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“How old are you?” The question had been bothering me since we struck our deal in Aralinth. I’d never heard of Riven. His stories were not told in the kingdom. He was either too young or too inconsequential to have any legends of his own. I’d spent too much time wondering which one it was.

“Older than a Mortal.” I raised a brow, keeping my eyes closed. “Older than you,” he added.

“I was born after the last Fae female died,” I said, rolling the back of my head along the rough bark to look at him. “I already knew that.” Only two Fae could produce another Fae. The children of Fae and Elves were always Elves—they had no magic. If children between Fae and Mortals ever happened, their names were lost to history. Except for Killian. But if the king was to be believed, he’d been blessed with eternal life for ending the Elves. Yet hundreds of Elves still lived in the Faeland, so maybe the king was not as human as he claimed.

“Are you as old as your uncle?” I asked. Even though the Fae didn’t age, I already knew Feron was older. His emotions were muted in a way that Riven’s weren’t. It reminded me of the easy nature of old Mortals. No longer quick to anger like those of youth.

“No,” Riven said. “Feron is one of the oldest of our kind now.” Each word fell out of his mouth in heavy syllables as if he couldn’t decide whether to answer my question.

“At least tell me if you’re older than Nikolai,” I said. It was clear after only two days that Riven and Nikolai were close. The way they flipped between easy laughter and scalding remarks reminded me of brothers.

Riven weighed his answer before standing up and turning toward me. “Nik is older,” he said. He crossed his arms and took a step away from me.

“How much older?” I pushed. I would just as easily believe that Nikolai was eighteen as eighteen hundred.

Riven’s eyes bore into my own before breaking into a smirk. “Need to know,” he said, reminding me of our deal. That was all the information I was getting out of him tonight.

“I can’t sleep,” he said. “I’ll take the rest of your watch.”

He walked away, leaving me beneath the tree. I’d known Riven for days, joined together for every hour, but I still knew nothing about him. Beneath the Shadow’s hood had been a Fae wearing a mask, a mask he seemed reluctant to take off.

The journey through Wiseman’s Way was tedious. The winding pass curved around the mountains while a cold breeze fell from their peaks. My fingers stiffened against the reins as the forest thinned the higher we climbed. We rode our horses until they refused to walk any farther. I helped make camp while Syrra and Nikolai fed an elixir to each horse to help them heal and ride strong again on the morrow. They whispered together in Elvish, too quick for me to catch. Riven didn’t speak at all. If the others were bothered by this, they didn’t show it.

It took three days to reach the eastern side of the range. The slight decline slowed our horses along the narrow path. We were forced to ride in single file between the rocks that had slid down the mountains. Riven stopped his horse beside a pile of large stones. He steered his ride into them, and they vanished.

I blinked. One moment there had been a pile of rocks, the next a thin trail off the main pass leading to a crevice in the rock face. It was a cavern, glamoured by the Fae. No one would stumble across it, unless they knew the cave was hidden behind the rocks.

Gerarda wouldn’t either.

We settled into the small cave for the night. Riven took the horses deeper into the mountain where a small spring pooled along the rock face. They could rest there while we waited for Gerarda to catch up to us along the path. I set my bedroll next to a small crevice along the cave wall. I let myself be dragged into oblivion as soon as my head crashed against the thin roll.

I woke hours later to the three of them bickering around a small fire. I lay still, listening but not turning to face them.

“Three of us are more than enough.” Syrra’s hushed voice sounded annoyed.

“Perhaps, but it’s still a risk,” Riven said. I could tell by the impatience in both their voices that this conversation had been going on for a while.

“It is worth it if it means we will not be caught unawares in Caerth or Cereliath,” Syrra shot back.

“I understand that,” Riven snapped.

“I hear she’s tiny. I doubt it would take three of us,” Nikolai said louder than the others.

They were talking about Gerarda.

I sat up, shooting Riven a stern look where he rested against the wall of the cavern. Syrra sat next to him, glaring at me.

“You’re not killing the Dagger,” I said bluntly. I rubbed my hands over my face and through my hair. I thought our last conversation had resolved the issue.

“And why not?” Riven asked sarcastically.

“Because even if you manage to kill her,” I said, crossing my arms, “there are at least six Shades waiting for her in Caerth. They won’t be easy to quell if their mistress doesn’t return. And if we’re forced to kill them as well, the Arsenal will know something is up before we even make it to Silstra. The entire point is to evade the king’s notice for as long as possible.”

“And what if the Dagger finds the cave?” Syrra asked, throwing a pebble into the fire.

“She won’t,” I answered, stretching my arms behind my head. “You told me Feron glamoured this cave himself. It will not fail us. And if it does, if she discovers our alliance, I will strike her down myself.” I didn’t break my stare with Syrra as I said the words. I wanted her to know I meant it. I didn’twantto kill Gerarda, but I would.

“She’s right,” Riven said after a moment. “We can’t afford to draw attention to ourselves.” He lay down to sleep, refusing to look at any of us.