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He ran, and it was all I could do to hug Lark close and rock him as he sang his song in a broken voice, clinging to the shredded pieces of his mind.
“The rain has stopped,” I told him. “You did that.” He rocked and hummed and mumbled. I stroked his hair and tucked him close. “You are my everything. You’re my heart. I hope you know it. I hate you sometimes too, I’ll not lie, but I love you more. You’re brilliant. Your heart is bright, and you are not what he made you, Lark. You’re a shining star in his darkness. Please, hold on.” I grasped his mutilated right hand and clutched it to my chest. It wouldn’t be right, if he died for this, for us. Despite him wanting it to end that way. But I could see him, standing on the edge of that cliff, wanting to step off.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve hurt you, lied, betrayed, traitor…”
“No, no.” I threaded my fingers into his hair, still holding him close, rocking him, wishing Draven would hurry. “None of that was you. I see you. You’re the man who tried to teach me to juggle, you sang to me in the prison cell, you saved War’s people, you’ve saved me over and over. I see you, Lark, and I wish—” My voice caught. “—I wish you’d love yourself as I love you, then you’d know how remarkable you are.”
Gods, Draven, hurry… I’m losing him.
Tears wet my face, and I couldn’t even claim they were rain.
“We’re going to shatter the crowns,” I told him. “We’ll make it end.” He didn’t move, didn’t reply. “Lark?” I eased him back. His head lolled, eyes closed. “Gods, no—Lark?” I touched his face. So cold. Why was he cold? His heart… I pressed a hand to his damp shirt and waited to feel his warmth, feel its beat. Nothing. “No.” I laid him down, blinked tears away, and grasped his wrist, feeling for a pulse. “Please?”
There, thethump-thump, but it was weak, so weak.
“What use am I if I cannot save love?”
What kind of world was this if good men like him died while those like Razak escaped? It wasn’t right, it had never been right. “We’ll change it, you and I. We’ll change it, Lark, I promise.” My heart ached, choking me. “You’ll teach me to juggle, won’t you? I’ll try harder, and you’ll laugh, then tell me all the ways I’m a terrible prince. Please… please hold on.” I couldn’t do this without him. I couldn’t be the Prince of Love with a broken heart. We hadn’t yet danced in the rain, we hadn’t made love on the beach, we hadn’t counted flower petals in the meadows, and he’d never be free if he died here.
“Damn this world,” I snarled. If Lark died, then the shatterlands weren’t worth saving.
“Arin!” Noemi cried, running up the steps. “Oh, Lark, no.”
“Help me, please,” I sobbed. “Help me.”
“Yes, I’m here, Arin. How? Tell me how.”
Draven knelt and scooped Lark’s lifeless body into his arms. “The crowns, let’s go,” he ordered, taking charge.
I plucked my crown up from the step and raced after them. They were here, I wasn’t alone,weweren’t alone. Our Court of Misfits was together. I had to believe it, I had to hope.
As we descended the stairs down to the dungeon pool-room, Love’s crown began to tingle in my fingers. We had all four courts present, all four crowns. Once shattered, Lark would be saved. No more courts, no more crowns, and whatever happened after would happen with Lark beside me.
Noemi and I ran into the room ahead of Draven carrying Lark.
“Stop there,” Razak snarled. He stood at the pool, Draven’s son against his legs and a knife at the terrified boy’s throat. “Take one more step and the boy dies.”
Fury and desperation boiled my thoughts.
“Razak!” Draven roared. He took a step forward, still carrying Lark, but Razak tugged the blade and blood wept from the boy’s neck. He hadn’t cut him much, but it was enough to stop Draven.
Razak jerked his chin. “We’re all here, I see, all the courts. Well done.”
He barely looked like a man, and certainly not like the elegant Prince of Pain he’d once been. Blood and mud coated his clothes, face, and hair. Half his face was a mess of blood and weeping pus. He was a mad thing, held together by hatred.
“Give me Zayan, and you get the boy.”
“No.” I moved but stopped again under Razak’s warning glare. The boy sniffled in his grip. He didn’t know us, didn’t know why any of this was happening. He wore black and red, like his father, but he likely didn’t even know what that meant. He was innocent.
Lark would make such a trade. He’d give himself up for a boy he didn’t know.
But I wasn’t Lark. “You’re beaten, Razak. Look at you. You’re nothing but rags and spite.”
“Lay Zayan down at your feet, warlord, and your son gets to live a long, prosperous life with his father. Your wife named him as a babe, did you know? Would you like to know that name?”
Draven gulped a sob. “Don’t do this. Don’t make me do this.”
“It’s easy, all you have to do is give me my brother. He’s mine.He belongs to me!”
