His mother led the way through narrow passageways and up back staircases, taking routes he’d probably once known but had since forgotten. Fellsmarch Castle was a labyrinth of hidden ways, some of them built by his many-greats grandfather Alger Waterlow, and many added since. Growing up, Ash and his friends, including Finn sul’Mander, Ty Gryphon, and Ruby Greenholt, had burrowed into all the dark places, seeking routes that would enable them to go wherever they wanted, while avoiding parents and schoolmasters and nurses.
His mother had always had the uncanny ability to find him when she really wanted to. “Don’t fool yourself, Adrian. Though I don’t pretend to know all the secrets of this palace, there is no one living who knows them better than me.”
Eventually, Ash and his mother crossed the bridge into the cathedral temple. Ash had spent hours in the libraries there, studying old histories and books about healing plants and poisons and magic.
He’d spent less time in the sanctuary, preferring the small temple in his mother’s garden or Southbridge Temple, which seemed cozier to a small boy.
The Gray Wolf queens were not buried here. Their ashes were interred on the flank of a mountain that would forever after carry their names. Wolves run free.
But the cathedral was the final resting place for generations of royal relations, temple speakers, court officials, and friends of the Line. Most High Wizards preferred to be buried with their own kind on Gray Lady, where the Wizard Council met and many wizards had estates. But some had chosen to be buried here at the cathedral, close to the center of power.
The crypt was reserved for the most important of the dead—royal princes and princesses, consorts, and those bound captains who did not choose to be buried with their queens.
At first, Ash thought the sanctuary was unchanged from the last time he’d seen it, at his sister Hanalea’s funeral. But now he saw that there was a new side chapel, flooded with light from an adjacent courtyard.
Instead of leading him down the stairs into the crypt, his mother led him into the light.
Like most older temples, this chapel had apertures oriented to admit the rising and setting sun. Other than that, it was more of a library, with shelves lined with books about botanicals and horticulture. A plaque on the wall was inscribed Alister Reading Room.
“This began as your father’s project,” his mother said. “It was going to be a surprise for me, to honor your sister Hanalea. Hana didn’t live long enough to be crowned, so she wasn’t buried in the Spirits like the rest of us. Han didn’t want to send her to the crypt—he couldn’t imagine that a young woman would want to go down there with all the old people. Plus, she wouldn’t want to hear speakers droning on every day. As you know, some are better than others.
“I wanted her close, though. I wanted to be able to come see her whenever I wished. So he created a churchyard.” She threw open a set of wrought-iron doors in a design featuring the Waterlow ravens, the royal wolves, Hanalea’s winged torch, and the briar rose.
The courtyard reminded Ash of a churchyard in a small mountain town, or a private family cemetery on an estate. Trees had been planted, but they were still small, though the courtyard would be shaded for a good part of the day by the surrounding temple. It was slightly overgrown with meadowgrass, as a country churchyard should be.
Their family plot contained three stones. The largest was for Princess Hanalea, as befitted her status.
Hanalea ana’Raisa, Princess Heir
34th in the New Line of Gray Wolf Queens
Naemed Running Wolf in the Uplands
Killed in the Borderlands
With her Bound Captain
Simon Byrne
Wolves Run Free
On the other side of Hana’s plot, his father’s stone.
Hanson Alister (Han sul’Alger)
High Wizard
Consort to Queen Raisa ana’Marianna
33rd in the New Line of Gray Wolf Queens
Naemed Hunts Alone in the Uplands
“You don’t get what you don’t go after.”
The third stone was his own.
Adrian sul’Han (Ash)
Prince of the Realms
Wizard and Healer
Son of Queen Raisa ana’Marianna
And Han sul’Alger, Consort
Streetlord of the Borderlands
Between Life and Death
It was more than peculiar, standing here, reading his own gravestone inscription, feeling unworthy of it.
“You really went to a lot of trouble,” he said, embarrassed. “You could have just built a cairn or something. Especially once you knew I was really alive.”
“Your sister insisted. At first, she wanted nothing to do with holding a funeral for you. She never lost hope that you were still alive. When we went ahead anyway, she refused to attend. Finally, I was able to persuade her to take charge of your epitaph. That’s what she chose.”
Ash was beginning to realize what a force his sister had become. She occupied space, even when she wasn’t here.
His mother knelt and began pulling out some weeds that had crept into one of the flower beds around the plot. “Remember when we used to work in the garden together?” she said.
Ash stared down at the flower bed. The flowers were familiar—foxflowers, and trueheart, and maiden’s kiss. Red, white, and blue. The same as the ones his father had bought his mother on the day he died.
“Those flowers,” he said hoarsely, pointing. “That was—that was—”
“I know,” the queen said, without looking up. “Your father knew these were my favorite flowers. They still are. I refuse to let an assassin take that enjoyment away from me.”
Ash knelt beside his mother, awash in memories from when they gardened together when he was a boy. At the time, he’d mainly noticed her many absences, their many differences. Now he remembered how much they’d shared.
He cleared his throat. “Speaking of Da, I have a message for you. From him.”
This time, she looked up at him. “A message?”
He took his mother’s hands and looked into her eyes. It was a job to force the words out, though they were engraved on his soul. “Something he said to me that day in Ragmarket. When he knew he was dying, he said . . . he said to tell you . . . that having you . . . that being with you . . . that loving you—it was worth it.” He swallowed hard, then repeated it softly. “He said it was worth it.”
His father’s amulet buzzed against Ash’s skin, startling him. It was as if it were underlining the message, or reacting to it. But he kept his focus on his mother’s face.
She sat for a long moment, eyes closed, until tears leaked out from under her lashes. She swallowed hard, and then said in a husky voice, “I might have to add that to both our stones.”
“So it was worth it for you?”
“How can you ask that question?” she said. “Falling in love in wartime is chancy, just like having children. We’ve had a lot of pain, but a lot of joy, all the same. Of course it’s been worth it for me, too.”
“How much time does it take?” Ash blurted.
His mother frowned, as if puzzled. She let go of his hands and sat back on her heels. “How much time does it take for what?”
“How much time does it take to stop feeling guilty for surviving? How much time do you have to have together to make it worth the pain of saying good-bye?”
“There’s not a rule for that,” she said, searching his face. “You’ve met someone—haven’t you.” It was a statement, not really a question.
He nodded. “I met a girl,” he said.
“Is she a student at the Ford?”
Memories rushed in at him from all sides—the acrid scent of the torches, the dance of the light on the walls of the dungeon, Jenna in her filthy finery, saying, “For a healer, you have a very dark soul.”