He laughs. “No relation. She’s a . . . business acquaintance. Now, why don’t you go get some breakfast?”
After she glides to the kitchen, I ask, “Is she over here often?”
“Carla? Nah. First time.” He shovels a forkful of waffle into his mouth. When he lowers his hand, his cuff almost dips into the syrup on his plate. He shoves up his sleeves.
He has a scar on his right forearm. It’s ugly, close to two inches wide and long, running from his wrist almost all the way to his elbow.
“What happened?” I ask.
His fork freezes halfway to his mouth. He glances at the scar, then at me, and shadows seem to dance in his eyes. His lips tighten. A few more seconds pass, then he says, “Our job is dangerous.” He nods toward my neck. “Is yours from Jorreb?”
My fingers go to the upraised skin. It seems like there should be some residual pain, but the only feeling lingering from my time with Aren is his departing kiss. It’s still screwing with my head.
Just like he intended, I’m sure.
I clear my throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Carla returns with an apple and two mugs of coffee. She hands one to Shane, keeps the other for herself.
“Kelly and Joe hooked up last night,” she says, sitting in the chair next to him. He grunts in response. I wish he hadn’t. She takes that as a sign of interest and launches into a gossip session on the sex lives of people at last night’s party. She never once looks my way, but in the middle of an accounting of how many guys Kelly’s been with, Shane gives me a roguish smile, and shrugs.
I’m about to excuse myself from the table when there’s a flash outside the window. Before I can identify the face peering inside, the fae fissures into the breakfast room.
Shane stiffens but doesn’t turn. He isn’t pulled in by the shadows like I am. He doesn’t see their peaks and curves and his hands don’t itch for a pencil.
I squeeze my eyes shut, then focus on the fae. An abira tree is etched into the center of his jaedric cuirass, so he’s with the Court, but he’s not Taber, the fae Kyol said he’d send for me.
“Both of you are needed. Quickly.” His English is thickly accented.
Carla stops talking. The timing makes it seem like she heard the fae’s words, but a glance tells me she’s frowning at Shane, not at the lightning-covered man standing beside the table.
“Are you listening?” she demands.
“Of course,” he says smoothly, but his brow is furrowed in thought, probably trying to figure out why we’re both being summoned.
Carla crosses her arms. “Then answer my question.”
“I said I was listening.”
“The question before that.”
“Now, Shane,” the fae says. Something in his tone tells me this isn’t the first time he’s had to urge Shane to hurry. They’ve worked together before.
“I need to go out for a little while.” Shane scoots his chair back from the table. I’m not comfortable with fissuring out with a fae I don’t know, but I want more information, and since I can’t ask what’s going on with Carla sitting here, I stand, too.
“Out where?” She transfers her glare from Shane to me, then back.
“For a walk,” he says.
She stands. “A walk. Now? With her?”
Their argument is brief. She insists on coming with us. He tells her no flat-out and leaves her in the breakfast room, fuming. No more than three minutes pass before we’re outside, but the fae isn’t happy with the delay. He sets off at what, for him, is a brisk walk, which means Shane and I are jogging to keep up.
“Where are you fissuring us?” I ask.
He barely glances my way. “Haeth.”
Haeth is a city in the southeastern corner of the Realm. It’s near the Adaris Mountains. I’ve only been there once, several years ago, to use its gate. With the Kerrel Ocean to its north and the mountains to the east, it’s a beautiful place, one I wouldn’t mind returning to if bloodshed pretty much wasn’t guaranteed. The Court must have received information saying the rebels are there. Whether they are or not, I don’t know.
Shane’s house backs up to a golf course. It’s mid-morning and the sky is crystal clear, so we aren’t the only ones out. Groups of golfers are waiting for the people in front of them to play so they can take their turns. They’re not happy when they have to hold their swings while we cross the course.
“Did the sword-master send you to get me?” I ask, glad Shane is with me so it doesn’t look like I’m talking to myself.
“Radath,” the fae answers.
“The lord general? He usually summons me through Taltrayn.”
When we reach the woods on the far side of the course, I take the imprinted necklace off my wrist and slip it into my pocket. The fae will give us anchor-stones when we reach the gate, and if I fissured with two against my skin, I’d become lost in the In-Between.
“I’m following my orders,” the fae says.
“Is Taltrayn in Haeth?”
When he doesn’t answer, I stop walking. “I’m not going unless he’s there.” I’ve shadow-read with fae other than Kyol before, but not often, and it was always with someone I knew. Besides, I just escaped the rebels, and I told Kyol I want to retire. I don’t want to be thrust back into the war.
Shane stops beside me. “I’ve gotta say I support her, Daz. Something tells me Taltrayn will be pissed if she ends up in Haeth.”
Shane’s backing surprises me. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who gets involved in things that don’t really impact him.
Daz turns, impatience etched into his face. “We have no time to discuss this.”
“You can fissure me to the palace,” I say, “but I’m not going to Haeth.”
Leaves crunch to our right. Another fae approaches through the woods. He’s vaguely familiar, but I don’t think he’s one of Kyol’s swordsmen. Most likely, he serves under Radath. Since one fae can’t fissure two humans, his presence makes sense.
“What is wrong?” the new fae asks.
Daz tells him I’m refusing to go to Haeth. I stare at the ground, pretending not to listen as they discuss what to do with me. It’s convenient, though, being able to understand most of what they’re saying, but their conversation makes me uneasy, too. According to them, Radath thinks they can find the false-blood if they attack Haeth. Whether that false-blood is Sethan or Aren, I can’t tell.
The new fae holds up a hand, stopping Daz midsentence. “I will fissure Shane to Haeth. Do what you will with the shadow-reader.”
