“The prince’s soul didn’t exactly go anywhere, Your Highness. That’s what’s so complicated.”
I look over at Leon, not understanding. “Well, it’s not inside him,” I point out. “So what did that scythe do?”
“According to legend, Ethira used the scythe to transfer his soul from a mortal form to an immortal one—” Lafia starts to speak, but Tira interrupts her.
“I never heard about that.” My friend frowns.
“They don’t teach it to the public,” Lafia says. “But they have books on it at the high temple, from before?—”
“But Leon didn’t have an immortal form,” I say blankly. I’m not interested in hearinghowthey know this stuff; I just want them to undo it. I want himback.
“Which is why his soul is trapped,” Mal jumps in, running a hand through his short green hair. “When it separated from his body, it didn’t have anywhere to go, so it got stuck in an in-betweenplace, unable to move on to the afterlife. That’s why my idea might?—”
“Youridea is nothing short of sacrilege,” one of the dryads snarls back.
My eyes fall on Leon, and I fade out the rest of their arguing, letting the explanation sink in.
So it’s true, then. Even if I die, I won’t be able to join Leon.
The waters start to rise up over me again, threatening to carry me away altogether, but something halts them in their tracks. A voice, booming through the sanctuary, explosive with rage. It makes the dryads and Lafia flinch and sends the soldiers darting out of the chamber. I recognize it. It’s the voice of King Respen, shouting something that includes Leon’s name.
And as I hear the way he’s talking about his grandson, a part of me starts to kick her way up to the surface.
Chapter 2
Damia
“Where is he?” Respen shouts.
The king’s words crackle with power, and I’m expecting it when a spike of paranoia splits through my mind. Respen’s usually more subtle with his sensic gift, but when he’s this furious, it can hit like a hammer. I’m still working to shake it off when Fairon overtakes me. The prince had been waiting outside Leon’s chamber, listening to the healers argue, but now he strides toward the sanctuary entrance to head his grandfather off.
I let him. He’s the best person to waylay the king right now, and I have somewhere else to be.
I head deeper into the sanctuary, to one of the smaller chambers.
“Move him,” I bark to the dryad currently muttering healing spells over Wadestaff’s bare chest. I blink briefly at the sight of all that naked skin before my idiotic brain starts working again. “Now.”
Corrin sits up quickly, and I note with relief that this time he doesn’t wince. Instead, the human grabs his shirt as the dryad clasps his hands together, clearly flustered.
“What’s happening?” the healer asks.
“We have company,” I explain. “Take him out into the grounds if you have to. Just don’t let the king find him.”
The dryad pales. “His Majesty is here?”
“Yes. And I can’t imagine he’ll take kindly to us using the Claerwyn’s sacred healing site for a human.” I jerk my head toward Corrin.
“Charming,” Wadestaff mutters, but he has the sense to hurry as he pulls his shirt on. “Come on, we’ll use my shadows to slip away,” he says to the dryad as they move swiftly out into the corridor. Right on cue, darkness swallows them.
When I return to the sanctuary’s entrance hall, His Majesty is exactly as furious as I imagined, but there’s something about his appearance that surprises me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d sayhe’sthe one who’s spent sleepless nights rushing across the country. He’s thinner than when we saw him last—haggard, with sunken eyes and disarrayed hair sitting messily beneath his crown.
“Don’t give me your lazy excuses, Fairon,” he spits. “That good-for-nothing left this kingdom knowing I would forbid it—and now his idiocy has gotten him murdered.” He adjusts his ocher robes, which now sit awkwardly on his thinner frame. “You lied to me like a dirty rat, knowing full well where he’d gone with that filthy Trovian whore, and now I hear that?—”
“You called, Your Majesty?”
I spin around to see the princess emerging from Leon’s chamber. She’s pale as snow, with the same dark circles ringing her eyes that she’s had since Qimorna, but her back is straight and her chin held high. There’slifein her expression that was totally absent just a minute ago.
She moves forward into the entrance hall until she’s facing the king. The men he’s brought with him, including that walking pustule Velrir, line up in front of the outer door while my fellow soldiers fan out behind Morgana. If the time came when we’d need to move against His Majesty’s men, I don’t know what we’d do, but the tension hangs like a knife edge above us all.
