“Here in the Northlands, where the maegic has not yet fled entirely, we are somewhat sheltered from the blight. Our geography spared us the worst of the bloodline culling two hundred years ago. It continues to shield us now—from the ceaseless wars that rage on in the Midlands, from the occasional attempts at invasion when a particularly foolish king gets it in his mind to test his mettle in the Avian Strait.”
I nod absently, thinking of Seahaven. Of the Starlight Wood at the farthest reaches of the shore, where the branches glowed with unearthly light and the soil hummed beneath my feet, an untapped current. Were those lingering traces of power what had kept our land fertile despite the growing blight?
After seeing more of the Midlands these past months, I’m almost certain of it.
“Beyond the mountains,” he continues, “pathetic mortalslive short, miserable lives full of hunger and suffering while their false kings battle over land so poisoned, it can no longer produce crops.”
My eyes jerk back to his. “You speak like they deserve such a fate.”
“Do they not?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Was it not the mortal men who threw the balance out of alignment in the first place? Was it not their selfishness that spurred them to betray an emperor to whom they’d pledged fealty? Was it not their greed that brought this curse down on the whole continent?”
“Their ancestors’ greed, maybe. Not theirs.”
“Who are we but the legacy we leave behind? They are as culpable as their forefathers.”
“A man is not his history.”
“No?” His eyes are so blue, so bottomless, I think I might drown in them. “Do you think any of those mortal men—men raised on the glory of that murderous lineage—would lift a hand to help someone like you?”
I think of the noose around my neck. Of my hanging tree. Of sneering mouths and half-lidded stares and eager hands reaching for hilts.
Point bitch.
Faery scum.
“There are good people in the Midlands,” I insist, pushing aside the cobwebbed memories that haunt the darkest corners of my mind. Finding bright spots.
Tomas passing me a honey cake fresh from the oven. He was mortal, and he showed me kindness.
Eli’s warm face, his comforting arms. He was mortal, and he loved me. A love so strong, he’d died for it.
“There are people who are too busy trying to survive tobother hating halflings. And, hard as you may find it to believe up here in the pampered shelter of the north…” I look hard at the bowl of strawberries. “There are people who would not only lift a hand to help someone like me, but would risk everything—would give their verylives—in exchange for mine.”
His tone is dubious. “You have met such people.”
“I have.” I swallow hard against the emotions that claw at me. “You cannot condemn an entire region for the crimes of a few.”
“I don’t condemn anyone. I don’t care enough to—not anymore.”
“But you did once?” I find it hard to believe the caustic, cynical creature seated before me has ever genuinely cared about anything.
His jaw tightens. “A long time ago.”
“What changed?”
“I thought perhaps the balance could be restored. That I could help the prophecy along. That my role in this actually mattered in some way. Now I know better.” He stares deeply into his glass. “I am a mere observer in all this. I will sit back and sip wine as I watch the southern kingdoms crumble into ash and bone.”
“That sounds very dramatic.”
He grins, an unexpected flash of white teeth that makes my heart stutter. “Indeed.”
“This prophecy you mentioned…” I knit my hands together beneath the table. My fingernails dig into the skin, leaving behind a row of crescent moons. “What else does it say about us?”
He sighs again, as if he does not want to tell me, but eventually relents. His tone drips derision. “Four elements. Four Remnants, reincarnated in flesh and blood. A fated tetrad, bearing the marks of the gods. Scattered across the land. Should all four come together and be bound as one, the balance will be restored. Maegic will return, the blight will end, the land will recover, allwill rejoice. Bounty, glory, et cetera.” He snorts into his goblet as he takes another sip. “False promises of a senile old seer who probably made the whole thing up after too long in the opium baths.”
I stare at him for a long beat. “And if you’re wrong? If it’s true?”
“Like I said, Anwyvn’s fate no longer concerns me.”