Truthseeker

“My … son?” Incredulous disdain filled the fine voice.

Dafydd stood his ground, one hand fisted in the shirt he’d retrieved. “My brother. Born of your blood or not, Father, Merrick was my brother more than Ioan ever could be. I knew Merrick,” he said more softly. “Ioan is a stranger to me.”

A hiss rippled through the attending host, angular eyes narrowing, color coming to sharp cheekbones. Some made distasteful faces, looking away, as though Dafydd had said something unexpectedly repugnant. To Lara, though, the truth of his words rang strong, like church bells in her mind, so loud she could barely imagine no one else heard it. Painfully aware that she was the stranger here, among people who had known each other for lifetimes, she pulled a deep breath and took a step forward, determined to defend Dafydd.

The king made a sharp gesture, cutting her off before she spoke. “Merrick ap A

“It shames me that you do not.” Dafydd’s voice was low with anger, emotion turning the chords of truth to harsh sounds. But unlike his father, who spoke as truly, there was something more to Dafydd’s words. The king’s truth was sharp to the point of brittleness, almost discordant. Dafydd’s was tempered, as if compassion rendered conflict to music.

Lara fell back the step she’d taken, shaking her head with quick violence. Subtleties in truth were beyond her talent’s scope: all she could tell was truth from lies.

But Dafydd had called her talent immature, not as an insult, but as a promise. Her gaze returned to him, slender and golden in the moonlight, then went to his father, whose offense was writ large on his angular face.

Her every instinct told her to placate the anger of a powerful man, and her job had taught her to tread gently. Treading gently, though, was not the same as backing down; her talent, after all, was in making them look their best. False flattery did neither the tailor shop nor its clients any good.

Nor would it do an elfin king any good. The thought gave her confidence, the same unexpected surge that had come on her as she’d crossed through the Barrow-lands door. Lara made her hands into fists and stepped forward again, moving quickly so courage couldn’t fail her. “Dafydd’s telling the truth. He thinks of Merrick as his family, and wants to find his killer.”

The king’s gaze returned to Lara’s, mild with unpleasant amusement. “And you are so certain of this because you carry a truthseeker’s power. A mortal. A child,” he said disdainfully. “When neither has ever been so blessed or cursed in my memory, which stretches back beyond the dawn of mortal time.”

Hairs rose, prickling Lara’s arms and neck. She tilted her head, searching his words for the untruth. “Do your people only become truthseekers when they’re adults?”

Skin tightened over the bones of his face, making him ghoulish. “We do not reckon childhood the way your people do.”

“You’re not answering me. I’ve been able to do this my whole life. When does the power show up in your people?”

The king’s lip curled. “In childhood.”

“Hah!” Lara rocked back on her heels, pleased with herself. The motion brought a sensation of warmth, Dafydd closer to her than he’d been. Siding with her, she thought; protecting her. It took an unusually long moment to tamp her smugness over catching the Seelie king in his exaggeration. In her own world she wouldn’t stand her ground against a man like him, but in this one, he was expected to—did—inherently understand her gifts. “There’s not much point in being theatrical. If you’re familiar with truthseekers at all, you should already know dramatizing just sets my teeth on edge.”

“But the truthseeking talent does not mature for centuries.” The king sounded petulant, like a child unaccustomed to being thwarted.

“Maybe among the Seelie,” Lara said. “But I’m human.” It took everything she had to not glance back at Dafydd, seeking reassurance for that statement. His hand touched the small of her back, warm and comforting, as if he understood her hesitation. Bolstered, Lara went on. “I don’t have centuries to mature. My talent would have to grow up faster, too. I can stand here all night picking apart your half-truths, but I’m here for a reason. Dafydd thinks I can help you find a murderer. I’m willing to do that.”

She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed as she studied the king, and the certainty of knowing when to make a challenge came over her. “I mean, unless you don’t want to find the killer.”

Eleven

Ice built in the king’s eyes, turning them from pale blue to clear. Lara felt color rise in her face and wondered abjectly if the Seelie blushed, or if she looked all the more human and alien for the sudden color in her skin. But she refused to look down; refused even to blink, meeting the monarch’s fury with her own forthright challenge. She was an invited, if not entirely wanted, guest. She wouldn’t lose face and risk her tenuous status, not when she had only one certain ally in a very strange place.

Dafydd might have warned her, though. The dour thought sent a trace of humor through her and her blush faded as she glowered back at the Seelie king.

Whose gaze faltered, just briefly, lids shuttering his eyes. A trace of tension left Lara’s shoulders, surprising her; she hadn’t known she had the ability to stare a man down, much less recognize when he so subtly capitulated.

“What I wish,” the king snarled, “is to have an end to battle. We do not ride to greet my wayward son, but to make haste back to our citadel ahead of the black armies that dog us. Tell me, Truthseeker. Can you see an end to our battle? Can you tell me who is victorious?”

Lara’s spine straightened, drawing her taller than she normally stood. “All I know is if someone’s telling the truth. I’m not a prophet.”

The king sneered. “There were once truthseekers of such power they could speak a thing and it would by force of their will become true.”

Dafydd, at her side, stepped forward as if to defend her, but Lara lifted her fingers to stay him, studying the king cooly. “Really. And what happened if both sides of a war had a truthseeker predicting they’d win?” She turned away, feigning disinterest, though nerves clutched her stomach.

Dafydd caught her eye, and laughter blossomed within her, burning away the fear created by her boldness. She saw herself suddenly from his eyes, saw them both from his perspective, and from the king’s as well.

She was merely mortal, and had the audacity to turn her back on an elfin king. The man who’d brought her there was half naked, wounded, and had been caught dallying with her very mortal self. It took very little imagination to name them both a disgrace, and yet in the face of good sense, in the face of soothing his father, Dafydd ap Caerwyn gri

Shock seized that monarch, leaving a silence into which Lara said, “You didn’t say anything about a war when you asked me to come here. Do you think that’s why we were attacked?” with accusation carefully tamped out.

Almost, at least: there were notes of anger and fear well buried in her words, but airing them would show a weakness that she didn’t want the king to see. Guilt twisted Dafydd’s expression, washing away his glee, and he shook his head, honest admission of fallibility. “I didn’t know it had come to this. If I’d known—”

He broke off, visibly aware of his phrasing and of Lara’s interest sharpening on him. “I still would have asked you to come,” he finally said. “But I would have warned you. I didn’t mean to bring you into a hornet’s nest.”