Page 17 of Horn of Winter

“If my father hired her services, he would not have done it through the council. It would have been more personal in nature.”

An interesting comment, given just how deeply Myrkálfar fingers were in the black-market pie. They certainly had more hope than the average human or even Ljósálfar elf of finding missing goods. “Was the note you found about one of those tasks?”

“It is more a task in waiting, and simply said, ‘Contact Meabh Aodhán and ask her to find Geitha. You will need it for the coronation to keep the Dorcha Dearg throne safe from challengers.’”

Dorcha Dearg, the main Myrkálfar encampment in this area, and situated on—and under—the Peckfort Ridges to the west of Deva. I’d never been there, of course, but I’d seen plenty of photos of the weighty but wondrously exotic buildings that ran the length of the ridge. Over the centuries it had become something of a tourist attraction, forcing the Myrkálfar to not only patrol the area, but construct viewing platforms at a “safe” distance. Of course, ninety percent of the main encampment remained underground; the visible buildings housed those dealing with day-to-day administration tasks and meeting rooms for interactions with outside officialdom, including Deva’s fae council.

“Who or what is Geitha, and why would it be needed to keep the throne safe from challengers? Both you and your brother are uncontested heirs, aren’t you?”

“Yes, we are, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t those who would challenge given the opportunity. As to Geitha, there is a Myrkálfar goddess of destiny who bears that name, but it is unlikely my father wanted your mother to seek her. Not even a seeress with her capabilities could successfully undertake such a quest.”

Maybe, maybe not. It would depend on what Beira—the goddess of winter and storms who’d been condemned to spend her time here on Earth in hag form, and who’d assigned Mom multiple relic hunts to undertake for the gods themselves—knew about Geitha, and whether in fact she remained one of the few gods who still interacted with their worshippers.

“There is no further mention of it in his personal files,” she continued, “and there is also nothing to be found in the greater records. I have, of course, requested a review of all the old scrolls, but that will take some time.” She paused. “However, my mother did have a necklace she called Geitha’s Tears, and that is perhaps what he was referring to. It did go missing on my mother’s death some two hundred years ago.”

“It never resurfaced on the black market?”

A smile tugged at her lips. “You could be sure that if it had, we would have taken swift action to reclaim it.”

And no doubt would have buried—quite literally, given the main talent of the Myrkálfar was the control of earth and stone—anyone involved in the theft.

“Your mother never spoke about it?”

“She once said it was gifted by the goddess to her at my father’s coronation, and that one day, if we were blessed, the goddess’s eye would turn to me and Cynwrig.”

“That would suggest it has some sort of ceremonial place within the coronation.”

“Yes, indeed. We have, of course, already started arrangements for the coronation, but the only time Geitha is mentioned during the formalities is after the crowns are placed; the goddess is called upon to give her blessing and her guidance to the new ruler. There is no mention as to how this should happen, which is damnably annoying.” She studied me for a heartbeat. “I take it you have found nothing in your mother’sfiles mentioning such a meeting with my father or indeed the commitment to undertake such a task?”

“No, but I haven’t actually gone through my mother’s files.”

Or indeed, anything of hers. I might have moved into her bedroom in the months after her disappearance, but I certainly hadn’t emptied her wardrobe or her drawers in the bathroom, or hell, gone through any of the boxes of old records she kept in the office. To do any of that would have meant accepting the fact she really wasn’t coming back, and I hadn’t wanted to take that final step.

There was a part of me thatstilldidn’t, even though we’d now found her body.

Grief surged with that thought and I pushed to my feet. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, but thank you.”

I strode over to the bar and dragged out the old kettle we kept underneath it for emergencies—such as the coffee machine breaking down and staff needing to make coffee the old-fashioned way—then filled it up and flicked it on. By which time, I had my emotions back under control and could face her again. “If Geitha’s Tears do play a part in the coronation, however minor, why wouldn’t your father have undertaken its finding earlier?”

Her hesitation was brief but nevertheless there. “You are aware my father was ill for some time?”

I nodded. There’d been various rumors about his illness, of course, but nothing had ever been confirmed. Even the official press statement released when he’d stepped back from physical duties had simply said the move was designed to ease the eventual succession of his heirs.

The intensity of her gaze increased, and that translucent glow appeared once more. Just for an instant, the knives flickered—a warning that something unusual rather than threatening washappening, and that basically clinched my suspicions that she was psychically “reading” me.

I obviously passed, because she continued softly, “For the few elves who live beyond a millennium, there is always a price to be paid. For my father, it was his mental faculties. By the time we realized it was happening, it was already too late, and it progressed rapidly once my mother died. Fae healers can work miracles, but diseases of the brain are beyond their ken.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been hard to watch.”

“Indeed.” Her eyes gleamed briefly again, but this time, its cause was the sheen of tears. “The difficulty is, of course, that we believe the note was written in a moment of lucidity and then forgotten.”

“There must be some sort of record explaining its importance, though, surely.”

“Of course there should be, but remember, there hasn’t been a coronation for a thousand years, and, for whatever reason, the scrolls detailing the minutiae were not fully transcribed when the digital age came. Then add the fact that many records and scrolls were lost in the fires that swept Dorcha Dearg back in the late 1400s, and you can see the problem.”

I frowned. “I take it, then, with my mom no longer around, you want me to undertake the search for this item?”

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