Chapter 13

The document in her hand was a nightmare.

Thysandra had been staring at it for a good ten minutes already, until the ink had begun to blur before her eyes, and still the numbers and letters refused to arrange themselves into something slightly more palatable. She wasn’t even hoping for it to turn into something good . It didn’t even need to be acceptable . All she wanted was for it to be …

Well. Not this .

Mortal deaths in the year 3215 , the heading at the top of the page said, and below that was a list as stark as it was horrifying:

Accidents (farm, construction, etc.) – 46

Infections – 39

Childbed – 21

Various diseases – 61

Starvation – 53

Execution – 7

Fae encounters – 48

And at the very bottom of the list, almost an afterthought …

Old age – 2

For what had to be the fiftieth time this morning, her eyes flew back to the start of the list, scanning down the same unchanged words again.

It did not make sense. Nothing about it made the smallest lick of sense. Infections and diseases weren’t supposed to kill people, for bloody hell’s sake; a bit of blue magic could heal all but the most extreme cases. And childbed ? About a hundred human children had been born on the island in that particular year, another administrative document had informed her … which meant that, good gods, a fifth of the human mothers had died giving birth?

What was the statistic for fae? One in a thousand?

And somehow, impossibly, the rest was even worse. How in hell did anyone starve at a court where lavish banquets were a weekly occurrence? What in Korok’s flaming hell was fae encounters supposed to mean?

Best to sneak in before sunrise and out during dinnertime , Inga had said, and a hollow feeling in Thysandra’s stomach suggested these were exactly the sort of encounters the girl had been talking about. Forty-eight casualties. And unless all involved fae had proudly confessed to their actions, that might not even be the full extent of it. How many human bodies lay buried in Faewood, unseen and unregistered? How many murders had coyly been classified as accidents instead?

A vicious headache was sharpening behind her eyes.

It had been five days since Symeon had made his attempt on her life. Four since Nicanor had gathered his commanders and informed them that, since humans were now a scarce resource at the court, their High Lady would be most displeased to lose even more of them. Which was the safest way to put it, of course, a way that didn’t sound like she was conspiring with the Alliance, and so far it had technically worked …

But staring at this list – at the world of suffering that hid behind these blunt numbers, year after year after year – she was overcome by the reckless, foolish urge to slam her fist onto the table and tell them they would be following her orders for the sake of fucking decency first.

Had the Mother known about this?

Knowing how she had ruled her court, it seemed thoroughly unlikely that she hadn’t.

Thysandra dropped the cursed sheet of parchment onto the low table, sagged in her chair, and closed her eyes. The room was far too quiet around her – a disconcerting thought, and yet there was no denying that she could really, really have used Naxi’s ever-cheerful commentary on the situation right now. Not enough to need it, of course. She was not going to need anyone, cheerful commentary or no. But it would have helped to have someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn’t accuse her or glower at her, someone who—

A knock echoed through the room.

She shot to her feet.

Had Naxi returned from the Labyrinth already? That would be early but not impossible – a thought accompanied by another disconcerting skip of her heart. Just as likely, though, it would be another aspirant murderer. No need to throw her doors wide open just yet.

She cleared her throat. ‘Hello?’

‘Oh good, you’re here,’ an unexpected voice said on the other side of the door – so unexpected that for a moment, she couldn’t for the life of her remember who it belonged to. Male. Northern accent. Calm, wryly amused tone. Then, just as it dawned on her, he added, ‘It’s your favourite alf here to deliver a message. Purely peaceful intentions.’

Tared fucking Thorgedson.

She hastily flipped the list of human casualties upside down, just in case those bloody alf eyes could read it from a distance, and strode to the door. It was unlikely he was here to conspire with fae assassins, wasn’t it? And there were no unusual sounds to be heard from the corridor, either, which was somewhat reassuring; if an entire horde of alves had stormed into the castle, it was unlikely the place would still be so peacefully quiet.

Indeed, he turned out to be alone as she cautiously opened the door – tall, blond, sword on his back as always. His only greeting was a mirthless half-smile – an expression that said, I haven’t forgotten, I haven’t forgiven, but don’t worry, I’ll be civil for the sake of diplomacy this time.

She returned an equally forced twist of her lips. ‘Morning.’

‘Same to you.’ He pointed a thumb at the stairwell, one eyebrow crooked up a fraction. ‘And just out of curiosity, are you aware there’s a corpse lying practically on your doorstep?’

Good gods.

