“Yourking?”
“Morrgot. Or whatever it is your people call him.” The Crow word leaves a bad taste in my mouth because, for the longest time, I thought it was Lorcan’s name. Well, his birds’ name—names. It was Dante who corrected my awry assumption by offering me the translation:Your Highness.
“Yourpeople?” Eefah’s brow puckers. “Cathal is father, no?”
“Yup.” Sybille bumps her shoulder into mine.
Eefah’s forehead smooths. “You are Crow too, Fallon. Lorcan Ríhbiadh isyourking, too.”
“Lorcan Reebyaw willneverbe my king.” My avowal is met with vicious hisses.
Hmm . . . There are few things I enjoy more than being challenged, Behach Éan.
My gaze snaps to the tavern entrance where I expect to find Lorcan. When I don’t see him, I scan every shadow for golden pinpricks.That wasn’t me challenging you.
And yet, I feel challenged.
Although I think the words, my lips also shape them, “It’s not a challenge.”
“What’s not a challenge?” Syb asks.
“Nothing,” I grumble.
“I’m guessing Fallon took after her birth mother.” Riccio rubs the stubbled edge of his jaw. “I hear the princess of Shabbe was quite the looker.”
The blood drains from my face. “You know?” I stare around the table, seeking scrunched brows but finding none. “Youallknow?”
“Lazarus told us,” Sybille says softly, as though she senses that speaking any louder would make me snap.
I hunt the dim tavern for the giant Fae healer with the silver hair but don’t find him amongst the patrons.
“He assumed we already knew since Antoni knew,” Gia adds.
I whip my gaze toward the boat captain. Although his irises are the same blue as Dante’s, they somehow seem darker tonight, like the ocean that stretches between Luce and Shabbe instead of the midday sky. “Since when?”
He inhales deeply, his jaw as stiff as my spine. “Since that night in the woods with Bronwen.”
The night he trailed me to where Bronwen was waiting for me with Furia. How I miss the stallion Dante rode away on. One more reason I have to loathe the new Fae king.
“Zendaya was great beauty.” Eefah sighs as Connor returns with a jug, which I hope contains more Crow wine, and a platter piled high with grilled vegetables and fruits.
No dead animal in sight. No seeds, either.
“Was?” I look away from the colorful mound striped black like everything else in this kingdom. “Is she—dead?”
“No.” The answer comes from behind me.
I twist around on the bench, my gaze climbing up . . . and up . . . and up.
“Your mother is alive.” The gruff timbre accenting the male’s Lucin raises the fine hairs on my arms.
Eefah gasps and rambles something in Crow I don’t catch, because every gram of my attention is concentrated on the male swathed in smoke.
“Àlo, daughter.”
Three
Time stops as I take in the man who made me; this elusive father I’ve only just learned about.
