Page 41 of A Dawn of Gods & Fury

“How have things been here?” I ask, admiring the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Untamed blond curls frame her pretty face.

“Wonderful, in some ways. Between Eden and Pan and the nymphs, Mika and Lilou are entertained from morning until night, passing out from exhaustion before I can get them into their baths. It makes the long nights with Suri easier. I think she’s starting to teethe.”

“But you feel safe?”

“Oh, yes. The first night when they came, well, that was terrifying.” She laughs nervously. “But they like to play and so do my children.”

“Good. With all that’s happening out there, I’m glad you guys are in here. No Nulling beast is getting past those gates.”

“That’s good.” Yet she wears a worried expression. “Is there any news of what is happening in Cirilea? And elsewhere?”

“Zander left to learn what he could, but I haven’t had a chance to speak to him yet.” I know what she’s really asking, though. “He went to the east to look for Atticus. There was a large army waiting, one Atticus wasn’t prepared for and did not have enough men to fight.” In the last moments before Bexley abandoned her elven form for good, she warned that the only way Atticus would survive such a battle would be if someone found more value in him alive than dead, and he would not go willingly. I say as gently as I can, “I don’t know that you’ll see him again.”

“I understand.” Gracen blinks back tears. “I will remain hopeful.”

I’m sure she will. She’ll likely hold out hope for the rest of her days, keeping her life on pause while she waits for the improbable. But will Atticus even return to her, if he returns? She and her children have suffered so much at the hands of these elven. Will she suffer more, waiting for a day that will never come?

Gracen only ever saw one side of Atticus—the kind, caring version who saved her and her children from Lord Danthrin’s malice. I’m sure it was a dream—a mortal baker who sparked the interest of a king.

But there is—or was—a spiteful and arrogant side too. That side betrayed Zander twice. Not only did he steal the throne from him, but he would have stolen his bride had Princess Romeria not been scheming. And Atticus would have executed me.

That side of him, I can’t forgive.

Is it fair that I sully this false image of a martyr for Gracen, though? Who am I protecting more by remaining quiet?

I hesitate, but I can’t help myself. “You should know that we wrote to Atticus and told him about Ulysede and the end of the blood curse. He probably didn’t believe us, but either way, he knew it was a possibility and he allowed the killing of mortals to continue. All those people … they didn’t need to die.”

A small gasp slips from her lips, and the tears she tried to keep at bay flow freely.

A twinge of guilt pricks me now that the words are out, but I push on, softening my voice. “I’m not telling you that to hurt you, Gracen. He was very kind to you and your children. But if you’re going to mourn Atticus, I think it’s fair that you know who you’re mourning.” And if that makes me a villain in this scenario, so be it.

Jarek pokes his head in, freshly bathed, his braids redone. “He is prowling.”

I don’t have to ask who Jarek means. The disdain on his face says it all.

My stomach flips with nerves. “All right, let’s get this over with.” The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can test that door to Nyos.

“Wait!” Gracen bursts out, wiping her palms over her cheeks to dry her tears. “Before you go—Wendeline told me something about Suri that you should know, Your Highness.” She steals a glance at Dagny and the baby and then lowers her voice. “She said Suri was born with an affinity to Aoife.”

My mouth gapes as I study the tiny sleeping bundle. “But … How?”

She shrugs. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

Could the nymphs’ power have brought caster children back to Islor? But the baby was born before Hudem. “Honestly, I don’t know. But there is someone who might.” Whether she helps is another question.

With quick goodbyes, I step out into the hallway and find Oredai waiting.

The queen must attend the elders.

I grimace at his unwelcome intrusion into my thoughts as I wave a hand. “Yes, yes. Lead the way.”

The outdoor court that houses my throne is exactly as it was before—an ancient, unkempt garden of clawing vines and weeping trees, the air warm and fragrant—only now it’s occupied by wisps and those odd little goblin-like nymphs who lounge idly around the black stone pillars, pretending to tend to the many blooms.

The Cindrae march in single file, encircling the entrance to Lucretia’s crypt.

But my focus veers beyond it, to my prickly throne of white branches and polished metals, and the circle of bony silver spikes that sits on the forest-green velvet seat. “My crown! How did it get here?”

The elders wish an audience with the Queen for All.

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