Chapter 6 The Secrets Left Behind

The masked stranger pointed his sword at Kyron’s throat, and every weary thought in my head disappeared. Around us, the forest had gone strangely quiet. Even the injured driver stopped groaning as Orlina guided him toward the doorway.

“Soriel, put that away,” she said. “He’s brought the girl here alive.”

“He brought her here in chains.” The stranger’s voice was low and furious. “You know whose son he is.”

Kyron’s hand settled on his own sword. “And you know my name. We’re already ahead of each other.”

I stepped between them before either could draw blood. It was a foolish thing to do, considering I had survived my first assassination attempt less than an hour earlier. But I was tired of men discussing my life over my head.

“You said he caused my mother’s death,” I told the stranger. “Explain what you mean.”

He hesitated. Up close, I could see blue eyes through the mask and a thin scar above his left eyebrow. He couldn’t have been much older than Kyron.

“My name is Soriel Wynthorne,” he said. “I served the people who sheltered your family. Your mother died because the Duskryns wanted the Roswyn line erased.”

“That’s my father you’re accusing,” Kyron said.

“And whose crown will you wear when he’s finished killing everyone who remembers?”

Kyron took a step forward, but Orlina slammed her lantern onto the stone ledge. “Enough. The driver has poison in his blood, and Zivelle hasn’t eaten. If you want to quarrel, do it after we’ve kept everyone alive.”

Soriel sheathed one sword, though he left the other in his hand. He moved aside to let us through the arch. Kyron followed me, and the stranger watched him with the expression of someone allowing a wolf into a nursery.

Beyond the doorway lay a passage lit by oil lamps. It opened into a hidden courtyard crowded with small stone houses, herb beds, and washing lines. Children played beside a fountain. An elderly man carried a basket of turnips past us, then stopped so suddenly that several rolled across the ground.

He stared at my eyes. “Lady Liora?”

“Her daughter,” Orlina corrected gently.

The man covered his mouth. Others began gathering at their doors. I had spent my life watching people turn away from me. Their attention now felt almost worse, because I couldn’t understand what they expected me to become.

Orlina led us into a treatment room. While she prepared an antidote, I helped remove the driver’s ruined coat. He introduced himself as Tomas, then apologized for frightening me with his warning about Nessa.

“I saw her speaking with armed men,” he explained, wincing as Orlina cleaned the wound. “Thought she’d sold us out. I didn’t recognize their colors.”

Nessa folded his bloody coat without looking at me. I wanted to forgive her immediately, but the memory of her raised hand still troubled me. She had known so much and chosen to tell me almost nothing.

“You could have trusted me,” I said.

“I wanted to,” she answered. “But Garrick searched our rooms whenever anyone mentioned your parents. My mother died keeping that secret. I couldn’t risk yours too.”

Orlina handed me a bowl of crushed leaves. “Mix this with warm water. Slowly, or it clumps.”

The work steadied me. I knew this smell, this texture, the familiar satisfaction of making something useful. Tomas drank the medicine and soon fell into a less painful sleep. Orlina examined his pulse before leading us to a smaller room at the end of the corridor.

A portrait hung above the fireplace. The woman in it had dark curls, violet eyes, and a crooked smile that looked nothing like the solemn faces in Thornveil’s family gallery. Beside her stood a man holding a baby wrapped in blue cloth.

I approached until I could see the tiny fingers curled around his thumb.

“That’s you,” Orlina said.

I touched the frame. For years I had imagined my mother looking at me with disappointment, wondering what fault she’d seen in her daughter. The painted woman looked delighted.

“Did she know I didn’t have a wolf?”

“You were an infant, darling. Nobody knew what you would become.” Orlina paused. “But she knew people would come for you. That’s why she asked us to prepare this place.”

Kyron stood near the door, unusually quiet. Soriel remained beside him, plainly unwilling to leave us alone together.

“What did your father do?” I asked Kyron.

“I was three when the massacre happened,” he said. “Whatever orders were given, I didn’t give them.”

Soriel made a contemptuous sound. “Your mother did try to stop it. I’ll grant her that.”

Kyron’s head snapped toward him. “What do you know about my mother?”

“More than the histories your father wrote.”

Orlina opened a drawer beneath the portrait and removed a narrow wooden box. Inside lay a silver bracelet, a lock of dark hair, and a sealed letter. My name appeared across the front in careful handwriting.

“Liora wrote this before she died,” Orlina said. “She asked that you receive it when you were old enough to choose whom to trust.”

My hands shook as I broke the seal. The first lines were gentle, telling me about the garden where she’d hoped to teach me the names of flowers. Then the writing became hurried. She warned me never to surrender the silver wolf to anyone, however kindly they promised to protect me.

Near the bottom, one sentence had been underlined twice: The prince is not our enemy, but the bond must never be completed.

I read it again, then looked at Kyron. His face had gone pale.

“Why did you say he was responsible?” I asked Soriel. “Not his father. Him.”

Soriel looked toward the portrait before answering. “The king used the birth of his heir as his excuse. He claimed a prophecy said the Roswyn child would steal the prince’s throne. Your mother refused to surrender you for inspection. Soldiers arrived three nights later.”

“So he was a baby,” I said. “How could that be his fault?”

“I didn’t say it was fair.” Soriel’s voice softened, though he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I said the prince was the reason. People died because the king feared what might happen when your lives crossed. And now they’ve crossed anyway.”

“What bond?” I whispered.

Soriel moved toward me, but Kyron reached the letter first. Beneath my mother’s signature, another line appeared as the paper warmed against his fingers, dark letters spreading like spilled ink.

Neither of us looked away.