‘Oh.’ She shrugged, resisting the temptation to step out and take a look. She’d be damned if she allowed any alves to sneak into her sanctuary; as soon as Tared set foot inside for the first time, he would be able to fade back whenever he wanted. ‘I suppose they tried to stop Naxi on her way down to the Labyrinth.’

‘Ah,’ he said, his smile still wry but looking significantly more genuine now. ‘Glad to hear she’s feeling right at home already. I don’t suppose you’ll be inviting me in for cake and a cup of tea on this lovely morning?’

‘You guessed correctly,’ she said tartly, realising in the same moment that there was one small problem with that resolution. ‘I do actually have a few letters you might be able to deliver on my behalf, though, seeing as you’re here anyway. So if you could—’

‘Go get them,’ he interrupted, resting his weight against the outside of the doorframe and sticking his hands into his pockets like a male prepared to wait for a week. ‘I’m not moving.’

That seemed ridiculously charitable of him, but no matter how many times she glanced over her shoulder on her way to her desk, he appeared to be keeping his word. Perhaps he knew she might well get violent if he made the mistake of crossing that threshold. No one was ruining her last safe refuge at court, peace and Emelin’s threats be damned.

The letters to the other magical rulers lay on the edge of the desk, where she could easily grab them – a small mercy. And as little as she liked to admit it, the alf’s presence was a convenient surprise. She’d written the messages two days ago and spent the time since figuring out how she was going to send them without any risk of their contents leaking – a series of humble apologies followed by a cautious invitation to discuss the possibility of treaties. Even Nicanor hadn’t been informed about the plan. There was little use in letting him know at this stage; they could discuss the opinions of the court once they knew whether other magical rulers would even be willing to talk.

Only Naxi had inevitably been around to see her agonise over every turn of phrase, offering unhelpful suggestions that had somehow made the process easier all the same.

‘Here you go,’ she told Tared as she returned, holding out the five sealed sheets of parchment. ‘Let me know if there’s anyone among them you won’t be able to reach.’

He pursed his lips, browsing through the missives. ‘The White City won’t be a problem. Nymph isles are fine, too. I’ll leave it to friends to visit the phoenixes and vampires, but we should be able to arrange that pretty swiftly, and …’ He paused on the last letter, which she had addressed to Whoever is in charge of the alves these days . His grimace was almost apologetic. ‘I’ll be keeping this one for myself, I suppose.’

It was twistedly gratifying to know she was not the only one unhappy with the title bestowed upon them. ‘So why is the apparent leader of the alf isles playing messenger boy today, if I may ask?’

‘Matter of efficiency,’ he said with a shrug, pulling another letter from his pocket. ‘I was visiting Agenor to talk about some other important but supremely tiresome matters. He asked if I could pass this on to you.’

Her heart stood still.

Agenor .

At once, the food treaties faded to the back of her mind. Even the damning list of human deaths on her table no longer seemed nearly so urgent anymore, a problem that could perfectly well wait until tomorrow; all that mattered for a shamefully eager moment was the folded parchment in that alf hand, coming with … Oh, please let it come with information …

She all but snatched it from Tared’s fingers.

His chuckle barely made it through to her conscious mind, as did the words that followed. ‘An anticipated message, I understand? ’

‘Yes, please,’ she mumbled vaguely. No, wait. Was that a coherent answer? ‘I mean, thank you for delivering it, and um, let me know if—’

‘I know when to make myself scarce,’ he said, stepping back. ‘Give Naxi a pat on the head from me.’

The next moment, he was gone without a trace, faded back to wherever he and the rest of the Alliance were living these days. She couldn’t be bothered to consider that half-relevant question.

Agenor’s letter burned in her hand as she flung the door shut, broke the wax seal, and unfolded the parchment before she’d even reached her desk. She dropped into the chair, rushing her gaze along his familiar, messy handwriting.

Thys,

Very glad to hear from you. I hope you’re doing well, or as well as can be expected; from Inga’s letters, it sounds like matters are at least under control at the moment. Please let me know if you need my thoughts or advice on anything. I’ll be happy to help.

Then, because I’m sure you can do without more elaborate well-wishes, let me get straight to your questions—

No, I was never informed about the details of Echion’s treason, either. I have wondered about it in the past, and my best explanation is that his actions must have somehow reflected poorly on Achlys and Melino? in an embarrassing way. They did not deal well with humiliation. If your father made them appear weak, ignorant, or otherwise imperfect, their silence would not be unexpected.

