12. PARENTAL CONCERNS

Talon’s story

The Mother of Trees, the Manol

The day of Vol Karoth’s escape, morning

There was no small amount of irony to Talon pretending to be Kihrin, pretending that Khaeriel was her mother. Mostly in that, by many standards, Khaeriel was her mother. Or at least, the relationship between Khaeriel and Lyrilyn had always been parental, no matter what Talon had once implied to Kihrin in a quest to make him squirm.1

Talon was hardly blind to Khaeriel’s faults, but the woman had been there for Talon—or rather, for Lyrilyn—when no one else had. When no one else cared at all for a poor little slave girl trying to survive the horrors of a Royal House. When it seemed that even Ola had abandoned her.

So it wasn’t difficult to pretend to view Khaeriel with familial warmth—because it wasn’t pretend.²

Talon put her hand on Khaeriel’s, still resting on her arm as they walked.

“I very much hope this is important,” Khaeriel said. “I was in the middle of something.”

“It’s not. I just needed to get you out of there before you started a fight,” Talon admitted with a smile.

Khaeriel stopped walking. She tried to pull her arm free from Talon’s, but Talon’s grip tightened on her hand, trapping it.

“No, no,” Talon said. “You’re trying to cause trouble for my great-great-grandmother and the man I love, and I’m asking you to stop. Please.” She turned her head to stare the woman in the eyes, momentarily unnerved by the fact that she was used to Khaeriel being so much taller. Now she was the taller one. Or rather, Kihrin was. Khaeriel’s eye color was different too, but not the intelligence and sharp wit in those eyes. Those had stayed the same.

Khaeriel sighed. “I don’t like being betrayed,” she admitted and continued walking.

Talon bit her lip rather than make a comment on how Khaeriel’s own various sins might have been perceived by others. Betrayal would certainly be one of the words used in that description.

“Who does?” she said instead, keeping her tone light. “But it’s not like Teraeth wants to be king. He really doesn’t. And I sure as hell don’t want to be … I don’t even know what to call it. Prince consort?”

Khaeriel whirled to face Talon. “Has he asked you to marry him? When did this happen?”

Talon cleared her throat. “I don’t think it officially has, but that’s beside the point, which is that you’ll probably end up queen soon enough. Except that I know Teraeth: he’s not going to give you a fucking thing if he thinks you were plotting behind his back.”

Khaeriel scoffed, but didn’t dispute the sentiment. Probably because she knew it was true.

“Are you staying?” Khaeriel asked instead. Her voice sounded wistful, even a little plaintive; she’d asked the question while already knowing the answer.

“I can’t. I—” Talon shook her head. “You heard what Teraeth said. He wasn’t exaggerating.”

“So you’re afraid that if you stay, it’s only a matter of time before Vol Karoth comes for you,” Khaeriel said with grim finality. “Or he sends more dragons.” She’d been at the lake house when Vol Karoth had first sent Rol’amar to wreak havoc and then had reached through Kihrin himself to touch the world. She knew what was at stake.

Or she thought she did. As it happened, Khaeriel was wrong, but this wasn’t the time or place to correct her assumptions.

“That and … well. Relos Var. There’s still the matter of Relos Var. Everything’s one great big, giant mess, basically. And I’m not exactly sure how we’re going to fix it, only that we have to find a way because I like this world and I want to keep living in it.” Talon’s throat closed on her—really closed on her and not pretend—as she contemplated how serious the situation was and how little chance that what they were going to try would actually work.

Talea really needed to figure out Taja’s power set as soon as possible.

Khaeriel stopped again. “You will find a way. I know you can.”

Talon smiled. Khaeriel’s confidence was entirely bravado, but that didn’t make it any less touching. Talon squeezed one of Khaeriel’s hands. “Thanks.”

Khaeriel studied her son’s face for a long minute, then gently smiled. “Of course. Now let us go greet your father. I’m sure he’ll be eager to—”

They started to cross through a doorway into the palace, and right away, two things happened. One, Talon crashed into an invisible wall of energy that kept her from moving forward. Two, an alarm began to ring.

A small voice in the back of Talon’s mind—Surdyeh, she thought—whispered, They must have updated their wards against mimics to include you.³

Damn.

Just her luck. When last she’d been to the vané palace, Talon had been able to come and go with almost complete immunity because the wards designed specifically to detect mimics were attuned to the twelve original souls who qualified—which Lyrilyn was not. But during that time, she’d impersonated (and to be fair, also killed) the vané queen Miyane. After Talon had been captured, some conscientious vané must have updated the wards, even though Talon had theoretically been sentenced to be stripped of her mimic abilities.

