“Do you want to stay here, Arlais? Trapped with those who do not understand who and what you are? Living this life that means so little? All these royals and what can they offer you? Not much from what I’ve seen. You may have your father’s attitude, girl, but you’ve been gifted with your mum’s face. That won’t do much for you down the line.”

“But you can offer me more?”

“I can offer you anything. Because you can get anything. . . when you have power.”

“And what’s the price I’ll have to pay for all that delicious power?”

“Come with me. Find out.”

Arlais nodded her head and was about to reply when a giggle slipped out. She didn’t mean for that to happen but she simply couldn’t keep it in.

“I’m sorry,” she said around more laughter. “But . . . do you honestly expect me to give all this up”—she swirled her finger in the air—“so I can go and live in some slimy cave with you? Listening to you pontificate about magicks and power and making me read a bunch of boring, dusty old books?” She pointed at herself. “Do I look like my brother to you? Then again, you’ll never pry him away from my mother’s very dull skirts. But I’m not about to walk away from anything so you can have a surrogate hatchling of your own.”

Arlais swung her legs off the table, stood, and began walking around. She liked to move when she spoke. She didn’t really know how to sit quietly for hours.

“I have big plans for the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar,” she announced. “And those plans don’t involve boring books, ridiculous witch rituals, long-winded lists”—she said, thinking of her mother—“and they definitely don’t involve . . . you.”

Arlais gazed directly into her great-aunt’s eyes. She found that milky one kind of fascinating and could stare at it for an age, just so she could see what it would do at any given time.

“Personally,” Arlais went on, “I don’t believe life and the obtaining of power has to involve so much sacrifice. And look at you, dear auntie . . . you have clearly sacrificed so much for the life you lead. That body. That face.” Arlais shuddered. “I may have my mother’s face but at least no one looks away from me in horror. Besides, who needs to be beautiful when you’re a royal? When the whole world is open to you simply because your grandmother is queen. And why would I risk losing any of that merely to be the daughter you never had?”

Reaching a spot near her aunt, Arlais rested her ass against the table, crossing her arms over her chest. “I wouldn’t risk losing any of that. I haven’t not killed my mother for this long so I can give it up to follow you into a dank cave for the next few centuries.

“Of course,” she added, walking around her aunt and picking up the bowl of fruit, “you can always try to go after the Five but my daddy and uncles will tear your cave down around your ears, and I don’t even want to think what my mother would do to you. She can be really mean when she’s angry,” she mock-whispered.

Arlais pushed the kitchen door open but stopped before she walked out, looking back at her aunt. “Keep in mind one other thing, auntie dear. As long as you’re on our side—the right side—you have nothing to worry about from me. But cross me . . . and I’ll show you how much I truly am like my mother.”

Arlais smiled and waved. “Lovely seeing you, auntie dear. When this nasty war is over, we must have tea!”

* * *

Brigida had just passed the tower behind the human queen’s castle when a voice behind her pointed out, “I thought my grandmother made it clear no one was to be opening doorways and moving around mystically until this war was over.”

Brigida stopped walking and looked over her shoulder, but no one was there.

“Well?” the voice pushed and when Brigida looked forward she found Unnvar Reinholdt standing before her. He’d been calling himself by his mother’s name for a few years now. Although why anyone would want the name of a Northland warlord rather than the House name of a royal, Brigida had no idea.

“I do as I like, boy,” she told him. “I don’t answer to you or anyone.”

“It seems reckless,” he said, not even looking at her because his focus was on some parchments he held in his hands. His shoulder-length gold hair was pulled off his face and tied by a leather thong at the back of his neck. He wore black chain mail that must have been made for him by one of the better blacksmiths, and stood well over six feet. “I can honestly say I’m not sure the family would help should the Zealots manage to take you.”

“You seem highly concerned.”

“Only about how it would look to the other kingdoms.” He glanced down at her. He didn’t have the gold eyes of his father, but the shrewd, mistrusting gray eyes of his mother. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Don’t you worry. No Zealots can touch me, even if they try.” She grinned. “And none of them are brave enough to try.”

“Fine,” he said, focusing again on his papers. “Just be mindful.”

Brigida nodded and walked away from the boy. She was hungry and she’d seen some elk near one of the lakes.

“Did you and my sister have a nice talk?”

Brigida stopped again, looked back at the boy . . . but he wasn’t there.

She swung around and he stood in front of her again.

“Ain’t you wily.”

It had taken Brigida centuries to learn to do what the boy did so easily at eighteen. She’d learned it to terrify others. He did it to irritate. To let others know he was ahead of them.

The little prick.

“My sister,” the boy prompted.

“Don’t worry. She has no interest in what I have to offer. I’m sure she’ll figure out that mistake soon enough.”

“A mistake? Really?” He smirked at her before refocusing on his fancy parchments. “My sister is many things, but she always knows a good offer when she hears one. She could haggle the horns from the head of Rhydderch Hael himself . . . if she so wanted. She walked away from what you had to offer because she knows as well as I do that what you propose is hollow. Empty. You should know that vapid doesn’t mean stupid.”

Brigida decided to cut through it. Her stomach was grumbling. “What do you want, boy?”

“Stay away from my kin. My sisters, specifically.”

“Or what?” She leaned into the boy, lowered her voice to a whisper. “What are you going to do to me?”

The boy lifted those cold gray eyes and Brigida looked deep. Deeper than she’d looked before. And she saw it then. Behind all that coldness, locked deep inside the boy, was the kind of hidden rage Brigida had only seen once, maybe twice in her life. A rage the boy controlled with sheer will and reason. Just like his mum.

The only difference was that Dagmar Reinholdt had no mystical powers built into her bones, ready to be called up whenever needed. But this boy . . . he didn’t need spells. He didn’t need rituals. He didn’t need gods. It was all inside him, held at bay because he felt like it.

But unleashed . . .

Brigida took two painful steps back, away from the boy and his hidden depths.

There went that smirk again and the boy said, “I’m glad to see we understand each other, dear aunt.”

“Boy.”

Brigida moved away from the royal as fast as she could, dragging her nearly dead leg behind her. Now she knew! Now she was sure.

She couldn’t count on any of them to do what needed to be done. To hold this Clan together. It was down to her. Like always.

Her plans immediately changed as she considered the research she’d have to do. The spells she’d have to locate. She knew she was short on time, but now she knew . . . she had no choice. No choice at all.

* * *

Var walked into the middle of a typical morning fight as his mother and Arlais squared off across the dining table. The servants, so used to it all, ignored the pair completely as they began to place food down so that everyone else could eat while the pair squabbled.

Even their dogs got in on it. His mother’s dogs barking at Arlais’s dog. Arlais’s dog snapping back.