Reyla was moving now, frantic. She dropped to her knees, her fingers scrabbling against the stone, searching for the chalk that was no longer there. She patted her pockets, desperate, letting out frustrated, sharp exhalations.
Seraphina stepped between the men, her sorrow hardening instantly into steel. “Enough!” she barked, her voice ringing off the arched ceiling sheltering the landing bay.
She turned her gaze on Calix, and he immediately shrank back, looking rightfully afraid of her. She was tired of all the lies. Of the secrets.No more.
Shewouldhave the truth from these men, even if she had to find a Shepherd to perform a Truth-Reading to do it.
“You are going to tell me what is truly going on,” she ordered, the words low and dangerous as they exploded into the frigid air. “Why did you swear to tell me my husband is dead when he is not?”
It was Rakon who answered her, his deep rumble unfurling with palpable reluctance. “Because those witches are setting a trap for you, Your Majesty.”
Slowly, she turned to face the large man. His eyes burned with a terrible, haunting fear she would have never thought possible for one of her husband’s Sons to feel.
“And our Crow is the bait.”
Chapter sixty-three
Seraphina
“Atrap?” her godfather echoed, staring at her over the rims of his spectacles.
The war room of the Dawnspire yawned around her, as though it were a chamber built for giants, with vaulted ceilings soaring far overhead, lost to shadow, and a table of black stone carved with a map of the known world that could seat twenty.
And yet Seraphina was suffocating within the enormous space.
The room was suddenly far too small. Far too crowded.
Duke Percival and Duchess Edith sat at the head of the table, their faces lined with worry. Down the length of the stone slab sat her “cousins”—Cyneric, Slade, Knox, andWulfston—each with a mountain of white fur and canine muscle curled around their boots.
Dame Florence stood sentinel by the cold hearth; Reyla perched on a stool nearby. And near the door, as if afraid to enter further, stood all that remained of the Twelve Sons: Calix, Kyn, Rakon, and Leif.
“As your Lord Chancellor,” her godfather continued, his tone as stern as his expression, “I must strongly advise against us flinging you directly into Arath’s maws.”
Seraphina paced before the high, frosted windows, with Alyx draped about her shoulders, unable to sit. Not with her mind currently ablaze, flickering through every possible path forward. Pressure tightened behind her eyes, each suggestion piling atop the next until she could scarcely hear her own thoughts through the din.
Aldric was alive. But where?
She whirled to face the Sons. “Can you show me on the map where you left the Crow?”
Cyneric shifted in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. “Cousin, I fear I am in agreement with my father. We cannot afford to lose you now.”
His words left a sour taste in the back of her throat. They smacked of Tiberius’s own sentiment back in Goldreach on the day of the coup, when he had claimed her life was worth more than Sir Tristan’s.
Kyn’s gaze darted between her and Cyneric before he finally stepped forward, approaching the table. “We were a day’s ride from Goldreach when we were first ambushed, Your Majesty. I believe…” The Drakmori circled around the stone slab, earning himself a warning rumble from Slade’s varhound when he drew too close. Finally, he tapped the map. “Here.”
Calix remained quiet, his arms crossed over his chest.
Rakon cut in with his deep rumble to point out, “But we escaped from further in the wood. Further south—that seemed to be the direction the witch was taking us.”
At the mention of the word “witch,” a quiet hiss emanated from Leif’s direction. For just a moment, she caught a glimpse of a sleek black head poking out from beneath the elderly man’s jerkin before Soot retreated once more.
Seraphina turned back to the rest of her councilors. “We already agreed the wisest course of action is to retake Arlund first. The fact that my consort also lies in that direction now solidifies this as the best move in my mind.”
“That was before we realized it was a trap,” Cyneric pointed out, his voice rough.
Knox absentmindedly twirled one of his hunting knives through his fingers, his lips pursed. “But we don’t know that this Crow is actually in Arlund, do we?” He traded a look with Slade sitting beside him; his younger brother shook his head. At a glance, the two looked nearly identical—almost perfect replicas of Percival Umberly himself.
Seraphina turned sharply on her heel to resume her pacing, her skirts sweeping across the stone floor. Heat flared up her throat—anger, fear, and determination tangled so tightly that shecould no longer tell them apart. “I refuse to leave my husband to die. He is alive. I intend to rescue him. That is the end of it.”
