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  As suddenly as it had come, the sense of creatures there faded, leaving the Angarthim priests standing still and deadly looking.

  “We are not without power,” Justinius said. “When the time comes, we will bring that power to your aid.”

  He moved to stand beside the king without being asked, while the others formed a line in the first rank of the nobles. No one tried to argue.

  Genevieve thought that might be it for the audience, but she saw King Carris collecting himself with an effort.

  “What else?” he demanded. “What other news is there? What news is there of my enemies?”

  A messenger came forward, visibly shaking. “We have news of Royce, my king,” he said. “He travels the villages, recruiting the common folk to his cause. They are calling him an ancient king returned.”

  “Then they are fools,” Lord Carris said. “And what is Royce trying to raise in the villages? An army of farmers?”

  The nobles laughed, but not all of them. Some of them obviously understood that numbers would count, and Genevieve, at least, knew how hard people would fight to protect their homes.

  “Still, knowing will be useful,” King Carris said. “It will tell me which villages are filled with traitors, which must be destroyed and which can be rewarded for their loyalty.” He looked around. “Have no doubt, this is a fight, not just against a usurper, but for our whole way of life. Years ago, we fought to overthrow Philip, and all his ways. We fought against a world where a man could claim kingship because of some dictate of magic, rather than because of the suitability learned from birth by a true noble. Will any of you go back to that? Will you?”

  As the nobles roared their response, Genevieve began to see how King Carris had managed to become a king. He had the charisma to move people, and the ruthlessness to kill those who stood against him. It was a dangerous combination.

  “Now, go to your tasks,” King Carris said. “And—”

  “My king,” Altfor said. “There is one more thing.”

  “What thing, Duke Altfor?” the king asked. Genevieve saw her husband preen at the use of his title. She wondered if he noticed the king’s impatience.

  “A gift has come for you, my king,” Altfor said. “From Lord Aversham. I met him at the gate.”

  “What gift?”

  Altfor gestured to the door. As it opened, Genevieve’s heart leapt into her mouth. This wasn’t some collection of priests, wasn’t the deathly fear that had come with the Angarthim. This was worse.

  Moira was there, along with a noble and a collection of knights. They pushed a figure in front of them, bound and bruised by violence, and Genevieve recognized Garet instantly. He stumbled, and one of the knights kicked him, sending him sprawling forward. The man at the lead of the procession offered a courtly bow.

  “Your majesty.”

  “Lord Aversham, what have you brought me?”

  “I have brought to you what Lady Moira has brought to me,” Lord Aversham said. Genevieve’s fingers twitched as he urged Moira forward. A part of her wanted to rush out and strangle her one-time friend for all that she’d done. This… this was worse than the rest of it put together.

  “This is Royce’s brother,” Altfor said. “Or at least one of the boys he was raised with. He was seeking to subvert lords to Royce’s cause. Only Moira’s quick thinking brought him to Lord Aversham, who is loyal.”

  “As you are loyal, Altfor,” King Carris said. “You have my thanks. And you, Lady Moira. Now, guards… take this boy and put him in chains. I want to know everything he knows.”

  “I’ll tell you nothing,” Garet said.

  “Oh, you will,” King Carris promised. “Once the hot irons are applied to flesh, people talk quickly enough.”

  The guards stepped in, grabbing Garet. They dragged him away, even though he struggled, and Genevieve’s heart broke as she had to watch it. It was even worse watching the way Altfor moved over to Moira, putting an arm around her out in the open as if Genevieve weren’t there. Altfor looked Genevieve’s way, and he smiled cruelly, clearly knowing exactly what effect his actions would be having on her.

  Genevieve fought not to show any reaction, in spite of the way her blood boiled. She headed from the hall, but only at the speed of the other nobles doing the same, making sure she didn’t run, didn’t fight to get out into the fresh air beyond the castle.

  When she got there, though, she sucked down gasping breaths, trying not to scream out with everything that had just happened. The horrors the priests had inflicted had been bad enough, but seeing Garet there, like that, had been far worse.

  Genevieve knew what she was there for now, why she’d stayed in the court of the king when she could have run to be with her sister in Fallsport. She’d hoped that there would be something she could do here that would change it, and now she saw that there was something that went far beyond the information she could overhear.

  She could save Garet; she had to. If she could get to him, then she could try to find a way to get him clear of the keep. If she could save Royce’s brother, then maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to make up for everything else that had happened.

  And if she could find a way to kill Moira while she was doing it, then that would only serve to make it perfect.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “There’s nothing out here, Royce,” Mark insisted, but Royce shook his head. He couldn’t explain all that he’d seen without risking changing it, but he knew that this was the right direction. He put his hand on the bag containing the mirror, feeling the reassurance of its presence.

  “We’re going the right way,” Royce assured him.

  “Then tell us why,” Mark asked.

  Royce hesitated. “I… can’t. Please, you have to trust me.” He looked around at Matilde and Neave. “I know it’s hard, but I know what I’m doing.”

  “It would be easier if there were any land in sight,” Matilde said, gesturing to the open expanse of the sea around them. “I don’t want to drift out here until we all starve, Royce.”

