“Hmm.” Vann’s head tilted, almost animalistic in his movement. “Fair enough. Might be time to look at the Nachthellians. If you heard, but didn’t see… Overturning the soil and mimicking a person’s tone are well within the bounds of their magic, and procuring blood to further trick you would be no hardship for them.”
All eyes went to Brand, their implication clear.
“Don’t even think about accusing Lunara again,” he hissed. “In fact, since we’re on the subject, allow me to make myself perfectly clear.” Brand stood from his chair, head spinning with drink as he leveled a trembling finger at Lyriat. “That meeting was an insult to everyone in it, but especially her. If you ever do anything like that again, Sisters help us both. She’s off limits. Find your answers another way.”
“That was awfully close to disloyalty, my friend,” Lyriat murmured. “Perhaps I should be wary of you instead. Youdidsend Baldrir to the Westrealm, after all, starting this chain of events.”
Brand recoiled, blinking. One beat of utter silence, two… Both Mag and Vann disintegrated into choked laughter, falling all over each other as they wheezed.
“Your face!” Vann managed, barely keeping hold of the wine.
“Ach, put your curling horns away and sit down, you wee shite.” Mag grabbed the back of Brand’s trousers and yanked him backwards into the seat he’d vacated. “We all know there isn’t a creature in all of Bordoroth less likely to betray their people. Weeping Sisters, the lass has you half out of your head if you can’t see he was joking.”
Mag’s reminder that he was, in fact, feeling every raw effect of his incomplete mating tempered the rage he hadn’t noticed rising. The rest of it bled away at Lyriat’s unrepentant smile, leaving Brand more dizzy than before. “Bloody arseholes.”
Lyriat chuckled. “Usually.”
Vann turned serious, sending up a small shower of sparks as he flicked the spent dart of herbs away. “Your mate might be innocent, but that doesn’t mean her people are.”
No. It didn’t.
Brand buried his head in his hands, the thought too depressing. “It doesn’t make anysensefor a realm to be plottingagainst another, and none of us brothers have heard a word of it. And for what?”
“Threeof us brothers haven’t heard a word of it.” Vann’s voice was gentle as he waved the wine beneath Brand’s nose, goading him into having more. “Who knows what Amun or Araxis might say.”
“We’ll not be hearing from either of them until Da chimes in,” Mag said. “Amun’s up to the neck in Heir duties, and Axie is, well…Axie. You know how they are. Coaxing them out before their presence is necessary will be difficult.”
“What if chaos is the goal?” Lyriat said, rubbing at his temples. “To wreak havoc and confusion, and force us into these pointless conversations that go ‘round and ‘round to keep us distracted?”
“Distracted from what, exactly?” Mag pushed from the railing to sit on the foot of Vann’s lounge. “There doesn’t seem to be a damned thing going on elsewhere.”
“We’ve got an army of Forgotten in the Thodelemaia chasm, dreadbeasts, potential imposters, kidnapping and torture, mass murder. There’s plentygoing onelsewhere. We just don’t know what it is.” Vann toyed with his box of herbs, a spark of mischief in his mismatched eyes. “Could it be… the Prophecy?”
They all burst out laughing, Mag shoving a hand in their brother’s face. “Ach, away with that dragonshite.”
Indeed.
Same as their father and uncles before them, their entire childhood had been built around the Shadow Prophecy—a manic poem of pending doom delivered to their grandfather, Emperor Stennyx, by an oracle of unknown origins. Battle training and constant lessons, memorization of its claims and time spent theorizing its meaning…
After centuries of anxious dissecting, the only thing her words yielded was the splintering of Stennyx’s mind and family.Brand and his brothers knew better now, wiser with their years, and had long ago decided to put it in its place—little more than a joke, used to cover all manner of sadness.
No Daughters being born since was mere coincidence. Plenty of creatures didn’t have female babes, and ‘gender’ was almost irrelevant in Bordoroth anyway.
Truth was, this round of shite was just another drop in the bucket of terrible things that sometimes happened—things that had fuck all to do with that sham of a foretelling—and they were well aware of it.
Vann slapped Magnus away, grinning. “Admit it, you toyed with the idea.”
“Never,” Mag countered, puffing up. “Not even when Thad said the same thing a couple weeks ago.” He flopped backwards and crossed his feet, planting them in Brand’s lap. “Light up another and pass it around, Vann. We’re all too sober for this fucking superstitious nonsense.”
“Here, here!” Lyriat called out, brandishing the wine bottle. “To forgetting our troubles for a few hours.”
Brand tamped down his groan, torn between his heart and head. He gave in to the camaraderie but, even as they cackled through the night to welcome the first rays of morning, he was only half there.
The other part of him was across the castle, with Luna.
Soap and watersplashed a discordant tune as Lunara washed Fern’s spiraling hair, grimy suds dripping from the strands and into a bucket below.
She could’ve easily snapped her fingers and had the mass clean, like she had for the rest of the Fae’s body, but some parts of healing were more than clinical. It took attention and care to get someone truly well. Lunara wanted her to know someone was there for her, even in sleep. That she mattered enough to make the effort.
