“Or had.”
We lock eyes.
“But that’s not all, is it?” Lila turns back to the tapestry, fingers tracing Maxian’s bronze waves, then those of the faerie standing beneath the boughs. Her hand drifts to the dark-haired toddler with violet eyes, so very much like the portraits of Wilhelm the Uniter and Gregor the Great. Chills rip up and down my arms.
“If I were the artist commissioned by royalty,” she starts, “I would not cut corners on the colors used to dye the wool.”
“What do you mean?” I breathe.
She looks at me, throat bobbing, voice dropping. “There aredifferent shades of yellow in this tapestry, in the leaves here and the sun there. Look at the array of browns, too, for the trunks of the trees. So why would an artist use the same color for the hair of the future king of Amyria and a lowly servant? Would that not be considered an insult, that type of association?”
“Maybe their hair was the same color,” I whisper, a roaring in my ears, the conclusion on the horizon I do not want to look into directly—like a burning, bloody sunset.
“But why choose truth for a royal rendering? The artists always stylize the subjects, and besides, a true artist is intentional in everything she does.”
My gaze darts between the dark-haired queen and the toddler patched behind her skirts, then to the bronze-haired Maxian and servant, both boys sharing the violet eyes so signature to the Vandorne line.
“Perhaps it was the truth,” I whisper. “Not that the fae queen and the faerie were lovers, but that perhaps they shared one.”
Lila sucks in a breath. “But—that would mean—”
“Please,” I beg, terror clanking through me. “Surely we are moonstruck.”
“That is someone else’s thought, planted in your mind. We should trust ourselves, what we have seen. Look at it!” She points to the tapestry. “Why do she and Maxianlook alike? Why include a faerie in a piece of royal art at all?”
“The royals include their pets in portraits!” I hiss back.
“She could’ve still been a pet. She could’ve been King Gregor’s.”
A shiver tears through me. “But if Maxian is the result of…that,” I whisper. “Then that means he’s a half—”
Lila covers my mouth, her face stricken with fear.A halfling bastard.
She sways with the realization, and so do I. After a moment, her palm drops away.
“It can’t be true,” she says. “The king is always the strongest fae in the land. And the strongest fae always come from the Vandorne line.”
“It can’t be true,” I echo. “Or else Maxian would not be alive today.”
But Hector’s words come thundering back to me like a storm over mountains.We are a dying breed, we Reign fae.The High Fae birth so few children in general, the Vandornes the least of them. Faeries, on the other hand, are more fertile and populous.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lila says, and I can’t agree more.
As we cross the chambers, I glance one last time at the tapestry, the two boys, the queen, and the maid. Whether the toddler died or was removed, his existence is only carried on in the few scraps we clutch, hidden away in this forgotten place. It’s a finality deeper than death.
At the heart of Versara is a secret so great, it could unravel all of Amyria.
Part Three
House of Healing
Follow the flow
up, around, below;
offer the final breath
to find a face of Death.
