C.E. Murphy - Truthseeker

“How do you know it was the future?” There was no doubt in either man’s voice, but hope flashed through Lara and died again at Emyr’s cold look.

“It could hardly be the past. I can assure you I have never yet seen my son ride against me in battle. And it could hardly be the present.” He gestured toward a window, where dark-leaved trees whispered against the night. “It was a day yet to come, and I do not thank you for showing me what it holds.”

His bleak gaze turned on Dafydd, pinning him in place. The Seelie prince shifted uncomfortably, casting his gaze downward. It struck Lara that she found it easier to meet Emyr’s eyes than his own son did, and wondered what it said that she could stand under his gimlet glares as calmly as she did.

“It seems you are my only heir,” Emyr said to Dafydd. “As such, you will ride with the army tomorrow.”

Dafydd lowered his head, shock whitening his face, but his whispered “Your will, my lord,” was nearly lost under Lara’s incredulous, “That can’t be a good decision!”

Emyr turned on her, angry enough that spots stood out on his cheeks, but she stepped into his space, frustrated beyond thoughts of caution. “Send your only heir onto the battlefield? Especially when, given that he’s now leading an army that I assume wants to wipe you out, Ioan is the most likely candidate for having murdered Merrick ap Annwn in the first place?”

From their expressions, it was clear neither of the men had considered the possibility, which did nothing to change the ring of truth Lara heard in her own words. “It wasn’t someone here,” she said, exasperated. “Not in the citadel, anyway, if you really did gather them all into the courtroom earlier. And you did,” she added, “at least as far as you know, you did. I’d have known if you were lying. But come on.”

She looked from king to prince and back again, hands opened in demanding supplication. “Aerin didn’t think a spell could be cast that would sunder someone’s will, but isn’t it starting to add up? You said you might be able to do it, right, Emyr?”

Too late she realized she should have used an honorific. Emyr’s expression, dark to begin with, blackened entirely. Lara ground “Your majesty” through her teeth, and judged she’d done very little to alleviate her error. It didn’t matter that much; the worst he could do was kill her, and it was far more likely he’d send her back home. “You thought you might be able to do it, because you’ve got greater scope to your power than most people do. Ioan is—was—your heir. Wouldn’t he have to have talent on the same level you do?”

Emyr nodded grudgingly. Buoyed, Lara went on. “And he’s been raised in the Unseelie court, which is where most of your court thinks that kind of magic would be condoned.”

“But why?” From another, the question might have been plaintive. From Emyr, it somehow bordered on a threat.

“Power. Sympathy for the people he’s been raised with. Even just trying to save his own hide. I don’t know. He’s your son.”

“No longer. Dafydd—” Emyr swung toward his son, dismissing Lara. Incensed, she stepped closer, almost daring to catch his sleeve. It wasn’t necessary: he went still, then turned his head toward her incrementally, clearly disbelieving her audacity.

“If I’m right, and I don’t know if I am”—Clarity rang in that, too: her talent couldn’t differentiate between reasonable possibilities and the genuine truth—“then Dafydd is the only thing standing between you and the Barrow-lands falling into Unseelie hands. It is not wise to put him on the field, Emyr.”

“And yet it must be done,” Dafydd broke in.

Lara gaped at him and he sighed. “If Ioan leads the Unseelie army, a fair number of our own people will refuse to fight unless they have a banner of their own. The choices are myself or my father, and I’m the more expendable.”

Music chimed, giving weight to what he said. Lara folded her arms under her breasts. “I know you believe that’s true, but—”

“And,” Dafydd said, more strongly, “if Ioan’s hand was the one that directed mine in slaying Merrick, then it is my wish to meet him on the field and exact the price from his flesh.”

“And what if it was?” Lara snapped. “What if he does it again? You’re not going to be much of a banner to the Seelie army if you suddenly turn around and start hacking at them.”

“I’ll be prepared against it this time, Lara. It’s much more difficult to bespell someone who is prepared for you.”

“So, what? You’re going to ride up to him and say, ‘By the way, Ioan, did you possess me and make me kill Merrick?’ Do you really think he’s going to openly confess to murder?”

“Of course not,” Emyr said softly. “Which is why you’ll be riding at Dafydd’s side.”

Lara, wearing armor that had been fashioned for her while she slept, glowered at Dafydd’s shoulders around the edges of her fine, lightweight helm, and wished herself somewhere, anywhere, else. It had no effect: magic wasn’t that accommodating.

She had argued, partly from fear, partly from dismay, partly from barely knowing which end of a sword to hold, until the glint of exasperation in Emyr’s eyes had turned to a wall. She didn’t remember being sleepy, but one moment she’d been arguing and the next he’d said, “You must rest before dawn,” and she had known nothing after that until an already-armored Aerin awakened her and strapped her into moonlit armor of her own.

She had been fed, put on a horse, she was told, bespelled: she literally could not fall off unless the animal died beneath her. Aerin had shoved her hard a couple of times to prove it true, and split a wicked smile when Lara, sullenly, had pointed out that she could hear the truth in the explanation and didn’t need to be pushed around.

Now she scowled at Dafydd, honing anger so it would outweigh fear. He had come to her once she was on horseback, wrapping an armored hand around her equally armored calf: metal, light as this stuff was, did not make for easy intimacies. “I do need you,” he’d said quietly. “I would not kill my brother without knowing for certain that my actions were just, and there is no one but you who can tell me that.”

Lara had bit her tongue on the question “Is that all you need me for?” and had instead glared down at him. Even sick with terror, her face overheated and her hands cold, it was hard to be angry with him, especially seeing him prepared for war.

The bright pale armor could have been worked moonlight, for all she could tell: it was that light, and that beautiful. Even in the coming dawn its shadows were blue and purple, intricate designs etched into it whispering stories of the night. The fanciful idea that the Seelie were a night people had caught her, and had stayed with her as she watched the men and women around her armoring up and taking saddle. They were so pale, so fragile-looking, as though daylight took their strength and the night returned it.

Dafydd was no different, and clad in armor he seemed both dangerous and delicate, a description Lara was certain he wouldn’t appreciate. She wanted, against all sense, even against understanding, to send him to safety, even if she herself had to face a battle to keep him from it.

Warring music rang through her head, mocking her dramatics as half-truths and reigniting her pique. “You could capture him,” she’d muttered. “Bring him back to me to question.” It was an argument she’d tried the night before, and had sullenly conceded when Dafydd pointed out there was no guarantee of catching Ioan.

“We might,” Emyr had said, in a tone that had put her instantly on edge, “if I were to use a greater magic.”