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“Yes,” I say.

Albrecht’s son looks a little older than when I saw him last. I didn’t get to know him during my stint at the castle, but I saw him around a few times and learned the name of the boy who was supposed to be my stepson: Gawain.

When I first saw him it had been in the throne room, when his face was twisted with fear and sorrow as he’d been forced to kill an innocent man. I thought at the time he couldn’t be more than sixteen. Now, even though I’ve been away from the castle less than a year, his face looks less boyish. But maybe that’s because the expression he’s wearing is peaceful for once.

“We can ask him where his father is,” Lord Sunshard says. Before I can say anything, Ruskin lifts the diversion spell. Gawain’s head jerks up, and his eyes widen.

“Prince Gawain,” I begin, but the young man has already thrown himself across to his bed, grabbing a bow and sheaf of arrows.

“Quick reflexes,” murmurs General Sunshard, sounding impressed. None of us move, even as the prince nocks an arrow and tries to decide who to aim at first.

“Wait,” I say, holding up my hands to indicate we’re not a threat. Although in truth, we are. He’s the one who’s not a threat, despite his weapons. His arrows are metal-tipped—I could swipe them out of the air before they got anywhere near us. “It’s me, Eleanor Thorn, the Gold Weaver.”

Gawain squints at me, his eyes flashing with recognition, but he makes his choice and levels his arrow at Ruskin.

“I know who you are, and I also know who he is. Blackcoat.” He says the word like a curse, but he sounds more afraid than hateful. Fair enough. We have just ambushed him in his own bedroom. I glare at Ruskin.

“There was a better way to go about this,” I say to him.

Gawain juts his chin out, his eyes still fixed on Ruskin. “Eleanor may have fallen foul of your tricks, fae, but you won’t harm any more of this court on my watch.”

“An admirable sentiment,” says Ruskin cooly. “But it’s not your court we’re interested in. Where is your father?”

Gawain readjusts his stance. He’s trying to look brave, but I suspect he doesn’t know what to do here. He must be aware we could take him out easily before he could call in any guards.

“Tell us where your father is, and we won’t harm anyone in this castle,” Ruskin says.

Gawain frowns. “You can’t fool me with your word games. You’ll just take us outside before you start killing us.”

He’s not wrong—Ruskin could do that. I don’t believe he would, but there’s no point in me telling Gawain that. He knows I can lie. Still, it seems obvious that I have the best chance at getting through to him. Better than Ruskin, at any rate. I give Ruskin a hard look, and he gets the message as I step forward.

“Prince Gawain, you know me. Or at least you know that I, like you, have been a victim of your father’s cruelty.”

Gawain still looks suspicious, but I see a flicker of another emotion when I mention Albrecht.

“We came here to rescue my father,” I indicate Dad behind me, “who King Albrecht has been holding captive.”

The tops of Gawain’s ears redden as he looks at my dad. Maybe he feels guilty about his father’s ruthless behavior. Often the children of tyrants become tyrants themselves, but I saw the regret on Gawain’s face when Albrecht made him execute a man in front of me. He takes no pleasure in violence, and yet here he is, standing up to us to defend his court. I think he might listen to reason.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he says, dropping his gaze for a moment. “You must understand, I have no say in what the king does.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I say soothingly, pleased that he seems receptive. “But we’re afraid your father is now up to something that will have terrible consequences for both Styrland and Faerie.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

I look at Ruskin, wondering where to start.

“You know I can twist my words, but I cannot outright lie,” Ruskin says to Gawain.

The young prince nods cautiously.

“Then believe what I tell you next: in Faerie, I am a king, but for reasons of her own, my mother seeks to destroy my kingdom. Many centuries ago, the then-ruler of Styrland tortured her. Since then she holds a grudge against your kind as well.”

“Is your mother…the faerie queen?” Gawain looks between us, his face pale. “With green eyes and dark hair?”

“Yes,” Ruskin says.

“Has she been here?” I ask gently. “Has your father made a deal with her?”