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“Your husband was the human messenger.”

“Yes.”

Parys pushed to his feet. Gwen wouldn’t do anything to harm the woman… but if Sylva attacked, lunged, would the dark lioness take over?

But the conversation continued. “Were you there when the darkness took him?”

Gwen’s voice was tight. She could show emotion—it must be gnawing at her. But what emotions, precisely? “No. But I was pleased to hear of it.”

Silence.

Parys stopped just short of the door. Even if he was in the antechamber, he doubted he’d be fast enough to spring between them.

Shifting of cushions, nearer to the door—the chaise. Sylva.

But it was Gwen who spoke. “I would have killed him, if the Brutal Prince had not stopped me.”

More silence.

Then quiet words, farther away this time.

Gwen made a soft sound, purely feline. Somewhere between a growl and a purr. As confused as her mind must be.

“May I make an offering of advice, from an old woman?” Sylva said.

Parys found himself leaning in closer to the door, trying to hear her quiet words clearly.

“I am older than you are,” Gwen said. Even again—she was regaining some control.

The old woman chuckled. Actually chuckled. Ancestors, humans were resilient creatures. Parys supposed they must be; their lives were too short to spend years lingering on a hurt or grudge.

“Age is relative, is it not?” Sylva said. “I am near the end of my life, while you are in the prime of yours.”

Gwen didn’t argue. She didn’t move at all, if Parys guessed correctly.

So, Sylva spoke again.

“Forgive yourself. Even a year is too long to bear those burdens.”

Parys could hear his own heartbeat. Ancestors, he could hear Sylva and Gwen’s as well. All three, thundering wildly.

As he counted them, another minute passed. Then Sylva stood, her skirts brushing over the ground noisily as she curtsied and left, the guards at the door following to escort her back to the human delegation’s quarters.

Parys used the sounds to cover his retreat back to the night dark balcony, settling himself onto the lounger he’d vacated minutes before. He’d wait until the dinner trays were delivered. Give Gwen those few minutes of peace and silence, without his intrusion, to resettle herself. He’d pretend he hadn’t heard her throat clench with emotion. It was the least he could do, as her friend.

But the door from the antechamber opened. Soft footsteps, then a whoosh of air as Gwen folded herself onto the chair beside him.

Parys slid his gaze her way. Stiff as a board, in a lounge chair. He supposed that made sense; he’d never seen Gwen at any kind of ease.

She stared straight ahead, though he was sure she noted his stare. He was a male of many words, but something in that moment held his tongue.

Her golden gaze did not shift, staring into the darkness of the Effren Valley beyond as she spoke softly. “Would I have made a good queen?”

Parys’ throat clenched, but he forced out the words. “Better than Veyka?”

Gwen’s dark braids swayed in the moonlight as she shook her head. “That is treason to even think,” she said. “But that is not my question.”

Again, Parys could not bring himself to speak. Listening was not his strength. Silence liked to be filled, and he was damn good at filling it. But if any of the gods the humans believed in did exist, perhaps the human delegation had brought one with them from Eldermist. For it seemed as if some greater power held his tongue silent at that moment.