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“I do.”
“And the lake? Do you think she lived a thousand sorrows, just to tear out Helara’s heart?”
“I don’t know. I like to think she did.”
“Why?”
“Because in stories, everything is simple, even when it’s not. Surviving the lake was no easy feat, but Ferrian knew that if she did, Helara would pay for everything she made Ferrian suffer. Life isn’t simple that way.” His voice hardened. “People do terrible things and they never pay for them. Those who try to make them are often unsuccessful. At least if I believe in the lake, I know that someone found justice.”
“That is…a nice way to think of it.”
“It is not, I take it, how you think of it?”
“Not in such dulcet tones of justice and perseverance.” Clare grinned at him. “I thought Ferrian just wanted to tear the bitch’s heart out. I respected that about her.”
Numair’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You know, I had a friend once who said nearly the exact same thing.”
“And here I thought I was your only friend.”
The mirth in his eyes dimmed, and he started walking again. “You are, if you decide to stick it out. Even if she hadn’t decided a long time ago that my friendship was more trouble than it was worth, she’s been missing for six months.”
Clare’s intuition prickled. “And you have no idea what happened to her?”
He shook his head. “Though if I had to guess, I’d start with her brother. I keep hoping I’ll find her before he does.”
“You’re still looking?”
“Why not? What else am I to do with so much time and money?”
They were quiet for a few steps before she asked, careful to keep her voice neutral, only vaguely interested, “Who was she?”
“Lady Megadari, the Duchess of Wake.”
Clare sorted through the names she’d once memorized of Veralna’s aristocracy. It took her a moment to arrive at the answer she expected, because in her list of memorized facts, Nera Megadari was the Duchess of Wake. But Nera Megadari’s daughter was Alyssandra Megadari.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, exiting through a stone door that fit so seamlessly into its notch when closed, and with no visible handle on the outside, that Clare never would have known it was a door from looking at it.
She stopped and ran her hands along the seams, looking for a mechanism to open it by, but there was nothing readily apparent.
“Don’t bother,” Numair said, “they’re?—”
And then the answer came to her, little flares of power that itched for her touch and she followed them with her finger, drawing from here to there, until they sighed against her skin, and the door popped out and slid to the side.
“Oh, I like that.” She laughed at the baffled expression on his face. “But you may want to change the locks.”
He tapped the door to close it again. “If I did, would it keep you out?”
“No. But your words would.” It felt important for him to know that.
He shook his head. “Stop by whenever you like.”
They lapsed into an easy silence as he led her around a bend in the path to the west side of the house, where the lush vines and exotic plants gave way reluctantly to stables and horse pastures. He stopped at a paddock in which two horses grazed. The first, a beautiful chocolate brown with a lighter, golden mane and tail, perked his ears at Numair’s whistle and ambled over. After a polite, cursory sniff of Numair’s hand the horse stuck his head over the fence, shoved his forehead against Numair’s chest and rubbed vigorously, as if the prince was a convenient, well-known rubbing post.
Numair’s only response was to brace himself for this enthusiastic affection and grin like a young boy until the horse finished. He was an undeniably beautiful stallion, all glossy chocolate and strong muscles, but Clare’s attention had been caught by the mare in the enclosure. She was built slimmer and a sight taller than the stallion, her features finer, and Clare guessed her at almost seventeen hands to the stallion’s probable sixteen. She stood beneath the arching branches of a wide tree, her coat a glorious dappled gray with a solid dark gray mane and tail.
Beautiful as the mare was, it was the cool intelligence in her eyes, the proud arch of her neck, that drew Clare in. Foreign memories pushed at the edges of her mind, the Song dredging up yet another life Clare hadn’t lived, to tell her that this horse was one in a thousand. She was proud and fearless, and Clare could see her hooves flying over sand in a desert Clare was certain no longer existed.
But beneath the beauty and the pride, there was a profound sadness—as if the mare was somehow trapped in her own body. As if there was something about her that was missing and she couldn’t understand what it was, so she kicked and fought and rebelled.