No doubt that same person had thought themselves exceedingly clever after Talon vanished from her cell.⁴

Khaeriel shifted from confusion to fear to furious anger with commendable swiftness. Her spellcasting was faster. Something bright and sharp ripped through Talon’s side—a tapestry pole, with a pointed finial at the end, pulled from the wall. It couldn’t really harm her even if it still hurt, but Khaeriel wasn’t done. A strong wind picked up down the hallway.

“What have you done with Kihrin?” Khaeriel whispered harshly.

Talon didn’t move or even dodge. She had one chance, and if she messed it up, the result would be something much worse than death. “I’m here by his orders,” she pleaded. “Please. When the guards arrive, tell them that this was a mistake. Blame someone else, make any excuse, but if you don’t, then everything Kihrin’s trying to do will fall apart.”

“I don’t trust you,” Khaeriel said through clenched teeth.

“Wise of you,” Talon agreed. “But nothing’s stopping you from changing your mind later. If you don’t like my story, you know what I am, and you can rip me apart yourself. But if those guards on their way find out that I’m not Kihrin, this doesn’t just fuck me over.” Talon heard footsteps approaching fast. “Please. I’ll tell you everything, but you have to decide now.”

Khaeriel stared at Talon, eyes narrowed. Talon was sure she wasn’t going to cooperate. Not after what she perceived as Talon’s betrayal previously.⁵ Certainly not given the general (and not incorrect) perception of mimics. Khaeriel would turn Talon over to the guards, who would use magic to force her into her true shape. Kihrin would go from someone whose location was known to be in the Manol to someone who was missing.

Relos Var would insist on finding him. And that would be that. The whole fucking scheme upended because of a damn ward.

Khaeriel moved her fingers, like wiping away cobwebs. The glow left Talon, and she could move again. The tapestry pole and the fallen tapestry that went with it vanished.

Talon healed the damage to her side and shifted her agolé to cover the hole just as the soldiers showed themselves.

“Your Highnesses,” the guards said to both of them, which made Talon lift an eyebrow. Apparently, Valathea had been leaving behind some very specific instructions regarding the treatment of her niece. “The mimic warning was triggered. Are you both all right? Did you see who triggered it?”

“No,” Khaeriel said. Behind her back, where the guards couldn’t see, Khaeriel did something. Cast a spell, obviously, but Talon wasn’t sure what kind. Khaeriel had always been so good at shielding her thoughts.

“We must test you both,” the guard said.

Talon’s gut twisted. She contemplated how quickly she could get a spell off and if it would do any good.

“I should say so.” Khaeriel lifted her chin. “That is the protocol.”

The guard held up a chain crafted of bits of quartz crystal linked by gold. Each crystal was a slightly different color, although there was no pattern. Silently, Talon counted thirteen crystals and cursed to herself. They weren’t tsalis, but the crystals might well be talismans—each one imprinted with a sympathetic copy of a particular soul.⁶

None of the crystals lit up as the guard brought them over to Khaeriel and then Talon.

But Khaeriel’s placid expression masked intensely focused concentration. It was entirely possible, Talon decided, that the necklace had lit up—and Khaeriel had crafted an illusion so no one saw it.

Just because Khaeriel was good at air magics didn’t mean she couldn’t cast an illusion or two if necessary.

Khaeriel waved a hand. “Honestly, I saw the ward trigger. It seemed to go off with no one present, so they must have been invisible. Likely the mimic is still around somewhere.”

“We shall start the search immediately,” the guard said.

“Good. My son and I will be in our chambers.” Khaeriel’s fingers tightened to the point of pain (or what would have been the point of pain on a normal human) before dragging Talon through the doors a second time and hauling her violently through a hallway beyond. In a matter of moments, she was pushing Talon into a sitting room, where a chestnut-haired man reading a book looked up.

“What—Kihrin?” Therin D’Mon began to smile.

Khaeriel slammed the door shut. “It’s not Kihrin. Talon, why are you wearing real clothing?”

Talon raised an eyebrow. “That’s the question you decided to lead with? Not ‘Why are you impersonating my son?’ or ‘Where’s Kihrin?’ or ‘Does Teraeth know you’re not really his sweetheart?’ but ‘Why aren’t you forming clothing out of your own flesh?’” She ruefully ran a hand over the truthfully excessive hole in her misha. “Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you have a sewing kit, do you?”

