was so deliberate in this rebuttal that Rags had to assume he’d taken offense. “Rather, I should say that the fae do not lie. My people are incapable of deception.”
“Sure.” Rags sat up, engaged despite himself. “Except there’s plenty of ways to deceive someone without lying to them.”
He could’ve sworn there was a flicker of something like amusement on Shining Talon’s face. Or was it only firelight reflected in his eyes?
“Yes,” he agreed warmly, in a way that chilled Rags to his bones.
He would’ve let the silence swell up to insulate him, but Shining Talon spoke again. “Have I done something to displease you, Rags the Thief?”
Nothing. That was the problem. The real source of Rags’s frustration was Morien, but he wasn’t stupid enough to take it out on the sorcerer. He couldn’t talk to Shining Talon about anything real with Morien haunting their steps. Besides, Rags knew Shining Talon’s respect couldn’t be infinite. It would end sooner or later. Better if Rags didn’t get used to it, cut it off at the pass before he started to like it.
He knew where this road stopped, and it wasn’t anywhere good.
“I wish you’d been a pile of gold,” Rags muttered. “Would’ve made my life easier.”
“And once you had delivered what the Lying One asked for? What then?”
Morien’s head lifted. He knew he’d been mentioned. If he’d looked at them across the fire in challenge, it would have been preferable to the sense of foreboding in his profile, swathed in scarves.
“He’d’ve killed me,” Rags admitted. “Left me to rot in the ruins with the rest. And someday, maybe somebody comes along and thinks I’m another of the corpses guarding the place.” He shrugged. “Could be worse fates. Currently, this suspense is a pain in my ass.”
“Allow me to offer my clothing to ease the discomfort,” Shining Talon began, reaching to pull off his gossamer shirt, probably made of moonbeams and maiden’s kisses, so he could give it to Rags. Like it was nothing.
Rags swore and flung himself down on his back, grimacing when a twig stabbed him in the ribs. “Keep your clothes on, Shiny. I’ve slept more soundly on worse beds than this.”
But despite the confidence in his statement, Rags lay awake for a long time, eyes obstinately shut.
Shining Talon knew he wasn’t asleep.
It was the principle of the matter. Which was all Rags had left.
21
Somhairle
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
It was another perfect morning in Ever-Land, except all the birds were dropping dead.
Perhaps it was a curse.
Prince Somhairle Ever-Bright was familiar with curses, having been born one to his mother: a living reminder of the words Oberon Black-Boned had murmured to the wind in his final moments, a blight on House Ever-Bright.
The royal womb was doomed to lie barren. As long as an Ever-Bright queen wore the crown, she would never bear heirs.
At first, this was manageable. One sibling in every generation was trained for the coronation. Soon, different factions of the court sought to control the queen from an early age. Depending on their advisers, certain queens ruled more wisely, more nobly, than others. All of them died violently, of illnesses that arose out of nowhere, or accidents that could never be explained. They were replaced by the next in line, though she was never a daughter but a cousin, a niece, a favored relative. Always whispers of the Ever-Bright curse shrouded the brightness of their power in gray grief.
Somhairle’s mother, Catriona, had ascended to the throne during a time of great mourning and terror. When she bowed her head for the crown, she was the sole surviving Ever-Bright. The last of her name.
Historians recorded that on that day, her courtiers’ weeping nearly drowned out the celebration bells at her coronation.
Hail, the last of the Ever-Brights. Farewell to their legacy, to the once-sunlit heroes of the realm.
The Queen’s supporters believed that she dedicated herself so ruthlessly to her kingdom because she never wanted to hear her people weep again. She worked tirelessly, some thought single-mindedly, with her sorcerers to discover a cure to Oberon’s blight.
She awarded her favored courtiers with estates and acreage on the Hill. Ever-Nobles counted their place in the Queen’s esteem by how high along the slope their homes were located. Her palace was spotless perfection, without flaw or fault. Rooms of white marble veined with silver, black tiles to mimic the ancient fae frescoes. It was glorious, though at times disturbing, to recall that these black tiles were indeed black fae bone.