“Queen Lera? I thought Tatianella was your queen.”
Meren’s nostril’s flared. “Her mother is…indisposed. Queen Tatianella has stepped down temporarily.”
The reason for the lord’s obvious tension became clear. Something major was happening in the Seelie court, and Lyr would wager it had to do with the energy poisoning. “I am grieved to hear that. As to your previous question, we have indeed been contacted by a representative of the Neoran queen.”
Lord Meren glanced to the side for a moment as though listening to another. When he turned back, his eyes were filled with regret, though Lyr had no doubt the emotion was feigned. “I am afraid I must insist that you stay out of this matter. This is an internal affair of the Seelie, and we will handle it as we see fit.”
“And I am afraid that I cannot do that.” Lyr shifted, standing taller. The memory of the exhausted, despairing messenger flashed through his mind. “My own prince, the current heir to the throne, has ordered me to give aid.”
“What?” Meren’s brow furrowed with anger. “How dare you do so without contacting our court at once!”
Lyr allowed his expression to curl into cool disdain. “Oh, no, Lord Meren. How dare you? You contacted us to deal with your problem a year ago, yet repeated attempts at negotiation resulted only in attacks on my diplomat’s life. The mists of the Veil grow more turbulent as you refuse to settle on a solution. I will not allow an entire city to fall into violence and chaos because your court cannot reach accord.”
“No matter our previous discussions, you should not interfere in our sovereign business.”
Feeling his energy begin to wane, Lyr brought the discussion to a rapid close. “From my understanding, the queen of Neor is largely autonomous and has the right to work with other nations. Regardless, we have already promised aid, so aid we will give. If Queen Lera would like you to pursue a treaty with us, then I will send Ayal Kaienan once more.”
Though his face had reddened with anger, Meren’s tone was level. “I must, of course, consult with the queen about this matter. I will contact you again in a few days’ time.”
Their conversation ended even more abruptly than it had begun. Lyr disconnected his energy from the mirror, releasing it to its default state, and stripped off the glamour he’d used to hide his fatigue. His face was pale and almost gaunt beneath his dark brown hair. He needed to rest, to regenerate the energy he never seemed to keep hold of, but after the chaos of this day, he wasn’t sure if he could get his mind to rest.
Lyr stumbled to a nearby chair and sank into its embrace. By all the gods of Arneen, why were the Sidhe delaying? Why call repeatedly for negotiations but then shrug them aside? The Neorans were proof enough of the poison’s danger, and he had his suspicions about Queen Tatianella being “indisposed.” How could they watch their people sicken for the sake of politics? It defied all sense.
Lyr rested his head against the chair’s soft back as he considered all of the possibilities. He didn’t even realize when he drifted off to sleep.
The burning glow of Caolte’s hair led Naomh across Knocknarea. Their midnight rides were more difficult now, as modern life crept ever closer to the ancient site. Where once they had traveled freely between twilight and dawn, they now only dared the darkest night. They could, and did, have fun with the humans from time to time, but too much would bring unwanted scrutiny. They preferred to be legends on the wind. Only a single time had the two allowed a human to immortalize their names, but Caolte had formed a surprising fondness for the lad. Naomh had not—but then, the damned poet had turned him into a woman.
Their horses’ hooves sped over the slope of the hill, never quite making contact. The humans could never say the Sidhe broke their word—never did their feet touch land. As Caolte approached the Cairn of the Old One, he slowed, both of them glancing below. Despite the late hour, an array of lights glowed from the city by the waters. Not so many years before, only a few small buildings stood in darkness, but human expansion and technology had changed things. Why did so many of his kind want to return to this…this oddness?
Caolte rounded to the other side, this one overlooking darkened fields much closer to times past, before pulling his horse to a stop. His eyes scanned the top of the hill before turning to Naomh. “She is not here.”
