Truthseeker

by C. E. Murphy

  “My … son?” Incredulous disdain filled the fine voice.

  Dafydd stood his ground, one hand fisted in the shirt he’d retrieved. “My brother. Born of your blood or not, Father, Merrick was my brother more than Ioan ever could be. I knew Merrick,” he said more softly. “Ioan is a stranger to me.”

  A hiss rippled through the attending host, angular eyes narrowing, color coming to sharp cheekbones. Some made distasteful faces, looking away, as though Dafydd had said something unexpectedly repugnant. To Lara, though, the truth of his words rang strong, like church bells in her mind, so loud she could barely imagine no one else heard it. Painfully aware that she was the stranger here, among people who had known each other for lifetimes, she pulled a deep breath and took a step forward, determined to defend Dafydd.

  The king made a sharp gesture, cutting her off before she spoke. “Merrick ap Annwn was no more than a hostage for good behavior. It shames me that you speak of him as a brother.”

  “It shames me that you do not.” Dafydd’s voice was low with anger, emotion turning the chords of truth to harsh sounds. But unlike his father, who spoke as truly, there was something more to Dafydd’s words. The king’s truth was sharp to the point of brittleness, almost discordant. Dafydd’s was tempered, as if compassion rendered conflict to music.

  Lara fell back the step she’d taken, shaking her head with quick violence. Subtleties in truth were beyond her talent’s scope: all she could tell was truth from lies.

  But Dafydd had called her talent immature, not as an insult, but as a promise. Her gaze returned to him, slender and golden in the moonlight, then went to his father, whose offense was writ large on his angular face.

  Her every instinct told her to placate the anger of a powerful man, and her job had taught her to tread gently. Treading gently, though, was not the same as backing down; her talent, after all, was in making them look their best. False flattery did neither the tailor shop nor its clients any good.

  Nor would it do an elfin king any good. The thought gave her confidence, the same unexpected surge that had come on her as she’d crossed through the Barrow-lands door. Lara made her hands into fists and stepped forward again, moving quickly so courage couldn’t fail her. “Dafydd’s telling the truth. He thinks of Merrick as his family, and wants to find his killer.”

  The king’s gaze returned to Lara’s, mild with unpleasant amusement. “And you are so certain of this because you carry a truthseeker’s power. A mortal. A child,” he said disdainfully. “When neither has ever been so blessed or cursed in my memory, which stretches back beyond the dawn of mortal time.”

  Hairs rose, prickling Lara’s arms and neck. She tilted her head, searching his words for the untruth. “Do your people only become truthseekers when they’re adults?”

  Skin tightened over the bones of his face, making him ghoulish. “We do not reckon childhood the way your people do.”

  “You’re not answering me. I’ve been able to do this my whole life. When does the power show up in your people?”

  The king’s lip curled. “In childhood.”

  “Hah!” Lara rocked back on her heels, pleased with herself. The motion brought a sensation of warmth, Dafydd closer to her than he’d been. Siding with her, she thought; protecting her. It took an unusually long moment to tamp her smugness over catching the Seelie king in his exaggeration. In her own world she wouldn’t stand her ground against a man like him, but in this one, he was expected to—did—inherently understand her gifts. “There’s not much point in being theatrical. If you’re familiar with truthseekers at all, you should already know dramatizing just sets my teeth on edge.”

  “But the truthseeking talent does not mature for centuries.” The king sounded petulant, like a child unaccustomed to being thwarted.

  “Maybe among the Seelie,” Lara said. “But I’m human.” It took everything she had to not glance back at Dafydd, seeking reassurance for that statement. His hand touched the small of her back, warm and comforting, as if he understood her hesitation. Bolstered, Lara went on. “I don’t have centuries to mature. My talent would have to grow up faster, too. I can stand here all night picking apart your half-truths, but I’m here for a reason. Dafydd thinks I can help you find a murderer. I’m willing to do that.”

  She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed as she studied the king, and the certainty of knowing when to make a challenge came over her. “I mean, unless you don’t want to find the killer.”

