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  Her dark eyes widened, and she shook her head. “It's no use. It was placed on me by one of the Seer Fey at the command of Liam himself. The only one who can remove it is another Seer Fey.”

  “Not just a Pixie? It must be Seer Fey taibe?”

  “Aye, from what I understand.”

  Cedric nodded. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I'll work on it.”

  “Cedric, you—”

  “No arguments.” He squeezed her hand. “You may be stubborn, but I am, too, and I'll press the point all night if I have to.”

  Ashleen's eyes darkened even more in the shadows of the apothecary's room. “Cedric, you must tell me everything that happened while I slept. Quickly, before the apothecary returns.”

  Cedric stared at her. “The Elf.”

  “The what?” Confusion raised a dark brow.

  “The Elf in the woods as we trekked through the Rues. When Lianna freed me from the cage on the Forgotten Plains, and we passed through the Elven Ward in the dead of night, you slipped away and spoke with someone. It was an Elf, wasn't it?” He stared seriously at her. “You're part of the resistance, aren't you?”

  “Shh!” Her fingers tightened on his. “If even a hint of that leaks to the wrong people, many deaths will result.” She leaned forward with a grimace of pain. “Yes, there is a resistance; yes, it has been forming for some time, but as yet, we are an underground group with no formation and no leader.”

  “I see.” Cedric shot a glance at the door, closed against the drafty coolness of the open-air corridor. “I don't know much.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I am not privy to Erlane's Councils; I am his prisoner, though he treats me more as a guest because he hopes to make use of me. He may allow me into his Council chambers at some point as he wishes to use my skills with his Dragons to fight Sebastian; his steward told me as much only yesterday.”

  “And will you? Fight Sebastian, I mean?” She pushed herself higher against her cushions, grunting in frustration at the pain.

  Cedric sat on the hard, wooden chair. His fingers rubbed restlessly over the rough, woolen blanket. “No. I hate Sebastian, but I don't wish to take part in the war; I have no allegiance either to Sebastian or to Erlane. I wait only for your healing, and then, we'll escape.”

  Ashleen stared at him incredulously. “You. You'll escape, Cedric. I can't. With the tracking spell, I would lead them directly to you.”

  Cedric shifted uncomfortably. “I have a plan—of sorts. I just have to tweak a few things.”

  Her eyebrows winged upward. “What is it?”

  “You'll see.” He swallowed. “If I can work everything out, you'll be free from your tracking spell, and we'll both be free from the walls of ClarenVale. If it doesn't work, likely both of us will be dead. Does it still hold your interest?”

  Ashleen's dark eyes seemed to swallow him up. “Of course it does. You gave your freedom to save my life. It's the least I can do.”

  * * *

  Cedric wandered into the courtyard outside the kitchens that sprawled across an interior wall of ClarenVale. He had no idea how extensive the castle and surrounding city was. He'd gained a glimpse of a portion of the city that slanted down a hill into the mountains behind the walls, but he wouldn't be able to visit it. He glanced behind him at the guards that watched him from various positions around the courtyard. Erlane hadn't given him much unguarded leave.

  His father had ruled from the very throne where he'd seen Nicholas Erlane for the first time. Liam's hands had gripped the sides of the throne, his feet had paced the steps of the dais as he'd struggled to dispense wisdom and leadership to the people of Lismaria.

  His father had set in place systems of justice, and Sebastian's coup had torn down those systems and imposed tyranny with the Dimn method.

  Then do something. Ashleen's challenge from weeks ago burned into his consciousness.

  What can I do?

  Cedric's stomach rumbled; it had been hours since he'd eaten, and he wondered if he could be fortunate enough to find any leftover meat in the kitchens. He motioned to the kitchen door, eyeing one of the guards. “I'm going to find food.”

  The guard nodded, and Cedric stepped into the light of the moon, glancing around as he made his way to the open doorway. The clatter of wooden trenchers sounded inside, and a general hubbub of people as they worked. A kitchen boy stood near the door.

  “Have you any bread?” Cedric asked.