As to your second question, I’m not sure if anyone would know more. The usual sources – Ophion and Deiras in particular – are dead. The only exception I can think of is Silas; last time I checked, those who bargained with him still had their marks, which suggests he’s alive. His disappearance just before Echion’s death suggests he was involved in the situation, too. That said, finding him might be a challenge after all this time.

If you’d like for me to ask around, let me know. There have been theories about him hiding with other magical peoples; if that’s the case, the Alliance might know more.

I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance at the moment. I’ll keep an eye out as I’m working through the paperwork I took from the Crimson Court last week and write if I find anything of relevance.

All the best,

A.

She stared at the words until her eyes began to ache, trying to make sense of the feeling stirring inside her – that feeling that should have been disappointment, and yet …

Yet it wasn’t.

Thoughts were unfolding in her mind, prodded back to life by something Agenor had written. Shreds of memories. Words, sights, events that she had buried deep and forgotten, clawing their way back to the surface now with sudden vehemence.

Thys, darling, there will be some changes soon …

Her father’s voice.

That deep, soothing timbre.

She fell back into the couch. The letter dropped from her hand and swirled to the floor; her paralysed fingers barely noticed.

She’d forgotten what he even sounded like, her father, the memory of his voice drowned out by the dying screams that had followed her in her dreams for years. But now he was back, and with him came flashes of a conversation so old that even remembering it made her feel small again … I need you to keep a secret for me. Can you do that, Thys?

She’d been holding a doll when he’d pulled her aside. How was it possible that she still remembered, that she could still feel the soft, worn fabric against her fingers?

You and your mother are going on a little trip tomorrow , he’d said, the memory clear as day all of a sudden – his hands on her frail shoulders, tired lines around his eyes which she only now understood must have meant something. Don’t tell anyone. It’s … a surprise. But if anything happens – if you get lost, or if you run into someone you don’t trust – I need you to go to Ilithia and find—

‘Uncle Silas,’ she whispered, finishing the sentence, and sunlight flooded back into her mind.

Silas.

Good gods, Silas .

Her mother’s … cousin, wasn’t he? Out of nowhere, images of glistening bargain marks shot by before her mind’s eye, of a laugh as loud as bursting fireworks, of large hands lifting her off her feet and tossing her up and up into the air until she cried with joy. Silas, who had vanished – yes, now she remembered, even though no one had mentioned it to her much those days …

To Ilithia?

The island had once been inhabited by the now-extinct line of Castor Thenes, its soil so barren that no one else had bothered to claim it after the death of the last thenessa. Barely an hour’s flight away from the court – she could have managed that distance even on her half-grown wings at twelve summers old, couldn’t she?

Why hadn’t she?

I’m so sorry, Thysandra , the Mother had tutted as she sobbed and snivelled in those thin, pale arms. He made some terrible choices, your father. I don’t think he ever had your best interests at heart – really, he could easily have killed you with his foolishness …

And she’d believed it. She’d shoved the memory of her father’s instructions far, far away with every other useless shard that was left of her childhood, and eventually she’d forgotten about it – not a white blob in her memory like her mother’s fate, but simply a time she had never wanted to think about again.

At once she was standing, tripping over her own feet in her hurry.

Boots. Coat. What more did she need to get out of here for a few short hours? The humans … well, surely the humans would survive for another day with Nicanor’s orders in place, and if Tared returned with replies to her letters, surely he wouldn’t do so before sunset. Naxi …

She faltered, one arm already in her coat-sleeve.

Naxi wouldn’t be able to enter these rooms in her absence.

But then again, the last four days had been blissfully quiet. What were the chances anyone would take up demon-hunting again this afternoon? And even if they did, the Labyrinth made for a perfectly suitable hiding place – so surely Naxi would do just fine on her own, and surely there was absolutely no reason to feel guilty if she left here without warning.

They weren’t lovers . Just … accidental roommates. Temporary allies. Naxi would be leaving too, one day.

And she absolutely did not feel any dread at the prospect.

Biting out a curse, she unlocked the window, flung it open, and threw herself outside, careful not to make the mistake of looking back. The breeze carried her up before a single wingbeat. She swerved to the east easily, soaring past pointed towers and spires she could have navigated with her eyes closed; within moments she’d left the court behind, nothing but the wide-open sea stretching out before her.

Every slap of her wings took her farther away from the hornet’s nest below. Closer to a goal that was all her own, a quest that had not been bestowed upon her through threats and blackmail – and perhaps that made her a traitor, sneaking away from the people she was supposed to rule and protect …

But if she just flew fast enough, surely the guilt and responsibility wouldn’t catch up with her for a while.

