Magh the butcher, who saved him summer strawberries from the countryside, since they didn’t have the tang of metal beneath their sweetness. Their gossip was what truly fed the lords and ladies on the Hill.
But no one at the stoves knew any servants by those names. Somhairle would have asked more questions, answered a few in return, and laughed awhile with the new cooks, but he was too aware of their desire to have him out of the way. They had work to attend to, work they couldn’t manage while down on both knees, praising his mother to him.
He gave it a solid try, but wasn’t granted entry to the Hall of Mirrors to “enjoy a warm reunion” with his “beloved brother.” The Queensguard stationed by the doors smelled of more lies, according to Three.
Somhairle could ask his mother for her seal of approval to enter the Hall, but that would alert her to his interests, give her reason to watch him more closely, and he couldn’t risk that.
So we’re finally able to think of her as the enemy? Three asked as Somhairle limped away to make the rounds outside of council instead. There, he could gauge the tone of the court, catch some of the gossip he still hadn’t managed to glean. Prove himself necessary to the group. Continue to betray his mother.
I can’t be certain yet. This may prove to be the work of Morien the Last. He could have asked them not to speak with me. Or done worse than asked.
Don’t lie to yourself too often, Three suggested. One Lying One to deal with is plenty.
Outside of council: the lingering petty Ever-Nobles who roamed the place daily, hoping to ingratiate themselves. The occasional member of an Ever-House swanning past, showing off, getting to feel big after Catriona had made them feel small. Those were the tableaux Somhairle expected, though he told himself it would likely look less enormous than his childhood perspective would remember.
A dazzling reception hall lined with little mirrors—there were mirrors everywhere now, not just in the Hall of Mirrors where they belonged—awaited him. It held fewer guests than Somhairle had prepared to encounter, though at first it appeared that there were more, a trick of reflection layered upon reflection.
Some of the mirrors were reflecting Three as she truly was. A young woman caught sight of Three in the glass and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
Somhairle stumbled, slamming into a mirror at his back he could have sworn hadn’t been there before. It rattled in its frame. Three swung her wings in a wide arc. Eyes were turning toward him; he was making a scene.
“Sorley?” A familiar voice speaking a familiar nickname, a familiar hand landing on Somhairle’s back a moment later.
He’s handsome, Three said. And unlike most of the humans around here, he doesn’t stink.
Somhairle turned to face Laisrean Ever-Bright. His favorite half brother.
“Sorcerers have been redecorating since you left the Hill.” Laisrean slung an arm around Somhairle’s shoulders and heaved him out from between two mirrors, out of the hallway, out of the false mirror-light. Though he had the strength of a bear, his touch was courtly gentle. His strong jaw was dusted with dark stubble, his hair uncombed, his eyes darkened by sleepless undercircles, though they brightened when he grinned. “What brings you back to this wicked place?”
“I hoped we might catch a play.” Somhairle offered his true smile, the one dazzling thing he’d inherited undamaged from his mother. “No. It isn’t that. Ever-Land hasn’t been very peaceful since Lord Faolan arrived with Morien the Last.”
“Best not have any truck with them.” Laisrean forced a steely smile. His tone was bluff and cheery. “These aren’t your regular bedtime warnings for naughty children. Whatever Faolan’s looking into has the court on the edge of a knife. Better you don’t find yourself caught on—”
Prince Adamnan interrupted him by striding through the main doors in a sudden burst of purposeful activity, his favored courtiers providing a buffer between him and the lesser crowds. He ignored everyone vying for his attention, pausing only when he noticed Somhairle tucked against Laisrean’s side.
“You”—Adamnan skidded to a halt, his expression blacker than his boots—“shouldn’t be here.”
Before Somhairle could form a stunned expression, Adamnan had moved on, swept away again by eager attendants to decide matters of state.
“He’s like that these days. Nothing personal. Ignore him.” Laisrean squinted, staring hard at Three on Somhairle’s arm. “Did you tame an owl? Big one. Never seen a