It’s true I’m not willing to yield everything like he so often is. But I’m beginning to understand there’s power in the balance. To live, not in the black and white, but the gray space in between. Selfish and selfless, present and past, old sorrow and newfound joy—I can alternate between them, there is room inside for both, and that duality freed my brother from imprisonment and death. It saved my friend and brought me home.
I was wrong that day in the woods. Nothing’s unraveling between Helos and me. I’ve just come to see my brother for who he really is—a person with flaws, same as me.
The thought should be comforting, but right now it’s only disappointing.
I storm past him, reflecting miserably on how my brother could be the one to hurt me more than anyone.
* * *
We stick to the base of the mountains, making our way east without speaking. The morning sun shines directly in our eyes, untempered by a single tree. The land here is more brown than green, uncomfortably open, and there’s no birdsong or tiny mammals scurrying underfoot. Even the grass grows in dwindling clumps.
It’s empty. Little better than the stretch of land separating the compound from the forest’s edge. I press my fingernails into my palms, the half-moon marks tethering me firmly to Telyan. To the present.
The soil’s depressing infertility certainly mirrors our mood. I remain in the lead for the rest of the day, marching determinedly under the weight of my pack. It was waiting for me at the lip of the gorge where it landed, and I find its presence comforting. Almost like a shell to shield me from the brooding boys behind.
Helos has fallen far to the rear. Resentment and distance yawn between us, biting and unfamiliar. He won’t take back what he said, any more than I can take back what I’ve done, and I’m only too content to let him linger.
Wes is keeping just a few strides away, walking steadily now that the stardust healed his wounds, but he says nothing. Looks at … nothing. All I get is a muttered thanks when I hand him some of my food—most of his was ruined in the river—and even that’s only a single word.
It’s torment. I long to recapture the closeness between us. I want him to assure me that this changes nothing. But even in my daydreams, I know the wish is folly. I’ve used his brother’s only salvation to save him instead, and even if a part of him is grateful to be alive, I’ve still condemned his brother to die. We both have, and he without having made the choice himself.
I would do anything for Fin.
Not only by venturing forth into a wilderness that might kill him as soon as shelter him. Not just by giving up the path he wanted and pursuing a career as an officer, so his brother could continue to learn and dream.
He would have accepted death when it came for him and saved the stardust for Finley. He doesn’t have to tell me that’s what he would have done. I know. I don’t regret the choice I made, but I know.
The truth of that—and Helos’s bitter accusations—have tainted what we’ve become.
Reaching the Old Forest the next day is like stepping into a dream, one that’s a perverse mirror of our first journey through. Our silence is just as strained as it was then. But this time, I can’t look at Wes without feeling the ghost of his hands around my waist, the pressure of his lips on mine. Helos hurls no chestnuts at me, only anger and quiet judgment. My only comfort lies in the woods around us, the dense undergrowth and ancient oaks embracing me like old friends. It’s difficult to find consolation in it like I did before. The trees and the security they provide still matter, but the two boys behind me matter more.
The sky is beginning to darken by the time the first spires of Castle Roanin appear through the branches. The sight is like a tonic to Wes, who lurches forward the moment he spots them. As I follow, memories of our last day at the castle drift to the surface—King Gerar standing in the courtyard, hands gripping his eldest son’s shoulders. Back straight, dignified in sorrow. Go safely, Son. The guards standing sentinel while Violet took me aside, confiding in me. Briefly, I recall what Wes said about his sister wanting me to spy for them. I wonder if King Gerar will be more amenable to the prospect once we deliver our news.
I have no idea how to face Finley and tell him I chose to save another. My friend who called me by my name long before anyone else in the castle. The one who never, not once, bowed to superstition like the rest of his court. Worse, there’s a chance I’m too late to tell him anything at all.
Despite my resolution to change things for the better here, old trepidation pricks my skin at the thought of walking those halls, so it’s with some relief that I learn we’ll be using the secret door hidden in the complex’s outer wall. The one Finley led me through nearly a month ago, when we escaped the castle’s prying eyes the morning of the Prediction. Wes doesn’t want to cause a scene.
“I don’t mean with you and Helos,” he clarifies when he sees my face. They’re the most words he’s spoken since the river. “I mean me. I’ve been away awhile.”
Of course. Because he’s a prince, and his reappearance will cause quite the stir throughout the castle. The reminder is yet another blow to everything we have built. Out in the wilderness with nothing but sky and starlight to shield you, it’s easy to blur the lines between royal and shifter. Easy to forget.
Wes and I reach the edge of the Old Forest, and the ivy-covered door comes into view at last. The castle’s northern façade towers beyond. Thankfully, there are no smoking turrets or crumbling patches; it seems that Jol hasn’t yet reached Roanin. When Helos catches up a minute or two later, he looks white as a sheet despite his air of bravado. I’m sure I catch a tremor in his hands before he shoves them into his pockets.
Regardless of the ire between us, I’m determined we should walk the castle together. Prediction or no. I step toward Helos, meaning to loop my arm through his; whatever’s inside the castle, we’ll face it together. As we always do.