Khaeriel inhaled, a mannerism Talon was familiar enough with to know usually proceeded an absolute explosion of murderous outrage.

“If this room isn’t warded against eavesdropping,” Talon said, “fix that, or we’re not talking about anything except the weather and darning techniques.”

Therin stood with an unfriendly expression on his face. “Where’s Kihrin?”

“Wards first, then talking,” Talon snapped.

Therin made a motion as if brushing away crumbs. “Of course the rooms are warded. We’re not amateurs. What’s going on? Khaeriel?”

The former vané queen crossed her arms over her chest. “As I said, it’s Talon. She arrived with Teraeth, Janel, and—” She thought for a minute. “Xivan. So where is our son?”

Our son. It still caught her—or rather, the bit of her who was Kihrin—off guard to hear that referenced so openly. With nobody in the room acting like that was either a surprise or something to be ashamed of.

Talon exhaled as she walked over to a chair and plopped herself down in it. “It’s not complicated. Kihrin’s off doing something important. He doesn’t want Relos Var to know where he is. And the easiest way to do that is to make sure Relos Var doesn’t ask. And why would the wizard ask if I’m right here?” Talon grinned at Khaeriel. “And I’m wearing clothing because it’s not outside the realm of possibility that I might have to do something ridiculous like hold Urthaenriel. I don’t really want to find out what happens if I suddenly can’t shape-change anymore, after I’ve already formed clothing out of my flesh.” She plucked the edge of her agolé. “Pretty sure it would hurt like you can’t even believe.”

“You wouldn’t … revert?” Therin wrinkled his nose.

“I’m not an amorphous blob,” Talon said.

“That is not how it works,” Khaeriel corrected Therin gently. “A mimic who is unable to use magic simply persists in the last form they took.”

“Right,” Talon agreed. “What she said. And truthfully, the whole ‘turning your skin into an excellent approximation of cloth’ is a thing that has to be constantly maintained—which again: kind of painful. And since I’m embarking on a brand-new ‘be nice to myself’ campaign, I’ve decided to skip the gratuitous shape-changing.”

Khaeriel frowned at her. She seemed to be trying to work something out. Talon, in turn, tried to not let how she was really feeling show.

Because she was extremely, distinctly nervous about the matter. Talon wasn’t just copying Kihrin, after all—she was copying Kihrin perfectly. Which was certainly possible if Kihrin had been in close contact with Talon for long enough, but the moment Khaeriel realized that Talon also had all of Kihrin’s memories …

Unfortunately, Khaeriel was smart enough to put two and two together and come up with the idea her son might be dead. Even worse, that although Talon might not be the murderer (and she was), she’d certainly been complicit enough to have access to the corpse.

Awkward for everyone, really.

“I’m going to need proof,” Khaeriel announced.

Fuck.

Talon rubbed an eyebrow and sighed. “And what exactly would that proof look like? It’s not like Kihrin left me a letter to give you.”

“Do your companions know who you really are?” Therin asked.

“Yes, thank you. See? That was a helpful question. And the answer is yes, they do. This is all part of the plan. I invite you to confirm it with them, but I also invite you to do it discreetly and with Valathea using Chainbreaker to make sure no one can eavesdrop.” She shrugged. “Like I said, it’s of vital importance that Relos Var have no idea that I’m not Kihrin.” She pointed a finger at the two of them and then back at herself. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation right now. At all.”

Khaeriel narrowed her eyes. “And yet, we’re going to. Now answer this curiosity. Why is Janel so upset with you? If she knows you are not Kihrin, then the disagreement cannot be with Kihrin. It must be you.”

Double fuck. Talon cursed both the fact that Janel was doing a terrible job of hiding her anger toward Talon and that Khaeriel had noticed. They were really going to have to work on that.

Fortunately, Talon wasn’t entirely without ways of distracting the couple in front of her. “Oh no. She is mad at Kihrin.” Talon grinned. “Well, really she’s mad at your brother, Kelanis, but since your brother is dead, she’s taking it out on Kihrin instead. A feeling that she’s transferred to me, since I’m running around looking like the father of her unborn child.”

“What.” Khaeriel’s hand dug so hard into the arm of the chair where she sat, she was going to leave permanent indentations.

Talon would’ve been lying if she’d said that the look on Khaeriel’s face wasn’t absolutely priceless.

