Wayfinder

ungracious as she.

Hafgan looked between them and at Dafydd before settling on Lara again. She had the impression he’d chosen his battle by saying, “I have never heard of a scrying spell ‘going wrong.’ ”

“Have you ever tried working one underwater?” Lara winced at even asking, but there was no corresponding flex in the air, no loosening of the spell that let them breathe and speak.

Hafgan glowered at her. “I have never worked one at all, not such as Emyr does. It is not in my element.”

“Then trust me: it went wrong. The Drowned Lands corrupt magic, maybe even incoming magic.” Lara liked that idea more than the thought that Emyr might sacrifice Aerin to his war, but there was equal truth in both possibilities. “And—”

And the staff she carried was probably making it worse. Lara caught those words behind her teeth, looking for something else to say instead. “And that’s why I’m here. Ioan, your successor, asked me to find out the truth of Annwn’s past. Emyr’s memory is unreliable, even when he tries to remember. I need both of you to reconstruct the histories.”

“Why?”

“Because if Ioan’s right, if the Seelie did choose to drown these lands, then your people have been treated appallingly, and I want to try to set it right.”

“And if we brought it on ourselves, arbiter? What then? Will you leave us in our drowned home without another care?” Hafgan focused beyond her. On Aerin, Lara thought for an instant, but he said, “Will you use that staff to finish what was begun, if it is all our own fault?”

“The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. No. Trying to fix what’s wrong isn’t contingent on one side being evil and the other being heroes. The Barrow-lands are dying, and maybe I can help. That’s enough by itself.”

“Then what does the history matter?”

Lara quirked an eyebrow. “I just want to know the truth.”

Hafgan gave Dafydd a sour look. “There, whelp. There’s the reason we killed them all.”

Seventeen

Lara’s gut clenched, breath gone like she’d taken a hit. Her shoulder throbbed once, but even that damage seemed limited compared to the shock bubbling through her mind. “Killed them?”

“And every line that carried the blood. It took time.” Hafgan smiled, narrow and sharp. “But we never thought to trace the talent in mortal lives. Perhaps I’ll rectify the error.”

“We?” Lara whispered, then shook her head, shock melting to angry confidence. “You wouldn’t stand a chance, hunting in my world. It’s too full of iron and weapons you wouldn’t recognize. Don’t threaten me, Hafgan. I already have the worldbreaking staff.”

Dafydd shifted, a small action that spoke of surprise, and only then did Lara hear her words as the threat they were. Hafgan’s face twitched, subtle admiration and acknowledgment of her challenge visible in the change. “The old ones were not like you. They would not dream of threatening, nor would they act on the threat if it were made. It would lack …”—he shifted his head forward, offering a reptilian intimacy—“sophistication.”

Prickles ran over Lara’s neck, a chill that wanted her to respond. To continue baiting the Unseelie king until something erupted, something dangerous and unstoppable. That was the staff again, eager for destruction, and Lara gritted her teeth against the impulse. “You seem to remember the old days a lot more clearly than anyone else.”

Hafgan waved idle fingers toward his bier. “The long sleep clears the mind. But I will not answer your questions, Truthseeker. Not here, not now. Let me rejoin the world and see my people, see my brother king, before we take that journey.”

Certainty pounded through Lara. She could force the issue, compel the king to answer; her power would stretch that far. But it would also make an enemy of one inclined that way already, and that wasn’t, as of yet, necessary. She glanced at Dafydd, who nodded almost invisibly. Then, trying to loosen her jaw, she looked back at Hafgan and offered a short bow, the best she was able to do. “Of course. Your majesty, you’re the only one of Unseelie blood among us. My understanding is that the Drowned Lands will welcome you more readily than it has us. We would be grateful if you would lead us out safely.”

“Grateful,” Hafgan murmured. “Not indebted? You choose your words wisely, Truthseeker.”

“I always have.” A flash of memory came to her: her first date with Dafydd, when she’d pedantically and thoroughly dissected his word choices for accuracy. Kelly called her a walking dictionary for the game, but Lara enjoyed it. Carefully selecting words had lent her a small sense of control over truth that was difficult to otherwise achieve, in a world of white lies and polite fictions. Smiling, she put the memory aside to focus on the Unseelie monarch again. “Will you lead us out?”

He said, “I will,” with unexpected grace, leaving Lara feeling as though she’d participated in a ritual without realizing it. Beside her, Dafydd relaxed incrementally, and she resisted the impulse to see if Aerin had done the same.

A moment later, as Lara fell into step behind Hafgan, it was obvious the Seelie woman had not. She waited for both royals and Lara to pass and took up the rear, despite the destruction of her sword and armor. Her shoulders were high and tension-ridden, and the look she gave Lara was full of warning. Discomfited, Lara nodded without being certain of what she was agreeing to. Caution, at the very least, though there’d been no lie in Hafgan’s voice.

Moreover, the city’s black glow had faded when they exited the healing chambers. It was once again as Llyr had granted Lara the ability to see it: in ruins, but no longer buried in sand, no longer worn by tide and saltwater. Brilliant color ran through the garden’s coral-covered walls, and the ceaseless sound of wind and sea rushed through the crevasses, gentle and relaxing.

Creating, perhaps, a false sense of security. Even without Aerin’s obvious stress, Hafgan’s blunt words hung in Lara’s mind: There’s the reason we killed them all. Emyr, Aerin, and others who had spoken of it had said the truthseeking talent, always rare, had died out. Assassination was certainly a way of dying out, though not usually what was implied by the phrase. For a moment Lara felt like the last dodo, only with the cognitive capability of understanding what had happened to her brethren. It made her want to run, to draw a protective shell around herself, but there was nowhere to run, not in the heart of the drowned city. Not when she was, for all intents and purposes, entirely at Hafgan’s mercy. Llyr had come to her twice. She didn’t expect him a third time.

The thought lost its tunefulness, unexpected sour notes crawling in. Glad for a mental occupation beyond worrying about assassination, Lara chased the falsehood down, breaking the idea into component parts. Llyr had come to her twice: truth. She didn’t expect him a third time: wavering truth. She didn’t expect him to rescue her a third time: truth. Curious, she pushed the concepts forward, looking for the boundaries of her truth-knowing ability. She expected to see him again: true. When this was over? True, the music of it startling with its strength. She slowed, trying to refine it further. When she was successful? Indifferent song, not well-played, not passionate in either direction, true or false. When she failed? The same unopinionated music, unable to offer assurance either way.

A low worried laugh broke loose. At least she would survive what was coming, if she could expect to see Llyr when it was over.

The ill-made music came again, promising nothing.

Leaving the sea wrenched water from Lara’s lungs the same way entering it had. Aerin, too, collapsed to hands and knees, choking and spitting up saltwater, until they lay curled next to one another, trembling with exhaustion. Water dripped over Lara’s face when she moved, her clothes and hair laden with it, and Aerin had fared no better. Dafydd, though, was dry and comfortable as he crouched over them, hands spread wide in useless distress. Hafgan, as unscathed by the ocean as Dafydd, stalked up the beach, ignoring them in favor of looking over the sheltered cove.

The sun had long since set, judging from the beach’s coldness and the dark of the horizon. Stars and a