The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

23

Ren

I f I ever get the chance to have kids, I will spend what’s left of my lifetime telling them about the crazy days their old man lived out—and how every escapade brought him closer to the day he’d cross paths with Duchess Geneva Deragon and jumpstart his wildest adventure yet.

Outrunning two groups hellbent on Genny’s capture—let alone the fact that those two “groups” are the angry Mosacian public and the bloody Deragon Family themselves—has far surpassed all my previous undertakings. It beats riding boards down snow-covered mountainsides, hijacking horses and racing them through open fields, or even spending two nights in jail for pissing in one of the fountains outside the sacred shrine’s gate. I take pride in telling people I toughed it out in a cell for more than one night, but always omit the part where my friends made me kiss their asses over the jail’s dial line so they’d post my bail.

Another railroader hadn’t come around like I’d thought it would, but the hours passed by like minutes as Genny and I strolled down the tracks, talking about life before all of this. I spilled my guts out about all the stupid stunts my friends and I pulled over the years—Genny’s favorite anecdote being the one where I climbed onto the roof of an abandoned villa to look out at the stars, only to have it cave in on me. I told her how I can still feel the hard splat and the crack in my arm as it broke on impact, and the sound of Genny’s roaring laughter unfurled a long-suppressed anxiety in me.

Once I ran out of tomfoolery to revisit, Genny shared everything that came to her mind. The dynamic with her sisters, then and now. But mostly, she gushed about Pandora, about how wonderful she was at nearly all stages of her life. How she slept through most nights as a babe, proved to be the most well-behaved among all her cousins and the other kids that lived in Broadcove Castle, and grew into immense musical talent.

“She sings and the world goes quiet to watch her. She plucks the strings of her harp and even the most esteemed nobles and royals pause to hear her play. That’s the kind of power she has,” Genny said, reverence in her every word. “And to know that, somehow, the enchantment she casts through people might have come from a part of me ?” She shook her head, unable to process the possibility of it.

But I could—I could absolutely see it.

Because Geneva Deragon spoke in a way that told me she loved others more than she paid attention to herself. I had asked about her , and she’d spent hours boasting about the joys of being Pandora’s mother, or basking in the presence of her family in Broadcove Castle. I wouldn’t dare interrupt her, not when she spoke about the world she knew with such optimism and delight—but that wasn’t what I wished to know.

I wanted to know her favorite foods, her favorite phase of the moon. I wanted to learn how she takes her tea—if she drinks it at all—and what color of the sky makes her feel most at home. I wanted to cater to her favorite kind of humor if only to memorize the sound of her laughter. To know every desire of her heart, and find a way to fulfill them all.

She deserves that much.

She’s the only person I’ve ever crossed paths with that deserves it.

We stumbled upon a herd of cattle as night fell—the stock sensing her gentleness and approaching her with no reservations. Genny let them come over, allowed them to take their time and stride across the grass at whatever pace they felt most comfortable, then embraced them all with a devotion that was almost heartbreaking. “Beautiful creatures,” she hummed to herself more than to me. “I haven’t seen any free roamers like these since my days in the marsh.”

She was nuzzling the thick nose of one of the brown speckled cows when a few independent travelers passed by, not deigning to stop. Even so, Geneva had marveled at the two cars that passed, sputtering on and on about how Urovia had only just started manufacturing the baseline models for personal vehicles within the last ten years, nothing to the fashionable degree of what those strangers drove. When the third car drove up, however—two women coasting through the vast plains with the kind of free-spirited glee I hadn’t felt since my twenties—they had quickly offered us a lift and graciously answered all of Genny’s fascinating questions about their car. If the girls had any suspicions about Genny’s nationality and upbringing, they didn’t mention it.

They had stopped driving ten miles short of our destination, and we arrived at their villa late in the night after our third full day of traveling. Genny insisted they accept the money she wished to extend to them as a gesture of their gratitude, and after two full minutes of bickering, they conceded, wishing us the best of luck on the rest of the way.

After so long sitting in one spot, Genny and I were glad to be back on our feet. Her cheery, courteous disposition had vanished entirely, however, when a nearby clocktower chimed the first hour of a new day . . . the first of August.

We walked through the night, her energy renewing in her sheer desperation of making it to the courthouse before a sentence could be carried out against her daughter. She trusted every vague recollection I could scrounge up of where the tribunals are held, just beyond the walls of the Sacred City, and despite the audible nervousness in her voice, she talked with me all night, as if worrying I’d turn back and lead her astray out of boredom.

Only when her feet began to swell in her shoes—when I could physically make out the blisters forming there—did she sit and let her eyes fall shut, insisting she only needed a minute.

A minute turned into twenty, though. Ten of which I beheld firsthand until exhaustion overcame me, too.

Now, jostled awake by Genny’s grip and her devastating, horrified realization of how much time flew by, I jump awake and assess my surroundings. A bustling crowd sounds from distantly down the road, and given the slope of the rising hills . . .

