His eyes held the light of a fanatic, there was spittle on his cheeks that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away, and his hair was a disaster, but not like the wind had gotten to it. More like it hadn’t been combed in a week. And then I noticed something that I hadn’t before, something that made everything else seem irrelevant.

Because the king… was missing a hand.

That hadn’t been true a moment ago, back when he was wearing silk and sunlight was flooding through the windows—in a different time, I realized. Arsen had been here more than once, and the two visions were getting jumbled up, every time my head went swimmy. I just didn’t know why, or how to stop it.

Arsen noticed the missing hand, too. It was hard not to when the stump wasn’t covered by anything, and was currently pressed up against our chest. As if Aeslinn had forgotten that he couldn’t grab us with that hand, as well.

Arsen didn’t react, but I could feel his shock, and some of his thoughts.

Fey didn’t lose appendages in battle very often, at least not high born fey. Those half human mongrels the Water Fey had taken to creating often did, due to their human blood slowing their reflexes and their queen putting them directly in the line of fire. But a light fey king without a hand?

He had heard rumors that Aeslinn had been injured, but had put it down to scuttlebutt. Just as he had those stories about the king fleeing back in time with that filthy necromancer, to avoid the war. Such things were impossible, as everyone knew. And even if not, Aeslinn was many things, but he was not a coward.

And yet… he had lost a hand.

What appeared to be years ago, by the look of it.

Arsen’s head started spinning.

Mine wasn’t doing much better, but I didn’t have time to think about it, because Aeslinn had noticed our interest and moved to within an inch of our face; maybe closer. Close enough to kiss, although he wasn’t looking all that friendly. Close enough to bite through our jugular, which would have fit his expression better, if we hadn’t been wearing a steel neck protector.

And maybe even with one, I thought, as he smiled, showing pointed incisors that would almost have done a vamp proud. “You see what they did to me? That devil and his whore?”

“I—yes, Your Grace.”

And, for once, Arsen did react. He swallowed, and Aeslinn saw it. The smile grew wider. “And you remember old Dalhman, what happened to him after he failed me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Aeslinn let him go, abruptly enough to stagger us slightly. “You know what I want.”