  The boy glanced over his shoulder at someone inside. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a roll at Cedric. “Be off with you,” he growled. “T'chef don't like beggars.”

  Cedric deftly caught the roll and bit into it as he turned back to the courtyard, sinking to a crouch beneath the lone tree. His guards had lost interest in him. They leaned against the far walls. One snoozed. Another picked his teeth with a short knife.

  “You look like your father.”

  The voice arrested him. It was low and clear and came from beside him. The guards didn't react; they were too far away. Cedric glanced into the shadows beyond the tree. A lean figure lounged against the trunk, nearly blending in with it.

  Cedric stood slowly, still facing the guards. “You knew my father?”

  “Many of us did.” The figure straightened. It was a rail thin boy whose brown hair stuck straight up on his head, “Us, meaning the Dryads. Nicholas Erlane had most of the remaining supporters of King Liam deported or killed after he took the throne. It's harder to do that with tree people. The trees are our home, so our roots go deep, so to speak.” His mouth twitched upward in the shadow of a smile.

  “I see.” Cedric took another bite of his roll. The guard who snoozed slumped into a squat against the wall. The other glanced at Cedric, but didn't react. The Dryad was out of his line of sight.

  “I had understood that Erlane was an amicable ruler,” Cedric commented, his voice low. “I thought that most Lismarian citizens were happy beneath his reign.” Bits and pieces of conversation he'd heard in Sebastian's dungeons, gossip from across the Channel, bit into his consciousness.

  The boy shrugged. “Some are, some aren't. It's the case with any ruling monarch; even Liam had his naysayers—Sebastian, for one. In any case, many creatures and humans in Lismaria don't care for a Pixie's reign.”

  Cedric's eyebrows arched. “I thought Erlane's creaturehood wasn't generally known.”

  The boy's eyes twinkled in the moonlight. “So it isn't. But I know more than most, living where I do.” He touched the tree's bark.

  “If Erlane is a Pixie, why does he not have more sympathy with the creatures under his reign?”

  The boy shook his head, glancing at the dark towers that made up the palace. “I've heard a lot of talk and discussion, but nothing solid comes to mind. My suspicion is that Erlane is jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Cedric caught his voice before it slipped out too loud. The guard across the courtyard slapped a mosquito.

  “Aye. He ruled Sanlia, our neighbor to the east, and spent years as a friend and ally to Liam. He was more often in Lismaria than his own country, so he had plenty of opportunity to watch Liam's handling of the creatures, the power at his fingertips. Stories have arisen from Sanlia that talk of Erlane's struggles to maintain power. He wanted what Liam had. Sadly, it seems he's taking Sebastian's way to power instead of Liam's. Oppression, even of his own kind.”

  “I wonder how much his niece has to do with that.”

  The boy's eyes narrowed. “You may be right. Nicholas Erlane does little without guidance from the Lady Lianna.”

  “What name do you go by?” Cedric asked.

  “Skandar.” The boy sketched a bow to Cedric. “Count me in the portion of the population that maintains a loyalty to Liam and his heirs, and there are many here. The trees talk, and Liam's followers still maintain the majority, at least among the Dryads.”

  Cedric twisted his lips as a thought struck him. “You communicate via the trees?”

  “Aye.”

  Thought
s flew through Cedric's head, thick and fast. “The trees are everywhere.”

  “Aye, they are.”

  “Does a Dryad inhabit each one?”

  “Most, unless the Dryad is killed. The tree wilts and dies not long afterward, then.”

  “It's not like psuche, is it? If either partner of a psuche connection dies, the other does as well.”

  “Nay, not quite. The trees are like homes for Dryads. Once a Dryad dies, the home is no longer needed. So the tree dies as well. But there is no soul connection there.”

  Cedric shifted, careful not to draw undue attention from the guards. “Would you—” Cedric stumbled as he raced to formulate plans in his head. “Would you be able to send a message for me? Even across the Channel of Lise?”

