soaps and perfume bottles lined up beside them. Cab stripped quickly, nodding at the fae to do the same, then scrubbed One down before he started on himself, using a washcloth that might have to be burned after he finished with it.
“I’m Cabhan,” he said as he scraped grime off his forearms and wrung the cloth out over the tub, its water coming away black.
“I know,” the fae replied. “One of Many told me.”
“She didn’t tell me your name.”
“Names have great power. It is important for us to introduce ourselves.” The fae took the washcloth from Cab’s outstretched hand, which was big, rough, and callused in comparison to the fae’s smooth golden skin. “I am Second Hope for Windsworn Glory.”
“How’s Hope for short?” Cab asked.
Second Hope for Windsworn Glory considered this, cleaning dirt from the backs of his hands, so that the black bone tattoos, few as there were, stood out more clearly. Then he nodded.
There might have been more to the conversation, but shirts appeared, flung over the screen, and Einan said, “These should fit you. If they don’t, too bad. It’s not like we’re in the Royal Theater, but we’re good enough for the lesser princes.”
The shirt better suited to Cab’s size was a billowy white affair with enormous sleeves that narrowed to a tight cuff, too tight to button at Cab’s thick wrists. He managed to roll the sleeves up to his elbows, then looked back to find Hope tricked out in black velvet.
“You’re taking your time, divas,” Einan added. “I’d like to bathe before my own smell kills me, thanks.”
She surveyed them mercilessly when they came out from behind the screen, gave neither of them a single compliment on their ragtag appearance, and disappeared to wash with an armful of clothing for herself. Her shadow played over the screen as she undressed, and Cab turned away respectfully.
Instead, he faced Sil, whose eyes fluttered open and traveled to him only after they’d drunk their fill of Hope.
“Thank you, Cabhan of Kerry’s-End,” Sil murmured.
“Cab,” Cab replied, the back of his neck warm. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Second Hope for Windsworn Glory,” Sil continued. “Welcome to the world as it now stands.”
“As it now crumbles,” Hope replied.
None of them could find the words—or the conviction—to correct his first impression.
67
Somhairle
Somhairle excused himself to his quarters the instant they arrived at the castle on the Hill, trembling not with pain, but overstimulation. He couldn’t be there for Inis if he allowed himself to be overwhelmed.
Memories often betray us this way, Three said, because Somhairle hadn’t moved or spoken for some time. He rested on the canopy bed, between the swans carved into the bedposts, their eyes dots of red and silver.
Somhairle had needed to be alone so he wouldn’t feel watched by Morien through his friends’ eyes, or shamed by the way he was exempt from their suffering, apart from them despite being with them. A member of the adventure but held separate, and still so lonely. As lonely as ever.
No dust had gathered on any surface of his old palace quarters, which showed no sign that they had been without an occupant for the past five years. With no piece of furniture or favorite toy out of place, all Somhairle could feel was how different it was from what he had known. It wasn’t the room that had changed, but the palace around it, the Hill beneath it, the people who filled its bright halls.
Because what we think we remember and what truly was are only distorted echoes of each other, Three continued.
This is more than the distortions of nostalgia, Three, Somhairle said.
Yes, this is more than that. Three poked at a stuffed owl’s pearl eyes and ruff, looking back at Somhairle as she flicked it with the tip of her wing. Amused. So take this time to work it out. Knowledge can betray us, too, but if you can be the first to wield the weapon, that’s a fine advantage.
I was young. I don’t remember it very well, he replied.
I was a brace and a crutch, so you remember better than I do, Three shot back.
You’re being flippant. This is my home. You hate my mother, and you have good reason to, but I—
Three swept the stuffed owl off its chair with a swipe of her wing. Emotions have their place. You can’t afford to let yours get away from you. She bowed her head, her one eye rolling and rolling. The taste of metal in Somhairle’s mouth was