After centuries, Naomh understood exactly what his brother did not say. She was never here. For well over five hundred years, they had returned to the place he had first met Elerie. Hundreds of years of wishing that he had insisted she stay after their last trip to his underhill home. They’d never bonded in the way of her people, but he had felt their connection in his soul. She had sworn to return to him as soon as she completed her business, a task surely finished by now.
Naomh knew very well that she wasn’t likely to return. But he had given his word to come for her, waiting every month on the dark of the moon by the old cairn. They might prevaricate or evade, but a Sidhe always kept their word. He would ride these hills each month so long as he was able. So long as his fool brother didn’t ruin it all by breaking the treaty. A return to the surface would no doubt lead to war, and their kind would be hunted every time they appeared.
“You needn’t come with me, you know,” Naomh said. “I am well able to make this journey on my own.”
Caolte glared, his hair sparking with frustration. “Millennia we have made this journey, brother, and so it will continue.”
With a shake of his head, Naomh turned his horse to follow the hill back down. Though the two were only half-brothers, he was closer to Caolte than he ever could be to Meren. Naomh glanced over his shoulder with a smile. “Come away. There is still mischief to be had.”
Chapter 9
Lyr rubbed a hand across his face, trying to block the light shining across his eyes.
Wait, light? He jerked upright. His chair faced east, and it was too late in the day for… Then his gaze caught on the mirror, where the low-slung sun reflected from behind him. He must have slept for a couple of hours. And if his senses weren’t mistaken, he wasn’t alone.
Squinting, he inspected the room to find the presence he’d detected. It didn’t take long. The shock from the beam of light faded quickly, and Lyr’s vision adjusted enough to make out Lial sitting in the shadows across from him. How long had the other been there? He was unsettled to think that he had slept through the healer’s arrival.
“How long were you going to let this go on before you came to me?” Lial asked.
Lyr ran a hand through his hair to settle it from his unexpected nap. “I suppose it would do no good to deny it since you found me sleeping in the middle of the day like a child.”
“Not unless you single-handedly defended the estate from an army while I was otherwise occupied. I can think of little else that would drain your energy so thoroughly.” Lial tapped his lip with his index finger. “Kai told me you’ve been acting strange, and I realized that I couldn’t let this go on any longer. If I have to call in a mind healer, I will.”
“I haven’t lost my mind, but I will grant that I am not well. Nightmares of being captured, of Mother’s injury, even of losing Aimee—they keep me from rest.” Lyr rubbed reflexively at the wound on his chest. “Beyond that, my injury never seems to fully heal.”
“Miaran, Lyr, why didn’t you call for me?” Lial leapt to his feet and strode to Lyr with an expression that had shifted from irritated to truly angry. “Move your tunic out of the way, or I’ll do it for you.”
Lyr’s eyebrow rose. “You might have been born to the royal family, but you are under my command now.”
“In matters such as these, the healer obeys no one but the gift.”
Taking him at his word, Lyr untied the laces at the top of his tunic and parted it to reveal the scar that trailed over his heart, the flesh barely knit even after a month. Lial held his hand above the wound and closed his eyes. In less than a heartbeat, a blue glow flowed over the injury. The healer’s energy tingled through Lyr, but it didn
’t cause pain. After a moment, he relaxed and closed his own eyes until he felt the sensation fade.
Lyr looked up to find Lial glaring at the wound as though it had committed some grave offense. “You see why I didn’t tell you?”
“I should have insisted on looking deeper when you first returned.” Lial shoved back, a hint of hurt beneath his glare. “Why would you hide this from me? Iron in the wound, Lyr? You knew it for a lie when you said it was healing well.”
“What was there to be done?” Lyr asked. Clechtan, but he hadn’t meant to cause insult. “When my daughter had flakes in her arm, you said they’d have to work their way out on their own.”
“Don’t tell me that was all of your reasoning,” Lial bit out.
With a long sigh, Lyr slumped against his seat. “Fine. Fine.” He threw up his hands. “I thought I could handle it. Should handle it. I’d been told that Arlyn had converted the iron while I was unconscious, but the effect started to fade. I’d been able to work magic despite that—until today. But I wanted to convert it again myself. Then you could heal it faster.”
