Page 52

The neighboring room is sparse, with a few chairs and a large desk in the corner. A man with brown hair leans over it, examining a roll of parchment.

“Here they are, Harman,” the redhead says. There’s something new in her voice, a respectful softness I haven’t heard before, and I guess that despite the unassuming setting, this is the Hand’s leader.

As the man lifts his head, I’m struck by how young he looks.

Still older than me, maybe early thirties, but I’d been picturing a person well into middle age.

I glance up at Leon and see him reassessing things.

This man would’ve still been a teenager fifteen years ago, when Leon’s parents died.

Even if he was involved with the Hand back then, there’s no way he was their leader.

Harman drops the parchment and steps around the desk, his eyes flitting over the fae and then moving on, as if he’s discounting them. He looks briefly at Tira, but when his eyes land on me, they stay there, staring.

“You must be Princess Morgana,” he says. “I’m Harman Sandale.”

His staring is starting to make me a little uncomfortable, but I straighten my shoulders and try to assume the appearance of a woman in charge.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sandale. Your people informed me that you had a pressing issue to discuss with me. Well, here I am.”

He tilts his head, a small smile forming on his lips. “‘Pressing’ might have been an overstatement. But I thought the sooner you knew, the better.”

“Knew what?” I ask, confused by the expectant look on his face.

“I’ll just come out and say it, Princess Morgana. I happen to be your brother.”

I don’t think I’ve heard him right at first, until I register the reactions of my friends.

Stratton coughs in surprise, and Phaia inhales sharply.

I look up at Leon, who’s staring so intensely at Harman I’m surprised he hasn’t given himself a migraine.

A rushing noise fills my ears, and I feel strangely disconnected from the rest of my body.

“That can’t be…that’s not possible,” I stutter out.

“Half brother, I should say,” Harman clarifies. “Alaric was my father too.”

“So you’ve no claim to the throne,” Leon jumps in. “Morgana’s mother was the one with the royal blood.”

“Of course. Nor would I want it if I did,” Harman says, vaguely amused at Leon’s suspicion. He straightens. “I’m a bastard. I barely even have a claim to nobility, let alone royalty. I certainly don’t have any designs on my sister’s crown.”

I’m not thinking through the implications of this like Leon is. I’m barely thinking at all. My mind is spinning too fast to settle on any one thought.

Brother. Bastard. Sister.

Could I really be someone’s sister?

I take Harman’s age into account, doing some mental calculations.

“So you’re saying my— our —father had an affair?” I ask.

Harman makes a face. “I’m sorry if that’s difficult to accept?—”

“It’s not,” I say. “I didn’t know the man. Why should I be surprised to find out he was unfaithful?”

I watch Harman’s face carefully for some kind of judgment, but he just nods, understanding my practical outlook.

“Who was your mother?” I ask.

“Lady Phryne Sandale,” Harman says. “She was a political activist. She died two years ago of sickness, but before that, she was a big campaigner for religious liberty. She didn’t like the Temple and neither did my father. You could say they bonded over a shared worldview.”

“From what I’ve heard, my mother didn’t like the Temple either,” I say, trying to find the cracks in his story. I don’t know what to believe, and I worry the wild hope rearing up in me is clouding my judgment. Can I rely on the instinct telling me to trust this man?

“True. But she was also the queen. It seems she thought that demanded certain compromises. Since the war, the Angevires have chosen diplomacy over direct opposition where the Ethirans are concerned. Queen Elowen was no exception. My mother was less concerned about offending the Temple. There were even some who would say she was trying to incite rebellion.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree then,” Leon grunts.

“It fell a way off,” Harman says, failing to be offended by Leon’s accusations. “My mother was still a member of high society. Not a dirty dissident like me.”

Having a noblewoman for his mother would certainly explain some things about Harman. He holds himself gracefully, like any of the fae or human lords I’ve seen at court, and his accent is polished, even if he drops a letter here and there.

“Did he know about you?” I ask. “Alaric, I mean.”

“The affair ended when my mother became pregnant, but yes, she told him.” Harman runs a hand through his brown hair, and now, of course, I think I see the resemblance to Alaric’s—and perhaps my own. I catch a strand of my locks in my fingers, examining the color for comparison.

“Did he write to you?” I ask, Will’s story about the letters coming back to me.

“Yes,” Harman says, his eyebrows rising a little.

“We only met once or twice, when I was still young, but we stayed in contact, and he supported me on and off over the years. More off in the last decade. He didn’t approve of my politics becoming so ‘extreme,’ as he put it,” Harman looks unimpressed by the word.

“As if the Temple would respond to anything else. And once I became leader of the Hand, he tried harder to convince me to stop. Through his letters as well as…other means. But there was only so much he could do without the queen finding out, I suppose.”

A flash of bitterness crosses Harman’s face, then it’s gone as he turns his attention back to me.

“It seems, however, our father kept a lot of secrets. You can imagine I was pretty surprised to hear about another child of his, one who happened to be the heir. I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since.”

He smiles again, and I think it feels familiar to me now, like the echo of an image I’ve seen in a mirror.

Family . It’s been nonexistent in my life.

A fragile concept I’ve watched play out for other people, never me.

I grew up only ever able to build my family out of the people who’d have me.

Kind, generous people like Tira and Will.

But to think there might be someone bonded to me already—someone whose connection to me I didn’t have to earn…

I try to swallow down the painful lump in my throat as Leon’s voice cuts through my thoughts, cold and hard as iron.

“This is all well and good, Sandale. But do you have any actual proof?”

I might not have said it exactly like that, but Leon has a point. Normally, we’d just ask Alastor to confirm Harman’s story, but he’s currently lying unconscious upstairs.

