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VEYKA

I didn’t miss the elemental court. Not even close—but I did miss the pastries and my ever-replenishing stack of books.

Maisri was an accomplished cook for her age—any age, really. Thankfully.

I could make tea. That was the extent of my culinary acumen. Iwasgood at knocking birds from the air with a throw of my dagger.

We ate well. But not even Maisri could craft a delicate, flaky pastry over a campfire—even a magically controlled one.

The monotony of travel might have been peaceful, had it not been for one thing.

One person.

Percival St. Pierre.

He talked as much as Parys and had all the charm of one of my old royal councilors. I very much looked forward to disposing of him the same way I’d done most of them.

While all the humans we’d encountered so far had been pale skinned, Percival had deep reddish-brown skin—darker than Arran’s bronze, not as deep as Gwen’s brown complexion. His hair was more similar to Arran’s, thick with a bit of a curl. He kept it loose around his shoulders or tied haphazardly down his back.

Not a warrior, then.

Though nothing about him indicated as much anyway. He’d carried a bow, but we hadn’t given him a chance to use it. He was lean, appeared strong enough, kept pace with us. Complained about it, but kept pace.

Percival complained about everything.

The weather, the food, the rope around his hands… he may be from the human realm, but he didn’t seem to like this part of it very much.

The one thing he didn’t talk about was his sister.

Other than that initial promise he’d extracted from us—that we would help retrieve his sister from the supposed fae lord in return for his guidance to Avalon—he hadn’t mentioned it all. Either he didn’t actually care, or he cared a lot and was keeping something from us. Waiting to spring the other half of his trap.

We’d find out after we reached Avalon.

In the meantime, I was desperate to shut him up before Arran or I lost our tempers and stabbed him. I caught Lyrena’s arm when we went to relieve ourselves after a brief stop for afternoon tea.

The look on my face must have spoken loudly enough.

Within an hour, she’d devised the game.

Though I was loath to give Lyrena all of the credit. I suspected it was a tamer version of a drinking game she’d played with the palace guards back in Baylaur.

“Who do I tell my answers to?” Osheen asked, rubbing his brow. Lyrena made him do that with startling frequency.

Lyrena rolled her eyes, tossing her gold cape over her shoulder. “I ask the question. Arran says the answers he thinks you will give. Then you tell us if he was correct.”

Maisri shook Lyrena’s arm excitedly. “How do we win?”

Osheen’s second sigh of exasperation was louder than the first. “Does someone really need to win?”

“Yes!” Lyrena, Maisri, and I cried in unison.

“The winner doesn’t have to do dishes for a week,” I decreed.

I was going to win.

Ihateddishes.