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The real question is what we’re going to do about it.
And that question makes me feel cold. Because Rensivar has all of Valgros at his disposal. All this time we thought he was dead, and he’d apparently been building an empire in Valgros under the crown of that idiot King Donovan by posing as his human advisor.
It explains everything. How Valgros has been expanding even if their king is an imbecile. Why they slaughtered the elves, the one group that would have been able to identify Rensivar’s true nature even in his human form. And why Rayne found King Donovan’s signet ring in Rensivar’s chambers.
Rayne. Her face rises in my memory yet again, despite my frantic attempts to suppress it. Her hair wild, her features streaked with rainwater, her eyes wide and frantic. Saying she couldn’t come with me. Saying she had to tell the king.
My response echoes in my mind like hammer blows.Because you love him, I’d said. I stop in the hallway outside my mother’s room, tilt my head toward the ceiling, and blink at the cobwebs festooning my rafters. Rayne had said… nothing at all. She’d stood there, in the rain, with her lips parted as I’d held my mother’s human body against my chest and then taken flight. For all I knew, Rayne was still standing there, watching the empty sky above that lonely, churning ocean.
I shiver. Whatever is coming next, whatever will happen when my mother sinks her claws into the Council and breaks the news of Rensivar’s reappearance, it won’t be good for the of Valgros. Mothers, it won’t be good for Rayne. She’s still loyal to her idiot king, sure, but there has to be some way to warn her. I need to get a message to Valgros, in a way that can’t be traced back to me or to Cairncliff—
“Doshir?”
I jump as Ailen’s voice yanks me out of my reverie. The little healer is standing in the hallway with her arms crossed over her chest, and for a heartbeat I wonder how long she’s been standing there watching me stare at the ceiling and try not to cry.
“How is she?” Ailen asks, in a softer tone.
“Sleeping,” I answer. “But she seems stronger. She was able to have a bit of a conversation, at least.”
Ailen raises an eyebrow, and I figure she knows that about ninety percent of our conversation was an argument. She crosses the hall, takes the tray from my hands, and fixes me with a heavy frown.
“How are you?” she asks.
I raise my arm, demonstrating the full range of motion she’d had me practice yesterday after she’d taken my stitches out, and I try to smile. Ailen doesn’t look convinced.
“And when will you be taking your mother to find some proper help?” she asks.
“Soon,” I answer, and my voice sounds like a sigh.
I walk past Ailen, push open the kitchen door, and slip into the gardens. The night air is soft and cool against my skin. I breathe deeply, tasting the subtle tang of sea salt that flavors everything in Cairncliff, especially during our steamy summer. Something inside my chest pulses with a low, dull ache. You can’t smell the sea inside the Iron Mountains. I hadn’t grown up with this, the rhythm of the tides, the taste of salt on my lips. Now I don’t know how I’d managed to live without it.
I pull my cloak over my head and turn away from the main gates. The extra guards I’d hired are there, waiting in the road, doing whatever it is guards do to stave off boredom during their shifts. If I went out that way, they’d nod and give me grim smiles and ask if there’s anything at all they can do for me. They might even call me sir.
I frown, then pull my cloak tighter. I’m not going out that way. Even though I’ve been avoiding this entire part of my garden, as if walking these paths will cause my memories to burn even brighter, I don’t want to face the guards. I don’t want anyone to know I’m gone.
I pause at the hillside, turning back to face the lone bright light shining through my kitchen window. It’s the only indication of life inside the house that’s started to feel almost too big, and too empty, even though Ailen is still staying there, along with Olin and my mother. Ailen might even still be awake, for all I know, working on yet another concoction to keep my mother’s spirit and body stitched together.
With a shiver, I turn my back on the house I’ve spent most of my adult life building and furnishing. And then I try to swallow the memories that advance in battalions as I follow the winding gravel path through my garden. Rayne’s hair in the moonlight. The little gasp she’d made when we reached the top of the hill, and what that gasp had done to me, and just how delicious it had been to slip into another life, to pretend I was the kind of person who was capable of stealing into a garden to seduce a beautiful woman. To pretend I was bold.
I sigh, then raise my hand to the splintered wood of the secret door to my estate. A lifetime ago, I’d crept through here with Rayne, both of us pretending to be something we weren’t.
And just look how well that turned out, I tell myself as the back of my throat turns bitter. I swallow hard as I pull a little key from inside my cloak’s hidden pocket. It turns the lock, and the gate swings open with a creak and a moan. I enter the darkness of the tiny alleyway, pull the door closed behind me, and then stand in the shadows until I’m certain the street before me is empty.
Once I’m satisfied, I pick my way slowly down the street, keeping well away from the warm glow of the street lamps. When I pass the elegant public park that marks the unofficial end of Noble’s Hill, another set of footsteps joins mine, keeping a pace behind. I wander slowly through the empty marketplace, watching the moonlight dance off the ocean in the distance. The footsteps catch up to me just as I reach the end of the market’s stalls, where the steep, narrow street to the wharves gapes open before me.
“May the Mothers smile upon you,” a voice behind me says in Draconic.
The words are low and deep, almost a growl. Whether that means the elven ambassador to the Iron Mountains disapproves of my request to meet in this fashion or not, I couldn’t say. I dip my head and flash my open palms toward the moonlight, the elven way of showing that I am unarmed.
“Elyon,” I reply as we turn down the narrow street to the wharves. “May the wind lift your wings. And thank you for meeting me,” I add, still speaking in Draconic.
Most dragons avoid our overly complicated and inelegant language whenever possible, but I don’t want to risk being overheard. Besides, Elyon actually seems to actually enjoy the rough edges, hard consonants, and impossible conjugations of Draconic.
“Of course,” Elyon purrs.
I glance to the side as the shadows swallow us and see Elyon incline his chin briefly in my direction. He seems rather smug; perhaps meeting dragons in darkened streets is typical for elves in his position. Or perhaps he’s just waiting to see what I have to say.
“What news do you have?” I ask in a whisper as we walk together toward the wharves. The scent of fresh tar and old fish hangs heavy over this part of Cairncliff.
