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“Didn’t see any eels,” Gileon said seriously. “Only a few parrotfish.”
“Right.” Wren continued to survey him for a beat too long, an expression I couldn’t name rippling across her face. Maybe it was just the aftershocks of what had happened, adrenaline dipping as we all stood there, drenched or wind-chapped or covered in stray feathers before the giant treehouse.
“This is your grand army, is it?” Kanuk asked Coen, his nose wrinkling.
I’d nearly forgotten he was there—that he and Jagaros had just witnessed everything. Jagaros, too, eyed the lot of us with a sharp frown that cut through me like one of my knives. The thought of our meager group saving the entire island when we couldn’t even walk across a rope bridge without wreaking havoc…
Laughable. Utterly fucking laughable.
Coen’s own mouth pressed into a hard line. His eyes raked over each and every one of us until they shuddered to a halt on me, and his lips twitched.
“No,” he said finally, “they’re not an army. They’re my secret weapons.”
And he jerked his head toward the treehouse without another word.
Inside, a spiral staircase wrapped around the trunk of the banyan, leading to upper floors high above a vaulted ceiling interlaced with beams.
We filtered in after Jagaros and Kanuk, gazes wide. Sheer curtains hung from the walls to separate rooms, each of them cluttered with shelves and tables crowned with an assortment of trinkets: piles of coins, goblets, lanterns, strange little musical instruments I couldn’t identify, cups with old feather quills, and books upon books upon books. Oil portraits hung from walls, coated in layers of dust and grime, but the place looked as if it had been well-loved once upon a time. Cherished.
So many objects in such close proximity had my new magic thrumming again, forcing me to clamp down on it with gritted teeth.
Together, Sasha and Sylvie had fixed the bridge that I’d destroyed, summoning fallen pieces of rope and wood and twining them all back together until it drooped from island to mainland once more. But that sense of complete and utter failure wouldn’t stop writhing in my belly. Wren and Gileon were still wet and shivering because of me, dripping all over the treehouse floorboards…
Until Terrin seemed to take pity on them from where he had strolled into the room and blew a waft of fire in their direction.
“Careful,” Jagaros warned, whirling on Terrin as the flames billowed outward, crackling and jumping toward the beams of the ceiling. “We don’t need another catastrophe within the span of five minutes.”
I could imagine all too well this treehouse smothered in fire, sparks flying, disintegrating into ash like all the houses in Hallow’s Perch. Just the sight of that dancing light made my throat tighten, my breath catch, my body tense.
Terrin’s fire faded to smoke the next second, leaving Wren and Gileon flush-faced but completely dry. He shrugged.
“Don’t worry, Your Majesty. I can put out fires just as easily as I make them. Plenty of water in this air to use.”
For some reason, Jagaros looked irritated at that. I could have sworn his pointed ears actually twitched like a cat’s—because of the title? Or something else?
“Very well.” Jagaros turned to Coen, leaning against an old desk stacked with rolls of parchment. “Let’s hear how you plan on using these… secret weapons.”
Doubt laced his tone, but Coen didn’t hesitate any longer.
“First, I need to start with a little warning.” His gaze whisked across every person in the room, excluding me. “There are a few methods of murder I have yet to try: punching a hole through someone’s guts and pulling out their intestines being one. Ripping off someone’s hand and stuffing it in their mouth until they choke being another. I could go on, but I’ll spare you the unnecessary details.”
Everyone glanced at each other uncertainly. Gileon’s eyes had gone as round as coins. I bit my lip, trying to understand what the hell he was aiming for here.
Coen cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth. “What I’m trying to say is that although Rayna and I trust everyone here, I won’t hesitate to do that to any one of you if you give us a reason to stop trusting you—if you leak any information from today, or if you betray us to the Good Council.”
Ahhh. Betrayal. I hadn’t even considered the possibility. There wasn’t a single person in this room I could fathom running off to the Good Council, but I supposed Coen felt he had to make the sentiment clear anyway.
“All good?” Coen asked to general nods all around. “Okay, good. Now we have three main problems to overcome together.”
As he continued to speak, the strangest sensation seemed to drift over the entire treehouse. All of my other worries dwindled away to nothing, a blanket of calm focus settling over me. Rodhi plopped down on a velvet daybed, clasping his hands together, while Sasha and Sylvie found corner chaises. The rest of us settled into various chairs and stools, everyone zeroing in on Coen with rapt attention.
Creativity and collaboration. That’s what Jagaros had said the treehouse was infused with, and I didn’t doubt it now as Coen went on.
“Our first problem is that the Good Council is too covert.”
“Too covert?” Dazmine questioned. “They wear distinguished cloaks with little red dots in the center of their brands and go around flaunting their power.”
“Flaunting their power, yes,” Coen agreed with a nod. “But always under the guise of protecting us. Even with public displays of violence, they paint themselves as saviors by claiming their victims are a danger to the entire island.” His eyes darkened as he no doubt remembered the day Kitterfol Lexington had whipped his friend Mattheus into oblivion. Into death. “So the victims become monsterized. The abuse becomes justified. And all that cruelty and control become disguised as a force of good that we can’t oppose without appearing like monsters ourselves.”
