Page 15

The snow was a blessing and a curse. A blessing, for it made Azriel’s enemies’ visibility poor and provided him ample cover to observe as he pleased. A curse, for it also made his visibility poor—and hid any creeping foes.

But Azriel knew how to stay hidden, shadows or no. And this was certainly an improvement on the rain-lashed mountains of Montesere. Even if now, tucked into a crag high on one of the sister mountains that cradled Thrudheim, the wind was again shrill in his numb ears—but at least no teeth snapped within it. And at least nobody looked his way from the landing below.

The stronghold of the Vallahan royal family had been established in the crook where the two mountains came together—and on the slopes below, a village sprawled toward the now-frozen river and slumbering fields in the valley. With the mountains near-impassible, the keep dominated the high ground, commanding a view over the lands below for miles and miles. A good spot for a fortress if one was defending against terrestrial armies.

Against people like him . . . it made them easy prey. And easier still to observe unseen.

As in the river house and the House of Wind, the wards around Thrudheim prevented anyone from winnowing directly inside. Which kept Az out of the building proper, but also allowed him to watch the three royals marching from the formal landing site—a circular stone area framed with carved arches depicting rearing rams, reserved solely for the royal household—across the drawbridge that spanned the frozen moat, toward the golden gates of the fortress itself.

Golden was a generous way to describe the building—the name stemmed only from the pale stone that had been hauled in from thousands of miles away, and the occasional, now-peeling scraps of gold leaf on the carved facade.

Vallahan had seen better years. Centuries. Those fields in the distance hadn’t yielded a bountiful crop in ages, the soil long since leached of its richness, despite their shamans’ best efforts to regenerate its fertile magic. And though the Autumn Equinox was only days away, no festive decorations to honor the bounties of the harvest had gone up. As if they’d had nothing to reap—no gods left to thank.

But that wasn’t Azriel’s focus, not as he peered through the snow toward the three royals bundled in their furs, the guards along the moat bridge saluting with their spears.

Their enemies were hunting for a Made weapon of their own. So he’d come to figure out which one was tackling it. Rask was too far, too vast, too well guarded for him to slip in on a whim like this, and Montesere’s spy network always had him treading carefully in their territory, but Vallahan . . . It was easy enough to listen in on them for a few moments. And he’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity, especially now, when the task would be fresh on their minds. So he’d come, appearing mere seconds after the royals, who were still fuming over the conversation on Storr.

Granting his shadows only enough power as was required, Azriel bid them to whisper what they heard from the darkness beneath the bridge.

“That was a complete waste of time,” the Queen of Vallahan was ranting to her king, breath clouding the frosty air. “We should never have gone.”

The king said calmly, “We owed it to Morrigan to sit down with them. I’d promised her as much.”

The young Prince of Vallahan spat on the ice-crusted stones, narrowly missing the leather boot of one of the saluting guards. The guard didn’t flinch—and the prince didn’t offer an apology. Preening asshole. “You favor Morrigan too much. She worked her charm on you.”

The bearded king shot his son a reprimanding look—an aging warrior plagued by a son who was not a worthy successor. “I have known Morrigan longer than you have been alive. She had my respect well before she came here. Her behavior in these halls only deepened my sentiments.”

His queen slid him a glare. “She’s as foolish and softhearted as her High Lady.”

Her tone grated talons down Azriel’s temper, enough that he checked the backs of his half-frozen hands to make sure his Siphons weren’t flickering with blue light. Thankfully, they remained slumbering—a weapon he kept under far tighter control than Cassian, whose Siphons often acted as a mirror to his own volatile emotions.

The keep gates groaned open, the carved rams built into each door parting their butting heads to let the royals through. Once they crossed Thrudheim’s threshold and wards, they’d be beyond his shadows’ power to hear.

“Morrigan makes no difference where our plans are concerned,” the prince declared, sniffing. “I’m sick of speaking of her.”

Az leaned closer, ignoring the numbing blast of snow in his face.

The King of Vallahan didn’t reply as he continued toward the gates and the snow-dusted courtyard beyond. The queen fell back a step and turned to her son, her wheat-colored hair buffeted in the wind as she advised, “You leave on the morrow to seek what we need. Rest tonight, my love.”

The prince only nodded, grim and determined.

Azriel tensed, a plan already taking form. If the prince was winnowing tomorrow to wherever he was going, he’d have to walk back out of the fortress, and might provide another few snippets of information before vanishing. And if the prince was traveling on foot, then Az could get high enough in the sky to track him undetected, and—

The Prince of Vallahan whined to his mother, “Going to that hellhole on Rothorn was a dead end—and now our enemies are aware we’re hunting for a Made weapon. Time races against us. Against me.” Az tensed. He’d been right to pick here over Montesere. The Prince of Vallahan had been there on the mountain. Hunting alongside people from Montesere and Rask. “And why did we need to go to that farce of a gathering today? We know they have the Trove; we didn’t need them to confirm it.”

“It was not my choice to do so,” the queen said stiffly. “But your father—your king—wanted to hear it from their lips.”

Azriel gritted his teeth. Well, they’d walked into that one. They hadn’t so much as tried to deny they possessed the Trove. But Vallahan didn’t know what else they possessed.

Not that it made a lick of difference. They had confirmation that their enemies were going after a Made weapon of their own. Though he supposed if they knew the true total of how many the Night Court possessed, they might indeed launch a war upon them.

Truth-Teller hung heavy as a lodestone at his side—one of those secret Made weapons, though he’d only recently learned this about the blade that he’d wielded for centuries. He’d carried it, slept with it beneath his pillow, sliced with its wicked edge all these years without having the faintest inkling that it was Made. He’d never seen any hint of power from it save for what his hand wrung from their enemies. An unholy blade for a tarnished soul. He supposed he and Truth-Teller deserved each other, and yet he hadn’t drawn it in weeks. Not since—

“My father has grown too cautious in his old age,” the prince grumbled, steps from Thrudheim’s gates now. The king was already far ahead, as if eager to be rid of his family.

The royals of Vallahan had been matched in an arranged marriage, Az remembered from the history Mor had compiled. The queen had been a powerful warlord’s daughter, and Vallahan, facing unrest thanks to those failing fields in the valleys, had needed her father’s forces to shore up the military. It seemed little love had blossomed between them in the centuries since—or since the arrival of their son nine decades ago.

The young prince had yet to mate or marry, which left a door open for an advantageous, rock-solid alliance. It was doubtful they’d allow anyone from the Night Court to wed into their family—not that Az thought anyone would agree to marry the prick. There were other courts, but it was far more likely that a territory like Montesere or Rask was already vying to seal that union.