Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

“We monitor the Provincial Gates,” Lena says. “We would have abducted you long before now if you used only those to travel.”

I keep my expression neutral, trying not to give any indication that she’s right. The Realm used to be made up of hundreds of small kingdoms, each with its own gate, but three thousand years ago, almost all of those gates disappeared in the Duin Bregga , a brutal war that translates roughly into “The Dissolution.” According to Kyol, the Missing Gates were said to be destroyed, but there were always rumors that some of them remained, and that the locations had just been wiped from the minds of the fae using a magic that’s extinct today. When one of King Atroth’s aids, with the help of a silverflushed kimki , stumbled upon a gate not marked on any map, those rumors were confirmed. Ever since then, Atroth has been searching for—and finding—other Missing Gates.

“If you want to extend your life,” Lena says, taking a step toward me, “you’ll give us those gates.”

“Lena,” Aren cuts in. Then he speaks in their language. She fires something back. Calmly, he speaks again. Whatever he says, she’s obviously not happy about it. Sethan barely has time to move out of the way before she yanks open the front door and storms inside, grumbling a litany of what I’m betting are fae curses under her breath. Most likely, they’re directed at me.

Whatever. I’m glad to see her go.

Sethan turns his attention back to me. “I’m truly sorry you’ve been brought into this war. We never wanted to involve humans, but Atroth made it necessary when he began employing your kind against us. His shadow-readers, you in particular, have almost destroyed us. We had no choice other than to take you away from him.” He pauses, his silver eyes boring into me as if he can read my thoughts. He can’t. Telepathy isn’t one of the endangered magics; it’s one of the extinct and forever lost ones. “We would like your help, McKenzie. And we’d like to help you.”

“Help me?” I snort. “The only thing I need from you is permission to leave.”

“And allow Atroth to continue using you?” He shakes his head. “That’s not an option.”

“What if I agree not to work for the Court again?”

Sethan’s brow wrinkles as if he can’t comprehend my question. His eyes narrow and he studies me. I hope he can’t read my expression. I hope he sees my offer as the biggest concession I can make and not as something I’ve been planning to do for several weeks now. Next Saturday, the day I was supposed to graduate if I hadn’t flunked my final exam—and I’m certain I did flunk it—I planned to announce my retirement to the Court. Avoiding the Realm and everything fae is the only way I’ll be able to live a normal, human life, and in anticipation of my degree, I filled out an application for an entry-level editor position in a suburb outside of Houston. I made plans to make new friends, to join a book club, to go to movies and concerts and clubs and all the other places normal people have time to go, but that’s not going to happen now, not unless I escape these fae and discover some way to convince my professor to let me retake my final.

Thinking about escape makes me turn my attention to the dark forest. A gentle breeze blows, and I half expect Kyol to step into the clearing, a silent, deadly figure in the night. A little tug of longing pulls at my heart.

Aren speaks over the rustling leaves. “She thinks they’ll let her go.”

I shift my gaze to the false-blood. “Of course they’ll let me go. They’re not the ones who’ve kidnapped me. They’re not the ones who are trying to blackmail me into working for them. I’m free to leave whenever I want.”

Aren gives Sethan a pointed look. “See.”

“See what?” I demand.

“Your ignorance.” He grins as if he’s just delivered the punch line to a grand ol’ joke. He crosses the porch and rests a hand on the knob of the front door. “Talk to her, Sethan. Then tell me what you decide.”

The door clanks shut behind him. My stomach twists and turns, but this time, I’m not sure if it’s because I’m starving or because Aren’s left me alone with an unfamiliar fae. It makes no sense, I know. Aren’s the man who’s abducted me, who’s brought me halfway across the planet, and who’s responsible for the massacre at Brykeld. The thing is, other than knocking me unconscious to keep me quiet in the engineering building, he hasn’t hurt me. In fact, he’s been almost kind. He could have—probably should have—ripped into me for my escape attempt. Instead, he healed me.

Sethan leans against the rail. “Aren thinks the Court has misled you. He thinks if you learn the truth of this war, you’ll work with us.”

“I already know the truth.” The knots in my stomach tighten. I’m not completely delusional. I know how easy it would be for the Court to mislead me. I don’t speak their language. I don’t understand their politics. I know only the history that’s been told to me. But I’ve seen what these rebels have done and Kyol . . . Kyol wouldn’t be on the wrong side of the war. He’s a good man, and even though I want him to be more, he’s a friend. Has been for the last ten years. He couldn’t have faked every moment he’s been with me.

“The king’s told you there are thirteen provinces,” Sethan says. “He’s lying. There are seventeen. I’m sure he’s also told you we want complete control of the gates. We don’t. We want equal access to them and reasonable tariffs.”

Who is this guy? “You could have discussed that with Atroth years ago—he gave you the chance—but all Aren’s concerned about is taking the Silver Palace. False-bloods are power-hungry like that.”

Sethan gives me a smile that he probably intends to be patient and pleasant, but I find it patronizing. “Aren doesn’t intend to sit on the throne, McKenzie. I do.”

I sit very still, trying to keep the reverberations of shock from making their way to my face. Sethan is the false-blood, not Aren? The king has no clue about this. If he did, Kyol or Lord General Radath would have had me searching for him every time we hunted a rebel, just in case he was around.

“I’m not a false-blood,” Sethan continues. “The Zarrak bloodline is purer than Atroth’s. Other fae’s are even purer than mine, but they have all been killed, appeased, or made tor’um .”

Tor’um is a word I know. It translates roughly to “walkers,” a derogatory name given to fae who don’t have enough magic to fissure. Most fae who are that weak are born that way, but some lose their magic later on in life. When they do, they don’t exactly stay sane. Scary thing is, the numbers of both are on the rise. Even with Atroth regulating the Realm’s gates, he’s been unable to reverse the slow decline of the fae’s magic. Despite laws against it, fae take human plants, animals, sometimes even technology, into the Realm. The big problem is that there are literally hundreds more gates on Earth than there are in the Realm. The Court doesn’t have enough soldiers to guard them all, so some merchants have set up shop in my world to avoid taxes and regulations. Those fae don’t care what they fissure into the Realm so long as they make a profit.

“You don’t believe me,” Sethan says.

“That you’re a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe or that you have a stronger claim?” I’m not sure what to believe, but I sure as hell am interested in finding out more about him, Aren, and the rebellion. This can be my last hurrah before I retire. I’ll do a little espionage, plan a little escape, report my findings to the king, then get myself a job and a real life on Earth.