Isaac had done some stupid things before.
He'd slid down the castle stairs on a shield. He'd ridden a goat through the guard's barracks. Once on a dare, Isaac had rappelled from the castle roof using an old fishing rope, tumbled five feet into a hedge, and dislocated his shoulder. He'd been out of commission for three days. His commander had been furious.
But threatening to harm the Prince of Faerie and then accidentally summoning his father to a remote location in the woods?
That took the cake.
Isaac gripped his knife. He struggled to remember everything he knew about faeries. Camille had read a book on them once, hadn't she? She'd said they made blood bargains. They were naturally shrewd. And the king's name was...
Torin. No, Torine.
Thoraine.
That was it.
"Well met," Thoraine said.
Owain rose. "You must excuse our intrusion."
Thoraine studied his son, the same way that a scientist might study a particularly interesting slug. Then the King of Faerie turned away. "Tristan Beauchamp, I presume."
Tristan looked like he might throw up. Wasn't nice to discover you had the hots for the Prince of Faerie, Isaac supposed. Thoraine turned to him next.
"And Isaac Webb."
Isaac inclined his head. "Your Highness."
His heart pounded in his chest. He was hyperaware of the smell of rain on the cobblestone, the faint crackle in the air. Soldier's instincts, Isaac supposed; he could feel his body shifting into a fighting stance. Owain looked at his father.
"It's unusual for you to journey alone," Owain said.
"He's not alone," a voice said.
Isaac spun.
Three men stood on the bridge. Well, not men, Isaac realized; the strangers wore circlets of thorns around their heads, and their ears were slightly pointed. And they looked.... unnatural, somehow. Or perhaps too natural. Like they'd sprung from the depths of the earth.
"Wellow." Owain's voice was flat. "Riven. Bow."
Owain crossed his arms. They all shared the same red hair, Isaac observed, although Owain was slighter, his features more delicate. And the other men had no Salvatorian heritage. Of that, Isaac was certain.
"Little pea." The tallest one — Wellow — smiled. "And you've brought entertainment. How thoughtful of you."
Isaac took a step forward. "We've come to ask a question."
"Just one?" Wellow asked.
Isaac's hand was slick on the sword. "Will you give us an answer?"
"Depends on the question," Wellow said.
He sounded bored. Wellow looked bored, as if he regularly lurked beneath bridges, waiting for mortals to feed their blood to carnivorous flowers. And maybe he did, Isaac thought; he had no idea what faerie princes did for fun on a Sunday afternoon.
"They'll want something in return," Owain said.
He was staring into the water. A blue mark stood out on his neck, bright as a slap, and something tightened in Isaac's stomach. Had that been where Isaac had grabbed him by the collar? Probably. The realization made him feel...
Well.
Not great.
Isaac turned to Thoraine. "What do you want?"
It was Wellow that spoke. "A favour."
"What sort of favour?" Isaac asked.
"An unspecified favour." The faerie prince smiled, a cat circling a mouse. "Granted at any time of our choosing."
Isaac crossed his arms. He was an idiot, but not that much of an idiot. "A specified favour granted in the next month."
Wellow's smile grew. "An unspecified favour granted in the next year."
"And this favour only involves me?" Isaac asked.
"Yes."
"Webb." Tristan's voice was low. "Don't."
His golden eyes were wary. Tristan was toying with a lump in his pocket, as if he half-intended to chuck the explosive across the bridge. Isaac looked at the lump wistfully. If only, he thought, you could explode the truth out of someone.
Alas.
Isaac turned back to Wellow. "I will agree to this favour so long as it doesn't lead to my death, bodily harm, or any harm to my future offspring." He raised an eyebrow. "A favour for a helpful answer."
Tristan's voice was tight. "Webb."
Isaac ignored him. He was becoming excellent at ignoring people. Wellow drew a knife out of his pocket. The same knife, Isaac realized, that Owain had: white bone with little golden stars and strange markings.
"You have yourself a deal," Wellow said. "Give me your hand."
Reluctantly, Isaac did.
The knife was quick and clean. There was a brief sting, and then blood welled up across his palm. Wellow cut his own hand and then clasped their fingers together; red and blue ran down their wrists, weaving a strange bracelet.
Wellow dropped his hand. "Choose your question wisely."
Blood dripped on to the cobblestone. Isaac glanced at Tristan. They needed to phrase this question exactly right. If they didn't...
Well.
Not an option.
