“In the few days I’ve known him, I’ve gleaned that he’s had a hard life.” I wait as my brother gives me a somber look. “Wrenfir grew up in extreme poverty. As a child he was sick with the Grippe and almost died from it. Then, he was almost killed by the Kelts and the Urisk during the Realm War.” Trystan pauses again, as if formulating his thoughts. “When he was about thirteen, our grandmother killed our parents, who he was very close to. Then he escaped the Western Realm with Fain and Li’ra and Or’myr only to come to a place that reviled him for being Gardnerian.”

It pains me to learn all this, but the questions remain. “Why the tattoos, though?”

“He fell in with the only group that didn’t treat him as an outcast. Death Fae refugees. The spider and the raven are among their familiars.”

“Like Ariel’s birds?”

Trystan nods. “Like her birds. I think the tattoos are his way of paying tribute to those Fae for their kindness.”

“The kindness of Death Fae?” I don’t know much about these mysterious Fae, but from what little I’ve read, kindness isn’t exactly what they’re known for.

Trystan’s lip quirks slightly. “They can be very kind. I’ve gotten to know two of them. But their relationship with Wren is ironic, since he’s constantly working against their power.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a brilliant apothecary. Like our mother was. Like you. He spends all his time making medicines to save people’s lives. Mainly from the Grippe.”

Trepidation rises. “If he’s working against Death Fae power...does that mean they cause the Grippe?”

Trystan shakes his head. “No. Not directly. But they’re aligned with forces of nature that are...difficult.”

“Like sickness?”

He pivots his head as if equivocating. “Like that. They’re primordial, Ren. It’s complicated, and none of us has a good understanding of their power.” Trystan glances toward the blue rune border and frowns. “Wrenfir left to deliver Norfure tincture to those people you came through the Dyoi Forest with.”

Profound relief rushes over me. Emberlyyn and Tibryl will be cured, just like that, by the wildly expensive medicine.

“He steals most of the ingredients,” Trystan bluntly tells me. “To make medicine for those who can’t afford it. Like he couldn’t afford it when he was a child.”

I consider this. “You shouldn’t have to be rich to get medicine.” Trystan nods, our powers whirling around each other decidedly even as another question rises. “Are all those cats Wrenfir’s?”

Trystan nods. “He lost his childhood cat during the Realm War and he never got over it. He rescues them now.”

A pang cuts through me as I think of my own cat, Isobel, who split her time between our cottage and the Gaffneys’. I hope against hope she’s ensconced there now.