broadly built and golden-skinned like the rest of the Unseelie.”
Emyr’s expression darkened further and Lara climbed to her feet again, full of nervous energy now that she was speaking. “It gets more complicated. Ioan has been ruling in Hafgan’s name, literally, for a long time. Centuries, probably. Hafgan retreated ages ago, and Ioan never admitted it to you because he thought you’d see it as weakness and try to destroy the Unseelie court.”
Aerin’s gasp was audible over Emyr’s lower growl, but Lara rushed on, as she stood and paced the width of the tent as she spoke. “Ioan believes that the Barrow-lands were once called Annwn, and were … I’m not sure. Ruled jointly, maybe, by the Seelie and Unseelie, until the Seelie called the sea to drown the Unseelie coastal lands, making them exiles in their own country. That the war between you stems back that far, so far that it’s legend even to those who lived then.” Lara could barely conceive of a lifetime so extended that lives became history and history legend, though she recognized that her own childhood memories were scattered and hardly complete. Lives lived over millennia instead of decades would almost necessarily fade into obscurity, but events of the magnitude Ioan had spoken of seemed like they should stand out in anyone’s mind.
“He thinks this staff was the weapon that broke the world, back then. He thought it was sent to my world so it couldn’t be used again. I found it there, waiting for me.”
“Waiting!” Emyr burst out. “For you?”
“For a truthseeker,” Lara said, unexpectedly steady in the face of his anger. “For someone who could see through the spell laid on it and perhaps command its power. Probably any truthseeker would do, but there aren’t that many of us.” Dafydd had searched her world for a hundred years, trying to find someone with her talent, and having found her, had ended up nearly dead and now disappeared for it. Lara’s heart clenched, hurting her chest, and it took a few seconds before she could speak again.
“The point is, none of what Ioan said rang false to me, Emy—your majesty. It didn’t exactly sound true, either, but I’ve never dealt with history turned legend before. And he was right about the staff being in my world.” She frowned at the Seelie king, whose narrow face was drawn with anger. “Which means I’ve got a lot more to try to settle here than just the question of who murdered Merrick ap Annwn.”
A laugh of frustration burbled up and she cast her gaze skyward again, as if the baubles lighting the tent might lend her strength. “Except he isn’t dead. He framed Dafydd in hopes of starting a war between your court and the Unseelie court, so he could be the last man—elf—standing, and take the spoils. So Dafydd brought me here in the first place because of fraud. Because of a lie.”
There was so much more to say, but Lara fell silent as shock created lines in Emyr’s face. Age didn’t mark the Seelie in the same way it did humans, but watching Emyr’s pale skin turn to ash and the scouring of lines around his mouth told her how Seelie might look if they did age: still beautiful, but also terrible. Vampiric, as though whatever vitality they’d had had long since drained away, and left only a walking shell. Lara felt momentarily sorry for the Seelie king, though his arrogance didn’t, as a rule, invite compassion.
“Merrick is a master of air,” she said wearily. “Of illusion, shaped from air. I’m sure Dafydd did draw and nock the arrow as everyone saw, but the Merrick he shot and killed was nothing more than a phantom. A ghost of himself. I’ve stood face-to-face with Merrick, your majesty. I promise you he’s alive.”
Color flooded back into Emyr’s face, the heat of rage warming his features in a way Lara had never seen before. He snapped around to his scrying basin, simply a pool on a tall slender pedestal, and ice crackled from his fingertips as he seized the basin’s edge. Lara said, “Wait,” and Aerin directed a warning sound at her as Emyr shot a glower her way. But he released the stoneworked pool’s edge, evidently understanding he would have a great deal to look for once he began. Better to search it all out at once, than have her interrupt him time and again.
“Merrick called a nightwing attack into my world,” Lara said. “I closed the breach between the Barrow-lands and Earth to stop them. It worked, but it also closed off Dafydd’s source of strength. I
Old anger turned Emyr’s expression bleak. “That staff abhors the touch of Seelie hands. It should have destroyed him, and your world with him.”
