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Illusions are temporary.
Changing memories requires willing access into the memories that will be changed.
New memories can only be created if access has been granted and there’s an enchanted object to contain the old, extracted ones.
No living fey has the gift of hypnosis.
I scoot back against the shelf, close my eyes, and press my hand over them. Hopefully, Alia has had more success with the servants. Though somehow, I doubt it.
Doubt.
My mind hooks on the word. It contorts within me, cold and hollow.
What if she isn’t even trying?
I tense and straighten, knocking my boot into a couple of the books.
She has to be trying. I can’t do this alone.
But I can’t find enough truth to counter the swelling dread. Can’t figure out what the truth even is. Worse still, something else nags at me, a whisper that it doesn’t matter what she’s doing. Like there’s something I should know but can’t pin down.
She’d acted genuine last night. Apart from abandoning me as she did — which evidently didn’t happen — she’s never lied to me. Even though she can lie, it’s not her. I know it’s not. Alia has always been innocent, humble, the epitome of good. What does she stand to gain by deceiving me, tricking her way back into my life? She doesn’t want to be a princess. Definitely doesn’t want to be queen. And she couldn’t be anyway. Not now that I’m the crown prince and have to be able to pass on magic to my children.
We can’t be together. So she has no reason to lead me on. No reason to pretend to care.
Even as I flip through more useless pages of yet another book, my thoughts distort, edging toward something far more insidious. Because while Alia doesn’t seek power, others do.
Who stood to gain from tearing us apart?
My father always seemed more exasperated by our relationship than outright antagonistic. Subtle sabotage isn’t his manner. There are at least a few dozen eligible brides among the nobles alone. Daughters of respected men and women. Any of them — or their parents — could be suspects. As could any number of others throughout our kingdom.
But back when I was the fourth prince? If someone sought political power through marriage, I was far from the logical option. No one could have known my brothers would die. No one would set their hope onmeas a path toward power. And even if any of my cousins or someone else had schemes for a coup, they wouldn’t have needed to remove Alia from my life. They’d just need to kill my brothers and me.
Maybe they hoped I’d die in battle.
Chills leech through my blood. The shelves and books around me spiral into a hazy cloud. My breath accelerates to match my driving pulse, and the book on my lap slides to the floor.
Though I haven’t been able to confirm it, Farrid could have only fallen to an assassin. Perhaps someone’s plan was for the rest of usto fall that way, but under the cover of typical warfare to disguise the culprit. Conceal any conspiracy, make it all but impossible to trace.
I hadn’t wanted to leave Alia. Perhaps someone manipulated us, tore her from me, drove me to war — that I might die there too.
Another thought strikes me.
Or maybe the better question is who stood to lose if we had stayed together.
Alia’s stepfamily is the unconscious answer. Even when Alia minimized their neglect and mistreatment of her, I never did. Perhaps they feared what I’d do to them when she officially became my wife. In normal circumstances, such a marriage would’ve served to elevate their station. They should have preferred to weasel themselves into our good graces instead of breaking us up. Especially in a way that could be considered treason.
I release a huff. There are no answers in this swirling speculation. Everyone’s motives are questionable. Except maybe Alia’s.
And I’m not ready to trust her.
I haul myself to my feet, put the books away as close to their original spots as I can recall, and head toward the library’s center. Reading may be boring, but world maps fascinate me. Especially the one on the large, leaf-shaped stand, with its magnifying magic for those like me who like to see every detail. I study the aged parchment, letting my gaze trace over my own nation before sliding toward those of our enemies.
Codrin, the forested empire to our north that stretches up half the continent’s western side. They’ve been hostile toward all fey as far back as I can remember. But they especially hate us and the winter fey of Sarma. If there’s a reason for it beyond our mere existence, I don’t know it. Maybe one of us did something to them years ago and it’s all been revenge since. Maybe we’re both just in the way of their conquest.
Deria lies to the east, past Sarma. A large, curving expanse of land that resembles a fishtail. The Derians have little in common with Codrin, apart from their humanity. With Sarma’s borders locked down and vicious death meeting anyone who gets too close to them, it’s been only Hazal’s armies, fighting along every shore to keep the humans of both nations at bay.
I magnify Hazal first, creep my way over the mountains and rivers and shorelines. I repeat the process with Codrin. Then Deria. Sarma’s real-life magic barrier won’t allow me to peer more closely inside its drawn version. But it’s almost impossible for Sarma to be involved in any of this, so that doesn’t matter.
