was an easy mask to don with the silver owl at his side. “Can there be any reply to your question but yes?”
Morien made no sound as he settled weightlessly into the waiting chair. His dark gaze couldn’t be gauged as it passed from Somhairle to the tea he’d poured.
“When the Ever-Loyal girl directed us to Ever-Land, I raised the possibility with Her Majesty that one of her beloved sons might be honored with his own piece of the Great Paragon.”
Somhairle didn’t miss the way Morien referred to Inis without her title. However accurate it may have been, it felt pointed.
“So wise of you.” He didn’t need Three to remind him that there was more than pride on the line. Instead, Somhairle slumped slightly in his chair, looking defeated. He’d hoped to speak with his mother before Morien got the chance. Now that he’d felt his connection with Three, he could tell the Queen they had nothing to fear from the fae. He had to find the words to make her understand what he knew, to reveal fae science for the beauty it was. It would be difficult, but not impossible—for how could anything be impossible in a world where he’d found Three? “I wish I could have heard her reply in person, but my health . . .” Trailing off, he rubbed his knee, then spoke again with sudden inspiration. “It will take some time, I imagine, for the royal smiths to construct a new brace and crutch to my specifications?”
Morien inclined forward in a subtle bow. Instead of drinking, he touched his finger to the tea Somhairle had poured. Its surface rippled, then settled, mirror-bright, haloed by the earthenware cup, which trembled once, then stilled on the tabletop.
Ick, Three said. Lying Ones had to use a real mirror in my day, couldn’t make one out of any old thing.
“Gaze into the mirror, Prince Somhairle,” Morien said. “Your mother waits to speak with you.”
Somhairle lifted his head and was struck dumb. Not by what he saw in the black, glassy surface of his tea, but by Morien himself.
As a prince, Somhairle had grown accustomed to mirrorcraft, having been swaddled by its cool embrace through so many fevers. But he’d never been entirely comfortable with sorcerers, shrouded in red and secrecy.
What he was seeing now was a glimpse beneath the shroud.
A long, dark sliver where neck met chest. No flesh. A thick, purple vein that twitched rhythmically next to its threadier cousins. It extended over a glister of muscle and stark white bone tucked where the hollow of Morien’s throat should have been.
Where was his skin?
There was no skin.
Somhairle’s hand froze, curved around the swell of his knee. He had to stop staring.
You know the story about the lady and the tiger? Remember, some people would rather kill what they love than grant it freedom, Three said. Somhairle forced a blank smile. He met Morien’s eyes with a guileless expression, pretending not to notice the sorcerer adjusting the fall of his scarves and robes to obscure the skinless nightmare that lurked beneath.
Somhairle found his voice and the mirror, half paralyzed by the thought of what lay under Morien’s scarves. “I’m grateful my mother has you at her side to think of everything.”
Nobody thinks of everything, Three commented.
Must I do as he says? Somhairle asked.
With scum like this, you have to. Though a bird couldn’t scowl, Somhairle heard the expression clearly in Three’s voice. Don’t worry. I’ve got your back. You’re as safe as you can be, even with a Lying One. ’Cause you’re with me.
Somhairle lowered his eyes to the still surface of the tea, and the world washed silver around him. He recoiled as his surroundings vanished into bare, blinding light. The air fogged his nose with steel and heat.
Breathing shallowly, he tried not to panic as he realized he was alone. No brace and crutch. No Three.
Only Queen Catriona, who sat waiting for him in a column of light, as regal in this nothing place as on her throne. She was no more than a voluminous silhouette, but she radiated authority.
“We must be brief.” Catriona’s voice tinkled like glass chimes. “The Last’s energies are better spent elsewhere, and my time is much in demand. Approach your mother, Prince Somhairle.”
In contrast with Morien, Somhairle couldn’t imagine disobeying the Queen. He was before her, bare and unworthy, diminished further by the intensity of her presence. She was an inverted shadow, as was he.