Page 62 of The Shadow Heir

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot speak of it.”

I sighed, my eyes flicking to the title of the book on top of his stack.Herbal Remedies of the Southern Plains.

“Was the heir reading those?” I asked as the man once again turned to walk away.

“Yes.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Why would you want to?”

I schooled my expression as best I could. “Maybe I have a poison to test on him.”

The servant coughed.

“So you do know something about it,” I said.

The man took a few brisk steps, shaking his head as he went. As I hurried to follow, he shot me a puzzled look and said, “He was on his way to the weapons range, I believe.”

I stopped pursuing him, resting my hands on my hips. “Thank you.”

The door to the weapons range opened to a small tunnel that bored through several feet of rock before opening up into a cavern so smooth it must have been made by magic. No stalactites or dripping cave walls in here. The space was pristine, polished to a shine, and dotted with stone statues laden with weapons of every kind. The statues depicted male and female fae warriors in their shadow forms, wings lifted skyward.

Wide chandeliers—thankfully, not full of monsters—hung down the center of the arched ceiling, casting thin white magical light into every corner and illuminating two lone figures locked in a rapid duel in the far-left quadrant of the vast range.

I paused as I stepped from the tunnel to the wide, arched space, mesmerized by their blurred movements as they fought faster than my eyes could follow. One wore a white shirt and dark pants and had short hair. The other had long hair that paled at the ends and flung wildly around her twisting body.

My lips parted as the two royals jabbed, dodged, parried, flipped, and dove, steel flashing and grunts echoing. I realized then that Alba had gone easy on me in our sparring session the other day—veryeasy. Any human who chose to fight a fae in a real battle had lost before they’d ever begun. The memory of sticking an iron dagger in Casimiro’s stomach brought an unexpected chuckle to my lips.

The figure in white paused immediately at the sound, his attention snapping toward the door where I stood.

His sister lunged directly at him with a victorious scream, but he was already gone, a wisp of smoke vanishing near the chandelier over their heads.

I blinked, and Casimiro materialized before me. Sweat matted his hair against his forehead and his chest glistened with droplets that drew my eye. His features appeareddifferent, less polished, less glowingly perfect. Then he wiped the sweat with the back of his arm and his features smoothed to their former perfection. He’d had his glamour down.

And before he’d erected it again, I’d seen a pale line running from his throat past the collar of his shirt.

A scar.

This immortal had at least one scar, and I suddenly wondered where else he might carry the reminders of past wounds. Did he have a scar where I’d wounded him? He cleared his throat, and the muscles in my shoulders twitched, as if he’d read on my face that I was envisioning his abdomen.

“Valencia.”

My eyes flicked up to his. Why wasIsweating? I wasn’t the one who’d been dueling. I smoothed the front of my flowy dress.

“I…I spoke with a servant but did not learn anything.”

Casimiro’s brow lifted. “You came here to tell me you learned nothing?”

My chin jutted upward. He was so much taller than me that when he stood this close I felt like a petulant child demanding my way. He likely enjoyed staring down his nose at me. “You did not give me any directions or helpful tips.” My arms lifted briefly at my sides, but I quieted my unease and clasped my hands at my waist, the way a proper lady should. “You told me only that the servants can’t speak of the one topic you ordered me to talk to them about. Seems a bit unfair.”

Alba strolled quietly across the vast space, still carrying her sword in her hand. Casimiro’s sword lay abandoned on the floor at the back of the room, appearing no larger than a needle from where we stood.

Casimiro leaned forward, his dark eyes narrow. “You’ll figure something out.”

“Don’t you have magic for this sort of thing?” I hissed, feeling Alba’s approach like a thief feels the approach of a guard. “Spells you can cast to force the truth out?”

“In certain situations, yes,” he replied. “But I don’t feel like lecturing you on the difference between a binding spell, a geas, and a curse, all of which can prevent someone from speaking.”

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