  Gwylim barked something that might have been agreement.

  “We can always eat you if we run out of food,” Neave said. It took Royce a moment to realize that it was her idea of a joke. She looked over to Royce. “If you say that this is the way we need to go… well, you’ve been right before.”

  Royce was grateful for that, although he was all too aware that the Picti girl could have pointed out the times when he’d been wrong just as easily. Royce had already led them on one false trail, finding the mirror but not his father. What if this was the same? What if the mirror hadn’t shown him the truth?

  That feeling gnawed at him while they continued to sail, because Royce knew how many people had been led astray by seeing too much, viewing possibilities as certainties. Barihash had destroyed a whole city because of it. Royce could just as easily lead his friends to their deaths.

  That possibility made him want to turn the boat around. He wanted the others to be safe, wanted to do the right thing for them as well as for the kingdom, yet the things he’d seen kept him pressing forward. They weren’t the wide field of possibilities and nuances that he’d seen in the mirror, but he could still hold to the central strand of it, still remember the steps that he had to take. He looked out through Ember’s eyes, the hawk circling above the boat, and in the distance, he thought he could make out the green speck of an island.

  “There,” he said. “There’s an island there!”

  The others seemed to take heart from that news, Mark correcting the boat’s course just a touch, Matilde and Neave waiting eagerly as the wind pushed their vessel on. Gwylim moved to the prow of the boat, the wolf-like creature standing there like a figurehead. Soon, it was possible to see the island in the distance even without Ember’s vision.

  It was small compared to the Seven Isles they’d left behind, but lush with grass and trees, so that it looked like a green jewel sticking out from the sea. It was fairly flat, the interior of the island d
isappearing in among the trees so that it was impossible to see much more from the boat. As they got closer, Royce could make out beaches of golden sand, brushing up against the woods like the white around a green eye.

  “Let’s just hope there aren’t any magic women or lizard people on this one,” Matilde said.

  Neave shrugged. “As I recall, you quite liked Lethe.”

  “This isn’t the time for a fight,” Royce said. “But you’re right, there could be dangers.”

  He sent Ember up over the beach, using the hawk to scout ahead, wanting to be sure he wasn’t leading his friends into yet another place of danger. He could have looked in the mirror, but that was a far more dangerous option; he needed to see what was, not what might be. Through her eyes, he saw that the trees formed a kind of outer ring around the interior of the island, while there was a broad inner circle of open ground there, covered in grass.

  On it, he saw a whole herd of white deer grazing, and it seemed that one stag looked up as Ember passed, antlers majestic as it tracked the flight of the passing bird. Now, Royce knew without a shadow of doubt that he was in the place that the mirror had promised. It also meant that he knew what he had to do next.

  “We’re in the right place,” he said. “I need to go ashore alone.”

  “Alone?” Mark said, the incredulity in his voice obvious. “After we’ve come all this way with you, you want to go alone?”

  “I have to,” Royce said. “I…” Again, he felt the tension of the futures threatening to shift. If he explained, he didn’t know how, but it would change everything that he had seen. “I can’t explain the reasons, but I have to go onto this island without any other people.”

  “Do you know how that sounds?” Matilde said.

  “It sounds like nonsense, I know,” Royce agreed.

  “No, Royce,” she replied. “It sounds as if you don’t trust us.”

  “I would trust you with my life,” Royce said, “and when I can, I will explain, but I can’t right now.”

  “And so you have to go onto an island alone, with only your obsidian sword to protect you?” Neave asked. It was clear that she disapproved as much as the others.

  “I think… I think I can take Gwylim and Ember with me,” Royce said. The shape of the potential future didn’t seem to be affected by the prospect of them being there. “Please, you’ve come this far trusting me. Just a little more.”

  “Okay,” Mark said, with a sigh, “but I don’t like it.”

  They brought the boat as close to the shore as they could without touching it, then dropped a small anchor to hold it in place. Royce checked that he had his sword and everything else he needed, while Gwylim moved to his side, the bhargir’s presence a sense of power and safety that Royce was grateful for. Ember flew overhead, circling the island and looking for danger. Royce set the mirror in its velvet bag at his side.

  “I will be back as soon as I can,” Royce promised.

  Royce stepped off the boat, into the water. It was shallow here, only up to his waist, but even so he trod carefully as he made his way in toward the land. There was still the risk of dangerous creatures being in the water, or hidden drops, or sharp coral. Royce heard the splash as Gwylim dove into the water, the bhargir paddling forward until he could walk beside Royce easily.

  They made their way up onto the beach, the waves lapping gently at the shore. Looking back, Royce could see his friends still in the boat, waiting but looking worried. He knew that he would have to be quick here; leave it too long, and they would come looking for him simply to make sure he was all right.

  He stepped into the cover of the trees with Ember flying above, glancing through her eyes every so often to make sure he was still going in the right direction. The canopy was thin enough that Royce could see himself in between the trees, looking down on himself and using Ember’s vision to guide him. Royce headed deeper into the interior of the island, heading for the spot where it opened out to flat ground.