Soon there were no sounds to be heard but the whistling wind, no movement to be seen but the gulls ahead. Small islets slid by beneath her, allowing her to orient herself as she flew; after decades of passing by these same craggy rocks and half-flooded reefs with every errand she ran, she knew their positions like the back of her hand.

She could have done this for the rest of her life, just flying and feeling the wind in her hair.

It was almost a disappointment to see the rugged shore of Ilithia loom up on the horizon – a brusque reminder that there would be an end to this blissful escape. Slowing down didn’t save her from arriving. Mere minutes later, she was circling above the dry landscape; every inch of it still looked as dead and uninhabited as she remembered from her last and only visit, several centuries ago.

The island stretched barely a mile in every direction. At its heart stood what had once been the grand seat of its inhabitants, now fallen prey to the passage of time – a sprawling country home that the legendary Castor Thenes was said to have built with his own hands.

The house formed a large square around a shaded courtyard, in which nothing but a few hardy succulents had survived until the present day. Pillar galleries stretched out along walls that had once been white and now blended perfectly with the dusty beige of the surrounding soil; cracked windows and shattered roofing tiles evoked images of spring rains and autumn storms. A few birds had made their nests in empty niches and basins. Apart from their agitated squaws and flutters, nothing moved when she landed by the front gate of the house and carefully folded her wings against her shoulders.

It seemed thoroughly unlikely anyone had lived here for even a week, let alone decades.

All the same, Silas must have spent time here at some point, and he might have left traces. A letter, perhaps, just in case she showed up later? A map? A handkerchief with phoenix embroidery, cleverly demonstrating his intention to hide himself on the isle of Phurys for the rest of his life?

She ignored her twinge of doubt as she nudged open the creaking wooden doors, glanced left and right through the sandy atrium, then slipped into the building. Doubt wasn’t useful to her right now. As hopeless as matters might seem, leaving without looking at all would just be a waste of time.

And as long as she was looking, at least she didn’t have to be at the court, wrangling human rights and foreign rulers.

She pushed open the next door, breathing in the smell of dust and stale neglect as she tiptoed through the empty corridors. Faded mosaics on the walls. Serene statues, covered in cobwebs. Hardly any trace of fae habitation at all. The family hadn’t moved out of here in a hurry, in fear of some attack or natural catastrophe. Their last lady must have cleaned up the place when she fell sick and realised she wouldn’t have an heir.

At first, she searched the house methodically, combing through even the smallest linen closet. In a handful of rooms, names had been scribbled on walls – fae youths probably, the result of bets and challenges at the court. One room showed traces of a party, the soot-stained floor used as a fireplace, the centuries-old bottles strewn around a clear sign there had been plenty of drink involved.

No Silas. No secret messages hidden beneath rugs or behind curtains. She couldn’t help but mutter a curse at herself as she left the large and disappointingly empty dining room behind – what had she expected, some cipher of the sort one only found in unlikely tales of adventure?

Thysandra, follow the northern sun and find me. The password is “blue tiger”.

Ridiculous. Silas would have been more sensible than that, and she should know better than to hope for impossible things.

By the time she’d worked through three quarters of the house, her search had grown sloppier and sloppier, the lack of results no longer worth the effort of meticulous precision. Another door, another empty bedroom. Another door, another bird-infested bathroom. Another—

She blinked, coming to a halt with the doorknob in her hand.

It was locked.

Or was it just stuck, perhaps? But even as she shouldered into it with all her weight, it didn’t yield an inch – a lock, then, and a decent one, too. Which was odd, wasn’t it? Nothing in the house had been locked so far. If the old thenessa had wanted to store her jewels somewhere, surely she would have chosen a safer place, and either way, what were the chances she would have left anything of value behind?

Thysandra took a step back and considered the layout of the house as she’d seen it so far. In all likelihood, the room behind that door was a reasonably large one – perhaps another bedroom with adjoining bathroom. In that case, it would probably have windows. She could step outside and try to catch a glimpse of—

The slap of a wingbeat sounded behind her.

A footstep echoed through the lifeless hall.

She reacted too slowly, turned too late. Before the alarm could spread from her senses to her muscles, a ruthless arm had already hooked around her throat and yanked her backwards; in the same moment, a knife swept into view, settling against the soft underside of her jaw before she could so much as cry out.

She stiffened from head to toe.

Ragged breath rasped against her ear.

‘One move,’ a voice she knew and didn’t know growled, arms tightening around her throat as the tip of the knife dug into her skin. ‘One wrong move, and you’re dead.’