Page 106 of Fall of the Ember Throne (Crown and Crest 3)

I remember what Henrik told me, wondering how I’m supposed to gently broach the subject in such a short amount of time.

After a moment’s deliberation, I decide. “Apparently, she’s your mother, and she’s about to die.”

Ayan gapes at me.

“Get dressed,” I snarl, grasping his shoulders, turning him around, and shoving him back into his room. “Go.”

A few minutes later, all three of the elves join me.

“What’s going on?” Audra asks. Her brunette hair is tidily plaited into an intricate braid, making me think she must be an early riser.

“I’m not sure,” I say as we walk. “But Henrik made it seem urgent.”

“He said the woman who fainted is my mother,” Ayan says, his tone solemn.

I glance at him, feeling for the usually cheerful elf. He looks nervous, hesitant even.

Audra looks at me, stunned. “But Mairea is…dead.”

I shrug, telling her I have no idea.

When we arrive outside Pranmore’s quarters, I reach for the doorknob.

“Wait!” Audra cries, but it’s too late.

I yip, startled by a shock that stings my hand and travels through my muscles like a jolt of lightning.

“It’s warded,” Audra says belatedly.

I clench and loosen my hand a few times. “I noticed.”

Henrik must have heard the racket I made. He appears moments later, allowing us inside.

“You could have warned me about the ward,” I say as I step past him.

He laughs under his breath and then leads us into the adjoining room where Hellebore rests. Pranmore is with her, sitting on a chair by the head of her bed. Lawrence stands to the side, looking very sober.

A hush falls over us as we’re reminded of the serious nature of our visit.

Hellebore turns her head, and her mouth parts in an inaudible cry when she spots Ayan. He pauses in the doorway, the tallest man in the room, looking like he wishes he were the smallest.

“Ayanleon,” Hellebore says in a scratchy, jarring voice that startles me so badly, I jump. “You’ve come.”

Pranmore rises, leaving the chair so Ayan may claim it.

The High Vale elf walks forward slowly, his eyes on the woman who claims to be his mother. Because he looks so much like his father, it’s impossible to see a family resemblance between them, especially now that Hellebore is so close to death.

I try to remember what she looked like years ago, before sickness took her.

Ayan sinks into the chair, carefully extending his hand to Hellebore when she reaches for it.

Tears stream from her face, wetting her cheeks and pillow. Pranmore has removed her ever-present cloak, revealing that she’s almost bald now.

At one time, she had long black hair, the color of a raven.

“The dukedom is yours,” she says urgently. “Your father named you as his heir.”

Ayan slowly nods. “So I’ve discovered.”

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