Straight to the point. I admire that, even if the question itself is tedious.
“I can see why you might have concerns,” I reply carefully, allowing just enough uncertainty into my voice to keep them interested. “After all, my lineage is... complicated.”
“Complicated is one word for it.” One of the other agents speaks, a thin man with sharp features and the sort of pale complexion that suggests he spends most of his time in windowless rooms like this one. “We’ve done our research, Your Highness. Half-unseelie, raised in the seelie court, mistrusted by both sides. That makes you either a perfect double agent or a very dangerous wild card.”
He moves closer as he speaks, invading my personal space in a way that’s clearly calculated to make me uncomfortable. The scent of cheap cologne and stale coffee clings to him.
“Indeed it does,” I agree mildly. “Which interpretation are you leaning toward?”
Morrison pulls out a file. Thick, well-thumbed, clearly comprehensive. “We also need to determine whether you’re playing a double game. Whether your brother sent you here to identify and eliminate Resistance members.”
Ah, here’s the crux of it. They need to know if I’m genuine, but they can’t afford to trust me completely. This is the balancing act I’ve been preparing for, keeping them guessing while gaining enough goodwill that they’ll agree to work with me.
The third agent, a woman with steel-grey hair and calculating eyes that remind me uncomfortably of certain fey courtiers, moves to lean against the covered desk. “The Crown Prince is known for his strategic thinking. Sending his half-brother as a supposed defector would be exactly the sort of long-term manipulation he might attempt.”
“Would it?” I tilt my head, genuinely curious about their assessment. “Tell me, what do you know about my relationship with my dear brother?”
Morrison opens the file, though I suspect it’s more for show than because he actually needs to reference it. “We know you are close to your brother, the Crown Prince. You’ve been seen in his private quarters frequently, you attend his council meetings, he trusts you with sensitive information.”
“Rhydian is loyal to a fault,” I reply honestly, letting some affection creep into my voice. Because that much, at least, is true. “Queen Mab told him to conquer Earth, so that is what he is going to do. Even if he knows it’s foolish.”
The thin agent pounces on that. “He thinks the occupation is foolish?”
I give him a look that suggests he’s missed something obvious. “A protracted occupation of a hostile world while your homeland faces threats from ancient enemies? Of course it’s foolish. But Rhydian was given an order, and he will follow that order until it destroys him or he accomplishes it.”
“Even if it costs him everything?” the woman presses.
“Especially then. Duty is everything to him. It’s his greatest strength and his most exploitable weakness.”
Morrison makes a note. “We know many things about your court. Our agent was able to successfully infiltrate.”
I can’t help but smile at that, allowing genuine amusement to colour my expression. “Ah yes, the agent who fell in love with my brother Llywelyn and followed him into exile to the fey realm. How terribly professional of him.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Morrison’s jaw tightens visibly. “Agent McAllen’s emotional compromises don’t invalidate the intelligence he provided.”
“Of course not,” I say, examining my nails with studied casualness. “Though I do wonder how objective his reports were, given the circumstances. Love does tend to cloud judgment, doesn’t it? I imagine his assessment of the fey court’s capabilities and intentions might be somewhat... coloured by his personal feelings.”
“Are you suggesting his intelligence was unreliable?” the woman asks sharply.
“I’m suggesting that a man who abandons his mission to follow his heart might not be the most trustworthy source of strategic information.” I meet her gaze directly. “But then, you’ve already considered that possibility, haven’t you? Otherwise, why would you be here, questioning me?”
The thin agent moves again, this time circling behind my chair, another classic intimidation technique. I can feel him there, a presence designed to keep me off-balance.
“Let’s discuss your parentage,” the woman says, changing tactics. “Queen Mab did not wish to bear another child after carrying five. So she had her consort father you, and then she claimed you as her own.”
The words are clinical, factual. They strip away any pretense that I was ever truly wanted by the Seelie Court, reducing my existence to a political convenience.
“Your research is thorough,” I acknowledge.
“You do not carry Queen Mab’s claiming braid,” Morrison observes, his eyes fixed on my hair with uncomfortable intensity.
My hand moves involuntarily to my hair before I can stop it. “I have not visited the realm since my wedding,” I say stiffly, cursing myself for the involuntary reaction.
“No, but you didn’t carry her name before the wedding either,” the thin agent says from behind me, his voice deliberately casual. “You carried your birth mother’s name instead. Dyfri Y Mhorrighanogi. Not exactly a sign of royal favour, is it?”
I grind my teeth, fighting to keep my expression neutral. They’re probing old wounds, seeing how I react to reminders of my outsider status.
“Bearing children is sacred amongst the fey,” I say carefully. “My birth mother’s sacrifice was honoured in my name.”
