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I managed to keep my voice even—barely.
“Humans murdered my brother. You are lucky I do not squish every single one of you under my boot as recompense.”
Her brow knitted together, the gray-white hairs interspersed with a few darker ones that hinted at the color her hair must have been decades before.
I recognized the expression on her face.
Pity.
And I hated it.
But if she saw the hate shining in my eyes, it didn’t cause to her break my gaze. “We heard of the death of the golden king, even here. I am sorry for your loss, Queen Veyka.”
What she did see…
“You know who we are. Do you know why we are here?” Arran said from the doorway. He hadn’t deigned to sit. Too busy monitoring for threats.
Sylva shifted her eyes in his direction. “A messenger was sent through the rift several months ago. I would assume that you have come to investigate the news he brought—the plea for help.”
Silence.
The human messenger.
He’d come from Eldermist.
The human messenger I’d tortured—brutally. I waited for regret, but it didn’t come. Even if this woman had known him—of course, she had, she was a town elder—he’d come to Annwyn without invitation. In violation of the treaty between our realms. Only fae were allowed to cross between, not the other way around.
I didn’t question the fairness of it. I didn’t care. It was a law made for the human’s safety. When they came to Annwyn, they were little more than prey. Most of our kind considered them equivalent to animals. The smuggling rings—another reason for the law. So that our own kind could be punished if they brought humans into Annwyn.
But none of that mattered.
The man was dead.
And none of it had anything to do with why we were in the human realm.
We offered no response. Sylva poured the tea.
“I see I am mistaken.” Her fingers touched mine as she passed me the first steaming cup.
I ignored the way they lingered in silent question.
A pull in my chest—a rumble. Then Arran’s voice.
“Your messenger was received at the goldstone palace. However, he took ill. He did not survive.”
“I see.” Even as she tilted her head, processing Arran’s words, the woman’s eyes remained on me. “What do you mean by ill?”
A leading question.
We were going to be thrown out of the town without a single shred of information. It
was unfortunate, but we’d manage. Quite honestly, it was better than enduring the old woman’s insufferable questioning.
My eyes swept over the room quickly, taking stock. Osheen stood beside the sofa where Cyara perched, Maisri on her knees eating a scone off the tea tray, totally unbothered. He’d see to them. Lyrena sat between me and the old woman, her fingers drumming on her knee. A half thought, and they’d be wreathed in flames.
We were in no danger, even if the woman decided that she did mean us ill.
But there was no malice in her voice as she spoke—only quiet resignation. “Did you kill him?”
