“But he has become more tight-lipped. Would you not agree, prince?” said Iolanthe. “I hardly think that—”
“Young lady, you will allow me to know best what to do in this situation,” Lady Wintervale cut her off. She bowed again to Titus. “Your Highness.”
After the door closed behind Lady Wintervale, neither Titus nor Iolanthe said anything for a minute. And then, at almost the exact moment, they turned to each other and came together in a tight embrace. Iolanthe wasn’t sure whether he was comforting her, or vice versa. Most likely both.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I am fine,” he answered, dropping his head into the crook of her shoulder. “Strange, is it not? I have always wanted to avenge my mother. But now that she has already been avenged, I wish it had not been at the cost of a father for Wintervale—and a father for you.”
“And Lady Wintervale’s peace of mind, forever destroyed.” She sighed. “I don’t think I can ever see Baron Wintervale as my father.”
“It might be easier after your suppressed memories resurface,” he reminded her.
She was silent for a minute. “Does it bother you, that my father is responsible for your mother’s death?”
He shook his head. “I am the grandson of a man who murdered his daughter—far be it for me to judge anyone on their bloodline. Besides . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What were you going to say?” She ran her fingers through his hair.
He took a deep breath. “That it has long been my suspicion that my father is Sihar.”
She went still. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent sure, no. And yet all sorts of gossip sleuths and investigative reporters, with all the resources at their disposal and promises of great reward—everyone wanted to know the identity of the man who had fathered the next heir to the throne—came up empty in their quests.
“This tells me that my grandfather was involved in some way. The House of Elberon is nothing of what it once was, but within the Domain, it is still a force to be reckoned with. And if my grandfather wanted to silence witnesses, he had his means.
“The citizenry of the Domain enjoy trotting out the number and relatively unmolested existence of the Sihar as a sign of their enlightened attitudes. But the truth is that the Sihar are pariahs in the Domain, just as they are elsewhere. And my grandfather would never have allowed even a breath of insinuation that his daughter and heir might have taken up with a Sihar.”
Iolanthe’s schoolbooks had strenuously emphasized that blood magic, which the Sihar specialized in, was not sacrificial magic—and that the Sihar had been unfairly ostracized throughout history, an easy scapegoat whenever things went wrong and mages wished to point fingers as to who had incurred the wrath of the Angels.
Despite the official insistence, the Sihar were still the Others. Refugees from the Frankish realms, the Subcontinental realms, and the sub-Saharan realms had all become assimilated—she’d gone to school and made friends with their children. But the Sihars, although she’d stopped to listen to Sihar street musicians, bought cream cakes from Sihar bakeries, and once, when she still lived in Delamer, watched a Sihar midsummer procession down Palace Avenue, a celebration that marked their new year and high holiday, she had never visited the home of a Sihar, never met a Sihar at school, and never known Master Haywood to have any Sihar colleagues—at least, no one who admitted it.
Until the Master of the Domain.
She cupped his face. “You are still you. Nothing has changed.”
He gazed at her a moment. “The same goes for you, remember that. For me, you are—and always will be—everything worth living for.”
And for me, you are—and always will be—everything worth fighting for.
She did not say the words, she only pulled him close and kissed him.
Wintervale was on his cot, as usual, propped up on a pile of pillows. He smiled slightly as Iolanthe walked in. “Fairfax, old chap, come to see the patient? Where is His Highness?”
“Probably in the baths, scrubbing his princely hide.” Or, more likely, in Paris, on his mysterious business, which Iolanthe suspected had something to do with Wintervale’s condition. Paris hosted one of the largest Exile communities in the world, with a mage population bigger than that of some smaller realms. And she had heard good things about the reputation of its mage physicians. “How are you?”
Wintervale shrugged. “Could be worse, I suppose, but I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”
He had several books next to him on the cot and the sight of them rather saddened her: Wintervale preferred vigorous activities to those that required him to sit still for long periods of time.
“Are the books any good?”
He shrugged again. “They help time pass.”
The Perilous Sea (The Elemental Trilogy #2)
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