“Iron in the heart,” Lial cursed, then let out a short bark of laughter. “An apt phrase, that. Damned Dianore pride.” With a huff, he pulled his small leather roll of tools from a pouch at his waist. “Anything foreign trapped beneath the skin can become a problem, Lyr. I need to break through the skin and remove the metal since it won’t come out on its own.”
Lyr grimaced. “Here? You plan to cut me open in the middle of my study?”
“Unless you agree to come with me to my work room.” Face hard with resolve, Lial took out a scalpel. “These chairs are spelled to resist staining, after all.”
Lyr eyed the sharp blade in the healer’s hand. “You wouldn’t.”
“Do not test me, Lyrnis Dianore,” Lial snapped. “I am almost angry enough to forget the numbing spell.”
“Very well,” Lyr answered through clenched teeth. Before Lial could carry through with his threat, Lyr jerked to his feet and started for the door. He’d rather not bloody his favorite room—cleaning spells or no.
The healer’s work room was at the base of one of the towers that surrounded the central building. But Lyr couldn’t enjoy the walk despite the lovely view of the valley to his left. Curse it all, he hated the sensation of a wound being stitched. Not to mention the blood. With a shudder, he focused on Lial’s back and tried not to think about what was coming.
Lial opened the door to his work room and crossed toward the back staircase without pause, the sharp, spicy scent of herbs flowing out behind him. Lyr let the comforting smell surround him and ease some of his nerves as he followed the healer in. Although Lial could and often did use healing magic to fix a wide variety of injuries, he was cautious and stingy with his personal reserves. When possible, he used a combination of magical and mundane methods. Many Moranaian healers scorned the mixture, preferring to rely on magic alone.
Thankfully, Lial didn’t care what others thought. The healer’s methods were one of the main reasons Lyr’s father had requested he join their House. The previous Myern had spent decades trying to find a solution for iron allergies, so having someone available who could stitch up an iron-inflicted wound had been invaluable. Lyr found it equally so.
As Lial darted upstairs, Lyr paused just beyond the threshold. The left side of the room held a long workbench filled with jars of herbs and reference books, all arranged neatly. A stone bench stretched across the back wall, separated from the bed on the right by the spiral staircase leading into the healer’s personal chambers.
Lyr traced the skin over his heart and eyed the exit, but Lial stepped down the stairs before he could sneak out. The healer’s clothing was now a deep rust red. The bloody color raised bumps on Lyr’s arms despite centuries of being patched up during training exercises gone wrong. Not even time made the experience pleasant.
“I suggest you remove any clothing you don’t wish to get stained.”
With a sigh of resignation, Lyr disrobed and hung his clothes on hooks near the stone bench before stretching out on the cool surface. “Do you not have a spell that could remove the fragments without cutting me open?”
Lial smirked as he pulled a small table full of tools over to the bench. “Certainly, though I wager you would not like the feel of hundreds of iron flakes ripping through flesh any better.”
“You’re enjoying this a bit much for a healer,” Lyr grumbled.
“Consider it a form of ‘I told you so.’” Lial perched on a wooden stool and focused on the wound. “All options would have been easier when the injury was newer. But if you’d rather I rip the iron through…?”
“Cutting it is, then.” Sitting up for a bolster to be placed behind his neck, Lyr draped his long hair over the edge of the leather cushion. “What else will you do?”
“Once you’re freely bleeding, I’ll use a spell to pull the fragments out with the blood. Then, I’ll close the wound with magic since there will be no iron to interfere with healing.”
With a frown, Lyr rubbed his thumb along his pendant. The engravings and the nick that had saved his life blurred together in ridges too difficult to discern. An oddly comforting pattern. Reluctantly, he pushed it out of the way as well.
“I thought injuries inflicted by iron could never be healed with magic,” Lyr said as Lial bound his hands to the table.
