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“Oh?” I say, even as I continue to work. “And you thought I beat your scores in nearly every class because I got lucky, did you?”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re never going to stop finding new ways to barb me, are you?”

“Never.”

The letters click into place. Lonan looks down at the scytale with me. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Because the letters of the scytale spell out one word.

lonan

The lid of the scytale pops open, and inside is a long, lethal silver stake.

Chapter Forty-Three

Idon’t know what to do or say. I am frozen, and Lonan volunteers nothing. I grab hold of rage like it’s a lifeline, whirling on him.

“What is this?” I ask, gesturing with the scytale.

His face betrays nothing. He watches me steadily. The silence only adds fuel to my fury.

“We’ve been looking for answers all night, Lonan. We sacrificed . . .” People. But I can’t say the word. I can’t think of Poppy and Orla in the cemetery. Saints, I cannot think of Hugo. “Why does this thing have your name on it?”

I have no doubt who left it here—scytales were a secret pastime between my father and me. He wanted me to find it, wanted me to have this stake. That much is clear. We came up to the observatory on Lonan’s hunch, but now I’m holding something my father left for me before his death with Lonan’s name on it.

Lonan keeps his gaze on the scytale in my hands. “I don’t know.”

I step toward him, into his space, tilting my head up to glare at him. And, Saints help me, I take the newly revealed stake and brandish it at his throat. “You’re not telling me something. Why did my father know your name? Why are you still hiding things?” The last truth hurts more than I want to admit.

Secrets and lies. Revelations and truths better left in the dark. The obfuscation trial is in some ways worse than the chaos trial.

He swallows. “I don’t want to hide things from you, Vesper. But . . .” He sighs, eyes steered upward to the ceiling. “I have obligations. To my country. Secrets that only a few know.” It’s a full heartbeat before I realize he’s not referring to Gault. His real country. The Kingdom of Darkness—Imaelhain. “There are things I thought you should’ve been told a long time ago. Your father . . . he was more than just a soldier.”

I press the silver stake to his throat. “Use more words.”

“You think threatening me will help?”

“You said you like strong-willed girls.”

He huffs a laugh and swallows. “All right, Fontaine. Your father was a collector of sorts. Of stories. Of information. He made himself useful both to Gault . . . and to Imaelhain.” I rear back.

“Both?”

“I knew him. Barely—I was small. But I knew him. He cared about magic, Fontaine. About the Dark and the Light. So yes, he worked with both. He would visit your godfather in Imaelhain, pass along information. His loyalties were with whoever was willing to heal the rift in magic.”

I close my eyes, unable to wrap my mind around this. My father, who fought and died for Gault . . . or so I’d been told. His friendship with my godfather had never made much sense. I knew they’d befriended each other in their youth, both serving Gault’s armies. But my godfather is a lord, an Elder of Gault, a friend of the king. I’d always figured that seeing battle creates strange ties between people who wouldn’t otherwise relate. But now . . . Saints, was their entire friendship due to this treason?

I open my eyes, meeting Lonan’s, pinning him to the spot. “How did my father die?”

He works his jaw, unwavering. So I grab his tie, pulling his face down toward mine. “Lonan, how did he die?”

Just a flash of apprehension, of challenge, of hunger, flares in his eyes before steel falls back over them. “Your father was on both sides of the war,” he says. “He was an officer in Gault’s armies, yes. But he also fed information to his best friend.”

My father’s best friend. My godfather. Van Asten. King of Imaelhain.

I hold Lonan’s tie, my nose in danger of brushing his, and I hold his gaze as I think. Is that why Van Asten and my father were so close? My father told me they met in the war, but he never said how. I’d always assumed they were brothers-in-arms, rising through the ranks together. I’ve known enough soldiers in my lifetime to understand what sort of bonds those battles create.

But my godfather is the enemy of Gault. And my father . . . Saints, he’s a traitor.

“He learned who I was, Vesper,” Lonan whispers. “The son of Gault’s queen. I was a threat to Gault the moment I was born. Lines of succession are precarious things. Van Asten had to keep my identity hidden.”