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She narrows her eyes at me, her expression unreadable. “Why did you drink so much on a work night? Something troubling your mind?”
I sigh, the events of the previous night rushing back. “We found the body of someone I knew last night. I needed to drown the memories.”
“The news said an addict was attacked in an abandoned garage. No mention of you, though.” She cocks her head to the side. “What happened?”
As I recount the encounter, her demeanor shifts, the small, pointed tips of her ears twitching. “Black dogs are portents of doom.”
“Pen thinks it’s an evil witch taking revenge.” My pulse quickens. “You don’t agree?”
She shakes her head, the silver tattoos on her bald head glinting in the sunlight. “They’re omens. Harbingers that bring disaster and death.”
“Why not dark magic?” Pen sounded so sure yesterday that the other kind were creatures of myth.
“It may be dark magic,” Syl’vyn concedes, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “We should increase your practice. You’re not growing at the rate necessary for your survival.”
I frown at the topic shift. “Aren’t I improving quickly?”
“You need to be faster.” She glances toward the bright sun. “Time is short.”
“What does that mean?” At her silence, frustration pounds in my temples. “Why won’t you give me a straight answer?”
Her eyes meet mine, an unreadable intensity in her silver gaze. “I am a records keeper. My role is to not create ripples in the threads.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Training me is creating ripples.”
“It is also my duty to step in when there is a risk to the threads.” She stares at me, her eyes unblinking. “Were you mortal, I would have killed you to prevent the disruption.”
I bristle at her words. “Even though I’m a prince?”
She lifts a brow. “A prince of what? There are no sithes here.”
Her response takes me aback. The first time we met, she was passionate about preserving the purity of our race, small as it is on the human plane.
Curiosity fills me for the world I can’t remember. “How are sithes made?”
“You are stalling, but I will allow it.” Syl’vyn sighs and paces in front of me. “Sithes are formed when a powerful fae blooms. Their burgeoning power summons others of kindred magic to their sides. When their abilities resonate with one of the courts, a new sithe is formed.”
I struggle to follow along. “So, sithes are like states within a country?”
She dips her head. “In a crude comparison, yes.”
The explanation only deepens the throbbing pain in my head. “So, when a new sithe forms, do they have to fight for the land or is the court divided to make room for them?”
“No, nothing so barbaric. We are not humans.” She clasps her hands behind her back. “Once a powerful fae blooms, Underhill gifts them a sithe. There are no battles for territories.”
My mind struggles to wrap around that concept. “What’s Underhill?”
“The source of fae power.” Her expression grows wistful. “However, no new sithes have been born since Underhill was locked away.”
My brow furrows. “Locked away? Why would that happen?”
“The wild magic grew out of control.” Syl’vyn squints up at the sun. “It began to tear apart our world. To contain the chaos, the four courts sealed Underhill. It stopped the damage to our world, but no new sithes were born. At least, that is how it was when the fae closed the veil. Perhaps things have changed in my absence.”
Or maybe the rest of the fae are dead.
After witches pushed the ley lines out of the human plane, magic faded, while too much magic almost destroyed the demon plane. Messing with the forces of creation hasn’t worked out well in any race’s history.
Confused, I frown at her. “How do we have power with Underhill locked and the veil closed?”
