C. E. Murphy - Wayfinder

A second man had risen from the biers, Emyr’s twin in everything but coloring. His sharp features were the same, dark gold skin lying so taut over bone that Lara was reminded, uncharitably, of face-lifts gone wrong. But there was more expression in this man’s face than surgery would allow. His thin lips curled with contempt, nostrils flaring as if the air he breathed wasn’t quite good enough for him. His gaze flickered across all three of them, distaste finally settling in fine lines around his eyes and mouth as he reached up to tie long straight dark hair back in a knot. “Emyr’s whelp, a mortal trinket, and a tainted warrior. What have I bothered to save, and at what cost? You.” He snapped at Dafydd, then pointed at the floor in front of him, commanding Dafydd forward. “Tell me what has come to pass.”

Dafydd, to Lara’s private horror, looked at her. Hafgan—because she had no doubt that of the dozen sleepers in the chamber, the arrogant Unseelie who had awakened was indeed their king—made his expression long with incredulity. Obviously he’d concluded Dafydd was the only one capable of relating a tale, or possibly was the only one worthy of a king’s attention.

Lara had never been especially contrary, but Hafgan’s readiness to dismiss her awakened enough affronted amusement to drown her burst of horror. She put her left hand in Dafydd’s and let him help her to her feet, not caring that it took several seconds to steady herself from her shoulder’s pounding. “I’m the reason you’re awake, not Dafydd.”

She might have said a hamster or a goldfish had roused him, from the Unseelie king’s disbelieving sneer. “Emyr and no other is responsible. There are no healers here, and passion is the only other tool that can waken a sleeper. Where is he?”

Lara looked over her shoulder at Aerin, who hadn’t yet moved from the circle of fragmented metal. She shook her head at Lara’s querying eyebrow, and Lara turned back to Hafgan. “Probably preparing to destroy your hidden city.”

Hafgan took such a quick step forward Lara didn’t realize he was within striking range until Dafydd inserted himself between them. “Hear her out, majesty. She is a truthseeker.”

And mortal , Lara wanted to add, and easily annoyed by elfin highhandedness . She’d worked at a bespoke tailoring shop in Boston, where suits were made without patterns, custom-fit to those men and women who could afford them. Many of them had been as autocratic as the elfin kings were, but none of them irritated her so much. Maybe it was the power she wielded in the Barrow-lands; maybe, despite its unfamiliarity, she felt it garnered her some respect.

Mostly, though, at home, she was paid to deal politely with the powerful and pompous. She was in the Barrow-lands as a favor to Dafydd, and had vastly less reason to ignore bad manners. They’d wanted her help, not the other way around. “That was Emyr’s scrying spell you just melted. He was trying to talk to Aerin to make sure we were all still alive, but it went wrong. We all owe you our thanks for stopping it.”

“Mine especially,” Aerin muttered. Lara swallowed laughter, unreasonably pleased that Aerin was as ungracious as she.

Hafgan looked between them and at Dafydd before settling on Lara again. She had the impression he’d chosen his battle by saying, “I have never heard of a scrying spell ‘going wrong.’ ”

“Have you ever tried working one underwater?” Lara winced at even asking, but there was no corresponding flex in the air, no loosening of the spell that let them breathe and speak.

Hafgan glowered at her. “I have never worked one at all, not such as Emyr does. It is not in my element.”

“Then trust me: it went wrong. The Drowned Lands corrupt magic, maybe even incoming magic.” Lara liked that idea more than the thought that Emyr might sacrifice Aerin to his war, but there was equal truth in both possibilities. “And—”

And the staff she carried was probably making it worse. Lara caught those words behind her teeth, looking for something else to say instead. “And that’s why I’m here. Ioan, your successor, asked me to find out the truth of Annwn’s past. Emyr’s memory is unreliable, even when he tries to remember. I need both of you to reconstruct the histories.”

“Why?”

“Because if Ioan’s right, if the Seelie did choose to drown these lands, then your people have been treated appallingly, and I want to try to set it right.”

“And if we brought it on ourselves, arbiter? What then? Will you leave us in our drowned home without another care?” Hafgan focused beyond her. On Aerin, Lara thought for an instant, but he said, “Will you use that staff to finish what was begun, if it is all our own fault?”

“The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. No. Trying to fix what’s wrong isn’t contingent on one side being evil and the other being heroes. The Barrow-lands are dying, and maybe I can help. That’s enough by itself.”

“Then what does the history matter?”

Lara quirked an eyebrow. “I just want to know the truth.”

Hafgan gave Dafydd a sour look. “There, whelp. There’s the reason we killed them all.”

Lara’s gut clenched, breath gone like she’d taken a hit. Her shoulder throbbed once, but even that damage seemed limited compared to the shock bubbling through her mind. “ Killed them?”

“And every line that carried the blood. It took time.” Hafgan smiled, narrow and sharp. “But we never thought to trace the talent in mortal lives. Perhaps I’ll rectify the error.”

“We?” Lara whispered, then shook her head, shock melting to angry confidence. “You wouldn’t stand a chance, hunting in my world. It’s too full of iron and weapons you wouldn’t recognize. Don’t threaten me, Hafgan. I already have the worldbreaking staff.”

Dafydd shifted, a small action that spoke of surprise, and only then did Lara hear her words as the threat they were. Hafgan’s face twitched, subtle admiration and acknowledgment of her challenge visible in the change. “The old ones were not like you. They would not dream of threatening, nor would they act on the threat if it were made. It would lack …”—he shifted his head forward, offering a reptilian intimacy—“sophistication.”

Prickles ran over Lara’s neck, a chill that wanted her to respond. To continue baiting the Unseelie king until something erupted, something dangerous and unstoppable. That was the staff again, eager for destruction, and Lara gritted her teeth against the impulse. “You seem to remember the old days a lot more clearly than anyone else.”

Hafgan waved idle fingers toward his bier. “The long sleep clears the mind. But I will not answer your questions, Truthseeker. Not here, not now. Let me rejoin the world and see my people, see my brother king, before we take that journey.”

Certainty pounded through Lara. She could force the issue, compel the king to answer; her power would stretch that far. But it would also make an enemy of one inclined that way already, and that wasn’t, as of yet, necessary. She glanced at Dafydd, who nodded almost invisibly. Then, trying to loosen her jaw, she looked back at Hafgan and offered a short bow, the best she was able to do. “Of course. Your majesty, you’re the only one of Unseelie blood among us. My understanding is that the Drowned Lands will welcome you more readily than it has us. We would be grateful if you would lead us out safely.”

“Grateful,” Hafgan murmured. “Not indebted? You choose your words wisely, Truthseeker.”

“I always have.” A flash of memory came to her: her first date with Dafydd, when she’d pedantically and thoroughly dissected his word choices for accuracy. Kelly called her a walking dictionary for the game, but Lara enjoyed it. Carefully selecting words had lent her a small sense of control over truth that was difficult to otherwise achieve, in a world of white lies and polite fictions. Smiling, she put the memory aside to focus on the Unseelie monarch again. “Will you lead us out?”