“That’s usually caused by remnants of iron that are later pushed out during the natural healing process. Once the flakes are expelled through the skin, magic is possible. Besides, this iron doesn’t seem to interfere with my powers, likely thanks to your daughter. Fortunately for you, since I can extract the pieces magically.” Lial picked up a sharp scalpel made of purest peresten, a metal mined only on Moranaia. “Now, do you prefer to be unconscious or awake and numbed?”
Lyr sighed, his face twisted in a grimace. “Awake and numbed. As difficult as things have been lately, I dare not be unaware. And I’ll need to be alert when negotiating with Lord Loren for mages.”
Healing energy flowed from Lial’s hand, and all feeling dulled before disappearing entirely from his chest. Lyr let out an involuntary shudder and gasped out a breath. Had the healer not bound him, he would have grabbed at his chest to make sure it was still there. He could barely even detect his own heartbeat or the movement of his lungs.
“Relax. The feeling is disconcerting, but your organs are functioning properly.”
With a nod, Lyr squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the world.
Not an easy feat. Over the plop of a dripping water clock and the occasional muttered curse from Lial, the squishy sound of Lyr’s flesh shifting beneath scalpel and magic seemed to fill the room. Nausea crept up the back of Lyr’s throat, and he began to concentrate on the surprisingly soothing sensation of blood trickling down his side and into the deep channels carved into the sides of the bench. With his eyes closed, he could pretend it was water.
“Are you feeling pain?”
“No.” Lyr cracked his eyes open and shook his head at the healer. “I’ve been healed many times over the centuries from various practice sessions gone awry, but none have been as bad as this. I can only be grateful that I was unconscious the first time this injury was treated.”
Three thousand, one hundred and twenty drops of the water clock later, Lial held both hands over the wound and slipped into a full healing trance. A few heartbeats longer, and the skin knit together. Though Lyr was still numb, the spell faded enough for sensation to slip through. Lyr gritted his teeth against the odd feel of muscle and flesh seaming together.
Lial finally pulled away and slumped, leaning his elbow on the edge of the bench. When Lyr glanced down, nothing remained on his chest but the faintest scar, a sure sign of iron since elves rarely scarred otherwise.
“How do you feel?” the healer asked, his voice soft with weariness.
Lyr flexed his arms and twisted his torso. For the first time in over a month, he felt physically like him
self, except for the lingering exhaustion. “Foolish for not having seen to this sooner.” He studied Lial’s face. “How about you? You’re not usually so worn down after a healing.”
The healer heaved himself up and grabbed a pitcher of water. “I attended to a difficult birth before your nap. Mother and child are well, but it took a fair amount of energy.”
“Coric and Fena’s firstborn?” Lyr asked, accepting the pitcher.
“The same. I was coming by to tell you that Coric would need extra time away from his duties to ensure Fena’s recovery.” Lial gestured at Lyr’s chest. “Now clean off.”
He poured the water over his chest and scrubbed with an offered cloth. As the water and remaining blood flowed down the side of the table to a basin at the end, the door opened to admit Lial’s assistant, Elan, who darted to the basin to empty every drop into a stout stone jar. He even used a cleansing spell to ensure that nothing was left behind.
Elan set a spell in the top to seal it and presented the container to Lyr with a salute. “I have collected every particle, Myern, as Healer Lial requested.”
Lyr shot a questioning glance at Lial, who shrugged. “Kai told me that Allafon attempted a blood magic spell before he was stopped, so I thought you might want to see to the disposal of your blood yourself.”
Was he serious? Lyr wondered, brows raising. “What in the name of Arneen am I supposed to do with this?”
Lial huffed out a breath and put down the scalpel he was cleaning. “Do you want me to come over and transmute it?”
“Well, I certainly don’t want a jar of my own blood as room décor.”
A surprised laugh slipped from Elan before Lial glared his assistant to silence. The healer stomped over, grabbed the jar, and muttered a few sharp words as he cast his energy into the container. After a moment, he opened it to show it empty. “I forget the deficiencies of others. If only everyone could be as talented as healers.”
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