  Eleven

  Ice built in the king’s eyes, turning them from pale blue to clear. Lara felt color rise in her face and wondered abjectly if the Seelie blushed, or if she looked all the more human and alien for the sudden color in her skin. But she refused to look down; refused even to blink, meeting the monarch’s fury with her own forthright challenge. She was an invited, if not entirely wanted, guest. She wouldn’t lose face and risk her tenuous status, not when she had only one certain ally in a very strange place.

  Dafydd might have warned her, though. The dour thought sent a trace of humor through her and her blush faded as she glowered back at the Seelie king.

  Whose gaze faltered, just briefly, lids shuttering his eyes. A trace of tension left Lara’s shoulders, surprising her; she hadn’t known she had the ability to stare a man down, much less recognize when he so subtly capitulated.

  “What I wish,” the king snarled, “is to have an end to battle. We do not ride to greet my wayward son, but to make haste back to our citadel ahead of the black armies that dog us. Tell me, Truthseeker. Can you see an end to our battle? Can you tell me who is victorious?”

  Lara’s spine straightened, drawing her taller than she normally stood. “All I know is if someone’s telling the truth. I’m not a prophet.”

  The king sneered. “There were once truthseekers of such power they could speak a thing and it would by force of their will become true.”

  Dafydd, at her side, stepped forward as if to defend her, but Lara lifted her fingers to stay him, studying the king cooly. “Really. And what happened if both sides of a war had a truthseeker predicting they’d win?” She turned away, feigning disinterest, though nerves clutched her stomach.

  Dafydd caught her eye, and laughter blossomed within her, burning away the fear created by her boldness. She saw herself suddenly from his eyes, saw them both from his perspective, and from the king’s as well.

  She was merely mortal, and had the audacity to turn her back on an elfin king. The man who’d brought her there was half naked, wounded, and had been caught dallying with her very mortal self. It took very little imagination to name them both a disgrace, and yet in the face of good sense, in the face of soothing his father, Dafydd ap Caerwyn grinned at her. It was a broad, open expression, full of approval, and she tried not to laugh as she wondered how often anyone put the king in his place, never mind a human woman chastising an immortal monarch.

  Shock seized that monarch, leaving a silence into which Lara said, “You didn’t say anything about a war when you asked me to come here. Do you think that’s why we were attacked?” with accusation carefully tamped out.

  Almost, at least: there were notes of anger and fear well buried in her words, but airing them would show a weakness that she didn’t want the king to see. Guilt twisted Dafydd’s expression, washing away his glee, and he shook his head, honest admission of fallibility. “I didn’t know it had come to this. If I’d known—”

  He broke off, visibly aware of his phrasing and of Lara’s interest sharpening on him. “I still would have asked you to come,” he finally said. “But I would have warned you. I didn’t mean to bring you into a hornet’s nest.”

  Lara pursed her lips, studying him, then nodded. “Good choice,” she said quietly. “Platitudes and reassurance wouldn’t have been as good an answer, even if you meant them well.” She turned back to the king, well aware she’d dismissed him once already and that he would be unhappy with her.

  Fair enough; she wasn’t especially happy with him. “You d
on’t look like you’ve been fighting, and this doesn’t look like an entire army. Are you really at war already, or are you just a vanguard?” Just, she realized an instant too late, was a poor choice of words: a king would not appreciate being just anything.

  “My host and I have ridden to see our enemies’ numbers,” Dafydd’s father said tightly. “They’re far greater than our own, and the magics I have left behind will only stymie them for so long. Until dawn, if we’re fortunate. The battle will happen then. You spoke of an attack.” His attention went from Lara to Dafydd, as though she was unworthy of answering.

  “Nightwings,” Dafydd said. “At least a dozen of them. When was the last time they plagued us, Father? Not since Rhiannon died, I think.”

  The king went still, as though his iciness had taken over even himself. “They have come forth a time or two since then, but never in force. They’re mindless creatures and must be controlled by someone of strong will.”