His mind raced through possibilities. Do you know the location of God-Slayer? No. The faeries would say yes but wouldn't provide details. Tell us everything you know about God-Slayer. Not a question, though; would the faeries still be obligated to answer? Camille, Isaac thought, would know what to ask. Camille was good at these things.
A lump rose in his throat.
Isaac held Wellow's gaze. "What is the exact location of God-Slayer?"
A safe question. A specific one.
Silence fell.
Wellow and his brothers exchanged glances. The tallest faerie prince adjusted the sleeves of his tunic.
"I do not know," Wellow said finally.
The back of his neck prickled. "What does that mean?"
"Precisely what I said."
"He's telling the truth," Owain said, leaning against the bridge. "The blade was faerie-forged in darkness; it was created in the space between worlds. It is older than the gods themselves. At one point, the fae knew everything about the blade, but now..." He shrugged. "Its location is a mystery, even to us."
Isaac took a deep breath. That information, he thought, would have been particularly useful about three minutes ago. But never mind.
He turned to Wellow. "I want another question."
"That's not how this works," Wellow said.
"Ah," Isaac said, "but I think it is." A sense of smug satisfaction curled in his chest. "I didn't ask for a question, you see; I asked for a helpful answer. I think we can all agree that I don't know isn't very helpful."
The faerie princes exchanged a look. Isaac thought of the foxes he'd seen caught in a trap, how they tried to wiggle and howl and struggle their way to freedom. But that was the thing about foxes, he thought; they were too clever to get caught in a trap, so when they did, they had no idea how to escape.
"Very well, then." Wellow's voice was short. "Ask."
Isaac's response was immediate. "How do we find God-Slayer?"
"You cannot," Wellow said.
A rush of irritation filled him. "For goddesses' sake."
"There is only one person," Wellow continued, looking maddeningly unperturbed, "that can find God-Slayer. He is reborn every generation, a child resistant to magic and outside influence." He paused. "A human compass."
"Who is he?" Isaac demanded.
Wellow raised an eyebrow. "Have I not already said?"
"Give me his name," Isaac said.
This time, Wellow's smile had just a touch of human smugness. "That will cost you another question."
"Fine," Isaac said. "I'll do it."
His heart pounded in his chest. They were close to answers. So damn close. A sense of anticipation flooded him, the same sensation that Isaac got just before the sword struck the target. If he could just ask one more question... if he could just push...
This sword could save Camille.
This sword could save them all.
Tristan put a hand on his shoulder. "Webb."
His voice was a warning. Isaac shrugged him off. They needed to know who this person was; without that information, this trip was a waste. Isaac held out his palm, and a cool hand shot out to grip his wrist.
"No." Owain's voice was low. "Enough. My brothers feed off human desperation; don't let them consume you entirely." He released Isaac's wrist, turning to face his family. "We'll be going now."
Wellow raised an eyebrow. "So soon?"
"I have things to accomplish," Owain said.
"Yes," Thoraine said. "You do."
The faerie king's gaze was steady. He hadn't spoken very much, Isaac realized, but perhaps that was deliberate; the less you spoke, the more meaning your words carried. Ryne had taught him that. Something tightened in his chest.
Owain inclined his head. "Father."
They turned for the woods. Isaac clutched his sword until the metal bit into his skin. But none of the faeries stopped them, and soon he was astride his horse, the leather saddle warm under his thighs. Tristan trotted in a circle.
"Well," Tristan said. "That was fun."
Owain's mouth tightened. The thick canopy cast odd shadows across his face, curling around his jaw and ears. Not pointed like his brothers, Isaac noted; rounded, just like regular humans. Must have been the Salvatorian blood.
"Come on." Isaac adjusted his reins. "We'll need to be fast."
Owain pulled up beside him. "Why?"
"Oh, yeah," Isaac said. "Forgot to mention; Sophie's poisoned us. We need to be back in Tarhalla within six hours or we're dead." He dug his thigh into the horse's side. "Look alive, lads. I'd like to survive past dinner."
***
Tristan massaged his arm.
The skin was swollen, hard and puckered like a ripe apple. Sophie hadn't been gentle with the injection. Still, she'd given Tristan a chocolate-and-raspberry cupcake after administering the antidote, which had felt almost like an apology. And that cupcake had been tasty. Almost worth being poisoned, really.
Tristan turned the corner.