“You heard me.” Talon paused. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it, this won’t even be their first one.” She leaned forward and said in a stage whisper, “They had a child together in a past life too. That daughter’s even still around, although trust me when I say she should never, ever be invited over to family gatherings.”⁷

“How did that happen?” Therin looked like he regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. “I understand the mechanics—”

“After as many kids as you’ve had, I should damn well think so.”⁸

Therin sighed. “I mean, I specifically gave Kihrin protection against that.”

Talon shrugged. “Too late, apparently. I gather the lucky deed occurred when they were tossed into a jail cell together by the old king. After being drugged, mind you, so neither one was exactly being rational about the matter.”

If Therin looked concerned, Khaeriel looked angry.

“Congratulations on becoming a grandmother,” Talon told the woman before waving a hand at Therin. “No congratulations for you. You should be used to it by now.”

Therin calmly made a rude gesture at the mimic.

Khaeriel still looked annoyed. In fact, she was wearing what Talon liked to describe as her “plotting bad stuff” face—which looked placid and serene if one didn’t know Khaeriel as well as Talon did. “If you’re thinking that Janel being pregnant will keep Teraeth from marrying your son, you’ll be thrilled to know Teraeth would happily marry both of them. How convenient that happens to be legal here.”

“But discouraged in the royal family,” Khaeriel pointed out. “It complicates succession to an unreasonable degree.”

“Not my problem. And not yours either unless you make it one. Remember, you’re hoping that Teraeth gives you the throne.” Talon pursed her lips as she regarded the two. “Seriously, I shouldn’t have to remind you that Kihrin will absolutely shit goats if anything happens to Janel or their baby.” Talon paused and then added, “Teraeth’s reaction will be worse.”

“Are you implying that I would consider violence against my own grandchild?” The haughtiness and outrage in Khaeriel’s voice was razor sharp.

Talon paused to take in the view. Spectacular. There might be friction between Valathea and Khaeriel, but it hadn’t stopped Valathea from putting them in the second-nicest suite in the entire palace, and for vané? That was something on a whole different level from a typical Quuros “palace.” One entire wall was nothing but windows decorated with sundew lamps and miniature climbing roses. Everything was impossibly lovely, a combination of real, priceless tapestries, furniture, and art and equally unreal, surreal, impossible illusions. Birds flitted from branch to branch on the mural of painted trees, and gilded bees visited every painted flower. No one could argue that the current regime was treating the former queen poorly.

Still, Talon couldn’t help but wonder if the pleasant treatment was really meant for Khaeriel or for Valathea’s great-grandson Therin.

She suspected the latter.

Talon looked back at Khaeriel. “It does, as you say, complicate succession. And I’ve lived too long in the Court of Gems not to know what that means. So don’t take it personally: I don’t mean it as an insult. Just think of it as a friendly reminder of consequences.”

“It’s an unnecessary warning,” Therin said firmly. “We would never do that.”

Talon studied the man. Sometimes he still exuded the “my will is law” authority of a high lord. Like just then. But that didn’t mean it was true this time.

Therin hadn’t asked about the status of the Capital. He hadn’t asked how House D’Mon was faring in his absence. Either because he dreaded to know the answer or because he didn’t care.⁹

Talon briefly contemplated letting him know that his daughters were dead, lost to greed and the game of empire. That he had, in fact, lost every child, including (by biological definitions, anyway) his youngest son, Kihrin.

Probably best not. That seemed counterproductive.

“So,” Talon said. “Am I free to go?”

“Obviously not,” Khaeriel snapped. “The wards will be reset by now. You would only trigger them again. If the guards arrive to find you there a second time, I believe they might make certain assumptions that would unfortunately prove true.”

Talon scowled. Inconveniently, Khaeriel had a point.

Khaeriel kissed Therin on the forehead. “Perhaps I should talk to Valathea—”

Therin stood up. “I’ll do it. You know she’s more likely to listen to me.”

Ah. So Valathea definitely had a bias toward her great-grandson, then.

Khaeriel seemed to contemplate arguing, but sighed and shrugged a shoulder in acquiescence. “Very well. We need her—or Teraeth, I suppose—to shut down the mimic ward, at least temporarily. And please confirm Talon’s story.”

Therin nodded before turning on his heels and walking out.

Talon bounced a little on the couch as she turned back to Khaeriel. “So! Shall we discuss baby names?”