bird that color.”
“I found her in Ever-Land,” Somhairle explained.
“Maybe sorcery changed her,” Laisrean said. “Hey there, girl. You got magic in you?”
He reached to touch Three’s round head, slow and tentative, like he was sure the bird would snap at him for trying but was compelled to do it anyway. Three allowed Laisrean’s hand to settle and began to preen under the touch, angling into it.
Somhairle let out a breath. Even he hadn’t been sure whether Three would allow someone else to get that close.
I have manners, Three said. And I know which hand wants a biting and which doesn’t.
“Glad you’ve got something fierce to look out for you.” Only Laisrean ever appeared satisfied when he looked at Somhairle. Like he was glad for who Somhairle was, instead of thinking about what he might have been. “Do me a favor, since everyone’s being so serious, and stick to your rooms while you’re here, will you?”
Somhairle stepped back, bringing Three with him. “I don’t need anyone looking out for me.”
“That wasn’t coddling. Life on the Hill’s not like it used to be, Sorley.” Laisrean looked past Somhairle for a moment—spotting someone attractive, Somhairle guessed—before refocusing his gaze. “Why don’t I meet you later near the Palisades, in the fall garden? Our favorite spot. Always nice to get some fresh air.”
Somhairle took in his brother’s handsome, if distracted, profile. He was larger than life, like the heroes of old.
Somhairle’s heartbeat quickened. What if Laisrean was the master they sought? His behavior could be called eccentric, had been described as feckless, but it remained more faithful to the past than anything else in the palace Somhairle recalled from childhood.
Time was running out. Somhairle had to find the next master for Morien while simultaneously gathering enough resources to thwart him. Success hinged on finding the right piece or pieces of silver, the fragment of the Great Paragon possibly hidden directly under the Queen’s nose. Not exactly a simple task.
A walk in a garden had helped Somhairle find Three. Perhaps it would do the same for Laisrean.
“I’ll meet you there this evening,” Somhairle promised.
Nothing is beyond possibility, Three agreed.
I know, Somhairle told her. I found you, didn’t I?
69
Rags
Even back in the city, Rags was still out of his element. It didn’t smell right on top of the Hill, didn’t smell of the city he knew. Didn’t smell dirty, of fires and blood, of sweaty bodies and cheap perfumes and garbage baking in the sunlight, of piss running over cobblestones after dark.
It smelled spotless and unsoiled. Blood lurked beneath the pretense, but it’d been buried under layers of polish, hidden behind curtains and below floors tiled with black bone.
“Are you listening?” Inis asked in a tone that implied she already knew Rags wasn’t.
Rags turned away from the massive window affording him a view of the moat, called Old Drowner by everyone who knew what it was really used for.
“I’m looking.” Eyes staring wide for emphasis. “Thought that was why we came here. To find Four’s master.”
“Yes.” Inis, or the unassuming blonde Morien had glamoured over her skin, crossed her arms. “That’s what I’m telling you. Prince Somhairle thinks he might have a lead. It’s royal company, so no need for our loyal servants to attend.”
“Afraid we’ll embarrass you?” Rags asked, but his accompanying smirk was cut down before it could flourish.
“Stay or go, it makes no difference,” Shining Talon intoned from the other end of the room, where he’d been keeping silent vigil. “The heart of this Hill is as rotten as its wretched ruler. No matter where one puts their feet, the ground is poisoned.”
“. . . right. I’ll ask you to stay out of sight for now.” Inis bowed to Shining Talon, eyes lowered, like she’d have agreed with him—if their every move wasn’t under surveillance by a murderous sorcerer. They’d flipped the hinged oval dressing mirrors in every room so the glass now faced the walls. Less chance of Morien’s reminding them of his impatience whenever they glanced in the wrong direction.
Then Inis was gone and Rags was left alone with the fae. Between Shining Talon and the open window he couldn’t leap out of to make a quick, clean escape.
What shook him was how easily he shushed the urge. How limp and half-hearted it’d grown.
Past the moat was the city Rags knew and loved, the city he wanted to return to. If you lived in the bad parts of town, you had to watch out for a sack over your head and