Page 23 of Haunted

The empress… I say.

She will pay, Neifion whispers.

Am I right to suspect her?

Before Siarl’s illness he was in good health. Feeble but healthy.

That means nothing, I say. We don’t know what caused his death.

It’s convenient. Right after he announces your rule, he dies. You are the first immortal to take rule over a region. How many more will follow?

Do you think that is what she plans, immortals to take over?

I’m surprised she hasn’t forced the humans off their thrones, Neifion says.

The thought has occurred to me before. Why not replace the mortal lords with half-emrys?

You must be ready for whatever happens next, Neifion says.

Our conversation has distracted me. My body no longer feels as if it’s about to explode. How long must I endure this torment? How long must I gaze upon her cold countenance?

The empress trusts you. We must move forward and meet with the lords.

I pull myself up and stumble to the window. I fling back the draperies and work the lock on the window. When the latch is free, I shove the panes open and gulp the fresh air. My home is so unlike Morvith, one of the ugliest places on Bryn. If I return to that oppressive place, I might die.

Neifion, come get me.

A foul, unwelcome aura permeates my chambers before Neifion can respond. I jerk upright but don’t turn around as a wall of chill sweeps my body. She’s found me, and her power tries bending me to her, compelling me to turn.

I ignore her presence.

The empress brushes closer. Her cloak combs the carpet as she walks forward. Its whish is as gentle as her breaths.

Be strong, Neifion says. He leaves me just enough so I can focus, but his courage beats through my chest.

Her hand drops over mine, where my nails have clawed at the sill. The pale tan of the scratches in the dark wood echo the figurative slashes in my spirit.

Her fingers stretch over my knuckles until her hand softens. Without meaning too, my aching tendons release, and my hand flattens.

“Caedryn,” she coos. Her fingers drop between my knuckles, and she bends our digits together.

My nostrils flare as I glare at her. She’s dressed from the banquet. A deep burgundy gown, so rare for her to wear, drowns her figure with brocaded fabric. It’s so absurd the way the garment enhances her femininity. An odd thought makes me scoff.

I didn’t know she possessed the quality.

The empress stares at our hands entwined. She pays my derisive murmur no mind. After a minute more, she dares open her mouth. Her voice is muted in a manner I’ve never associated with her sharp mouth. “I lost my father.”

The garden below, with its vibrant greenery, steals my gaze. How can she speak of her father to me when she was the one who murdered him? “Siarl wasn’t my father.”

Her head turns my way, begging me to look at her. “But you think of him as one.”

My father’s murder swims into my mind. I was too young to remember it, but when I was older, mother allowed me to see into her memories. She showed me the brutal horror so I’d never forget. He was hunted down, executed for loving a mortal. I must not forget that his death was by the empress’s word.

“I knew no other father,” I say of Lord Siarl.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Are you?”

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