Perdita saw the look in her mother’s eye of a woman on the verge of
kindling lightning with her hair. “And this has exactly what to do with
Daimon?”
A dark flame wavering in the air near her made her whirl. A figure seemed to
push its way into being, shaping and pulling itself free from the mist and
vagueness clinging to it. Perdita, fascinated, expected Lord Skelton to emerge
from the nebulousness. The thin, sharp angles suggested his spare figure, his
pointed elbows. But the face coming clear was not his.
“Lady Seabrook,” the queen exclaimed.
“Morrig,” the king echoed, rising, and responding, in Perdita’s view, to
the least significant aspect of her great-aunt’s appearance out of thin air.
“In ordinary circumstances, I would come nowhere near this sanctum. I know
your rules. But—”
“Don’t worry,” Morrig said sweetly. The gray eyes still carried the
suggestion of shadow, like aged silver. “That’s why I came: to tell you not
to worry.”
“About—” the queen said faintly.
“About Daimon, of course. Everything will go as planned. We will keep him
safe.”
“We.”
“The three of us.”
“Three,” Perdita whispered. The word came alive in her head, busily making
connection after connection through time, across poetry, familiar images
turning unfamiliar faces toward her, linking themselves across the whole of
Wyvernhold history and farther back, so far back that they became themselves,
words so old they were new, and they meant only what they were: Moon. Raven.
Death. Night. Life. Morrig’s eyes flicked at her, and Perdita saw in them
every ancient word.
“Three,” the king echoed, sounding mystified.
“Daimon’s mother, his sweet friend Vivien Ravensley, and his great-auntie
Morrig. I know you must be fretting. You have always been so kind to him.”
The king’s face flamed; the wyvern glowered back at her. “He is my son,”
Arden said explosively. “What have you done to him? Are you setting him
against me?”
“Of course we don’t want it to come to that. And I can’t—”
“Daimon’s mother is alive?” The queen’s voice hit a note so high that her
voice cracked.
“Very much so, yes. And I can’t stay to explain. Just be patient.” Her head
cocked suddenly, as at an undercurrent of sound. “I think I’ll take the
stairs. The airways are congested.”
She went out the door without bothering to open it. The queen, white as spun
sugar, glared incredulously at the wood, asked without sound, “Who is she?
And who,” she demanded, her voice swooping up several notches again, “is
Vivien?”
The king, his face still fiery, drew a breath as though to bellow himself. The
air, taking on density in front of them again, checked his impulse. They
watched breathlessly. This time the face sculpting itself out of airy streaks
and disturbances wore two long mustaches and circular spectacles.
“Your Majesty,” he said without a mouth, then achieved himself and settled
his glasses. “I heard you call.”
“Did you find Daimon?”
“I did. He is on the coast road, heading north, as are any number of questing
knights.”
“How?” the queen demanded. “Did he call you and tell you that?”
“I found him in water, Queen Genevra,” Sylvester said. “It’s really the
simplest way, especially since he left his cell phone in the royal garage’s
garbage bin. At a projection of thought or memory onto the reflection of
water, the surface will mirror the—”
“Where is he going? Will it mirror that?”
“Not yet, my lord. But as I watch his path unfold, I can see where he is,
where he stops, and eventually, I hope, why.” He was silent, his eyes moving
from face to fraught face. His hands rose, gripped his mustaches. “Now what?
”
Later that day, as she sat in the soothing calm of the goddess’s antechamber,
guarding its peace a bit belatedly, she felt, and trying to imagine the state
of her half sibling’s mind, Perdita saw yet another vision emerge from the
crosshatch of candlelight and shadow.
This one was no longer young but beautiful despite her years, like the queen.
Gazing at her, surprised, Perdita felt her heartbeat suddenly. This apparition
she recognized. This apparition had given Daimon her pale hair, her light
eyes, the shape of her face. Perdita found herself on her feet, wondering if
she were seeing a ghost, or a vision, or what she actually thought she might
be seeing.
“Yes,” the woman said, reading her mind. “Daimon is my son.”
“Has he— Does he know—”
“Oh, yes. He and I have met.” Perdita saw another thing the woman had given
Daimon: that friendly but closely guarded smile. “My name is Ana. Daimon and
I have met many times through the years. So, a time or two, have you and I.”
Perdita glanced around her, wanting her father, Lord Skelton, even the queen
to prove she was not dreaming. “No. I don’t remember.”