Harman directs his reply to me. “Given everything I’ve heard you’ve been through in the last three months, you’re smart not to take my words at face value. Esther, will you ask Mal to join us?”

The redheaded woman who’s been keeping watch in the corner of the room ducks next door. The part-dryad returns with a little leather case in his hands. I’ve seen one like it in the past.

“Have you had a kin test performed on you before, Princess Morgana?” Harman asks.

“Just Morgana,” I say, automatically. “And yes. At Elmere.”

Harman nods. “I thought so. Then you’ll know what to expect here. Mal, will you do the honors?”

The Hand’s leader rolls up his sleeve and presents the inside of his elbow. The dryad produces a needle from his case and pricks a vein, squeezing a few drops of Harman’s blood into a vial. Then he finds a fresh needle and vial and approaches me.

I wince just a little when he jabs me. He’s definitely not got the same finesse as the dryad at the palace, but then I suppose Mal isn’t technically a healer.

“Dryads have specialties, right?” I say to distract myself from the sting of the vial being pressed against the pin prick. “Their viatic magic tends to have a particular strength. What’s yours?”

“This,” he says with a shrug. “Blood magic. The healers I’ve met don’t like to mess around with it too much, but I find it’s pretty useful.”

“Then how did you give Alastor his fever?” I ask. He’s done drawing blood now; I’m just curious.

“I gave him a blood infection,” he says.

“You gave him sepsis ?” Damia hisses, and somewhere around her collar, Barb does the same.

“A mild case!” Mal says, holding up his hand, still clutching the vial of my blood. “Really. Much milder than you see naturally.”

“Mal might not be a healer, but he knows what he’s doing,” Harman says. His words don’t do much to reassure the fae, however. I can still sense Leon’s resentment coming off him in waves. It’s probably only a matter of time before he reaches a tipping point.

Mal mixes the two vials and mutters a jumble of both Agathyrian and the common tongue—definitely not the official spell the palace healer used, but something of his own invention, I guess. I can make out enough that I’m confident he is asking the blood to reveal a family connection.

Then it turns a violent purple, just like at the palace.

A warmth rises up in me as I meet Harman’s gaze. He looks a little overwhelmed too, like there was maybe a niggling doubt there that’s just been swept away.

“I guess that settles it then,” I say quietly.

“I guess so,” Harman replies. “Nice to meet you, sister.”

I look to my friends, trying to balance myself after such a torrent of emotion. Tira gives me a genuine smile, but I can see the strain in her eyes. I’ve gained a brother, when she’s still mourning the one she lost. Then, when I turn to Leon, there’s only that same suspicion written on his face.

“I’ll believe it when Alastor is well again,” he says to me, before glaring at Harman. “Then we’ll see exactly how trustworthy these people are.”

Harman frowns. “What more could you want? I’ve proven my link to Morgana. Where is this hostility coming from? I would’ve thought that Leonidas Claerwyn, the famed scourge of the War of the Laurels, would understand our goals.”

A jolt of surprise runs through me, because until now the rebels had given no indication they knew who Leon was.

I thought they’d just assumed the fae were, like Esther had said, my Filusian bodyguards.

Maybe they did, but now I realize Harman probably knew who Leon was from the moment he laid eyes on him.

The sudden reveal of this fact doesn’t help soothe Leon, his face contorting in anger.

“Your goals? And what was your goal when you murdered the crown prince of Filusia and his wife?”

Understanding dawns on Harman’s face.

“You’re talking about your parents.”

“You’re damn right I am,” Leon snarls. “Your people hunted them down like dogs and slit their throats.”

He takes a step toward Harman. Mal and Esther tense, and there’s movement next door. I suspect if Leon takes another step, we’ll have a fight on our hands. Yet Harman lifts his palm, signaling the rebels to stand down. When he speaks, his voice is calm.

“I’m familiar with the story of their death, Prince Leonidas, but not because I, or anyone else in my organization, was involved.”

“And how can you be so certain of that? You must’ve been just a child when they were killed.”

“I was seventeen. Old enough to be involved in the cause, though we weren’t called the Hand back then.

I’ll tell you this now, and frankly, I don’t care if you believe it—the rumors about our involvement in the death of the fae royals was complete fabrication.

” Harman’s tone has shifted, taking on a new fervor.

“That was the story the Temple wanted spread. Too many people were starting to sit up and listen to us. They needed to make us look like violent extremists.”

“So it was all just a lie?” Leon says, his voice thick with skepticism.

“Yes, and we paid dearly for it. My father knew I was part of the group being targeted, but rather than helping me clear our names, he encouraged the backlash against us. He thought maybe then I’d stop causing trouble.

He shielded me from arrest, but dozens of my friends died—rounded up and executed for the murder of people they’d never even laid eyes on.

Do you want to know why I stand here today?

Thirty-two and somehow in charge of this whole movement?

Because almost everyone else of importance wound up dead .

My mentor Gantival, our old leader, was executed by the cleavers.

Have you ever seen a man get boiled from the inside, Prince Leonidas?

Perhaps you have, back in the war. Maybe that’s just another Tuesday to you.

Personally, that image will stay with me until the day I die—and I will spend the time between now and then fighting with everything I have to end the monsters responsible. ”

He stops, letting us absorb the weight of his words as he looks down at the parchment on his desk. Once he collects himself, he lets out a bitter laugh.

“The worst part is, the lie doesn’t even make sense. We had no reason to target your people. We hate everything the Temple stands for, including the lies they spout about the fae. I don’t?—”

But we don’t get to hear the end of his speech because he’s interrupted by the thud of heavy footsteps on the stairs next door and a shout for help.