Myrdæth turned his sharp attention on Thia, only to raise a brow at her feathered companion. “This is not an ordinary bird.”
Mavrel fluffed his feathers, and Thia ran a soothing finger down his back. “No.”
Myrdæth watched the falcon for so long that Thia could have sworn they were communing also. She wanted to ask what they were saying, if anything, but the Luminaë’s concentration was so great, so intrigued, that she didn’t know what might happen if she broke it. Then he said, “Keep him close, Thia Sanbrooke.” His face softened a touch. “Now tell me, Storm Crow. Why have you come?”
Thia didn’t see the point of lying, when he would likely know what she was thinking. She ducked her chin under the weight of his inspection. “I am trying to get home. King Caradoc said if I brought him a witch’s head, he would help me.”
To her surprise, he waved her off. “I did not ask where you are going. I asked why you have come.”
Bemused, Thia turned to Oskaren for help. When the girl appeared just as perplexed, Thia turned to Lythia, but the Losrohiri woman’s face was impassive. She didn’t know how to answer. Why had she come to Eldris? It was an accident. Why had she come to Losrohiria? It was the fastest way to the witch’s lair. Why had she come to the City of Stars? Lythia hadn’t exactly given her a choice, had she?
Maybe it wasn’t why she’d come, or what he was asking, but she did have a question. “Can you send me home?” She assumed the answer would be no, or someone would have mentioned it while cautioning her against seeking the king. But she had to try.
“I cannot,” he responded. “We are of this realm, and as such our power is contained by it.”
Thia thumbed the edge of the table, nodding in acknowledgement.
The Luminaë inspected her for what felt like an eternity. “You will help to heal this land, Storm Crow. But you do not yet love it.”
“Considering all the ways it’s tried to kill me, that’s hardly a surprise.” She turned red to the tips of her ears, remembering to whom she spoke.
But Myrdæth smiled. “Your honesty is pure.” He sat back. “It is fortuitous you have arrived this night, our Festival of Impartation. We would welcome you to join us.” At this, he examined each member of the group.
Thia didn’t know if they could refuse. She didn’t know if they were prisoners or guests. But she felt the weight of the king’s deadline on her chest.
She felt Myrdæth’s attention return to her, but she stared fixedly on a sparkle in the center of the dewy table.
“Tell me,” Myrdæth said. “How do you plan to get to the Isle of Bones? You have no ship.”
Thia looked to Oskaren. When she’d said they were going to the sea, Thia hadn’t realized she’d meant across it.
“I thought we could build a raft.”
Myrdæth frowned. “With whose trees, I wonder.” Oskaren had the good sense to appear ashamed, but Myrdæth only rubbed a hand over his chin. “We will gift you a ship, and you may take the River of Dreams to the coast.” He raised a brow to Thia. “I trust that should satisfy your fear of running out of time.”
She blushed.
Oskaren inclined her head. “We thank you for your magnanimous generosity.”
“Why me?” Thia blurted. “I’m just a girl. I’m not even from here. You—you have an entire city. The king is just one man.” The words were an avalanche she was powerless to stop. “Why don’t you do something?”
Silence met her words. When she dared raise her head, Thran and Dess looked petrified, and even Oskaren seemed a bit shocked. Mavrel flitted his wings uneasily, his feathers brushing Thia’s neck.
When Myrdæth finally spoke, his voice was low and cold. “We were here long before the coming of humans,” he said. “And we shall be here long after. We know truths you cannot fathom; we have watched the threads of time longer than you have lived. Do not sit in judgement, Storm Crow, of what you know so little. You presume yourself the One, when you are but one of many. We will not act until the Descendant of Lore is found, for only she can set things right.”
Thia ducked her head, properly chastened. “I’m sorry.” But one word stuck in her mind.She.
“Don’t be,” he responded. “I know you speak from fear.” She might have been embarrassed to have that particular truth announced to the table, but he wasn’t wrong. “Take heart, Thia Sanbrooke,” he continued. “No matter your intentions, your journey will not end on the Isle of Bones. The Song of the Ghost Queen has only just begun.”
A shiver pebbled Thia’s skin. She didn’t know if that was a comfort.
Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded, and Myrdæth stood before she could respond. “It is time.”
“For what?” Thia asked.
Lythia’s smile was genuine. “We dance.”
THIRTY-SIX
