Another war. Dark magic didn’t die with Rayghast. Its power slunk beneath the earth, lying in wait for the next zealous, destructive soul to tap into it. Someday soon, Marai would face it again.

“There’s something important we’re missing. I need to know why I can see,” said Keshel. “Why you are so powerful, despite being half-fae. When I’m satisfied, I’ll return here. To you.”

Marai knew she had a part to play in this decision. If she’d asked him to stay, promised him something, he would have agreed, but Marai could promise Keshel nothing. Because she’d already given her heart away so thoroughly that there was never any coming back. Marai could never belong to another. She knew that now.

“Then I expect letters. Frequently. Detailing your findings.”

Keshel’s lips twitched. His eyes softened. “Yes.”

“You should look into Andara.”

Keshel froze. “Why?”

“Other fae escaped the massacres. The weres traveled to Nevandia with one, remember? And I met another on the docks in Cleaving Tides, and he told me that Andara might hold answers. Perhaps they’ve all been hiding over there.”

Keshel’s lips formed a thin line, as if holding back a remark. Instead, he nodded. “Maybe.”

Marai narrowed her eyes in suspicion. Cagey again, but she decided not to question him further. Perhaps this was merely Keshel’s way of dealing with grief. A melancholy washed over Marai as she heard a duo of thrushes chirp in a nearby tree.

“Can you take me to their graves?” she asked quietly, staring at the flowers surrounding the pond. “Please.”

Keshel stood, offering Marai his hand. Together, they walked back through the garden, into the entry hall, and through the portcullis. Slowly, they made their way through the streets of Kellesar and out the main gate. People stared and pointed at them openly, not all in malice and judgment.

Mounds of earth appeared across the moor; rows and rows of recently dug graves in this newly-erected cemetery. Nevandia had lost hundreds of lives. The sight seemed astronomical to Marai. Staggering. Keshel ushered her past a solemn woman and her two young girls placing flowers upon a grave. Marai turned her head away. She couldn’t watch them grieve.

Finally, Keshel stopped at two mounds of brown earth dug side-by-side. Their headstones had their first names etched crudely, permanently, into the gray rock. Marai knelt between them, placing one hand on each gravestone, allowing her fingers to trace the letters.

She remembered what Raife had said: they’d died with honor, fighting for what they believed in. Perhaps that was true, but Marai knew she’d never look at another fiery sunset, another blossoming flower, without thinking of Leif and Kadiatu.

She and Keshel stayed, for how long, Marai couldn’t tell. Until the tears dried on their cheeks. Until her hands stopped shaking.

“I’d like to see Queen Rhia,” Marai said, changing the subject before grief entirely overcame her. Keshel frowned in response. “There are things I want to speak with her about.”

An hour later, Marai and Keshel walked down into the depths of the dungeons below the castle.

“Why is she down here?” Marai asked. This dungeon was nothing like the ominous prison of Dul Tanen. There were no sounds of torture. No rivers of blood on the floor. No nasty instruments and weapons. Only soldiers locked in clean cells.

“She was offered more fitting accommodations, but she kept cursing and screaming at Raife and Aresti, accusing them of using dark magic, too. She caused such a ruckus that Prince Ruenen worried she might convince others into thinking the same. We locked her down here two days ago; she’s been much calmer since.”

Keshel led Marai to the farthest cell from the stairs, passing a group of finely dressed Tacornian nobles. A woman sat in a chair wearing a red and black robe-dress in the Varanese style. Her black hair was lank and lackluster over her face, hands pale in her lap. She sat subdued, dark eyes unfeeling as she gazed out the small barred window above her.

“Your Grace,” Marai said as she approached the cell bars.

Rhia didn’t move. “I was wondering when you’d come to interrogate me . . . the monstrosity my husband feared so.” Her voice was cold, harsh.

“I think you know your husband was more of a monster than I.”

“You turned hundreds of men to ash with your magic,” the queen seethed. “You’re no better than Rayghast.”

Marai scowled. “You sent your sister to us for safety. Clearly, you feared Rayghast and trusted Prince Ruenen to take care of her. Did you know that he’d corrupted Nevandian lands with dark magic? That he created creatures of shadow that have attacked both Tacornians and Nevandians?”

“Are you asking if I was complicit in his atrocities?” Rhia turned slightly. Her hair fell away from her face, revealing black, necrotic, flaking skin upon her cheeks, forehead, and neck. Her teeth and jaw were visible through her cheek; the flesh burned away.

Marai held back her horror. She wouldn’t insult this woman, not when dark magic had done this to her.

“I found out when it was already too late. I couldn’t stop my father from sending his troops, from sending Eriu, although I tried. I sowed the seeds of doubt in Dul Tanen, and he would have had me and my ladies killed for it. I’m glad Rayghast is dead,” Rhia said, voice as sharp as a shard of ice. “All those with magic in their blood should be punished.”

“We’ve been nothing but kind to you and your sister—” Keshel began, but Marai put a hand on his arm.

“Don’t bother. You won’t persuade her,” she said dryly.

“What will happen to Eriu?” asked the queen.

“She’ll be sent back to Varana after the coronation,” Keshel said, scowling.

Coronation? Marai had forgotten . . . Ruenen still needed to be crowned king.

“And myself?” Rhia posed. “The people of Tacorn have no love for me, I assure you. I held no power there under my husband’s rule.”

“Prince Ruenen is debating what to do,” said Keshel. “Your home country of Varana allied itself with Tacorn. We cannot send you back there for fear of you striking up another war.”

Rhia laughed darkly, shaking her head. “Men crave war. We women must deal with the aftereffects. I don’t expect a pardon. I’m the Queen of Tacorn, Princess of Varana. You have every reason to hold me hostage. Besides, my father will not accept me back, not with this face. I’m no longer his problem. Spoiled goods.”

Marai regarded the queen, so rigid in her chair. She was a performer, like Ruenen. There was no doubt Rhia was strong and intelligent. She played her part well, and kept her true feelings always hidden. Marai understood what it had cost Rhia . . . she did what was necessary to survive in a world that treated women as objects. How had she endured Rayghast when three other wives had perished before her?  What daily fear she must have felt.

“I’ll send the Royal Healer to see what she can do for your face,” Marai said.

Rhia hadn’t asked for this life, and now she would be forever marked by Rayghast.

However, Rhia’s eyes narrowed. “I won’t let that faerie’s dirty hands touch me. No one will touch me ever again.”

The queen’s words had a familiar ring; words Marai, herself, had echoed for years.

“Thora can possibly heal the effects of magic on your skin. But if you’d rather look like that for the rest of your days than be touched by a faerie, so be it.”

Rhia stared back at the wall, ignoring Marai’s comment. That earlier compassion and empathy dwindled away. Clearly, one could be a victim, but also blinded by deep-seated prejudice.

Best give her time to cool down. I needed time before I met Ruen.

Marai marched back to the main entry hall with Keshel behind her.

“Not all minds can be swayed,” he said. “Some prejudices run too deep.”

“That may be true, but does she deserve to spend the rest of her life in a cell, merely because she was forced to marry a madman?”

“That will be Prince Ruenen’s decision.”

Marai grew suddenly weary and closed her eyes. The weight of all the work that still needed to be done was inordinate. She swayed, using the cane for support.