“We’re a mile and a half shy.”

“I’m not missing my daughter.” She grits her teeth. “Even if I have to run the rest of the way there.”

“But your feet—”

“They’re fine,” she says sharply.

I don’t bother disagreeing with her. Not when we’ve come this far—not when we’re this close. We both look around for any sign of the time, and without the presence of a clock, we make guesswork of the sun’s position peeking over the Mosacian horizon. My guess is that it’s nearly eight in the morning, and when I turn back to communicate my observation, I watch as Genny takes her shoes off, abandoning them on the side of the paved road.

A laugh gets the best of me. “When’s the last time you’ve run more than a mile?”

“Too long,” she admits with a wry smile.

And then spearheads down the street, her mother’s fury carrying her through the morning glow.

+

The courtroom is full by the time we get there—its doors shut to the general public once the seating fills up—and according to the whispers, all that remains on this morning’s docket is Pandora’s sentencing.

Few observers can see past the two rectangular windows that peer into the dreadful scene, and despite feeling guilty for falling asleep and barring us from being there to look at Pandora directly, I count it a small mercy. Because even as Geneva Deragon trembles in my arms, her tears returning and splintering something in my soul all the while, she doesn’t have to see whatever state her daughter’s captivity has reduced her to.

That, and it’s likely the High Judge or members of the jury would recognize a Deragon Duchess if she casually waltzed into a courtroom set to convict a member of her family.

“They’re announcing it now,” one of the clustered bodies in front of us hisses before secretly cracking the door open, allowing the High Judge’s bellow to float past the courtroom and into the crowded, expectant hallway.

I clutch Genny tighter to me, albeit for unspoken, selfish reasons.

“The court’s verdict is as follows: Pandora Violet Deragon, in a ninety-seven over three evaluation, has been found guilty of treason, for knowingly carrying out the agenda of Venus and Jericho Deragon—the perpetrators behind the Seagrave Slaughter.”

I watch as Genny’s face visibly contorts at the ruling—how only three people saw her life worth saving.

Three .

“She will be detained in the tribunal penitentiary until the method of her final sentencing is established.” Meaning, they’re still debating how they’ll actually kill her. “And there will be no bond.”

“Like hell there won’t—”

I slam my hand over Geneva’s mouth, the heel of my palm landing harder than I intend it to, and I whisper-hiss a genuine apology when a short cry of pain comes in response. I don’t even want to think about what I’ll find when I peel my hand away. A busted lip? Bloody nose? Chipped tooth? Gods above . Our only saving grace is that her outburst wasn’t in the courtroom itself—the throng of people still blocking our view of the action.

But then, the High Judge releases a weighted, reluctant sigh.

“As for the princess’s handler ,” he drawls, irritation that simmers near fury taking root in his voice. “Kit Andromeda faces the same sentencing, seeing as he failed to meet his arranged appointment with the court to transfer custody of Miss Deragon. Should he and the Urovian Princess be apprehended and brought into court custody by a member of the Mosacian public, we will make it worth your while.”

I feel Genny’s breathing halt, her pulse flickering.

Our eyes tear their way back to each other in unsuspecting relief.

Either Pandora escaped the person who was prepared to turn her in, or her keeper had a sudden and costly change of heart.

“This court will not stomach the weak-willed, just as we will not tolerate traitors. Let it hereby be declared that any citizens able to accomplish the task of apprehending Pandora Deragon and anyone of her ilk—whether by blood or sympathies—will be offered one million Jericoin. Dead or alive.”

Holy gods. One million Jericoin—

“Ren . . .” Genny shudders.

It hits me then—the implied threat to her own existence.

Whether by blood or sympathies .

Mosacia knows that there are more Deragons on the continent, meaning there’s a bounty on Genny’s head, too. A massive one.

There’s one on mine, now, as well. But that comes more as an afterthought. Right now, my mind swirls with the dreaded possibilities in play. If we don’t get somewhere safe, and get there soon, anyone could get their hands on Genny. On Pandora. If the reward for their lives is not determined by whether they bring her in breathing, they’ll kill both of them before they can set foot in court.

“ Husband ,” she says, her fear punctuated by our placated endearment towards one another.

Slowly, I trace her eyes towards whatever seems to haunt her, only to find a man studying her face with subtle yet vicious intent. He might be beginning to recognize her, but I refuse to let his eyes linger longer.

“Come along, sweetheart,” I say, the ruse all too easy for me to resume. I weave my fingers against hers, and the knitted feel of our hands stirs something inside of me that I don’t have the proper time to unpack. “Let’s go home.”

Never mind that we have no home. No plan. No refuge. Nowhere to run.

All that remains is this silent, unwavering notion within me: one million Jericoin is a laughable fraction of what Geneva Deragon is truly worth, and I’ll be dead before I allow anyone to collect her or that pathetic sum.