“Do I have to open them in that order?” I sit on the bed, pursing my lips.
He shakes his head, grinning.
“Okay, information sounds the most boring,” I say, “so let’s get that one out of the way.”
“It’s not boring, or it wouldn’t be a present, Wraith. Here.” He hands me a box wrapped neatly in gold foil. I pull the top off and find two letters inside.
I furrow my brow, but Draven just rolls his wrist, encouraging me along.
The first letter reads:
It cannot be said with certainty, but each child of that Selection became a changeling, then elf. None were traded, and none have died. Every name’s been altered but a few match the description. I’ve compiled a short list.
What follows are five names of young elven men and their locations. I glance up at him, holding my breath.
“One of these names is your brother’s,” Draven explains.
I crawl across to him, wrapping him in my arms. The smile spreading across his face like wildfire presses against my cheek. “And you thought it’d be boring.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, then I kiss him, deeply, slowly.
When we break apart, he whispers against my lips, “I’ve convinced my father to allow you to come with me and a delegation to the forest of Eidolon next year under the guise of looking for my familiar. The forest shares a border with Alfheim, and if we go during Autumn Equinox, we can stay near Spirecrest wherethe courtiers and royals celebrate. I know it’s not as soon as you want, but we can find him then.”
My eyes well, and I cling to the letter, but he pulls back.
“There’s more, though I don’t know how you’ll feel about it.”
He lifts the second letter.
Prince Draven,
The woman will be safely released to you in two days’ time, sold at the agreed-upon price. I will remember the ways in which you went about setting the terms. An oath of discretion will be required at the exchange point.
—King Eldarion
“I received this just this morning. Eldarion’s chosen heir, Prince Ronan, has a few secrets he wishes to keep from the public. There was no real way of doing this without turning some heads but … druidsdoneed sirens for their courts, too.” Draven smirks, but it falters. “My father doesn’t know your mother’s relation to you, or who she was in the uprising, but it’s imperative that Altair doesn’t learn this. Given what he already knows from the Autumn Equinox, he’d be able to put it together, and harboring her at the palace could be considered an act of war.”
“But Eldarion … do you think there’s a chance he’ll tell Altair, given your father’s suspicions about them joining sides?” The paper is trembling in my hands.
“Luckily, I doubt Eldarion will want to share the story of how I coerced him. She’s been escorted to the palace.” He continues. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see her, but she has her own quarters, her own servants.”
She’s safe. Good. But I don’t know if I can ever forgive her, and I doubt Draven can. Hopefully moving her now will haveher out of harm’s way should Altair come looking in Alfheim. “I’m not ready to see her yet. But, Draven … thank you for saving my mother.”
He risked so much. I was right to trust him. “Of course.” Draven lifts the other two boxes up to me, one black, the other white. “The desire and the choice, respectively.”
“Let’s go with desire after that.” I release a short laugh to dispel the tension. I open the black box and wrapped in onyx silk is an ancient grail. It’s heavy, runes cast against its iron siding. My eyes go wide. “Is this what I think it is?”
It must bethecup. The spell cleaver. The mortals’ Oathbreaker.
“I haven’t tested it,” Draven admits. “But … if it is …”
“We’re free,” I whisper, and he nods. Free of our bonds to King Silas. And I can free my family from theirs. I realize that we’re halfway to completing our deal, and I don’t want those vows to end.
“Thank you for getting this … it must have been horrible.”
“I hadn’t ever been to his grave before. It had quite the nasty enchantment on it.” Draven’s voice is quiet, raw, and pained. He shakes his head, thumb running along the lip of Oathbreaker. “A vivid reminder of my worst memories. But …” He swallows, teeth gritted. “I broke it. I doubt many other druids could’ve. I replaced it with a replica, so hopefully if anyone knows what it was, its absence goes unnoticed.”
I want to say more, but he hitches on a brave smile and nods to the last gift in his hands, the smallest of the three, wrapped in paper as white as dove feathers. I reach for it and tenderly he releases it.
