“Fern,” he said, his voice softening. “Behaving yourself, I hope?”
Stopping beside us, she swatted his arm. “Someone has to run this place while you’re off playing with dragons.” Her gaze landed on me, assessing but not unkind. “And you’ve brought company.”
“Isi, this is Fern.” Trew slid his around the back of my waist. “She’s the true queen of this village and everyone in it.” He gesturedto a long, rambling building with a wide porch and lots of windows. “She houses and cares for all of our newest arrivals.”
I saw the children then. Dozens of them, spilling from homes and the large buildings, their laughter echoing in the air. They chased after small, glowing lightwings, giggling. One little girl sat on a stoop, her brow furrowed in concentration as she made a handful of pebbles hover and dance in a swirling pattern above her lap. A boy laughed as he touched a wilted daisy, urging it back to full, brilliant bloom with a whisper of magic.
Here, magic wasn’t a death sentence. It was child’s play.
My stomach plummeted as I recognized them. Not all of them, but enough. A boy with shockingly red hair who’d been reported for making his toys fly. A girl with tiny braids all over her head whose root-spell had made her mother’s garden bloom out of season.
The children Trew had “stolen.”
My children of Caldrith.
The memory of the last Day of Mercy slammed into me. The ceremonial mask, cold against my skin. The scent of incense and sweaty dread of those wearing white. The weight of the sapphire blue robes on my shoulders as I stood on the platform, while men and women drank ashwine from simple mugs.
They died for the crime of having the same power that now hummed beneath my own skin. And their children… I’d believed they were sent for reformation, a gentle re-education.
I suspected it was all a lie.
The truth was here, laughing and playing in the sunlight. Trew hadn’t stolen them. He’d saved them.
Fromme. From my father. From a court that would rather poison its people than see them use their power. The realization sent a shard of ice through my chest, so painful I could barely take in a breath.
I’d been a Lady of Mercy who had shown very little to the people who should matter the most.
“Isi?” The small, tentative voice sliced through the storm in my head.
A boy with a riot of dark curls and wide, familiar eyes rushed toward me, a carved wooden bird soaring through the air beside him.
“Isi!”
Leo.
Mae’s son. Her precious seven-year-old boy.
My heart shattered and reformed in the space of a single, ragged breath. I dropped to my knees on the ground. Leo launched himself into my arms, wrapping his limbs around my neck in a fierce hug.
“I missed you,” he mumbled into my shoulder.
Tears streamed down my face. I squeezed him tight, burying my face in his hair, breathing in the scent of sunshine and boyish mischief. I’d been there the day he was born. I’d held him, so tiny and perfect. I’d loved him as if he were my own.
Children forgave so easily.
The question was: Could I forgive myself?
“Leo,” I choked out, my voice thick with grief. “I missed you, too. So much.” I pulled back, framing his face with my hands, wiping away the dirt on one cheek. “Are you alright? Are you happy here?”
He nodded, his expression earnest. “Fern makes honey cakes, and we get to play with magic all day. No one gets yelled at. Are you going to stay here with us?” He peered around. “Is Mummy with you?”
His question held the power of a battering ram, knocking down the last of my defenses. He was safe. He was happy. He was free.
But he missed his mother. Why wouldn’t he?
“No, she’s not.” I hugged him again, a wave of gratitude barreling through me, leaving me dizzy.
This boy was everything my court had tried to extinguish.
