Aemon doesn’t laugh along. “You miss him?”
“Of course. Max and my mother were the only things keeping me at Duje. Magicless magi don’t do well in those sorts of places, and even if people could get past that, everyone knew Leodin hated me so…” I shrug and start scratching at the dirt on my hands, like that is going to do something.
“Why?”
My head snaps up. “Why, what?”
“Why did he hate you so much?”
I let out a sigh and slouch against the wall. “Leodin had been in love with my mother since they were children, but she didn’t feel the same way. At some point, he tried to force her hand—I don’tknow all of the specifics—and Mama ran. A year later, she returns, pregnant with someone else’s child. He was humiliated. Then, as I got older, and it became obvious I couldn’t perform magic…” I shrug. “I guess Mama was forced to tell him the truth.”
“What truth?” he asks.
I look at him then. I know his secret, so I guess it’s safe to tell him mine. “That I’m half-human.”
“Well, shit,” he says, turning his gaze back to the ceiling.
“To him, humans are lower beings than fae, so the fact she left him to have a baby with a human did not sit well.” I turn back to fidgeting with my skirt. “He beat both of us that night.”
Shaking his head, he says, “So, why did she stay with him if he was such a bastard?”
“Protection.”
His brows pinch in confusion. “Protection from who?”
“The crown.” His features smooth, as the realization dawns on him. I was hiding just the same as he was. “She was afraid if anyone found out the truth, I’d be taken away from her and shipped off with the other humans. At Duje, I was safe.”
“What about your real father? What happened to him?”
I shrug. “Shipped off with all the other humans. Mama doesn’t like talking about him. I don’t even know his name.”
We sit in silence for a moment, me playing with the hem of my skirt, him making doodles in the dirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his gaze bounce to me, the ground and back to me again. He does this two more times before I finally call him out on it. “If you have a question, just ask me.”
“Uh...” He meets my gaze briefly, then is eyeing the dirt again like he’ll find the mysteries of the universe in the orange-brownish mess. “You said you didn’t have any friends at Duje.”
I have a feeling I know where this is going, but I simply nod and wait for him I raise my eyebrows at him in a silent, “Get on with it.”
“Was that time at the inn…” He scratches the stubble on his chin. It’s kind of cute seeing him so nervous. “When we uh…”
“Kissed,” I supply, goading him on because it’s fun to watch him squirm.
“Was that your first?”
There’s really no point in lying. He pretty much knows the answer already, but saying the words out loud is a different matter altogether. I open my mouth to answer, but I’m saved by the unmistakable squeal of the river gate opening. The sound cuts through the din of conversation and all eyes turn to see what’s happening. Aemon and I move in for a closer look. The same fae who brought us here from the prison stands at the helm of his tiny boat, his red robes billowing around him, while the same two soldiers use paddles to maneuver the boat until it’s butted up against the dock. One of the slave-camp guards that had been watching the girls in the river greets him and the two exchange a few words.
“Aemon Cregg,” the guard shouts over the crowd.
Aemon takes my hand. “Stay with me,” he says, and together we head for the boat.
30
At first glance, King Khalmos’ throne room isn’t all that much different from the one at Ferridas. But whereas the Ferridas palace was made of stone brick, these walls are smooth, cut directly from the rock that makes up this mountain range. The standards flanking the throne are blood red and barring the Ümbros serpent and vines, while intricate tapestries line the stark gray walls.
“They’re sort of terrifying,” Katya says, eyeing the first tapestry. I have to agree. It’s basically an image of a massacre: a contingent of magi stand on a hill raining fire on a city, while soldiers slaughter fae in the streets, then throw their bodies into massive death piles.
“They are beautiful, are they not?” a voice asks from behind Katya and me. The two of us spin around to find King Khalmos standing before us, a small smile tugging at his bloodless lips. A thorny black crown sits upon his head, the chaotic circlet ofinterweaving vines dotted with red stones like rosebuds or perhaps blood.
“Your highness,” I say, dropping to one knee. Katya follows suit, thank the gods. The girl is a quick study, that’s for sure. Eyes to the floor, all I see are the king’s slippers peeking out from beneath white silk robes. Troi once told me the king always insisted on wearing white as it lent his already pale skin an almost ghostly pallor, contrast that with those bright pink eyes and he paints quite the intimidating picture.
