Page 32 of A Legacy of Poison and Lies

So she must have known, then. Rose was…difficult, but not cruel. She cared for Saphi, that much was certain. And for Raif. Rose struck Zylah as someone who cared very deeply. “Maybe she loved them both.”

“Maybe.”

But it wasn’t Rose or Thallan that occupied Zylah’s thoughts… it was that Raif had lied to her about Thallan. And it wasn’t the first lie, the first piece of information he’d withheld. Every time she’d pressed him about her powers, about learning more, he’d found a way to deflect, to distract her or change the subject. Had he been worried about how it might affect her? Holt had explained that Raif’s magic haunted him. Did Raif think the same would happen to her? Zylah hated that she already knew the answer. It wasn’t his decision to make.

The horses found a trail, barely more than a thin line of dirt that cut through the springy moss.

“How did you do it?” Holt asked. “How did you stop Thallan?”

“I thought of the vanquicite.” Zylah looked at her hands and flexed her fingers where the reins threaded through them. “Of how it felt to wear the cuffs for three days. I stared at them for hours up in the mountains.” Hours to think of how she might kill Oz, the bounty hunter who’d taken her and lashed her in the snow like she was cattle.

“Then you’ve already had more practice than most,” Holt said quietly, and Zylah could have sworn that trace of anger was back in his voice, that a small flare of his power rippled the air for a moment. “There are different techniques. But few have had first-hand experience with the very thing that can nullify our powers.”

He was one of those few, but ithadaffected him. “Do you think it might also be the… the piece in my back?” She’d thought of taking a tonic, but there was no way of doing that without him noticing, so instead, she focused on the weight of the vial in her apron.

“Perhaps,” Holt said. “But thinking of the vanquicite as a shield, wrapping it around your mind and then releasing it, up and down like a wall. That is precisely how I was taught to practice.”

“And was it enough?”

A moment of silence. “No.”

Another time, that word seemed to say. As if what had happened in Mae’s court still followed him. Zylah couldn’t blame him. The sound of the whip, the sight of that faerie’s back, it had turned her stomach, and she’d been glad that there was nothing inside her to bring up, nothing to force her to her knees at the spectacle of the faerie’s mangled flesh.

Even now she could feel the white-hot sting of a whip in her own skin, against her spine, the searing pain where it had ripped her flesh apart. She’d wanted to snatch Mae’s whip and hurl it away, but then Holt had ensnared the Fae in his vines. From the look on Mae’s face and the silence of her court, no one had ever dared intervene before.

And yet no one questioned Holt. Not even Mae. Prince of the Forest, she’d called him. Zylah watched him murmur to his horse, encouraging it up a difficult slope and wondered when he had been given the name. Why. “Prince of the Forest. That’s quite the title.”

“Mae and her traditions,” Holt said, though there was no trace of fondness in his tone, and as quickly as it had come, Zylah’s curiosity dwindled. Thinking of Mae only further darkened her thoughts.

They said nothing more until the sun reached its peak, and Zylah was forced to dismount with the need to stretch her aching muscles. That was what she told Holt, anyway, and hoped he didn’t notice when she finally took a swig of her tonic.

She bit into a brin fruit, chewing slowly, quietly aware of a pair of sprites watching her from amongst the trees. She thought of the stories her father used to tell her; wondered which of them were lies, half-truths to cover up the world outside Dalstead.

“You used to eat enough for three people,” Holt said, sitting opposite, a brin fruit of his own in his hand.

Zylah shrugged. “I got used to not having much to eat.”

“Looks like you had more than enough back in Varda, but you gave it all away.” There was a challenge in his tone, as if he wanted her to fight.

Zylah finished her fruit in silence, refusing to meet his gaze, searching for the sprites instead. They were the living embodiment of nature, her father had told her. The spirit of everything. Holt had told her once that they were drawn to his magic. Maybe they were just drawn tohim? Prince of the Forest. Zylah wondered if the sprites knew that title, too. But she was in no mood to ask questions. She took a swig of the spelled water and snatched up her sword to practice. Zylah hadn’t practised once since Holt’s arrival.

“Raise your elbow,” Holt said after her third strike at nothing.

She huffed, slicing at the air again. “Show me.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him brush off his hands and rise to his feet. He held out a hand and a sword appeared in it.

“Show me how to do that, too.”

“So demanding today.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “We need a map. Get the one from our… my room at the tavern.”

“How?”

“Close your eyes.” She did as he asked. “Think of how it feels when you evanesce. Picture the map. And call out to it. Here.” His fingers brushed her cloak just above her heart.

Zylah held out her hand, palm upturned, and concentrated. She felt the same rushing sensation as when she evanesced, but then it ceased. Something appeared between her fingertips, but when she opened her eyes, it was barely a scrap of paper. A corner of the map, to be precise.

Holt laughed quietly. “Not bad for a first attempt.” The rest of the map appeared in his hand, and Zylah resisted the urge to punch him in the arm.

---