“I’m looking for the Forever King’s descendant,” Irial says softly.

Croi blinks, wondering who this Forever King is. “In dreams?”

“It’s a scrying spell. It uses dreams…” He trails off, seeing her disbelieving face. He clears his throat. “Anyway, are you?”

“Why are you looking for the Forever King’s descendant anyway?” Croi asks instead of answering Irial’s question. Though only in a dream, this is the first time she has talked to anyone besides the Hag, and she wants to prolong the experience.

Irial’s eyes narrow at the question. He coughs slightly, perhaps trying to find the best answer. “I… It’s complicated. There’s no point telling you. You won’t even remember this conversation happened,” he mutters, and Croi raises her eyebrows.

“Why not?”

“The spell will erase your memories afterward,” he confesses.

“In that case, you should tell me all your secrets.” Croi leans forward, her eyes gleaming. “Since I won’t remember them, or you for that matter, go ahead and get things off your chest. Vent!”

Irial doesn’t seem to need much persuasion. After a minute or so of pondering, he sits down on a wooden stump and pats the space beside him. Croi obliges and sits down, her head tilted to listen. He clears his throat and begins. “My mother is the nominal queen of Talamh. They call her ‘the Robber Queen’ because they think she stole the throne.”

“Did she?” Croi asks, forgetting to eat probably for the first time in her life.

“It would be better if she had. At least that would mean she wants the throne she’s stuck with,” Irial says, his voice bitter.

“Why doesn’t she abdicate? Can’t fae monarchs do that?”

“There are reasons she can’t. Reasons I am not allowed to say. But I’ve noticed that she has become more secretive with the approach of the Saol ceremony. She has frequent meetings I am not invited to, conversations with her allies. She is making plans for something that she won’t tell me about, and that worries me.” Irial sighs, leaning back to stare at the forest canopy. Croi’s dreamscape is quite detailed.

“What do you think she’ll do?” Croi asks.

“I don’t know what she can do.” Irial frowns. “If we make it through the Saol ceremony, she will be stuck as queen for many more years. I heard her crying herself to sleep one night, and when I asked her ladies-in-waiting, they said it was a common occurrence. The Talamh throne, for all that she sits on it, is not hers. So, I thought that if I found the Forever King’s heir, we could hand them the crown. Are you his heir?”

Croi makes a face at him. “I’m assuming this Forever King was fae?”

“Yes, of course. All monarchs are fae,” Irial replies.

Croi remembers the Hag’s lesson and sneers. “I’m not even fae. How could I be his descendant?”

Irial shrugs. “I just thought you were Glamoured to look like a brownie.”

His words fall on Croi the way a knife falls on the neck of a chicken before it becomes food. It has almost the same effect. Croi wakes up gasping, her heart galloping in her chest.