  Within the trees, he could see many plants he recognized: fruits and edible roots that suggested someone could live on this island for as long as they wished without having to leave it. Royce could hear the sound of a nearby spring, and going to it he found water bubbling up from among moss-covered boulders. More than that, he saw the small, crudely made bucket that had been set beside it, obviously designed to catch water for someone. For his father?

  Royce dared to hope as he stepped from the trees out into the broad, grassy clearing. The grass was short, obviously kept that way by the efforts of the deer, while there were spots where there was none at all, because great slabs of rock sat there, marked with symbols and signs cut into their surface. Most of the deer there scattered, heading back into their woodland cover. Only one stood there: a stag larger than the others, its antlers magnificent, its white fur shining in the sun. It reared up, giving a snorting bellow, then headed back in the direction of the trees with the others. If Royce hadn’t known that he was in the right place before, he would have known it then.

  Now that he was out in the large clearing at the heart of the island, Royce could see the hut that had been built, sheltered in among the trees at one edge. It was simply built, but looked sturdy, constructed from fallen and cut tree trunks by hands that clearly knew what they were doing.

  Royce headed for that hut, reasoning that what he had come there to find could only be there. He stepped out over the ground of the clearing, past the stone slabs, and he found himself pausing, tracing the letters there. He found the words of the people who had gone before, and something about those words seemed to resonate deep inside him. Some remnant of the clarity he’d had from the mirror told him that these were stories in the old tongue about his ancestors, kings and queens for whom the stones had sung and whose kingdoms were filled with magic.

  Royce walked over to the hut. It was simple, but he could see that someone had started to whittle carvings into the wood, working with a long life or perhaps a carefully held axe. Royce stared at those carvings, which seemed to tell the story of a man who had crossed the sea, and stared into a mirror, and…

  Royce heard Gwylim growl behind him, and he spun just in time to see an axe heading toward his face. Royce threw himself aside, and the weapon embedded itself in the wood, tearing free as a large man with wild hair and a wilder beard pulled it clear.

  “Has Carris finally found me and sent an assassin?” the man demanded, aiming another swing of the axe.

  Royce leapt back, dodging it only with an effort. He drew the obsidian sword, parrying the next blow, finding the strength to keep it from his head only barely. To his side, Gwylim was growling, looking as though he might leap at any moment.

  “No, Gwylim, don’t do it,” Royce said. That distraction almost cost him as his foe struck him in the stomach with the haft of the axe, then brought it up for a killing blow. Royce rolled away, the axe striking the dirt where he had been.

  “Father, please,” Royce called out. He tossed the obsidian blade away from him, wanting to make it clear that he wasn’t there to fight.

  “You think I’m going to fall for a trick like that?” his father demanded. “You think that assassins haven’t pretended to be everyone I care about by now? Do you plan to get me to embrace you and then stab me? I gave my son a necklace with my seal so that I would recognize him. Do you have that? No? I thought not!”

  He stepped forward, his axe raised, and for a moment, Royce feared that the magic of the mirror had made him as mad as Barihash had been, only able to see enemies everywhere. Royce raised his hands in surrender, in the hope that his father was still a good enough man to recognize that, at least.

  His father stood staring at Royce’s palms, and it took a second for Royce to realize what he was looking at: the symbol burned there; the scars from when he had been a child, grabbing for the necklace amid the flames.

  His father stopped and let the axe fall. “You… that’s my symbol. That’s the necklace I gave you. You are my son.”
r />   Royce smiled. “Hello, Father.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Royce stood there with his palm outstretched, and the wild-looking man stepped back.

  “Royce? It is you?”

  “Yes, Father,” Royce said, and even he could barely believe it. After all he’d been through to find him, his father was standing there. This wild man, with a beard so long it brushed his naval, was his father, was the king.

  It was hard to believe, but Royce knew it was true. Royce could see it now in the similarity of their features, but it was more than that. His father wore a signet ring with the royal crest, and while his clothes were worn and sun-bleached, Royce could still see the richness of them.

  “It’s you. It’s…”

  His father rushed forward, embracing him, the grip tight. “I’ve waited… so long for this day.” His voice sounded dry and cracked, as if he hadn’t spoken for a long time. He seemed to be remembering the words only with difficulty. “Are you sure… are you sure you’re you? That you’re not a dream?”

  It was the kind of question that could only come from being alone for so long.

  “No, it doesn’t matter. You’re you. I saw this! Saw it all! From the moment I found your mother so long ago, I hoped so much that I would see you when you were grown.”

  Royce hugged his father back. There were so many questions he wanted to ask him, so many things he wanted to say.

  “Do you see the stones?” his father asked, with the pride of a man wanting to show off the little that he had. “The stories of your ancestors, Royce.”

  He led the way around the side of the hut, to a spot where another section of stone sat, cracked and made up of separate pieces. It had the beginnings of another story on it.

  “I’ve tried to add my own life to all of theirs,” King Philip said. “On an island like this, it’s easy to find the time to do it. I talked to them, though they didn’t answer. I didn’t want to forget how to speak.”