  “You mean royalty,” Dafydd said softly, and his father’s lip curled.

  “The Unseelie court is a blight on this land. Come dawn, we will wipe them from it.”

  “Dawn,” Lara repeated. “How many hours away is that?” She heard Dafydd’s indrawn breath, and wondered at it before realizing she had repeatedly spoken to the king as an equal. That was almost certainly not to be done, and he gave her a cold look before deigning to respond.

  “Some ten or eleven. Moonrise is not so far behind us yet.”

  “Then by your majesty’s leave,” Lara said, and for a rarity was able to revel in sarcasm and sincerity as one, “I’d like to go to your headquarters and see if I can’t get to the heart of this mess before an army shows up on your doorstep.”

  Any sensible choice, Lara thought, would have put her on horseback with one of the armored guard who rode with the king, and Dafydd on another. One unarmored person riding with an armored one had to be more comfortable than two armored people riding together.

  Still, one of the guard had chosen to ride with another, leaving her horse free for Dafydd and Lara to share. Lara was mostly grateful: her sole experience with horses was a childhood memory of one stepping on her foot. It hadn’t hurt much. The ground had been soft and its broad hoof had simply pushed her sandaled toes into the earth, but it had left a lasting impression of the animals’ size and strength. She had been wary of them ever since, much to the disapproval of her horse-crazed classmates in elementary school.

  Gratitude, though, was mixed with pique. She was almost certain she’d been saddled with Dafydd because none of the elfin riders were willing to sully themselves by riding with a human, and that the one who’d offered up her horse had chosen discomfort over contamination. Lara would have been offended, if the arrangements hadn’t granted her the chance to mutter, “I think you’d better fill in the blanks,” at Dafydd as they rode. “Starting with who are the Unseelie, why are they coming to war, why you called Merrick your brother when he’s not, and why it didn’t sound like a lie.”

  “Because he is,” Dafydd answered softly, and there was no discordance in his voice, though there’d been none in his father’s, either, when he’d disavowed Merrick ap Annwn as his son. “I have a blood brother, Ioan ap Caerwyn, who is my father’s son by my mother, Rhiannon. Merrick is—was—the son of Hafgan ap Annwn, the Unseelie king, and they’ve been hostage to the courts’ good behavior their entire lives. Merrick grew up with me. I’ve barely met Ioan.”

  A dozen questions crowded through Lara’s mind, and the one that came out was the least important: “Are they second sons?”

  “Firstborns. Ioan and Merrick are heirs to the thrones. It was when I was born that the treaty was made. Emyr’s luck in having sons worried Hafgan. With a second heir, my father might have risked trying to push the Unseelie back into the waters they came from.”

  Lara closed her teeth on a second rush of questions, frowning at the horse’s alert ears. There was no visible road ahead of them, only forest and meadows, but the animals went with confidence, following a path she couldn’t see. The horse flicked an ear, as if aware she was paying attention to it, and Lara shook herself, trying to clear her mind. “The Unseelie are …?”

  “The other peoples of the Barrow-land.” Dafydd drew breath to explain further, and Lara raised a hand sharply, cutting him off. Then she snatched at the saddle—there was no horn, the leather cut more like the English saddles she’d seen in a few movies than like the Western ones she was more familiar with—and clenched her stomach, uncertain of her balance.

  Dafydd slipped an arm around her waist, warm and reassuring. Lara released her white-knuckled grip on the saddle carefully, relaxing incrementally against Dafydd. “Thanks. I’m not used to riding. And the Unseelie came from the ocean?” Her voice went up dubiously on the last word, earning Dafydd’s chuckle.

  “So our legends tell us.” For a second time he started to say more, and Lara shook her head, not trusting herself to raise a hand again. The horse snorted, sounding for all the world like it was making commentary on her fear. She blinked, then, daring brought on by amusement, she patted the animal’s shoulder.

  “I don’t need all the history. I just need enough to understand. Why did they exchange their firstborns? I thought second sons were more usual.” Insofar as she’d ever thought about it at all, at least. Lara could hardly imagine anyone in the modern world participating in exchanges of that nature.

