throbbing, his knee protesting, his twisted foot cramping. In his head, as he sank to the floor, he composed a thunderously passionate five-page letter of outrage to his mother, tore it up, and burned it, all before putting pen to paper.
He had only his complaints, and those were neither shield nor weapon.
The silence closed like ice water over Somhairle’s head. Whenever he told himself it was nothing, that he was being a child and a fool, he recalled the glassy panic in Faolan’s gaze.
This terror was no nightmare, but a waking thing.
He would have to endure it.
The sun appeared a few hours later. It hadn’t risen, merely winked on cautiously behind a curtain of smoky clouds. There had been eternal darkness and then it was no longer, a curtain drawn back, summer returned to the living world.
Morien was gone. This was what it meant, to have the sun back.
A mist had settled over the grounds, as though to hide its wounds.
What had Morien accomplished before he departed, while Somhairle hid and Faolan weathered this storm? Somhairle peered out the window to see black streaks slashed through the earth, bushes and flowerbeds reduced to mulch. One of the willows smoldered; another was reduced to a scorched stump.
Somhairle opened the window. He tossed his brace out first, then hauled himself after, one-armed, landing with a thump in the scarred dirt. Using his brace solely as a crutch, he entered through the open front door, following silver bootprints stamped onto the carpet and etched into the wood.
The footprints led to the library. The library was missing its door. Shattered glass crunched beneath Somhairle’s slippered feet as he stepped inside.
Faolan sat in Somhairle’s favorite chair. Or slumped in it. It seemed he was using its shape to hold himself in place. His eyes flashed when they met Somhairle’s.
He looked his age for the first time, older than Somhairle, but uncustomarily young for the Head of an Ever-House.
He’s been alone for a long time, Somhairle thought. Alone like me.
“You look . . .” Somhairle didn’t know how to finish the observation.
“More alive than you expected? Really, you and I were never in real danger. When Morien is bothered, he seeks to transfer that bother to someone else. I shouldn’t have troubled you.” Faolan’s tongue was very red, as though in the night his mouth had been full of wine, or blood.
“And Morien . . . ?”
“Had other business to attend to!” False cheer in Faolan’s voice. Flecks of blood—Somhairle still hoped it was wine—on his open collar. “He’s a very busy man. I’ll pay for the door, the window, that bookshelf, its books, those two Gleaming age revival vases, and . . .” He trailed off with a circular gesture.
Somhairle hadn’t been thinking of reimbursement.
“I’ll make some tea,” he offered. How small he sounded, in the wreckage of the room.
“No need to do it yourself. Call one of the servants.” Somhairle couldn’t be sure if the hollowness in Faolan’s words was real or due to wishful thinking. Somhairle didn’t want him to be so unbothered with the lives of others. “Morien always takes care of servants,” Faolan continued, “locking them away in some corner of their mind so they don’t bear witness. Extremely useful spell! No permanent damage done! They’ll be more forgetful than usual for a day or two, but better that than cowering in a corner babbling nonsense for the rest of their lives, eh?”
“My mother’s enemies must be truly formidable, if Morien is tasked with so many duties.” Somhairle leaned against one brocaded arm of a settee, maneuvering around his true questions. Ones he knew Faolan wouldn’t answer. “Fortunately, Ever-Land was built for relaxation and abandoning your cares. You’re in the right place, if you need—”
Faolan’s smile sliced thinly across his face, then disappeared. The terrible gleam had faded from his eyes. “Rats make better guests.”
“Lord Faolan.” Somhairle gathered his courage, wrought a heart brace of its disparate parts, and held fast. “If Morien the Last has overstepped, harmed you—one of the Queen’s dearest friends—she must be informed of his transgressions, and will intervene on your behalf.”
“How long it’s been,” Faolan said wearily, “since you’ve been on the Hill, little prince.” Somhairle stiffened in disappointment but didn’t draw back until Faolan waved dismissively at him. The gesture stung like a slap. “Morien the Last is the Queen’s hands and the Queen’s will, swathed in red.”
The words scattered like a flock of ravens when Somhairle tried to examine them. His mother—the mother he