The Dire King (Jackaby #4)(50)

Jackaby blinked, startled. I could tell the voice was in his ears as well. “This is the second-oddest poetry recital I have attended,” he muttered.

“Hamlet,” I said, shaking my head. “He liked Shakespeare.”

Pavel’s lips gradually stopped moving. His muscles went slack. His hand twitched once, and then the voice in my ears was extinguished like a snuffed candle.

“He is gone now,” said the twain.

“Well, that should make you happy. Save your boss the trouble,” said Jackaby. “He was a traitor to all sides, that one.”

“Death does not bring me joy,” sighed the twain.

“You realize that more death will come?” Jackaby answered. “Hafgan is back! You saw to that, you and your other half, when you raised him from the dead. It won’t only be soldiers and villains like Pavel, either. Thanks to your darling Hafgan, a lot of innocent people are going to die.”

“No. That is not Hafgan’s way. Hafgan’s way is to do good.”

“Tell that to Hafgan!”

“I cannot.”

“How can you still believe in that lunatic?”

“My other half,” said the twain, “gave herself to Hafgan during the last war.”

“Yes. You told us. The twain’s great sacrifice—bringing the dead back to life.”

“The twain’s gift can also be given to the living,” he said. “The same power that can heal a broken body and retrieve a soul from the other side can be given to a body that yet lives. But for the living, it is a power that burns.”

The twain’s little round head sagged on his downy shoulders.

“Hafgan needed strength beyond anything the fair folk were ever meant to possess,” he continued. “My other half believed in him. She fashioned for Hafgan an instrument with which he might channel his power and a headpiece with which he might channel his will, the spear and the crown. When they were not enough, he opened himself to the full power of the twain. They accepted their fate together. Hafgan knew that it would destroy him. His need was dire.”

“And so he became the Dire King,” I said.

“But power corrupts,” said Jackaby. “That’s what the poem is about, isn’t it? The spear grips the hand that grips the spear. In the end he failed because he became corrupted by his own power.”

“Hafgan did not fail. He was victorious, but he succeeded at a terrible cost to himself. I cannot imagine the pain.”

“Wait, what do you mean he was victorious?” I asked.

“He accomplished his goal. It should have killed him to do it, but I came to his aid as well. I forged for him an amulet to temper the power burning within him, to protect him, inside and out. I made it possible that he could not be killed by any mortal weapon, nor by flame, nor frost, nor even by the passing of years.”

“The shield,” said Jackaby. “It was an amulet. Your other half made him all-powerful, and then you made him invulnerable.”

“Not invulnerable. I left a chink in his armor. Hafgan could be killed, but only by one who did not wish him dead. Only by one whose soul was pure and whose intentions were good.”

“Enter Arawn,” Jackaby said. “Don’t go telling the Fair King he was pure and good, though. He’s arrogant enough as it is.”

“But, wait,” I said. “If your other half sacrificed herself before the Dire King died—then who resurrected Hafgan afterward?”

“Nobody,” answered the twain. “Hafgan is dead. He had borne the burden long enough. It would have been an unkindness to ask him to carry it again.”

“If Hafgan is still dead,” said Jackaby, “then who is wearing the Dire Crown?”

The twain opened his mouth to reply, but then abruptly vanished instead. The moment he was gone, an arrow glanced off the parapet with a spark, leaving a notch precisely where the furry figure had been standing. My eyes shot upward to a figure on the rooftop. She wore deep blue robes and was loading a second shot into a sleek crossbow. An ivory scar ran from her lip to the corner of her eye.

“Confused yet?” asked Serif.





Chapter Twenty

You’re meant to be confused,” Serif continued. Her eyes were narrow and darting as she scanned the top of the castle wall. “It’s what the twain does. They are creatures of confusion and chaos. A twain will make you unsure if day is night or up is down or friends are enemies.”

Emerald light rippled across the spire above her and Virgule flipped out of the rend and spun to land in a crouch beside his general. The captain’s entrance was far more graceful than mine had been. Virgule stood, his hand flying to the hilt of his own sword.

“Everyone seems to think so, but the twain didn’t seem particularly malevolent,” I said.

“They never do,” Serif snarled. She lowered the crossbow.

I scowled. “What was Hafgan’s original purpose?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” said Serif.

“The twain said that Hafgan was victorious. But Arawn told us that Hafgan wanted to destroy the barrier. He didn’t. The veil still stands—for now, at least—so how was Hafgan victorious?”

“He wasn’t. Hafgan failed. The twain lied to you.”