  “We—both Seelie and Unseelie—live a very long time. One of the prices we pay is that we have very few children. When Ioan and Merrick were the only heirs, warfare was rarely devastating, because neither king would risk their only child. When I was born, Emyr had an advantage. It was Hafgan’s idea to exchange the firstborns.”

  “Better to not raise his own son than to risk losing him in battle?” Lara shook her head. “Wasn’t ‘not fighting’ an option?”

  “The Barrow-lands are small,” Dafydd said with a shrug. “Before the Unseelie came from the oceans, there was enough land for the Seelie. Since they came, though, we’ve fought over the earth time and again.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  Dafydd shook his head, movement felt rather than seen. “As long as I can remember.”

  Lara twisted to see him, wondering how long that might be. The horse side-stepped and snorted irritably. One of the guards, another woman, caught its bridle with an easy grip. “It is time immemorial to most of us since the Unseelie came from the oceans and began to fight us for our green growing places. I am Aerin,” she added with the air of someone unaccustomed to introducing herself.

  “I’m Lara. It’s nice to meet you.” The perfunctory phrase was one Lara had learned she could say without discomfort creeping over her. Aerin’s hair was blue in the moonlight, and her eyes yellow, disconcerting colors that emphasized a lack of humanity. Lara glanced away, then back again, not wanting to be rude either by dismissing the woman or staring at her.

  “And you,” Aerin said after a moment’s silence. Then she inclined her head toward Dafydd, murmuring a phrase Lara didn’t catch, then saying his name in a more familiar manner.

  “Aerin.” Dafydd loosened his arm from around Lara to take the Seelie woman’s hand briefly, a smile in his voice. “How long has it been?”

  A sting of envy stiffened Lara’s spine and the beleaguered horse huffed again, obviously displeased with her seat. Chastened, she tried to relax again. She’d met Dafydd only a few days earlier, and could hardly hold old friendships against him.

  Her own thoughts chided her with dissonant tones, and Lara gave a huff of her own, quiet echo of the horse’s. She couldn’t reasonably hold old friendships against him, and with that half-amused amendment, the off-key notes in her mind subsided.

  “Longer for you than for me, I think,” Aerin said. “Ten days, Dafydd. Ten days with no answers, and a week of that with skirmishes along the valley borders. Merrick’s death must be answered for, or we’ll all pay the price.”

  “Which is what? War?�
��

  “War,” Aerin said crisply. “The ruin of our people. The drowning of the lands.” Her attention slid to Lara, then back again, and it was with a note of affected diffidence that she asked, “And how long has it been for you?”

  “The drow—” Lara looked away, trying to hide her face as a spasm of triumph seized her. War, the ruin of her people, and the drowning of the lands evidently came secondary to Aerin’s personal concerns, which suggested Lara wasn’t the only one fighting envy.

  Dafydd, though, gave no hint of recognizing it in either of them as he said, “So little time we wouldn’t mark its passing, here, and yet so much time in the mortal land that I no longer recognize what it became from what it was. A century,” he added, so lightly the long years might not have had any meaning to him. “A decade there for every day here, it seems.”

  Horror banished jealousy and its petty triumphs as Lara twisted to stare at Dafydd again. “That’s not going to happen to me, is it? You said I’d be home in time for dinner!”

  He shook his head hastily. “No, no. You will be. The worldwalking spell has been charmed on your behalf. For a little while we can hold time in step, one world to the next. You’ll be gone no more hours at home than you spend here, but for my part, there was no knowing how long it would take to find a truthseeker. Even after only ten days here, we’re on the brink of war. A century might have seen the ruin of us all.”

  Lara exhaled noisily, slumping in the saddle. “I think there’s too much you didn’t tell me.” The horse whickered agreement, turning with its fellows down a trail that became, as she watched, a broad avenue lined with trees that reached for the stars. At its far end, both impossibly distant and mirage-close, rose a building that looked like it had been carved of moonlight, pale and stunning against the foreground of green-black trees.