“Can you tell me anything I need to know?” She watched again as each time she spoke, the tree pulsed almost imperceptibly. She nearly tripped on her own feet as she followed the priestess around the tree, her attention focused on the effect her words had on the tree. “My friends seek King Ceres’s son. It’s why they’re here from Raascot.”

The priestess continued her slow, stately circling of the tree. She did not look at Amaris, only at the twisting limbs of her goddess.

“I know why your men come from Raascot.”

Amaris followed. Her brows knit as she asked, “Can you see them? The dark fae?”

“Ag’imni do not wait politely at the feet of my temple. True demons have not bothered entering these holy woods for one thousand years, since their unholy birth in the wilds. I know men and fae when I see them, and I know an enchantment even if I cannot perceive what it conceals.”

What a beautiful, political way of always responding while never answering. Perhaps in Amaris’s second life, she would sit upon a throne in the courts and remember the lessons learned here, authoritatively speaking to the questions of the people while revealing nothing. It was effective for the priestess, and mind-numbing for Amaris.

“Can you—or will you—tell me where the king’s son is?”

The woman paused. She tilted her chin to look over her shoulder, not facing Amaris as she spoke her solemn response. “The king has no son.”

“He has spent twenty years believing something to the contrary,” Amaris countered carefully.

“Yes, he has.”

Was this priestess a friend or an intentional obstacle? With each obtuse question and indiscernible answer, the woman felt more and more like a foe.

Amaris reached into her heart and stilled herself, prepared for the riddles. Perhaps the visit to the temple would not be succinct, but she would not let it be cut short by the immaturity of her own disquietude.

“Does the king have an heir?”

“He does,” she responded, continuing to circle the tree.

“Why is the king certain it’s a son?”

“His beloved gave unto him a son.”

“He sired a son?”

“He did not.” The woman did not look back as she continued their volleys.

“A son was born from the one he loved?”

“A son was the result of their union.”

“But King Ceres has no son.”

“The king does not.”

What a fruitless game. Together they were the ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail in infinite futility. Each step, a question deflected. Each movement around the tree, a frustrating nonanswer. The king had a son. The king didn’t have a son. Both seemed equally true and equally false. The line of questioning was getting her nowhere. She shifted her questions to a matter of geography, following the priestess one step at a time as they circled the tree.

“Do you know where the heir is?”