Once Isobel’s and Alistair’s usefulness to him had expired, he could kill Briony and pin her death on Alistair. That would turn Isobel against him and make them kill each other.
Leaving Gavin to take his crown.
ALISTAIR LOWE
Even high magick has its limits: it can’t bring back the people who died for it.
A Tradition of Tragedy
In a number of ways, the Castle Landmark reminded Alistair of the Lowe estate. Every time he turned a corner, he swore he caught a glimpse of Hendry disappearing through an archway, or a view of him from beyond a gothic window. As Alistair discreetly hurried down the hallways, the suits of armor watched him with all the cruel judgment of his family’s portraits.
A pitiful excuse for a Lowe champion, he heard them whisper.
And they were right. Alistair had buried what was left of Hendry, even if it had meant sacrificing the curse that could’ve led to his victory. And while Isobel and the Grieve plotted upstairs amid a pile of curserings, Alistair snuck off to do the least Lowe thing imaginable.
His heart hammered as he descended into the bowels of the Castle, remembering the time he’d visited the vault at home. Several monster stories crept into his mind, and his own imagination clawed at him in the darkness. The worst of them was the scent of pastries, a tinge of sweetness among the gloom. Phantom high magic winked in the corners of his vision. He could almost hear Hendry’s laughter in the quiet of the stairwell.
Maybe that was what this was. Maybe he was losing his mind.
By the time he reached the dungeons, his whole body trembled. He shivered even as he sweated.
A swift Skeleton Key spell opened the lock with a click. The iron door swung open, revealing Briony Thorburn in the cell’s corner, awake and with her knees hugged to her chest. At least they’d let her clean up a little. That curse had been rancid.
“Did they send you to kill me?” she asked him.
“Not exactly.”
“Then they’re leaving to kill Finley and Elionor, and this is my last chance to reconsider.” Her voice was painfully matter-of-fact when what Alistair needed, more than anything, was faith. Alistair had spent so long avoiding being good that he wasn’t sure he knew how.
“I’m setting you free, Briony,” he said, his voice cracking.
Briony’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not a fool.”
“No, the fool is probably me.” He sighed and took a step back, allowing her a path to the door. Then he tossed her a leather pouch. She opened it and pulled out one of her own spellrings in surprise. “Leave, because I won’t fight them, even to help you escape.”
Briony gaped at him, as though still unable to reconcile his reputation with who he really was. “But they’ll fight you, once they learn what you did.”
Alistair shrugged with false confidence. Isobel might not have killed him this morning when he’d pressed her cursering to his throat, but then he’d only been a disappointment—not a liability, not a threat. Alistair had hoped that by letting her use the Divining Kiss, she’d understand his true feelings. That he hadn’t been strong enough to save Hendry. That he didn’t want to live in the kind of world where brothers had to be sacrificed, where two people who cared for each other were forced to be enemies. He’d wanted her to see that he’d give anything for this chance, no matter how unlikely it was.
Instead, Isobel hadn’t even been willing to try.
“Maybe I’m damning myself,” he murmured to Briony. “But I also think I’m saving myself.”
“So you believe me?” Alistair didn’t know Briony, but there was something comforting in seeing the expression on a stranger’s face perfectly reflect his own. Maybe what Briony also needed, more than anything else, was faith.
“Stories have always had a way of burying themselves inside me,” he told her honestly. “The good and the bad.”
“And which is mine?”
Alistair didn’t delude himself into thinking Briony’s theories would ensure a happy ending to this story, but he knew with certainty it wasn’t a story the Lowes would tell.
“Good,” he said firmly.
She sighed. “I don’t think so.”
But Alistair was sure. Even with her long hair tangled, her nails caked with dirt, Briony still looked like a hero.
“Well,” he said. “I’m letting you out anyway.”
“I don’t deserve it.” Still, Briony stood up and slipped on the first of her spellrings. “Will you come with me?”