Drawing in a breath, I command myself to relax and then I step inside
Sconced orbs light the narrow stairwell in a blue glow. The air’s cool, almost chilly, but it warms toward the bottom of the stairs. There’s no fire in the small chamber, but some fae can heat the air with a touch of magic. Radath and Atroth stand behind a wooden table, scrutinizing a map spread out in its center. Kyol isn’t here.
My boots scuff on the stone floor when I suddenly stop. I don’t want to talk to Radath and the king. I came to Corrist to talk to Kyol, but what if he isn’t here? What if Daz never really knew his location and he’s now in Haeth, waiting for me?
Atroth looks up. If I didn’t know him, I wouldn’t think him to be the fae’s king. He’s dressed like a noble—like Lorn was when I first met him, a crisp white shirt under a dark brown vest. The vest is made from jaedric and etched with a design similar to a fleur-de-lis. He doesn’t wear a crown or any other markings to suggest he’s a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe. He’s shorter than Radath and thick around the middle since his body hasn’t been toned by war. He gives me a smile that seems genuine.
“McKenzie,” Atroth says. “Please, come in.”
Atroth’s always been kind to me. I don’t get the feeling that he views me as a necessary evil like I do with Radath and some of the other Court fae. It’s more like he’s regretful I’m harmful to his people. That’s why I’ve never hated him for forbidding relations between human and fae. He’s king. He has a duty to protect the Realm.
“Have a seat.” He gestures to a chair. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Water’s fine.” I’m not thirsty, but my hands need something to hold.
Atroth himself pours the pitcher. He smiles again as he hands me the glass. I can’t picture him ordering Kyol to kill a human. The king needs us to see through illusions, and when his fae enter my world, they do everything possible to make sure they don’t harm us, whether we have the Sight or not. The rebels are the ones who don’t care who they hurt. Naito is alive. He has to be.
“Thank you,” I say.
He takes the seat across from me. “We were concerned about you. We’re glad you’re back. Safe again. I assure you, Taltrayn did everything in his power to keep the rebels from finding you. Once you were taken, he did everything possible to bring you back.”
You would be dismayed to learn the things he’s doing to get you back. Aren’s words echo in my memory. We were sitting on that sorry excuse for a bed at the time, and he’d just healed my broken arm. I didn’t ask for details. I didn’t trust Aren then; I trusted Kyol. I still trust Kyol, don’t I? It’s possible I misheard Lord Raen.
“Where’s Taltrayn?” I ask.
The lord general replies. “You are supposed to be in Haeth.”
That’s typical Radath. Never a “hello, how are you” and always sticking with the subject at hand. I never quite know how to deal with him. He’s a tall fae with shoulders just as broad as Kyol’s. When I first met him a decade ago, he was heavier than he is now. Or maybe bulkier is the better word. He hasn’t been on the front lines of a battle in years and his body’s lost the muscle mass it once had. He’s still intimidating, though, which usually isn’t a problem since he rarely speaks with me, preferring to leave that duty to Kyol.
“Taltrayn said he was going to talk to you,” I say to the king.
“Talk about what?” Radath asks. Atroth doesn’t seem to mind the lord general speaking for him, but I do, especially since it feels like an extremely bad time to mention I want to retire.
“My lord.”
Kyol saves me from answering. I let out a breath and turn to see him descend into the chamber. He doesn’t look at me, only at his king, and his face is blank. Nothing unusual about that. It’s our normal routine, pretending we mean nothing to each other.
“Sword-master,” Atroth says, his tone upbeat. “I thought word would reach you quickly. Come. Join us.”
He sits in the chair next to mine. “I left McKenzie with Shane.”
“Shane is assisting us in Haeth,” Radath says. “That’s where your shadow-reader should be as well, but she refused to go.”
After a long moment, Kyol says, “She escaped the rebels only yesterday.” He sounds different. Not worried, exactly, but not at ease either. It could be my imagination, though, because he doesn’t look agitated. He looks completely in control.
Radath clasps his hands on top of the table. “You’ve always claimed she’s not fragile.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s indestructible. She needs time to rest.”
“And we need the false-blood—”
Atroth interrupts Radath with a raised hand. “I agree with Taltrayn. Sending her to Haeth wasn’t your wisest order.”
The lord general’s eyes narrow briefly at the reprimand, but he recovers quickly and returns his attention to me. “Tell us what you learned about the rebels.”
I stall by taking a sip of water. I’m sure he’s asking about Aren, but Aren’s not the false-blood. Sethan is, though I’m believing more and more that he is a Descendant.
“Did you overhear any names?” Kyol asks.
I manage a shrug, hope it comes off as nonchalant. “Trev, Mrinn, Roop, Sethan.”
I watch for a reaction on the last name. I get one from Radath. His nostrils flare. “The son of Zarrak took an interest in her.”
“Of course he did,” Atroth replies. After a pause, he adds, “But did he convince her of his claim?”
“He has no claim,” Radath grates. “His province no longer exists. Deliver a few threats, and the people of Haeth will abandon him.”
The air tastes stale. I feel Atroth’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare look up. I don’t want this conversation to continue. I’m terrified of where it’s going.
The king taps his fingertips on the table. “Zarrak is persuasive. He may have more support than we realize. Ask her about him.”
“This Sethan.” Radath emphasizes both syllables of the name. “Who was he?”
Stall! my instincts scream.
“He claimed he was a Descendant,” I say. They already know who Sethan is. My words won’t hurt anyone. “He said he intends to take the throne. I think Jorreb is just a front.”
The king’s forehead creases.
Kyol speaks up then, explaining what a front is in Fae.
Atroth nods, understanding. “Yes. There is a trace of the Tar Sidhe’s blood in the Zarrak line, but it’s only significant enough to allow the family to remain part of the aristocracy, not significant enough to sit on the silver throne.”
“You knew about him?” I ask carefully.
“When we captured Lena, we knew he must also be involved,” Atroth says. Then, in a soft, somewhat pensive voice, “The Zarrak bloodline used to be well respected.”
His answer makes sense, but it doesn’t make me feel much better.
“Did you read any shadows while you were with them?” the lord general asks. “Do you know where they took you? If we could find Zarrak or Jorreb, we could end this uprising.”