Ciara’s mouth fell open, and she strained for a better look. “Sun and sky.”
“TheSyol Lorhr.” Reverence laced Dorian’s voice. He settled back in his chair, the epitome of regal grace. “I always knew your mother liked to collect ancient books. I just never realized she had the first one to ever exist.”
Tiernan looked up, surprised to find Dorian’s eyes lit with fondness. Though he supposed it would be difficult to think of her in any other way; his mother was loved by all.
“This is why we need to find the will ó wisp.” Tiernan tapped the book once, and it opened on a breath, its pages fluttering of its own accord. “Unless any of you can read and translate archaic runes.”
“Aisling could have.” Merrick’s voice was a roughened whisper. “If she was here.”
Ciara’s head snapped up, and she stared at her brother.
Tiernan glanced over his shoulder to where Merrick stood with his hands shoved in his pockets. Sorrow pained his face. Ciara’s expression was a mirror image of her brother’s. Their sister, Aisling, had been born between the both of them. But before the Evernight War, she disappeared without a trace, and no one had seen her since.
Heavy silence settled over the group, the loss of Aisling still felt after so many years.
“Well then, that settles it.” Dorian slowly rose from his seat, gesturing in Tiernan’s direction. “You have my express permission to search the Autumn Court for the will ó wisp.”
“And Winter,” Ciara added, running a finger along the strand of diamonds at her throat. “Should she have fled.”
Lir lifted theSyol Lorhrfrom the table, diligently tucking it beneath his arm. For now, at least, they had some semblance of a plan.
Gradually, everyone bid farewell to one another andfadedout of Niahvess, but Aran stalled, pacing the edge of the ballroom. He approached Tiernan. “A word please, Your Grace?”
“Of course.” Tiernan guided him out of the ballroom so they could talk without interruption.
He stole the barest of looks into Aran’s mind.
His thoughts were at war. They were tumultuous, scattered, and heartrending. There were images of Maeve flying with him through the sky as he taught her how to use her wings. Glimpses of the last time he saw Shay—before Aran was exiled from Faeven. He was in turmoil, his soul filled with regret and pain. The High Prince was breaking.
Tiernan halted and gripped Aran’s shoulders. “She’s safe. I’ll get her back to us, I swear it.”
Aran nodded once. “And Shay?” His voice cracked. “You saw him?”
Tiernan wouldn’t tell him he saw what was left of the former High Prince, after Garvan had tortured and mutilated him. The memory flared to life in his mind. Shay sprawled on the ground of his courtyard, bleeding out, dying, all while Maeve desperately tried to save him. She’d been inconsolable afterwards. He would never wish that kind of pain upon anyone.
“I did.” Tiernan swallowed. “Yes.”
“And his…” Aran struggled to maintain his decorum. He tugged at the deep purple embroidery of his vest and yanked on the collar of his shirt. “His last words?”
Compassion filled Tiernan, but he let his hands fall away from Aran’s shoulders. “That he would’ve loved Maeve from the moment she took her first breath.”
Aran flinched, the inner battle he fought steadily increasing. It was all Tiernan could give him, that piece of comfort, that shred of solace. He only knew Shay’s last words because Maeve had repeated them over and over in her mind, and he’d been unable to ignore her grief.
The High Prince straightened, attempting to compose himself. He didn’t cry, but there was a distinctive sheen in his eyes. “I imagine he was right about that, at least.”
“He was right about many things.”
Aran produced a glamoured leather satchel bound with twine and held it out to him. “The siphoning tools you requested.”
Tiernan accepted it, opening the bag to look inside. It was filled with dozens of crystal devices, all the same, rose quartz and rainbow moonstone. “Let’s hope we won’t need this many.”
“If this is any indication,” Aran said, casting his eyes to the gray skies above them, “I fear we might.”
* * *
Maeve duckedher head against the bite of autumn’s breath. She should’ve grabbed her damn cloak. Yet freezing to death remained a better option than returning to the library and facing Rowan.
Another gust of wind cut through her thin blouse, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Her cheeks burned and her eyes watered. She blinked and looked down, avoiding the stinging breeze, when her shoulder accidentally bumped into someone else.
