“Are we entirely sure Sabre is telling the truth of how it disappeared?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if he asked her to take it away?”
Aowen scrunches her nose, defensive. It takes everything in my power to not croonyou like him. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“You heard what he said when we arrived. That he was so heartsick, he never wanted to be king. What better way to kill that opportunity than sending your human lover home with the magical relic needed to make it happen?”
Aowen props her chin in her hand and stares into the fire. “I cannot explain it, Charlotte, but I … I trust him. I believe he has his people’s interests—the whole kingdom’s interests, really—at heart.” I sigh, because despite my playing devil’s advocate, I agree with her. “He wants the fighting to end. And for the first time in a long time, he believes it may be possible.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I say, polishing off my tart. I want to reach for another, but I stop myself. I’m already restless; the sugar will make it worse.
Frustration drills my skull. I am not going to find any clues here among Granny Maggie’s abandoned treasures. And Death continues to stalk me, patient yet ever present. If I fail to find the fragment, I suppose I could stay in the human realm, let the ring fall off and forget everything that’s happened to me here. But then what would become of Aowen? Of Vesper? Of Garred? Of the people of the Vale?
Of Lachlan?
Bugger it. I’m eating another tart.
“Have you heard any news from Desmond?” I ask, nonchalant, digging back into the basket.
“What kind of news?”
“Oh, you know. How fare the people of Tír na Strelle? How are preparations coming along for the Wild Hunt? What does he have Lachlan working on?”
She must have caught the hitch in my voice because now she’s the one smirking. But it falls from her face when she answers, “I am not speaking to my brother.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Is that wise? With the Hunt so close and how high the stakes are?”
“He betrayed me,” she spits. “We had an agreement. I would help him become king and in return, he would leave me to a life of my choosing. Instead, he used me as a pawn to achieve his own ends. I … I am not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive him for that.”
“Well, I do hope that won’t make family dinners awkward once we’re sisters.”
She huffs a laugh, but deep hurt darkens her eyes. “I was nine years old when he was born, have I ever told you?”
I shake my head.
She stares into the dying fire, shivering. “He was such a beautiful baby. Everyone said so. Mother and Father were over the moon. House Macán, at last secured by a male heir. There were no celebrations when I was born, only tense whispers and hand-wringing. But I loved him so much, the jealousy was easier to bear. I was the eldest, but what did that matter?”
Her expression shutters, frozen once more by her imperviousness.
“A woman as the head of House? What could possibly be more absurd?”
Aowen would make a wonderful queen. She’s confident, open-minded, and she cares for every living creature in the Otherworld. She’s brave, she’s not afraid to make difficult decisions, and she steps aside when needed to let others shine.
Yes, she would make an excellent queen.
A far better queen than me.
I wrap my hand around hers, squeezing gently in a silent moment of solidarity.
Because if I don’t find Sabre’s lost Bannrhorn fragment, there will be no queen at all.
Chapter
Forty-Three
On the eve of Mabon, at ten minutes to midnight, Aowen, Sabre and I are standing in front of the door to Granny Maggie’s quarters.
