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.”
“I don’t think so,” said Jackaby. “The twain wasn’t lying. Or at least he believed what he was saying.”
“Am I lying?” Serif asked.
Jackaby considered her. “Hm. No.”
“There you have it.”
“How did you two get here?” I asked. “If Arawn doesn’t know about the Dire King’s stronghold, then how did you two find it?”
“We followed you, obviously,” said Serif. “We lost your trail briefly in the sewers, but Virgule connected the dots.”
“Ley lines,” Virgule said. “I knew we were close, so I plotted the nearest corresponding ley lines and found an intersection point very nearby.”
“Ley lines?” I asked.
“Seams,” said Jackaby. “A ley line is a seam along the veil wall. Our world has scarcely any functional magic compared to the Annwyn, but magic is always strongest along the seams. Sorcerers and witches throughout the ages have made use of these ley lines to strengthen their own natural gifts. It stands to reason the rend would fall on a ley line. Easier to pop a seam than to cut straight through.”
“Care to explain why you were working with the enemy?” Serif asked. Her grip tightened on the crossbow, but for now she kept it hanging at her side.
“Better the devil you know,” Jackaby answered. He nodded toward Pavel. “He got us closer to the devil we don’t.”
“It seems he outlived his usefulness.” Serif raised an eyebrow. “Are you in the habit of killing all your informants?”
“Only those who are in the habit of trying to kill us,” Jackaby said.
“Madam General,” Virgule interrupted. “We’re not alone.”
The doors to a blocky guardhouse on the far corner of the hold flung open. In the doorway stood a lithe man with white-blond hair, his face shrouded in shadow. He was oddly familiar, but my attention was pulled from him to a pair of bright red imps who exploded past him, tails whipping behind them eagerly. They leapt onto the outer rim of the wall, vaulting the crenellations and chattering like monkeys as they galloped toward us.
Virgule’s sword was out in a flash as he leapt down from the roof onto the wall. “Watch out, General.”
Serif was unfazed. She stood her ground and leveled her crossbow at the nearest galloping imp. The bolt impaled the thing in midleap, sending the little red creature backward over the parapet with a pained squeak and then tumbling down the side of the wall. The second imp chittered angrily and continued forward in leaps and bounds. “If imps are the best they can throw at us—” Serif began.
She was interrupted by a wet groan. The ogres—the ones Pavel had dispatched for us—sat up. They pushed themselves heavily to their feet, their heads still hanging at an unnatural angle to their bodies. Their eyes were glassy like the late Mr. Fairmont’s had been, right before the late Mr. Fairmont tried to eat Charlie and me back in the gardens.
If you are unfamiliar with the sensation of being surrounded by undead ogres, it is akin to the feeling of being lost in the woods. The shapes looming around you are simply too much to take in all at once. The difference, of course, is that trees are less inclined to murder you violently. Also, there is a smell.