Nialle’s death would not have taken the spotlight of suspicion away.

I hugged Lugh a little tighter. He gave me a wan smile and continued to read the note.

“All those months with my nose stuck in old books finally paid off—I found a reference to the Sword of Darkness in the Book of Tywyllwch.”

“Which is?”

“A late-thirteenth century Welsh manuscript containing Old and Middle Welsh poetry attributed to a late-sixth century poet. The original is kept in the National Library of Wales, but we have a later parchment copy.”

“Huh.” I motioned him to continue.

“There was a poem about a black sword that cast all before it in darkness, wielded by Rostin De Clari, a chevalier who was said to be Agrona’s earthly embodiment.”

“Agrona was goddess—why would she embody a man?”

“Stop interrupting and we might just find out.”

I snorted. “I have no patience. You should know this by now.”

“Says the woman who wasted ten years of her life with an elf who was never going to marry her.”

“Yes, but the sex was good, and it wasn’t like there was a more suitable prospect around.”

Mainly because single male pixies were something of a rare breed here in Deva, and while I had nothing against humans, I couldn’t see the point of engaging in anything more than a sexual liaison with them, given their short life spans. Why set myself up for heartbreak that way?

Lugh rolled his eyes and went on. “After talking to Jacques—who is, before you cut in again, dearest sister, a French archeologist Nialle has worked with on and off over the years—I was able to contact a historian familiar with Rostin De Clari. He’s been working on the family tree and believes there could be a direct descendant alive today.”

“Which doesn’t mean they’ll know anything,” I commented.

“No, but it’s a start,” Lugh said, and then continued reading. “I did try to convince the historian to send me the information, but it’s the man’s life work and he’s... well, he’s as paranoid as me.”

I could almost hear Nialle’s half laugh as Lugh read that. I hugged my brother again and then said, “Which begs the question—if Nialle was killed for that information, does that mean the historian is dead as well?”

“Jacques should be able to tell us that. I’ll contact him once we’re out of here.” He glanced down at the letter again. There were only a couple of lines left. “If I don’t come back, seek the oracle. She left a message for me a few hours ago and said she had some information on the goddess’s Claws that I needed. I know you’re wary of self-proclaimed prophets, Lugh, and with good reason, but there was something in this woman’s voice that made me believe her. I did return her call, but she didn’t pick up and, well, we’ll see.”

Lugh took a deep breath and released it slowly, then picked up the smaller bits of paper. One was a newspaper article with the picture of a woman with black hair, thin features, and a rose tattoo running down the left side of her face. Her name was Peregrine Stace, and she’d apparently been arrested for attempting to steal the Book of Tywyllwch from the Welsh National Library. Nialle had circled the woman’s name in red, with a question mark above it but no explanation as to why. The other piece of paper was a hastily written note with a name—Castell—a phone number, and then the words “Oracle to old gods” and “return call” underlined.