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That was because I was learning to use other emotions to work my spells. True, pleasure sparks still worked the best, but I could use negative emotions like fear and anger too—if a bit less effectively. At any rate, I had no fear and I was certain I could make the Pool of Seeing bend to my will.
So I waited until Liath was off inspecting his troops—the Unseelie Army was stationed to one side of the Palace, since they often went to fight. Though at the moment, we were in a cease fire, because of the Joining between Liath and myself.
As soon as he was gone, I put on my warmest cloak and boots and headed into the woods. First, though, I put a spell of lightness on my feet, which allowed me to glide over the surface of the snow without sinking down into the underbrush and the tangled vines. Before I knew it, I was standing beside the Pool of Seeing.
As before, it looked like a black void in the forest floor—perfectly round and utterly black. I shivered as I looked into it, but I knew what I had come to do and I was determined to do it. The Pool, however, would not take my sparks. It was thirsty for blood and nothing else.
I took the small ceremonial dagger, which Liath had given me as a present, from the sheath at my waist. It was only as long as my middle finger and had moonstones on the hilt, just as his much larger one did. The blade, though tiny, was extremely sharp. I winced as I drew it across my palm and held my fist over the surface of the Pool.
I let several drops of blood fall into the black waters and waited until they began reflecting the sky and branches above before I voiced my question.
“Show me who killed my brother,” I said. I had decided to at least try this query first—maybe the Pool would show me what I wanted, even though it had refused to show Liath.
But again, I only got an image of a figure wearing armor with his face obscured. I was disappointed, but it was no more than I had expected. However, I had another question that I thought might work.
“All right,” I said, feeding the Pool of Seeing a few more drops of my blood. “Show me someone who knows who killed Quillian. Someone I can talk to,” I added, hoping to narrow things down a bit.
I don’t know who I expected to see but the image that surfaced after the Pool had cleared wasn’t what I anticipated at all.
It was Liath who stared back at me—my own husband, with his familiar bronze eyes and scarred face.
My hand shook and I drew it back from the Pool as though I had been burned.
“No…” I whispered. “No, that can’t be right.”
The Pool’s surface rippled and showed him again—this time on the battlefield. I saw his eyes blazing, his sword upraised as he rushed forward towards someone. His mouth was open in an angry shout but who he was shouting at, I couldn’t see.
Because whoever it was, they were standing right behind Quillian. And the point of their sword was shoved through his back and protruding from his chest.
I watched in horror as my big brother cried in soundless agony and slumped forward, impaled from behind. But still I couldn’t see the face of his assassin—it was obscured.
Liath knew who it was, though—and he had known it all along, I realized. He had been there that day on the battlefield when Quill was killed. He knew and he had been pretending all this time that he had no idea.
My husband had lied to me and I was determined to find out why.
25
I marched home—well, more like flitted home since the lightness spell was still on my feet, allowing me to skim swiftly over the snow. I was so angry I was ready to spit—just as I had that very first night when Liath had caught me trying to cut his throat. How could he lie to me like this? If he knew who my brother’s killer was, why was he keeping it from me?
I went straight to our bed chamber and found him there—dressed in his armor—a fact, which I did not, at first, register.
“Little bird.” He turned to face me, his face set in grim lines.
“I know!” I snapped, glaring up at him.
He frowned.
“You know what?”
“I know that you know!” I shouted at him. “You know who killed Quill and you’ve been keeping it from me all this time!”
His reaction was not what I expected. Instead of returning my anger with anger of his own, he ran a hand through his hair and sank down on one of the sofas.
“Gods,” he growled hoarsely. “Not now, little bird.”
