Wayfinder

first of his guards hurtled across the void and gave chase.

Gave chase, as though there might be hope of escape. At best Lara’s precipitous arrival would offer the Unseelie a momentary warning before Emyr burst in on them. Not that there would be many people left in the city, not if things were as they’d been the first time she had visited. It had seemed then that everyone able-bodied was already at war, and after months of battles, she didn’t imagine that would have changed.

Still, Ioan was there, or Emyr’s scrying spell would have called up a location other than the palace garden. He could be warned, and perhaps could tell her of Dafydd’s fate before Emyr arrived. That knowledge might be enough to stop the Seelie king.

Sour notes lingered with the thought, suggesting it would take more than just news of his younger son to placate Emyr. A struggle between gratitude at her power’s continuing development, and resentment that she could no longer abide in false hope for even a moment, rose up. Someday she might be able to turn her truthseeking sense off, a thought worth pursuing.

The plunging path before her ended, her horse’s hooves slipping against stone as they reached flat ground. The roadway took a sharp curve into a carved gateway in the rock wall’s face. The horse gathered itself again and they burst through the unguarded passage into a cavern so vast it defied the eye. Even on a second viewing, Lara found it all but incomprehensible.

The enormous block of granite was little more than a shell, its interior hollowed out, probably by magic. Erosion wasn’t impossible: even at a full gallop Lara could hear the incessant thunder of a distant waterfall that fed the small river wending through the cavern. Not impossible, but unlikely: there were cordoned walkways along the high walls, and the town itself sheltered in the cave’s dark reaches looked to her like a thing grown up from magic, not made by builders’ hands.

It was in every way the opposite of the shining Seelie citadel. Where that was soaring opalescence, the Unseelie city was low rambling black mother-of-pearl. Lara tore through its streets, half fearing her horse’s hooves would damage the delicate-looking stone, but no chips flew. A few astonished children, wearing brightly colored and warmly woven clothes, scattered away, and sent alarmed cries to their caretakers as the rest of Emyr’s guard rushed in seconds behind her. Lara crashed through the open courtyard that joined palace to town, guiding her horse over silver-pebbled pathways and down half-remembered halls in search of the pool Ioan had met her at, and which Emyr had called up with his scrying spell.

Her horse, more sensitive to changing landscape than she, dropped into a trot that snapped Lara’s teeth together with every step, then fell into a more comfortable amble as it entered the enclosed garden with nowhere left to run. Lara let it go to the pool and drink—Seelie bridles lacked the bits humans used—and examined the floor, wondering if getting down was worth the effort.

Ioan ap Annwn startled her with his greeting. “Welcome back, Truthseeker.”

Lara’s spine stiffened and she turned to glare at the Unseelie king, who had emerged from among the brittle trees. “ ‘Welcome’? Welcome back? Is that really the appropriate phrase, when last time I was here it was as a kidnap victim, not an honored guest?” Hooves rattled against the stonework floors beyond, and she bit back her ire. “Emyr’s right behind me. Ioan, where’s Dafydd? What’s—?”

Emyr swept in, his horse slowing not at all as the king stood in the stirrups and drew his sword. Ioan shot Lara one dismayed glance, then crashed into the pool, avoiding Emyr’s first attack. Lara shrieked and hauled her horse’s reins, trying to pull away from danger. The beast pranced sideways until it ran up against marble trees that would let it go no further. Lara, wanting a weapon, reached for her ivory staff, then left it where it was, strapped across her back. She would do more harm than good, probably to herself, if she joined the fight.

Ioan scrambled out of the pool as Emyr sent his horse crashing into it, silvery water splashing across the garden. Aerin rode into the garden’s entryway, Emyr’s guards behind her as she turned her horse so it blocked egress. Ioan glanced her way and she, too, bared her blade. Exasperation rushed across his features and he muttered “You were kinder as a child” before drawing a belt knife and turning his attention back to the monarch trying to kill him.

