Haelwen plucks an ornate box from her carryhold. It fits comfortably in both hands. “Stand up.”
Nevander lowers his head. “I’ve spoken with Lord Yarrow. One of his wild fae has seen augray traveling to Prima. If they should find—”
“Stand up,” Haelwen repeats. “I didn’t say no.”
Nor did she say yes. Nevander rises, wary.
Haelwen sets the box to hang in midair. She flips open the lid, revealing an empty glass sphere. “I had three sons,” Haelwen says, her eyes on the sphere but her attention everywhere. Inward and out. “Zavriel and Briar were stolen. Sometimes I hoped they were dead, so I would not have to wonder about their fates. Was that cruel of me?”
Nevander cannot answer. Even if he could, his judgment doesn’t matter. This isn’t a simple glamour game. He barely knew the eldest princes before Lord Midnight stole them. Dead or alive, there’s been no trace of them for twenty-one years.
Calithel must return to claim his birthright. But Nevander cannot blame Haelwen for hiding him away. If she hadn’t, he would have been taken, too.
Tracing the sphere, Haelwen says, “To be alone is not the fate I wished for.”
“You can steer your fate,” Nevander says.
“Alas that I have.” Haelwen plucks the bauble and returns the case to her carryhold. “How old are you?”
Nevander can’t follow her logical leaps. That’s likely intentional. “One hundred twenty-four.”
Haelwen sighs, attention returning to him. “Then you were barely a century at the time. How your oath must have chafed.”
Nevander doesn’t flinch at the burning reminder. An oath freely given, never abandoned yet unfulfilled. To confess the pain would only hurt more. “I have no regrets, Your Majesty.”
“I chose well.” Haelwen toys with the sphere. “I propose a game, Lord Nevander. You may retrieve Calithel if you answer one question correctly.”
“I accept,” Nevander says, without as much thought as he should give.
“Where is he?” Haelwen asks.
Nevander stills, heart finally shoved off balance. She knows. Even though it shouldn’t be possible. He’s been careful. Haelwen can track movement from Elladar, but not from the realm between.
She knows—and she hasn’t stricken him yet.
“The village of Wymond,” Nevander answers.
Haelwen smiles. “Take your time bringing him back. I imagine you’ll have much to explain—and his counterpart here will require persuasion.”
Stunned, Nevander steps back, then remembers himself. “Yes, Your Majesty. I beg your leave.”
“Go,” Haelwen says, still smiling.
Nevander feels like he’s flying across the bridge. A moment of pure relief, before that relief hardens into purpose.
“Nevander,” Haelwen calls as he nears the door.
Praying she hasn’t changed her mind, Nevander turns. A wisp of light circles the sphere in Haelwen’s hand. It illuminates her steely gaze.
“I have hurt many people,” Haelwen says, unwavering. “But I too have no regrets.”
Nevander bows once more, then departs, driven by a thousand plans and a single oath.
5
Copper Painted Black
Anargumentsimmersbeneaththe silent meal. Keeping his head down, Seren eats as quickly as he can without seeming rude. He wants to get back to his bedroom, so he can keep scouringFearsome and Wondrous Histories of the Faefor something, anything that might help.
