“Done.”
Veyka, his beast warned.
We do not have time to argue,I shot back.
This will not end the way you think.
Morgause stared at us hard. She hadn’t figured out the secrets of the mating bond. Lyrena snorted into her hand at the confused look that the terrestrial exchanged with her male counterpart.
A knock broke the silence.
Morgause straightened, the sanguine smile back in place on her lips.
“Enter,” she called.
A male entered carrying a tray of wood-carved cups and a flagon of wine. I’d have preferred food, but wine would fill my stomach for the time being. There was something strangely familiar about the cupbearer.
“My son, Mordred,” Morgause said, accepting the wine that he served to her first, even before his king and queen.
My. Notour. Not related to Orcadion, then. From the surprise Arran had felt but did not let show when Morgause had announced her marriage, I could glean that the union was recent. The male bore no resemblance to Orcadion, his shoulders square and strong but lacking the brutish width of the eagle shifter. His skin was a paler brown than his mother’s, his black hair clipped too close to his head to discern if he’d inherited her tight curls.
But the angle of his eyes was entirely different from hers, as were the heaviness of his brow ridges. And the color.
“Thank you,” Lyrena murmured, lifting a golden brow and then collapsing it into an impertinent wink. Perhaps Mordred would be her next conquest. It could prove useful in managing the Dyad. Though I hoped that once we left Cayltay with the terrestrial army in tow, I’d never have to see Morgause again.
“To new alliances,” I lifted my cup.
“And old ones,” Morgause added. She took a deep drink from her cup.
The rest of us did the same, the male taking up a spot against the angled glass wall of windows. He watched us intently, though there was nothing unusual about that. It was not every month—or even every decade—that the High King and Queen of Annwyn came to Wolf Bay. Let alone with a faerie of myth for a companion. But the intensity of his stare drew my eyes back to him.
Arran finished his wine and turned, ready to get the hell away from Morgause. A solid plan. But the aforementioned headache stopped us.
“You truly do not recognize him, Arran?” She passed her wine to Orcadion, who drained it as she stood and approached the male, Mordred. She laid a possessive hand on his arm.
“Who?” Arran asked, already halfway to the door.
Morgause waited until he turned back to look at her. Once she was satisfied that she had his attention, she turned those conniving brown eyes to me. “Mordred. He is your son.”
29
CYARA
They had two options before them. Scale the mountains of the spine, or whatever the human equivalent was called, facing ice and snow and most likely injury. Or find the hidden tunnel into the caves of the Faeries of the Fen.
Two full days had passed, and even with all four adults spreading out, the search had thus far been fruitless. They’d passed close to Avalon. Although they’d not actually seen it, Cyara could feel its radiating tendrils of power. Neither Percival nor Diana remarked on its nearness.
Maisri floated between the adults at will, peppering them with questions or demanding attention for her flowery antics. More and more, she chose Diana as her companion.
Cyara watched from atop a hilltop, sheltering from the winter wind beneath a towering pine. She shivered despite her layers of wool, leather, and fur. She could pile layer after layer on her body, but so long as her wings were exposed, she would be cold. But she’d die before she tried to cover them. With wings, the world was infinite. Not even Veyka, with her formidable void power, could soar above the trees.
Cyara let her eyes flutter closed, savoring the crispness of the breeze even as she shivered again. Maybe she ought to search from the sky, see if the terrain was any more recognizable from above.
She drew her wings together, tensed her thigh muscles.
Snow crunched behind her.
His scent hit her nose a second ahead of the harpy.
