you the chance—but all Aren’s concerned about is taking the Silver Palace. False-bloods are power-hungry like that.”
Sethan gives me a smile that he probably intends to be patient and pleasant, but I find it patronizing. “Aren doesn’t intend to sit on the throne, McKenzie. I do.”
I sit very still, trying to keep the reverberations of shock from making their way to my face. Sethan is the false-blood, not Aren? The king has no clue about this. If he did, Kyol or Lord General Radath would have had me searching for him every time we hunted a rebel, just in case he was around.
“I’m not a false-blood,” Sethan continues. “The Zarrak bloodline is purer than Atroth’s. Other fae’s are even purer than mine, but they have all been killed, appeased, or made tor’um .”
Tor’um is a word I know. It translates roughly to “walkers,” a derogatory name given to fae who don’t have enough magic to fissure. Most fae who are that weak are born that way, but some lose their magic later on in life. When they do, they don’t exactly stay sane. Scary thing is, the numbers of both are on the rise. Even with Atroth regulating the Realm’s gates, he’s been unable to reverse the slow decline of the fae’s magic. Despite laws against it, fae take human plants, animals, sometimes even technology, into the Realm. The big problem is that there are literally hundreds more gates on Earth than there are in the Realm. The Court doesn’t have enough soldiers to guard them all, so some merchants have set up shop in my world to avoid taxes and regulations. Those fae don’t care what they fissure into the Realm so long as they make a profit.
“You don’t believe me,” Sethan says.
“That you’re a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe or that you have a stronger claim?” I’m not sure what to believe, but I sure as hell am interested in finding out more about him, Aren, and the rebellion. This can be my last hurrah before I retire. I’ll do a little espionage, plan a little escape, report my findings to the king, then get myself a job and a real life on Earth.
I keep my gaze steady. “If either of those were true, the high nobles would have voted for you to become king.”
“They would have if all seventeen provinces had been permitted an opinion.”
“Nine of the thirteen voted for Atroth,” I say, even though I’m not sold on the seventeen province thing. “Do the math. He still would have won.”
“The high nobles would have voted differently,” he says, confident. “There are two sides to every war, McKenzie. The king has told you only one version of our conflict’s origins.”
And you’re only telling me your version, I want to point out, but a deep, repetitive banging distracts me. I scan the clearing, see nothing. It sounds like it might be coming from inside the inn. Sethan doesn’t appear concerned about it, and I wouldn’t care much either except for the fact that my head pounds with each erratic beat. I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to find some relief.
The front door opens and Aren reemerges carrying a leaflined basket of fruit and cheeses topped by a circle of flatbread. He holds the basket out. It takes all my effort not to wrench it from his hands and dig in. The Realm’s fruits are decadent—more luscious and sweet than any Earth-grown apple or melon I’ve ever tasted—but I force myself to fold my hands in my lap.
He frowns. “You haven’t eaten anything in almost a day.”
“I don’t know what you put in it.”
His laugh startles me. “You’re incredibly stubborn, nalkin-shom .”
“My name is McKenzie.” I manage to refrain from rolling my eyes, but this nalkin-shom crap is getting old.
Aren pops a purple slice of fruit into his mouth, holds the basket out again. I stare at it, my stomach rumbling.
“Do I need to try the cheese as well?” he asks.
When I realize it doesn’t make sense to poison me, I heave a sigh and take the basket. He doesn’t have to be
Sethan gives me a smile that he probably intends to be patient and pleasant, but I find it patronizing. “Aren doesn’t intend to sit on the throne, McKenzie. I do.”
I sit very still, trying to keep the reverberations of shock from making their way to my face. Sethan is the false-blood, not Aren? The king has no clue about this. If he did, Kyol or Lord General Radath would have had me searching for him every time we hunted a rebel, just in case he was around.
“I’m not a false-blood,” Sethan continues. “The Zarrak bloodline is purer than Atroth’s. Other fae’s are even purer than mine, but they have all been killed, appeased, or made tor’um .”
Tor’um is a word I know. It translates roughly to “walkers,” a derogatory name given to fae who don’t have enough magic to fissure. Most fae who are that weak are born that way, but some lose their magic later on in life. When they do, they don’t exactly stay sane. Scary thing is, the numbers of both are on the rise. Even with Atroth regulating the Realm’s gates, he’s been unable to reverse the slow decline of the fae’s magic. Despite laws against it, fae take human plants, animals, sometimes even technology, into the Realm. The big problem is that there are literally hundreds more gates on Earth than there are in the Realm. The Court doesn’t have enough soldiers to guard them all, so some merchants have set up shop in my world to avoid taxes and regulations. Those fae don’t care what they fissure into the Realm so long as they make a profit.
“You don’t believe me,” Sethan says.
“That you’re a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe or that you have a stronger claim?” I’m not sure what to believe, but I sure as hell am interested in finding out more about him, Aren, and the rebellion. This can be my last hurrah before I retire. I’ll do a little espionage, plan a little escape, report my findings to the king, then get myself a job and a real life on Earth.
I keep my gaze steady. “If either of those were true, the high nobles would have voted for you to become king.”
“They would have if all seventeen provinces had been permitted an opinion.”
“Nine of the thirteen voted for Atroth,” I say, even though I’m not sold on the seventeen province thing. “Do the math. He still would have won.”
“The high nobles would have voted differently,” he says, confident. “There are two sides to every war, McKenzie. The king has told you only one version of our conflict’s origins.”
And you’re only telling me your version, I want to point out, but a deep, repetitive banging distracts me. I scan the clearing, see nothing. It sounds like it might be coming from inside the inn. Sethan doesn’t appear concerned about it, and I wouldn’t care much either except for the fact that my head pounds with each erratic beat. I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to find some relief.
The front door opens and Aren reemerges carrying a leaflined basket of fruit and cheeses topped by a circle of flatbread. He holds the basket out. It takes all my effort not to wrench it from his hands and dig in. The Realm’s fruits are decadent—more luscious and sweet than any Earth-grown apple or melon I’ve ever tasted—but I force myself to fold my hands in my lap.
He frowns. “You haven’t eaten anything in almost a day.”
“I don’t know what you put in it.”
His laugh startles me. “You’re incredibly stubborn, nalkin-shom .”
“My name is McKenzie.” I manage to refrain from rolling my eyes, but this nalkin-shom crap is getting old.
Aren pops a purple slice of fruit into his mouth, holds the basket out again. I stare at it, my stomach rumbling.
“Do I need to try the cheese as well?” he asks.
When I realize it doesn’t make sense to poison me, I heave a sigh and take the basket. He doesn’t have to be
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