Page 52

Three days pass, and Gwyn still sleeps.

I spend each day researching tome after tome on witch lore. There’s a hunger deep inside me, desperate to know what happens to witches who push themselves past their limit. Each book details different experiences of burnout, but most of them come to the same conclusion—witches enter a long sleep until they recharge, and then they wake and are perfectly fine.

There’s only one written account that I’ve found where the witch never woke again.

Gwyn’s odds of recovery are heavily in her favor.

So why is there a knot of worry burgeoning deeper in the pit of my stomach as each day comes and goes and still she sleeps?

“Your Majesty?” Lettie hovers at the foot of Gwyn’s bed, petting Achlys. “Your attendant just let Lord Devlin into your study.” She gestures to the witch. “I’ll sit with her, if you’d like to see to him?”

“Thank you, Lettie.” I’m stiff as I rise from the chair I’ve spent countless hours in. “Please send for me the moment she wakes.”

“Of course.”

I push all thoughts of Gwyn aside on the walk to the study.

It’s time to see how much Devlin knows about what I suspect my mother has done to me, and, subsequently, the Fae Isles.

“Lord Devlin,” I say, entering the room and taking a seat opposite him behind my desk. “Thank you for your prompt arrival.”

“I’d be a fool to ignore a summons from my king, wouldn’t I?”

“No,” I drawl, easily falling into this game we play. “You’d be dead.”

He chuckles briefly, though his brow furrows as he gives me a once-over. I tried to weave another glamour to mask my exhaustion, but I couldn’t summon enough magic. I’m still as his eyes trace over the stubble shadowing my jaw, the wrinkles in my clothes from another night in the chair beside Gwyn’s bed. He’s likely drawing his own conclusions about the ink staining my hands, not knowing it’s from letters written in desperation to a majority of the Seven, letters written with the hope of saving the Fae Isles.

“What is this about, Your Majesty?” His tone is cautious. Curious, even.

“You held my mother’s ear before she died,” I begin, monitoring him for even the slightest change in demeanor. His face is carefully devoid of all emotion, shoulders loose without a hint of tension. “How did she seem in her final moments with you?”

“W-why are you asking this now?”

“Answer my question.”

“Riven—”

“I am your king!” I slam my hands down on my desk, rattling a jar of quills. “Answer me, Devlin.”

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” he corrects himself, bowing his head reverently. He speaks to his lap where he wrings his hands. “In her final moments, she was… concerned. For you.”

“Look upon me as you speak so I can be certain of no lies.”

He does as instructed, meeting my gaze. Holding it.

“Why was she concerned for me?” I ask.

His mouth twists to the side. “Your grandfather established an unspoken rule across the kingdom after he cursed Rosemarie for her betrayal. The Fae Isles became a kingdom for fae and fae only. Though your father dallied with otherworlders, the council never approved of his actions. Most of them, like Edric, wanted to keep our kind isolated. Your mother was also of that mindset. After Godrick’s betrayal, she found your… reputation of copulating with otherworld females to be a cause for concern…” He trails off, adding, “Especially considering the rumors.”

“Rumors about what?”

“Treason.”

A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck. No king—creature or mortal—wants to hear that fucking word uttered in their presence.

“Treason?” I swallow. “Against me?”

“A few members of the council, who clung to the notion of a ‘pure’ Thaelon bloodline, spread rumors that your dalliances with otherworlders made you unfit to be king. They feared such behavior would drive the Sovereign Sisters and their blessings away again, which they believed had happened under Rosemarie’s rule. I believe these rumors, coupled with her broken heart, frightened your mother into…”