He motions to Shane, who gives me an almost sheepish shrug. “See you around.”
When they leave, Daz studies me, not looking at all happy. Finally, he lets out a breath and says, “I will take you to the palace.”
NINETEEN
THE FAE KEEPS his word. We fissure to the Silver Palace’s heavily guarded western entrance. Behind me is the outlying city of Corrist and in front is a wall of silver that reaches high into the sky. The portcullis at its base is half-raised. A contingent of Court fae wait on the other side, crossbows nocked and aimed. They lower their weapons only after Daz says something about the deceit of kimkis. At least, I think that’s what he says. It must be a pass-phrase because the guards let us enter.
The capital’s wealthiest merchants have shops inside the walls. The streets are crowded, but we travel quickly—or rather, as quickly as I can since my human pace slows Daz down—and enter beneath the Silver Palace’s southernmost spire. I’ve never toured any of Europe’s castles, which is a shame since it would be easy to have Kyol fissure me over there, but I imagine the interiors are similar in some ways: the stone walls, the intricate tapestries, the woven carpets running down the length of the corridor. Not the orbs set into sconces, though. They cast a blue-white light over the stone walls, subduing the atmosphere, making it feel cool and quiet.
“Wait here,” Daz says. He heads toward the king’s hall before I have a chance to say okay.
There are worse places to wait, though. I’m in the palace’s sculpture garden. With its marble floor, glass ceiling, and chiseled stone statues, the place is beautiful. Serene, too. The open-air courtyard is drenched with the morning’s sunlight. It spills over the fae sitting on stone benches or standing in clutches, deep in conversation.
“McKenzie?”
I don’t recognize the voice, wouldn’t recognize the fae either if he didn’t have a braid of premthyste in his silky gray hair. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Lord Raen, elder of Cyneayen, high noble of Tayshken, but now I see Kelia in the slant of his nose and the shape of his eyes. Those eyes dart around as if he’s afraid someone will see him talking to me. Every fae here will notice us—the edarratae make me kind of hard to miss.
“McKenzie,” he says again. He looks toward the sky as if he can find an English translation for what he wants to say written in the wispy clouds. “My daughter, Kelia.” He takes an unsteady breath, looks at me, and emphasizes, “Kelia. Is she okay?”
I stand there, force a confused frown, and pretend not to understand him, but a knot of sympathy tightens in my stomach.
“Sidhe.” He runs a hand over his face. “You . . . you would know her name, I think, if you had met her. I need . . .” He glances around the sculpture garden again. “I need a translator, but it’s unwise . . .”
I can’t follow the rest of what he says. Poor guy. I don’t know how long Kelia’s been with the rebellion, but he’s obviously distraught over it. I want to comfort him, to tell him she’s okay or she will be, once I find a way to make the Court release Naito. Instead, I cross my arms and keep my mouth shut.
“Walk with me a moment. Walk.” Lord Raen moves his middle and forefinger like miniature legs.
I’m uncomfortable with it, but I fall into step beside him. Fae are looking at us now. Some of those clustered in conversation have switched the topic of discussion to us, I’m sure. Raen ignores them, staring at the marble floor as we pass another sculpture. I don’t know what it’s called, but Kyol told me it represents the Tar Sidhe, the magically powerful fae who ruled the Realm centuries ago. I think the figures look like they represent the elements, though I don’t know why there are five instead of four. Earth, wind, fire, air, and . . .
“Her mother blames me,” Raen says. “I think she’s right. I shouldn’t have . . .” He shouldn’t have something. He’d be easier to understand if he wasn’t mumbling to himself. “But the human, he’s not good for her. Or he wasn’t. He would have destroyed her magic, made her tor’um. Kelia’s always been too infatuated with your world.”
I think he needs to talk, so I listen, careful not to react to anything he says.
“Maybe she would forgive me if I could give him back to her. Impossible now. The sword-master’s killed him. She’ll never speak to me again.”
Ice settles in my stomach. I stop walking. “What?”
Lord Raen meets my eyes, brow furrowed.
Maybe I mistranslated what he said. Kyol gave me his word—he promised me—Naito was okay.
“Naito,” I say, needing him to repeat his words.
“The human?”
I nod. He shakes his head.
“Kelia is my daughter. Kelia. Did you see her?”
I open my mouth to speak, close it. There are too many fae around and if he’s right . . . No. He can’t be right. Kyol wouldn’t lie about Naito being okay. He wouldn’t.
Would he?
Without an explanation, I leave Lord Raen. I have to talk to Kyol. I have to ask him again if Naito is alive. This time, I have to be willing to see a lie.
DAZ intercepts me before I enter the king’s hall. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t call me out for not waiting where he left me. He turns, leading me to the huge, open, gilded doors. Four swordsmen, two on each side, guard the entrance. They let us enter, and we step onto a plush blue carpet. It stretches all the way to the far end of the hall, stopping at the foot of the massive, silver dais on which the king’s throne sits. It’s vacant. Only a dozen swordsmen watch me from their posts.
I force myself to continue. Even though the silver walls surrounding the palace make it impossible for fae to fissure here, silver is the main decor. Some of it, like the sculpture of interlinked geometric shapes hanging on the wall, is infused with magic. It sparkles with a shimmery blue light similar to the fae’s edarratae when they’re in my world.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, but I can’t leave. I have to know the truth. If Kyol lied to me about Naito, he could have lied about other things. He could have lied about everything.
God, please—please—let Naito be alive.
Daz leads me past the silver dais and gestures to an opening in the back wall. “Through there.”
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.”
The Shadow Reader Page 21