Lara stuttered, then lurched on with her story: “It tried. It threw down an earthquake in a part of my world that doesn’t normally get them. It didn’t seem to affect Dafydd adversely. I thought he might be getting better, but nightwings infested a human man and came after us. Dafydd fought them and almost died for it. I used the staff to reopen the break between the worlds, and Ioan came for Dafydd. To bring him back to the Barrow-lands, where he might have a chance to heal.”
Anger rose up, burning through worry to create heat in Lara’s chest. She had come across worlds to offer help, and had found an unexpected passion in exchange. Now that love was threatened, and she had already laid down a promise, a truthseeker’s oath, on what would come to pass if that happened. Lara lifted her chin, meeting Emyr’s eyes with a forthright glare. “I told Ioan if anything happened to Dafydd, his life was forfeit. So, your majesty, I really think we should go talk to your older son.”
Three
“You must be mad.” Aerin spoke so pleasantly it took Lara a few seconds to hear the content of her speech, though it set dissonant bells ringing in her mind. “If Ioan ap Caerwyn holds Dafydd hostage, he would have long since sued for peace, or threatened his life to gain his ends.”
“Not if he sees destroying your people as the only way to save his own.” Lara spoke crisply, still hot with anger. Her magic wouldn’t allow her the comfort of an uncertainty:
Emyr, though, growled, “We are his people,” and turned again to his scrying pool. This time cold steamed from his hands before he even touched it, and his grip turned the water within to crackling ice. Lara sidled toward him, hairs lifting on her arms as his chill permeated the tent. He snapped, “Stand aside, Truthseeker. Your presence causes difficulties enough.”
It had in the Seelie citadel, but there had been another mortal there: Oisín, poet and prophet, whose magics were of a different kind from Lara’s own. Together they had disrupted Seelie magic without meaning to, a truth that itched at the back of Lara’s skull. Her world weakened the elfin people, and her magic, in conjunction with another mortal’s, disrupted Seelie power even in the Barrow-lands. Humans were bad for the Seelie, though what little folklore she knew suggested mortals were also tantalizing, even irresistible, to the fairy peoples.
Emyr would not, she imagined, appreciate being likened to a youth with a taste for bad girls. Lara hid a grin in her shoulder and stayed where she was, hoping her amusement wouldn’t bleed over and affect the king’s spell. Aerin took up a post half a step in front of Lara, further preventing her from moving forward, though she could still see the pool’s surface.
She had once triggered the scrying magic herself, a talent none of the Seelie had imagined might lie within her truthseeking skills. Then, images had awakened in the depths of the ice, carrying sound and color and life. Now Emyr’s power lifted ice upward, making frost-rimed sculptures across the pool’s surface. An interior garden, built wholly of metal and stone rose up. The ice wicked away color, but Lara could see it in her mind’s eye: marbled tree trunks with golden leaves, the vines entwining them made of emerald. They grew and sprawled around a pool, a few of the vines clambering over stone benches, though those details faded away as Emyr focused on the pebbled pathway leading into the garden. “I would speak with the Unseelie king.”
It took a long time, Lara thought. A long time for a man to step into shadows which, by rights, ice should be unable to show so darkly. He was a broad-shouldered form, nothing more; the hair he wore long masked any hope of seeing his features while he stood in shadow. “Emyr.” A note of curious mirth colored the other king’s deep voice. “Have you called to parley?”
“I have called to look on the face of the Unseelie king. When did you last step out of shadow when we spoke?”
“When did you last give me cause to? My people are relegated to shadows; why should I not contain myself within them when we speak? Is it not appropriate?” The Unseelie king’s sarcasm was unexpectedly wonderful to hear, its delivery so deliberate that even Lara, who had never been especially comfortable with irony, could enjoy the game he played with words. “You, lord of the shining citadel, stand in the glaring light, while I, master of the
