Wayfinder

And Ioan had once been Emyr’s favorite. The glorified older son, given away to an enemy king as a hostage for good behavior. Distance had made the heart grow very fond indeed, and Dafydd had been unable to live up to the expectations of a brother who wasn’t there. Worse, Merrick had been raised under a Seelie roof by a father figure who loathed the sight of him. That status quo had held for aeons, and now was so undone that the beloved eldest would be dead if the father had his way.

Immortal elves were not so very different from mortal humans after all, it seemed. Lara closed her eyes, put her forehead against the horse’s shoulder, and again said, “Tell me what that means.” This time she infused it with command, bitterly confident she could force Ioan to confess all if need be.

“He returned from your world nothing more than a shell.” Ioan’s voice was brittle, as if the words were indeed forced. “His magic was burned out, leaving only a husk behind. I’ve never seen it before, not even in the oldest among us. Healers could, or would, do nothing to help.”

Emyr snarled, “They refused—?”

Ioan’s voice cooled further. “They refused an enemy prince, if that’s what happened. Some did try, of that I’m certain, but they could do nothing. The living power in him was so ruined that I don’t know how he continued to breathe. I kept him for weeks. Months, hoping the land itself would help him regain his strength. But in the end all that was keeping him alive was the healers, and their gifts were needed elsewhere.”

Lara focused on her horse’s shoulder. The hair there was brown and gold, shifting subtly as the animal breathed. It was a small thing, normal, and helped her move past the fear chilling her blood so she could speak. “And?”

“And so I brought him to the Drowned Lands,” Ioan said softly. “To the waters that—”

Anything more he might have said was lost to the crash of metal against flesh. Something ripped loose inside Lara, as if the fabric of power she’d woven had suddenly been shredded by an unexpected force. Her chest hurt, air gone from her lungs. She barely turned her head in time to see Emyr smash a second fist at Ioan, the compulsion that had held him frozen now broken.

The broader man caught it with a grunt, trembling muscles visible beneath the wet silken fabric plastered to them. Blood welled along his cheekbone where Emyr’s first blow had landed, but his voice remained calm and soft. “To the waters that my people believe to be restorative. There is the potential of a hundred steads there, all the life that might have been, had they not drowned. The waters are rich with power. I could think of no other way to save Dafydd’s life. My lady Truthseeker, call off this dog before I am forced to drown it.”

Lara muttered, “The dog isn’t mine to call,” but added, more sharply, “Emyr, leave him alone.”

Tension left Emyr’s arm almost instantly, his body obeying even as his mind resisted. Ioan released him and backed away, water pouring from his clothes as he left the pool. Within seconds he was dry and tidy, as though the ruckus had never happened. Lara closed her mouth with a click and looked elsewhere to keep herself from staring. It didn’t work: in an instant she was gaping at the Unseelie king again, though she knew he would regard the magic he’d just called to be little more than a parlor trick. “What’s the problem with having sent Dafydd to the Drowned Lands to recover?”

Aerin sighed and nudged her horse a single step forward, calling attention to herself. Lara had a sudden impression of the white-haired woman’s life, always standing second to a king and his family, always there to answer the questions that needed answering but which royal pride refused to acknowledge. “They’re the waters Rhiannon drowned in, Lara. They might be restorative to the Unseelie, but the Seelie regard them as deadly. Sending Dafydd there is tantamount to an execution.”

“Don’t be absurd. We’re not separate races, one born of starlight and the other bred of earth. We’re one people, divided by a schism older than memory. What heals one will heal the other.” Ioan looked as though he’d had this argument a dozen times before.

“You are no part of us,” Emyr snapped. “You’re earth-grubbing, dank-loving fishermen and farmers, and we are—”

“You are my father,” Ioan reminded him. “Or had you forgotten that, Emyr? I’m the child you engendered. An earth-grubbing, dank-loving stoneworker and king.”

“And what have you done with the king before you?”

“Hafgan? Like Dafydd, he has returned to the Drowned Lands.” Ioan’s voice dropped. “Were his stories true, Father? Did you drown the Unseelie lands and uproot a people?”

“I owe you no answers.”

“I want an answer.” Lara stepped forward, anger rising in her again. She had lost time and now Dafydd to the Barrow-lands’ bickering and politics. They had asked her to uncover hidden truths. She was not going to stand aside now, not when she had come this far.

Emyr waded out of the pool. It was a measure of him, Lara thought, that he could be as unforgiving and regal as he was even standing thigh-deep in water. “Did you drown the Unseelie lands, Emyr? Did you start this war?”

“I do not recall.” The precision of his words belied their softness, making them more a threat than a confession. But the music in them rang pure, if unsettled: his voice could carry a whole orchestra of sound, perhaps as the result of age. The symphony it played was one of foreboding and distrust, directed as much inwardly as toward Lara. Emyr didn’t recall, and from the rumbling music, loathed that inability. “It is why I said to ask Hafgan,” he went on, music thick with stress. “And yet it seems his memories were failing, too. When so much time has gone by, Truthseeker, what does it matter?”

“People are still dying over it, that’s what it matters. Ioan, the Drowned Lands, the healing waters … are you sure Hafgan’s not just dead? You’re not using a euphemism?” Lara doubted it; figures of speech tended to set off warning bells, and Ioan had come across as sincere.

He shook his head. “At rest, but not dead. He could be roused,” he said reluctantly. “If it is necessary, he can be awakened.”

As could Dafydd, Lara concluded silently. Relief swept over her as heat, making her want to turn away and hide her face until her expression was under control. But Dafydd’s health, important as it was to her personally, might be the least of the concerns she faced. Clinging to the hope of his recovery, she steadied her voice to say, “Okay. So we have two old people—”

Emyr made such a violent sound of protest that Lara laughed. “Forgive me, your majesty. Ancient peers. Venerable elders. Respected monarchs. Old people,” she repeated with cheerful emphasis. “Neither of whom can remember all the details. I might be able to help you remember, but I’m going to need both of you. And probably anyone else old enough to remember the drowning of the lands. Was Oisín here then?”

Aerin nodded, earning a dark look from her king. Lara, though, smiled. Oisín and she had not only mortality in common, but also love for an immortal. More usefully, though, their magic interfered with elfin power. Glamours and other misguidances might cease to function with two human magic users on hand. That would save time, as she doubted either Emyr or Hafgan would willingly reveal the secrets they half recalled.

“And what will you do if you find answers?” Ioan wondered.

Lara touched the staff she wore across her back. “Try to fix what was broken. Isn’t that the whole idea?”

Ioan’s gaze sharpened as if he hadn’t fully seen her until then. “That—?”

“I found it in my world, like you thought I might.” Lara spread one hand and let it fall, willing to let the simple explanation suffice. “I have to be sure of what’s happened here before I’ll be ready to use it, but it has tremendous power. If anything can help set things right here, I think it can.”

“If? If you’re willing to use it, if there’s anything to be healed? How can you doubt?”

“Because none of you know the whole truth, and I’m not about to start rearranging the landscape here on anybody’s say-so.”

“Forgive me, Lara.” The lines of Ioan’s face hardened as he spoke, intimating that he had no expectation of forgiveness, but every expectation of obedience. “My people have suffered far too much to wait any longer. I will have that staff from you now.”

His voice rang with command, even with truth, but Ioan’s demand was so preposterous Lara had a fleeting moment of simply not believing him. Her gift had changed in the past weeks, adapting enough that she could have such moments, but the sensation of disbelief was still almost entirely new.