Emyr’s horse surged in a circle, spraying Ioan anew, but Emyr didn’t bother bringing the beast out of the pool. He had every advantage of reach and speed already; Ioan’s only weapon was the small knife, and the pool was shallow enough that Emyr retained the height advantage as well. He lunged, a quick, beautiful movement that saw the air around his sword chill. Ioan skittered back, knocking the tip of Emyr’s sword aside with his knife. “Your horse is your vulnerability, Emyr. Don’t make me kill it.”

“Will you not even call me Father?” Emyr lunged again, this time bringing the horse closer yet to the edge of the pool, and this time only narrowly missing Ioan as he darted back again.

“Would you even wish me to?” Ioan watched as Emyr lunged a third time, then darted in as Emyr’s blade retreated. Lara drew in A cold breath, but neither king nor beast was Ioan’s target. Instead the saddle’s strap parted under his knife, and Emyr, all indignity, slid sideways into the pool as the saddle came free. The splash was rimed with ice, and he came to his feet thigh-deep in the pool, frost crackling across his armor.

Ioan slammed into him before he fully had his balance. Emyr went down with a shout, driving his horse away. It scrambled free of the pool and shook itself before turning its elegant head to stare disdainfully at the men wrestling in the water. A spike of empathy for its evident opinion ran through Lara as Emyr, looking like a drowned rat in silver armor, rose again with one gauntleted hand holding Ioan beneath the surface.

The water was too ice-lined and choppy to clearly see what happened, but Emyr shouted and his feet came forward, sending him onto his back. Ioan popped up and lifted a fist. Water rose in the same gesture, Emyr captured in its grip, and Lara remembered suddenly that the Unseelie king’s element was water. Emyr was alive because Ioan wished it, but there was no reason to expect his goodwill would hold. Emyr held the Seelie people together; without him, the army might break, and the Unseelie might finally win the land they claimed was theirs.

It was a claim Lara preferred answered in ways that didn’t involve regicide.

“You will stop!” Her voice boomed across the garden, across the palace, across the whole of the Unseelie cavern. Echoes rained back on her and both combatants froze, Ioan with a hand still uplifted, Emyr in his watery grip. Even Aerin lowered her sword, and Emyr’s discontent host ceased their shuffling and muttering. Lara’s horse twitched an ear, then edged forward at her urging, stopping at the pool’s edge as she glowered at the men within. “Put him down, Ioan.”

A spasm of protest crossed Ioan’s face, but he did as he was told, opening his fist to drop Emyr gracelessly into the water. Emyr surged to his feet, water streaming from his armor. Lara made a guttural sound of warning as he turned on Ioan, and for the second time, both kings went still. Neither looked happy, Lara suddenly their common enemy.

Well, her agenda was not their own, and now she had their attention. Hands tight on her horse’s reins, she frowned down at Ioan. “Where’s Dafydd? Why hasn’t he returned to Emyr’s court?”

A second spasm, this time of regret, darkened Ioan’s face. “Because he’s dead, Truthseeker.”

Five

Nerveless, Lara slid from her horse’s back and put a hand against its shoulder so she could keep her feet. She was cold all over, her heartbeat too slow. She wanted to protest: No, it can’t be true! but neither her power nor Ioan’s flat words would allow for it. They rang on in her mind, finding notes that were true and notes that were not within what he’d said. Half-truths, the same kind she’d sensed when Dafydd ap Caerwyn had introduced himself as David Kirwen, the ordinary American translation of his name.

“You’re lying,” she said without conviction. He wasn’t quite telling the truth, but nor was he without question telling a falsehood. “Tell me what you mean.”

“I mean he’s dead, Lara, or close enough as it makes no difference.” Ioan, like Emyr, like all the others in the immediate area, seemed unable to move beyond where he’d been when Lara’s order had broken over them. It was just as well: Emyr’s expression said that if he could move freely, Ioan would be dead by now, or Emyr dead in the trying.