  An eyebrow rose on Skandar's forehead as he stroked the bark of his tree. “It would be feasible. Not all trees are as malleable as mine,” he winked impishly at it, “but most will at least carry messages from Dryad to Dryad. The wild eagles who fly regularly between the Marron Mountains and the Rues deliver messages in the leaves, as many as their beaks can carry; the messages whisper our words to the trees and Dryads across water. Why?”

  “Listen closely. I have a message to send to a Pixie named Lincoln.”

  “And what will you say?” Skandar asked.

  Cedric swallowed the last of his bread before he spoke. A smoky wisp of a wish stood that he, Ember, and Ashleen might make it out of this alive. But only a wisp. He'd known too many smoke screens to drift away before the winds of the coming storms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sebastian

  Sebastian's eyes stayed closed even as he came out of his waking sleep. When he opened his eyes, he glanced at the trees that surrounded him and the mark in the leafy forest floor where he'd skidded to a stop after a dead run and collapsed, exhausted. The fight had terrified him, and the shattering of the morphing ball of ice and fire had flooded him with questions. He needed to find the Seer Fey to discover answers.

  He shuddered as he relived the fight with the boy in his memory—had it not been for the shattered sphere, hurling him across the clearing and into the woods, he would have died. But the sphere had blown Ayden and him apart with a surge of power he'd never felt in all his years of practicing taibe. He'd scrambled for his sword and dagger and run.

  He shifted again, probing his side. The day before, the icy pain had been intense where the sword had pierced his skin during the attempted coup on the mountaintop. Traitorous dogs.

  The pain had eased to nearly nothing. He pushed aside his tunic. A thin red line marred his skin, but beyond that there was nothing. No open wound, not even a trace of the ice he'd covered it with yesterday.

  He struggled to put together the events that had brought him here. Something about that sphere of fire and ice—when it had hurled him across the clearing, he'd felt as if all the stars in the heavens had exploded inside of him, the sensation at once so raw and painful and all-consuming, that he'd blacked out.

  He lowered his tunic and leaned his head back against a tree, his eyes sliding shut once again. His face felt cold in the crisp autumn morning. He kept still, wishing he could erase the frost from beneath his gloves. The leaves in front of him shifted.

  His eyes snapped open. A hooded, bent figure blocked the morning's sun.

  “What, I wonder, is the King of West Ashwynd doing alone on the wooded slopes of the Marron Mountains?” It was a woman's voice, ragged with age. A splice of pain slammed against his ankle; she'd hit it with the end of a gnarled cane. Her cowl draped over her head, but two thick braids hung down the front of her mantle, brushing the leaves on the ground. They were a vivid shade of purple.

  Sebastian scrambled to his feet. The woman tilted her head so Sebastian could see the face beneath the hood. Wrinkles lined her skin, but her eyes were what held his attention. A milky haze coated them, completely obscuring iris and pupil.

  “You're blind,” he murmured, horrified by her empty gaze.

  “But I can see quite well, oh King, that you seek answers from the Ancients. The Ancients have found you. Come with me.”

  * * *

  The hike up the mountain was arduous, and Sebastian had difficulty keeping up with the Seer Fey Pixie who climbed over boulders as if they were dust beneath her feet. Her cane did little to help her, but she never set it aside for a moment.

  They reached the crest, and frigid air bit into Sebastian's lungs as he followed the woman along a winding trail into deep riffs in the rocks.

  They rounded a sudden curve in a stone crevice and found a valley laid out far, far below. The castle of ClarenVale looked like a small circle from these heights.

  Sebastian swallowed, suddenly weak.

  His castle.

  His home.

  His throne.

  A surge of memory hit him so strongly, he sank onto the nearest boulder and clamped his teeth hard against his lip to prevent tears; he wouldn't show such weakness.

  Seb, you can't even hold a sword properly. Look at you, a great lily out on the training field, wishing to be a man like the rest of us.

  Liam's face had been cruel that day, and—typically—he'd made the comment in front of his friends, who'd laughed and nudged one another.

  “Who had the last laugh, Liam?” Sebastian whispered through stiff lips, facing the ghost of his memory with bitterness in his heart.

