Daz turns, impatience etched into his face. “We have no time to discuss this.”

“You can fissure me to the palace,” I say, “but I’m not going to Haeth.”

Leaves crunch to our right. Another fae approaches through the woods. He’s vaguely familiar, but I don’t think he’s one of Kyol’s swordsmen. Most likely, he serves under Radath. Since one fae can’t fissure two humans, his presence makes sense.

“What is wrong?” the new fae asks.

Daz tells him I’m refusing to go to Haeth. I stare at the ground, pretending not to listen as they discuss what to do with me. It’s convenient, though, being able to understand most of what they’re saying, but their conversation makes me uneasy, too. According to them, Radath thinks they can find the false-blood if they attack Haeth. Whether that false-blood is Sethan or Aren, I can’t tell.

The new fae holds up a hand, stopping Daz midsentence. “I will fissure Shane to Haeth. Do what you will with the shadow-reader.”

He motions to Shane, who gives me an almost sheepish shrug. “See you around.”

When they leave, Daz studies me, not looking at all happy. Finally, he lets out a breath and says, “I will take you to the palace.”

NINETEEN

THE FAE KEEPS his word. We fissure to the Silver Palace’s heavily guarded western entrance. Behind me is the outlying city of Corrist and in front is a wall of silver that reaches high into the sky. The portcullis at its base is half-raised. A contingent of Court fae wait on the other side, crossbows nocked and aimed. They lower their weapons only after Daz says something about the deceit of kimkis. At least, I think that’s what he says. It must be a pass-phrase because the guards let us enter.

The capital’s wealthiest merchants have shops inside the walls. The streets are crowded, but we travel quickly—or rather, as quickly as I can since my human pace slows Daz down—and enter beneath the Silver Palace’s southernmost spire. I’ve never toured any of Europe’s castles, which is a shame since it would be easy to have Kyol fissure me over there, but I imagine the interiors are similar in some ways: the stone walls, the intricate tapestries, the woven carpets running down the length of the corridor. Not the orbs set into sconces, though. They cast a blue-white light over the stone walls, subduing the atmosphere, making it feel cool and quiet.

“Wait here,” Daz says. He heads toward the king’s hall before I have a chance to say okay.

There are worse places to wait, though. I’m in the palace’s sculpture garden. With its marble floor, glass ceiling, and chiseled stone statues, the place is beautiful. Serene, too. The open-air courtyard is drenched with the morning’s sunlight. It spills over the fae sitting on stone benches or standing in clutches, deep in conversation.

“McKenzie?”

I don’t recognize the voice, wouldn’t recognize the fae either if he didn’t have a braid of premthyste in his silky gray hair. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Lord Raen, elder of Cyneayen, high noble of Tayshken, but now I see Kelia in the slant of his nose and the shape of his eyes. Those eyes dart around as if he’s afraid someone will see him talking to me. Every fae here will notice us—the edarratae make me kind of hard to miss.

“McKenzie,” he says again. He looks toward the sky as if he can find an English translation for what he wants to say written in the wispy clouds. “My daughter, Kelia.” He takes an unsteady breath, looks at me, and emphasizes, “Kelia. Is she okay?”

I stand there, force a confused frown, and pretend not to understand him, but a knot of sympathy tightens in my stomach.

“Sidhe.” He runs a hand over his face. “You . . . you would know her name, I think, if you had met her. I need . . .” He glances around the sculpture garden again. “I need a translator, but it’s unwise . . .”

I can’t follow the rest of what he says. Poor guy. I don’t know how long Kelia’s been with the rebellion, but he’s obviously distraught over it. I want to comfort him, to tell him she’s okay or she will be, once I find a way to make the Court release Naito. Instead, I cross my arms and keep my mouth shut.

“Walk with me a moment. Walk.” Lord Raen moves his middle and forefinger like miniature legs.

I’m uncomfortable with it, but I fall into step beside him. Fae are looking at us now. Some of those clustered in conversation have switched the topic of discussion to us, I’m sure. Raen ignores them, staring at the marble floor as we pass another sculpture. I don’t know what it’s called, but Kyol told me it represents the Tar Sidhe, the magically powerful fae who ruled the Realm centuries ago. I think the figures look like they represent the elements, though I don’t know why there are five instead of four. Earth, wind, fire, air, and . . .

“Her mother blames me,” Raen says. “I think she’s right. I shouldn’t have . . .” He shouldn’t have something. He’d be easier to understand if he wasn’t mumbling to himself. “But the human, he’s not good for her. Or he wasn’t. He would have destroyed her magic, made her tor’um. Kelia’s always been too infatuated with your world.”

I think he needs to talk, so I listen, careful not to react to anything he says.

“Maybe she would forgive me if I could give him back to her. Impossible now. The sword-master’s killed him. She’ll never speak to me again.”

Ice settles in my stomach. I stop walking. “What?”

Lord Raen meets my eyes, brow furrowed.

Maybe I mistranslated what he said. Kyol gave me his word—he promised me—Naito was okay.

“Naito,” I say, needing him to repeat his words.

“The human?”

I nod. He shakes his head.

“Kelia is my daughter. Kelia. Did you see her?”

I open my mouth to speak, close it. There are too many fae around and if he’s right . . . No. He can’t be right. Kyol wouldn’t lie about Naito being okay. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

Without an explanation, I leave Lord Raen. I have to talk to Kyol. I have to ask him again if Naito is alive. This time, I have to be willing to see a lie.

DAZ intercepts me before I enter the king’s hall. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t call me out for not waiting where he left me. He turns, leading me to the huge, open, gilded doors. Four swordsmen, two on each side, guard the entrance. They let us enter, and we step onto a plush blue carpet. It stretches all the way to the far end of the hall, stopping at the foot of the massive, silver dais on which the king’s throne sits. It’s vacant. Only a dozen swordsmen watch me from their posts.

I force myself to continue. Even though the silver walls surrounding the palace make it impossible for fae to fissure here, silver is the main decor. Some of it, like the sculpture of interlinked geometric shapes hanging on the wall, is infused with magic. It sparkles with a shimmery blue light similar to the fae’s edarratae when they’re in my world.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles, but I can’t leave. I have to know the truth. If Kyol lied to me about Naito, he could have lied about other things. He could have lied about everything.

God, please—please—let Naito be alive.

Daz leads me past the silver dais and gestures to an opening in the back wall. “Through there.”