“Is this the sort of advice you’ll give your cousin when he ascends the throne?” he demanded. “Will you tell him to risk political suicide and the downfall of Trollus for the sake of one life?”

Maybe. “She’s popular with the people,” I said instead. “It would create goodwill.”

“Amongst those who already hold ill will toward the Duke. It gains me nothing.”

“He has Roland. Why shouldn’t you have the wardship of one of his children?”

His eyes narrowed. “Roland was part of another transaction.”

“Which no longer exists,” I snapped, not caring that I wasn’t supposed to know about Tristan’s ill-fated betrothal to Anaïs. “Tell him you want Pénélope or you’re taking Roland back.”

“That’s not a deal I can make,” he responded, and though I knew there was more to that answer, all I heard was the refusal. He wouldn’t help her.

There was nothing I could say. No argument that would sway him. Which left only one option. “Do it as a favor to me, then,” I said. “I’d be in your debt.”

The only sound was the faint drip, drip of the Élixir fountain behind me, and I wished for a moment that I could slip through the tear in the fabric of the world from which the precious liquid came.

Then, to my surprise, the King glanced at Aunt Sylvie, silent communication passing between them. I knew she sat on his council, but given their contentious relationship, she was the last person I’d expect him to take advice from. I held my breath, watching as she stared thoughtfully at the ground between us.

Aunt Matilde abruptly staggered, the King barely managing to catch her before she fell. He lowered her to her knees, my Aunt Sylvie’s body twitching and jerking from where she dangled from her sister’s shoulders, her eyes rolled so far back that only the white showed.

“What’s happening to her?” I demanded.

“Be quiet,” the King snarled, his eyes fixed on Aunt Sylvie.

Then she spoke.

“Beware the broken one,

Who is the shadowed son.”

Her voice was toneless and strange, and I unconsciously stepped back, coming up against the fountain behind me.

“Beware the love that takes

And wills a bond that breaks.

Beware the voice of lies

Or risk your greatest prize.”

The foretellings were always riddles. Puzzles given to my aunt by the fey in Arcadia through the strange connection she had with the other side. Most in Trollus believed they were intended to protect our people. To allow us to endure.

But this one was personal.

It was a warning to my uncle not to help Pénélope. Not to help me.

My fingers gripped the edge of the fountain tight enough that I felt the stone begin to crumble, a piece falling off to splash into the liquid below.

A bond that breaks…

I turned, and stared into the depths of the pool. A magic greater than anything in Trollus. A magic that could not be undone by anything other than death.