The evening was unseasonably warm. Children rolled up trousers, wading into a shallow stream to catch frogs. A shopkeeper pushed a wagon filled with pink flowers. And a young woman in a pale linen dress chased a chicken through the streets, shouting something in a foreign language that Tristan couldn't understand.
He paused outside a cozy cottage. Somewhere inside, Isaac was recounting their meeting with the faeries to Sophie and a small group of nightweavers. Tristan had offered to stay for the meeting, but Isaac had waved him off.
"Find food," he'd said. "I'm starved."
So here Tristan was. Armed with packages of sticky raisin buns and fresh figs and something that could have either been a cheese-and-onion pastry, a savoury biscuit, or a dog treat. Possibly all three.
He shifted the brown parcels. It was amazing, Tristan reflected, that Sophie had let him roam the streets of Tarhalla without supervision. Then again, perhaps someone was tailing him. Or perhaps Sophie had poisoned the cupcake; either option seemed plausible.
A figure caught his eye.
"Owain!" Tristan called.
The tall redhead paused. He was ducking into a bookshop, half-obscured by a black-and-white awning. Tristan strode toward him.
"You didn't tell me," Tristan said.
He'd meant to sound amused; instead, the words sounded accusing and breathless. Owain blew out a breath. "No. I didn't."
Tristan studied him. "You're not fully fae, are you?"
"No." Owain scratched his cheek. "My mother was Salvatorian."
"But your older brothers are," Tristan said.
"Yes."
Tristan stared at the bookshop window, at the dusty books littering the shelves. He thought of Owain's knife. The bone handle and strange golden markings. He should have known that the other boy was fae. No, not just fae, Tristan realized; a prince of fae.
Something heavy settled in his chest.
There was more to the story. A Salvatorian mother and faerie king father? The combination was... unusual, to say the least. And it was a sore point; Tristan could tell by the tight set of Owain's face, the muscle that jumped in his jaw. But he wouldn't push. Not on that subject, at least.
Tristan shifted his brown parcels. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one," Owain said.
"Your father." Tristan's heart was beating so hard that it felt painful. "Did he send you to spy on Stillwater Castle?"
He didn't think Owain would answer. The other boy turned to face the bookshop window; his auburn hair was a ghostly reflection in the glass.
"Four years ago," Owain said, his voice very clear, "I fell in love with a human. Our law strictly forbids that. We can have dalliances with humans, but to keep a human consort..." The reflection flickered. "But I believed that he loved me, and so I severed ties with my family. I gave up my position in the royal court to be with him."
Tristan's arms felt leaden. "Where is he now?"
"I'm not sure," Owain said. "He slipped out in the middle of the night. Left a note on his pillow." Shadows flickered in his blue eyes. "We haven't kept in touch."
"I'm sorry," Tristan said.
Owain raised a careless shoulder. "Humans are fickle by nature. They covet things that are new and shiny and discard them when they begin to tarnish." His throat bobbed. "I should have known better."
The fading light kissed Owain's temples, colouring him in burnished gold and crimson. Something twisted in Tristan's chest. He thought of the time he'd discovered a broken grandfather clock in the belly of the castle; he'd spent months carefully pulling it apart, tinkering with the wires. Polishing the smooth brown wood until it gleamed. The clock had never worked, but Tristan had kept it in his room for years, occasionally taking it out to tinker with it some more.
That was the issue, Tristan thought; he saw something beautiful and broken, and he wanted to fix it. There was simply no helping it.
"And your father?" Tristan asked. "Did he forgive you?"
Owain's mouth tightened. "He was willing to pardon me if I infiltrated the castle. He has faerie spies in every court, you see, but it was difficult to get one into Stillwater. Arthur Delafort was rightfully suspicious of the fae. My father needed someone small. Someone easily disguised." His smile was bitter. "I was the perfect candidate."
Silence fell. Tristan shifted his parcels, weighing his next question.
"Owain?" Tristan asked.
Owain turned. "Yes?"
"Would I know who the boy is?"
"Yes." A muscle jumped in Owain's throat. "Yes, you'd know him."
"What's his name?" Tristan asked.
He felt like he was picking at a scab; he couldn't stop digging, couldn't stop the masochistic compulsion to make it bleed. But that was the thing about the human heart, Tristan thought; it ached to be hurt.
Owain's smile was tired. "Goodnight, Tristan."
The other boy pushed open the door of the bookshop. A bell tinkled. Tristan stared into the dim window; beyond the dusty books, he could just make out the shadow of a white cat slinking into the darkness beyond the shelves.