I suddenly remember one of the forbidden scrolls of King Prasan I read when I was meant to be washing the walls in the third basement.
“You! You were the one who went into the throne room with KingPrasan and his guard and then disappeared?” I’m on my feet again, the teakettle forgotten. “But your name isn’t in any of the scrolls.”
The Sylvan shrugs, a graceful but impatient movement. “Which means nothing. History is told by the winners. My name wasn’t important to that king or any since. After Prasan took the amulet, I spent the rest of this last century trying to find a way to free the goddess. When I came back to Pallanhold last week, the king decided I could be useful.”
“That’s so wrong.” I’m appalled. But then I think about the rest of what he said and shake my head. “No. No, no, no. History is fact. If it isn’t fact, it’s fiction. Or lies. History can’t be lies! People should only record the truth.”
“That is dangerously naive,” he shoots back at me. “All records are, by their nature, incomplete. Not to mention how much those doing the recording can lie and falsify the histories. I bet your books don’t tell you that I and my people spent years fighting to save our lands from the Zhagarn. Or that I only took the amulet to Pyrrh after we were defeated.”
Kaelen nods grimly. “He’s right. Nothing I read in Valourian said anything about this. Even in our court, I discovered many, many versions of the same past events, different in small to large ways. My tutors said we don’t even know how much is missing from the historical record. If Prasan never told the truth …”
“What is truth?” Chitai asks dismissively, bitterness drenching her words. “Truth is a mirage in the shifting sands. The closer we get to it, the farther away it seems. Sometimes we can only find our way to the truth—atruth—by wandering through twisting paths of pain and doubt and devastation. And our truth is not necessarily the truth of others, no matter the oaths we’ve sworn.”
“People lie,” Kaelen says flatly.
“Not always lies,” Elianna protests. “Sometimes things are said to … to put a prettier picture on a harsh reality.”
“Fine. History gilds the past with the polished lenses of reminiscence,” Kaelen drawls, the studied courtier in his mocking voice. “And the conquerors grind those lenses themselves, skewing perspective beyond all reason, as they wish.”
I’m still shaken by having my apparently naive worldview upended,so I busy myself handing tea to all who want it.
Andras shakes his head, then reconsiders and takes a mug. “This is all irrelevant to the point. My goddess begged me to take the key and run. To put as much distance as possible between the key and her prison in Corvynne’s domain.”
“The key?” Trick says from behind me. I didn’t hear him walk up. He and Neville must have finished their patrol.
“The amulet,” I tell him. “Remember, the goddess told us that the amulet is the final key to unlock her prison.”
“After we find two others while somehow defeating both impossible evil and odds,” he mutters.
I can’t think about the hopelessness of the quest, or I’ll fall back down into the Gray. I collect dishes to wash, but Kaelen takes them from me, bending his head to mine.
“You’re the center of this mission, not the servant. We’ll do this together.”
A delicious shiver races down my spine at both his words and the warm caress of his breath. I swallow, unable to respond, and pull my shaking hand out from beneath his.
The prince turns to Andras. “I already know you well enough to be sure you would never have left Artemisen’s side unless the situation was both dire and hopeless.”
Andras nods solemnly. “Thank you. My company was all dead. We fought to the last man and woman, trying to keep the Zhagarn and Fell at bay while the goddesses waged their battle in the sky. But when Artemisen fell …” He bows his head, touches his closed hand to his lips, and murmurs something I can’t catch. “When Corvynne locked her in that tomb, using Artemisen’s own amulet to seal it, it was over. They thought we were all dead, and I, the last one still alive, was badly injured. But my goddess sent her healing powers to me, even locked inside that crystal tomb. She bade me steal the amulet from the lock and run—fight my way free if I had to and spirit the amulet away to someplace safe, where it could be protected until we could rescue her, if need be.”
“If need be?” Elianna says. “What does that mean?”
“Artemisen still had hope that her sister would repent and free her.”
“Families. Whatcha gonna do, right?” Trick says lightly.
“But the High Inquisitor’s scrolls,” I say quickly, before Andras stabs my friend for his insolence. “They say he—you—disappeared.”
“Secret passage from the throne room. We went to the king’s chambers, where I explained everything. The king wanted to hold the amulet. When I tried to stop him, his guard volunteered to do so, even after I explained the danger.” Andras sighs heavily. “You can imagine the rest.”
“He burned,” I whisper, thinking of the king’s deathbed confession.
“He burned. The king took me to his private treasure room, where we stored the box in a pile of trinket boxes.”
“Hiding in plain sight,” Trick says. “One of the best defenses against thieves who aren’t very skilled.”
Andras nods. “The High Inquisitor forced the king to throw me in prison, because a prisoner couldn’t spread word that Pyrrh had the amulet. Soon after that, King Prasan decided he was done with the man and his blatant power grabs. He set me free and banished the High Inquisitor from Pallanhold forever.”
“That same man went to the Freeholders’ Territory and promptly founded a cult,” Elianna mutters. “Took root there like a fungus. There were and are no rulers and little belief in either magic or religion there.”
