand touches my forearm, and I jerk my hands down.

“I’ll keep your secret,” Tycho says, his voice as low and earnest as it was before this all unraveled.

“Even though you could buy your freedom?”

He looks startled, then hurt. “I’m not buying my freedom with your death.”

It’s my turn to flinch. I very nearly did exactly that to him. I take a steadying breath, then reach out to ruffle his hair and give him a good-natured shove. “I’m honored to have your trust, Tycho.”

He blushes so deeply that I can see it in the near darkness. “Well, I’m honored to have yours, Hawk.”

The tension between us has evaporated so smoothly that it’s almost as if I imagined it. I remember what it was like to trust someone. I remember what it was like to have a friend. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it was so freely offered.

“Grey,” I say softly. “Not Hawk.”

His eyes widen, but he smiles. “Grey.”

“It will put you in danger to keep my secret.” My voice is grave. “If I’m caught and they find out you knew.”

“Then don’t get caught.”

That makes me smile. “Go back to bed,” I say. “The horses will be calling for their breakfast before sunrise.”

He climbs back onto his bed, and I climb into mine, and silence falls between us again. It’s easier this time. My heart no longer races along, looking to evade an unseen threat.

“Jodi said you eat like a nobleman,” Tycho says. “Were you? Before?”

“No.” It’s such a relief to tell someone that I very much want to pour the whole story at his feet, just to share the burden. “I was a swordsman. In the Royal Guard.”

“Oh.” The weight of this knowledge forces him back into silence for a while, but then he rolls over to face me. “Wait.”

I freeze, wondering if this will change things. “Yes?”

“Then you’ve been holding back. When we use the practice blades.”

“Yes. I have.”

“So you could teach me more?” he says.

He sounds so eager that I laugh. I likely could have bargained his silence for lessons in swordplay.

“Could you?” he presses. “If we practice in secret?”

“Yes,” I say, smiling. “Yes, indeed.”