But at my approach, he straightens his shoulders and pushes forward. Without a single word.
I feel the force of his anger like a physical wound.
Wes knocks twice on the door in quick succession, as King Gerar apparently told him to do. I hover beside my brother, knowing my presence is of little comfort to him right now, and hoping Simeon isn’t on duty this evening.
Several heartbeats pass.
Then another few. And another.
The door remains shut.
Wes lifts his fist and knocks again, harder this time. Another pause.
Still there’s no answer.
“Maybe they’re off duty?” I suggest. None of us brought the key with us.
Wes steps away from the wall, head tilted back to examine the top. “Give me a boost,” he says.
Helos approaches, forming a step with linked fingers. Wes goes up and over, dropping quickly onto the other side. A few moments later, the door swings outward.
My brother and I slip inside, making a quick appraisal of the estate as Wes fastens the door behind us. The grounds are empty.
“Follow me,” Wes instructs, leading the way across the complex and into the castle. At my side, Helos is painfully tense. Apprehension flows off him in waves, and it’s starting to rouse my own sense of unease. Wordlessly, we walk the unlit hall, the mounted oil lamps cold and dark.
The grim feeling intensifies as we pass from the corridor into the western wing, then through its high-ceilinged entrance hall with the crystal chandeliers and portraits of horses and hounds. All empty.
“Wes—”
“Come on.”
Picking up the pace, we cross the red antechamber and reach the central atrium, its vaulted ceiling stretching three stories high. Weak evening light filters in through long windows, casting the room in the pale blue of twilight. Shadows collect on the massive marble staircase, and it, too, is empty.
Something is wrong.
Helos and I exchange a glance as Wes crosses to the center of the room. He turns about, halts, and calls out. His voice bounces off the walls, echoin
g in the silence.
For several long moments, there’s nothing.
Then a blur of gray streaks through the foyer, nails scratching against the marble floor.
Astra!
The hound barrels straight into her master. She’s grown thin; her wiry coat is dull and disheveled. But her tail wags furiously as Wes drops to the ground and throws his arms around her.
I have never been happier to see that dog. The sight of her is almost enough to give me hope.
Then I see the fresh marks on the floor.
“What is that?” Helos asks as I crouch over the track that stretches all the way to a far side of the room. Astra left a trail in her wake.
I run two fingers through the lines. “It looks like … frost.”
We all turn to Astra, who licks the back of Wes’s hands and wags her tail, still delighted by the return of her boy.
The next moment, she vanishes into thin air.
I cry out in alarm, pointing to the empty space where she had been. Wes shoots to his feet. But no, she’s there, over by the windows, dropping into a playful lunge while another streak of frost paints the marble floor between us.
“Astra?” Wes chokes out, as if she might have the explanation.
“She disappeared,” Helos says somewhat breathily, his voice infused with less venom than before.
Wes whistles an arcing string of notes, and Astra appears at his side a heartbeat later, her transition from there to here little more than a wisp of color. He crouches low, holding the sides of her face and breathing heavily. “No. She ran.”
She licks his nose.
“But she’s just a dog,” I protest weakly. “There’s no magic in her. If there were, she would be dying or dead.”
“You’ve reported a few people with magic in them who seemed in perfect health,” Wes reminds me.
“This is more than perfect health,” Helos says. “This is an ordinary animal with a magical ability. That hasn’t occurred since—”
“The continent first fractured,” finishes Wes.
The implications creep toward us like shadows.
“But I thought they were all incompatible now.”
“In the prison compound,” I say, the detail surfacing for the first time since my horrid escape. “One of the guards who was assigned to me. His eyes changed color.”
“He what?” Helos gawks.
“His eyes. It was a shift.” I pause. “A tiny one.”
Astra sits facing us with her ears perked, clearly unfazed by our alarm.
“And in Niav!” I exclaim, my voice rising with the revelations. “The guard who led us from the gate to the palace looked blurry around the edges. I don’t know how else to describe it. I thought it was a trick of the light, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she was turning translucent.”
“Translucent.”
Silence falls.
“Like a forest walker,” Helos adds dryly.
“What are you saying?” Wes asks. “That there are shifters and forest walkers being created all over again?”
Helos shakes his head. “This is unbelievable.”
“And no one has noticed?” Weslyn continues, sounding skeptical now.
I shrug. “Last time it took years for the transformation to evolve. Maybe they’re only at the very beginning stages.”
“Plus, do you really think someone who finds himself with a magical ability is going to parade it around town?” Helos says. “You know how your people are these days.”
Weslyn holds my gaze so long, it’s almost like it was before. “Have you noticed that no one has appeared in this room while we’ve been speaking?”
Hair rises along the back of my neck. People dying of magic’s touch. Others granted the beginnings of magical abilities.
Where is the court?
Where is the king?
Weslyn takes a step back and glances wildly around the room. Then he bolts for the stairs.
He climbs them two at a time, Astra streaking ahead and trailing frost, Helos and I scrambling to keep pace. We search the northern wing first, Wes forcing entry into Finley’s chamber at the end of the hall.