  “Come.” The Seer Fey's voice croaked behind him, and Sebastian turned. “Paik and the Council await.” She motioned him into a tunnel in a rock wall.

  The darkness was like pitch for several steps until Sebastian entered a room lined with stones casting hues of all colors across the cavern. In a large circle, eleven bent forms huddled on the ground. In Sebastian's peripheral vision, he saw the old Seer Fey who'd found him on the mountain take her seat in the one empty space in the circle. The Seer Fey Council was complete.

  In the darkness of the cavern, beyond sight, he heard murmurs and rustling, the conversation of the audience of Seer Fey who waited on the Ancients. Sebastian wondered how many of them crowded the limitless caverns beyond this one.

  “Sit, oh King.” The figure nearest the back wall motioned to a bench in the center of their circle. Sebastian assumed this must be the leader, Paik.

  Sebastian moved forward, bowing, calling on every ounce of dignity and court decorum he'd learned in all his years. “Greetings, most wise and respected Ancients. I come from West Ashwynd, seeking your advice and your help.”

  Silence and expectation were heavy weights in the stone chamber. As the quiet thickened, the leader tipped his head once more to the bench, and anger flushed through Sebastian. The Council was waiting for him to obey their request. How dare they treat a King in such a manner?

  His first urge was to strike out, but ancient taibe coated the room, and Sebastian knew the urge was foolish. He backstepped to the bench and sank onto it, facing the leader. The Ancients, as one, lowered their mantles. Sebastian hadn't known exactly what to expect. He'd never seen the Ancients, though he'd seen lesser Seer Fey, and even had a few living in West Ashwynd under his rule.

  Their colored hair refracted weirdly in the filtered light from the entrance. The one who'd led him up the mountain had the dullest hair and the milkiest eyes, though creases lined all their faces, and none of them looked directly at him. They reminded Sebastian of the frogs he used to dig out of the waterways beneath ClarenVale—the creatures had been blinded for so long, they had no idea how to handle light.

  And yet, the Ancient one had assured him that she could see, proving it by climbing the Marron Mountains.

  The leader spoke. “I am Paik, Grand-Master of the Council of the Ancients. Kayeck has brought you to us and told us that you come seeking aid.”

  Sebastian glanced once more at the purple-haired Seer Fey who had led them up to the cave and returned his attention to Paik, the Seer Fey spokesman.

  “Aye. I wish to ask your counsel regarding the Amulet, given of blood an
d fire to my ancestor, Aarkan the Firebringer.”

  The Ancients leaned closer to him. Low murmurs echoed in the darkness.

  Paik cracked his thin lips. “What counsel do you seek of the Ancients, King?”

  Sebastian smoothed the scruff on his chin. “I was given the Amulet four months ago by a boy—”

  A collective gasp echoed in the chamber. Sebastian returned his hand to his lap. “—But when the boy placed the Amulet in my hands, taibe split the room. Almost since that moment, I have uncontrollable pain that never leaves me. The pain brings this ... ice ... to all that I touch.” He lifted his gloved hand, and frost glittered in the colored light. “I have—turned men into statues with a simple brush of my skin.”

  Low murmurs reverberated in the chamber. The Ancients bent their heads toward each other in tense discussion, shooting furtive glances at him.

  “The Ice-Touch is no plaything, King.” Kayeck's voice quieted the room, turning Sebastian toward her.

  “I did not say it was.” Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “I only came to ask how to be rid of it. If such a curse—if such an Ice-Touch—came from the Amulet of the Ancients, then surely the Ancients can tell me how to dispel the taibe that cursed me when I took the Amulet?”

  “One cannot be rid of it.” Paik's dry, dusty voice pulled Sebastian's attention back to him again, and the Seer Fey pushed to his feet. He moved forward until he was only a length from the King. “One can never be rid of a Touch; one can only redirect it.”

  Sebastian stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  Paik did not immediately answer. He turned to the Council. “Fellow Seer Fey, is this not the time to discover answers for ourselves?”