Page 42 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

The worst part is—I’m not even sure what I said is true.

A guarded weight shifts behind their gaze. “That’s up to you. Either way, just be careful.”

Aoife knocks from the garden door just as the one into the hall clicks shut behind Talon.

“Come in,” I call out to her.

Aoife’s sandy hair curls in loose, glossy locks this morning. She takes one look at me—the plain braid hanging over my shoulder and the wrinkled tunic I threw on this morning—and raises her brows. “Please tell me you aren’t planning on showing up tonight likethat.”

I still have no idea where to begin preparing for the ceremony to start the Assay tonight, but I won’t admit that to her. “Believe it or not, we peasants do know how to bathe ourselves.”

“What, with a bucket and some lye soap?”

My pride stings, and a retort bites hot and sharp on my tongue. But before I can hurl any venom back at her, I catch a faint glimmer in the corner of Aoife’s blue eyes.

I cock my head at her. “You’re teasing me?”

Aoife reaches for my wrist. A small smile toys at the edges of her lips. “Come on. You might die tonight.” She looks knowingly at me. “You might as well take advantage of the few perks that come with being in the castle while you can.”

Aoife navigates the twisting stone halls without hesitation.

She leads me deep into the maze of castle corridors, down several sets of stairs that make it feel like we’re descending into the mountain itself. The taste of stone and damp in each breath sends my heart racing as I remember the smell of the dungeons, and I tense.

Whatever happens, I can’t go back there.

Faces, all of them hard and cold and unfeeling, glare down at me from portraits in heavy golden frames, some blackening with age around the edges, lining the walls. Their eyes follow each step, no matter how far we go. And more than once, I notice that the sandy hair on so many of them is the exact same shade as Aoife’s, and the prince’s, too.

I still have no idea why he let me walk away from that garden after the way he looked at me like… Old Ones, I don’t know what to call it. Like he was seeing a ghost.

Torches flicker from iron sconces on the walls. The halls narrow, the castle starting to feel more like a catacomb delving deep through the rock, fat candles wedged into every nook and cranny.

A sharp voice snaps from one of them, and Aoife’s hand grips my wrist. Her eyes widening, she pulls me into the shadows of an empty alcove. My muscles jerk as the low hiss of a whisper snakes in the flickering candlelight from just a few feet away.

“All you have to do is agree to not kill me until we get to the last test,” a hard voice says. A girl, I think, probably around my age. “Keep your word and the shipments will start arriving next week.”

“You can spare the grain that quickly?” A second girl’s higher voice sounds incredulous.

The first voice sneers. “Unlike some, we don’t let traitors near enough to scorch our harvests. We smoke them out like the rats they are before they get anywhere near—”

“We don’tletthem near,” the second voice snaps, each syllable like cut glass. “The whole north is in the same position. We never came close to catching all the rebels, or their army. I bet they’re staging somewhere in the north, or out of the islands, ready to land on my front door as soon as the harvest fails. Nothing grows in this damn cold.”

Next to me, Aoife’s rose cheeks go pale, and my blood races.

Why would these girls think rebels are burning grain? No Whisperer would want to hurt Eireann, and burning grain would devastate us, with supplies already so low.

And staging out of the north? Not a chance. The High King was merciless after the uprising. Any rebel force, any army… there’s no way they could’ve survived, or stayed hidden, for fivefucking years. As for staging out of the Málmar Islands, that’s utterly impossible.

There are no caoranachs left to get across the Sea of Serpents.

But Old Ones… those blades Wolf wears: steel so fine it has to be from a forgery of Málmar weapons, even though in all the years my father’s had his weapons stall, we’ve never so much as heard of any forger on Eireann who can replicate those swirls in the steel.

No—there’s no way it could be real.

No way any of what these voices are claiming could be real.

“Sounds like your people need a High Queen who’ll authorize more aid funds for counties on the front lines of this fight.” The first girl’s voice sounds too sure of herself. Arrogant, like she’s used to getting exactly what she wants.

A beat of silence, then a slow draw of breath. “You could get him to fund aid?”