The doors open with a bang, revealing nothing but an empty sitting room—the hearth cold, the windows fastened shut. Helos crosses the room in a few quick strides and thrusts open the double doors leading to Finley’s bedroom. There’s nothing.
“He’s gone,” Helos says, voice cracking on the words. Wes throws his hands behind his head, clearly making an effort not to panic.
I just stare at my brother. Helos, who crossed the room with zero hesitation. Helos, who knew exactly where to go, even though he’s always let me believe he never went inside the castle after our audience with King Gerar.
By now, I’m not surprised.
I’m hurt that he kept it from me.
Helos’s gaze connects with mine, and he seems to wilt ever so slightly under my stare.
Wes is the first to leave, sweeping down the hall and around the corner. Helos and I follow, but I quickly break away from my brother’s side to keep pace with Wes. The web of resentment spins in both directions now.
Together, we search the rest of the castle. A section of rooms I learn are Violet’s quarters. King Gerar’s. Wes becomes frantic, darting into chambers and down corridors with feverish haste. Astra leaps beside him into each of the wings, the kitchens, the armory, the library. Wes calls out. He throws open doors. He pounds the walls with his fists.
There’s nothing but silence.
With a shout of defeat, he slams his back against a wall and sinks to the floor, throwing his hands over his face. The sight is as out of place as the empty rooms around us. Wes is the steady one. Wes is the ship that charts a course through rocky waters. I’ve never seen him so undone.
I want to say something that will make it better, but I’ve been here before and know there are no words that will. Village or castle. Forest canopy or stone walls. The details make no difference. He’s returned to an empty home.
Helos calls my name just as I’m about to sink onto the floor beside Wes. I pace over to the window, following my brother’s outstretched finger south, out onto the grounds below. The city is visible in the near distance.
There’s no fire. No charred ruins of a once prosperous city. Instead, the buildings appear just as they always have—gray and russet stones, the clock tower, swirls of close-quartered, gabled roofs. But the roads are as empty as the castle itself.
Usually at this hour, there’d still be plenty of people out and about. Now, not a single person can be seen walking the streets.
Roanin is completely deserted.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“I don’t understand,” Helos murmurs, the first to break the silence. Wes has joined us at the window, still as a statue as he takes in the quiet.
“There are no signs of a struggle,” I point out. “Perhaps they evacuated the city.”
“But why?”
I shake my head.
Quiet descends once more, so absolute it reminds me of that morning Finley collapsed, the smothering dread as we stared down the circle of outstretched branches. I peer into the hollow city, scouring for a clue, any at all, poking out from those narrow, winding lanes.
At my left, Weslyn straightens abruptly and steps back from the window.
Then he takes off down the corridor without explanation or warning, Astra tearing ahead.
Helos and I exchange startled looks and hurry after him.
Wes is running so quickly that we don’t catch up until he’s already back in Finley’s quarters. They are ringing with the crashing sounds of furniture striking the floor. I slam to a halt just past the double doors leading into the bedroom, clutching at a stitch in my side and appraising the space in alarm.
Weslyn is dismantling it. Lifting the mattress from the large, four-poster bed, tossing the blue silk duvet onto the woven area rug. He opens a wooden cabinet and rifles through the drawers, then dumps a series of shirts out the
side, heedless of our arrival.
“Wes—” I begin.
He doesn’t reply. Breathing hard, he pivots to the crowded bookshelves built into the wall and begins scanning the spines with a finger. Astra is pacing circles around him, clearly unsettled by his mood.
“Do you—”
“Give me a moment,” he says, pulling a couple of volumes from the shelf. After leafing through their contents, he drops the books and crouches beside the lower levels.
The next time he pulls a book from the shelf, a wooden disk clangs against the exposed floorboards.
Helos and I rush over, just as Weslyn releases a long breath.
“He’s alive,” he says, examining the wooden disk a heartbeat longer before handing it to me. The dull, sanded sphere is small enough to fit inside my palm, notched with an array of numbers and lines. I don’t understand.
“It’s a calendar,” Wes explains, seeing my confusion. “I made it for him, long ago. He found the design in a book.”
“How does that prove he’s alive?” Helos demands, grabbing the disk and holding it close to his face.
Wes smiles a bit. “It’s dated five days ago. And he left it for me to find.”
I take the winning book from him and read the cover. Waterfowl of the Low Country Lakes.
“It’s a book about birds,” Helos says, exasperated.
“Waterfowl,” Weslyn corrects him. “The w is for Wes.”
My attention shifts to the books strewn across the floor. They all begin with the same letter. “Why choose this particular book, then?” I ask. “The low country. Did he go south? Some place near water, maybe?”
“A valley?” Helos suggests.
We each fall silent for a time.
“Come on,” Weslyn says, looking slightly more heartened. “My father would have left instructions.”
Seizing this thread of hope, he leads us deep into the castle once more, this time at a slower pace. There’s a renewed sense of purpose in his stride; the mission, and Finley’s message, have given him something to latch on to. He takes us down the grand staircase to the ground floor, boots striking the marble with ringing footsteps. I don’t realize our destination until we’re almost upon it: the throne room.
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