Mena would never forget the strange song that Corinn whispered to Aaden as he lay unconscious and bleeding that horrible afternoon. She could not remember the words of it. She was not even sure there were words. It had a shape that might have been language but that was vague and hidden beneath a melody that defied description. It was sound and breath and notes. It contained more voices than just Corinn’s, mixed with music and exhalation and sobbing and a thousand promises. It mystified her.

And the others as well. One of the servants asked if they should pull the queen away from the boy, but Mena shook her head. Whatever was happening—whether the song was a funeral dirge or a sorcerer’s spell—it was Corinn’s right to sing it. A mother’s right. Perhaps a queen’s right.

When finally Corinn drew back and let them attend the prince, the physicians gasped in amazement. Aaden’s abdomen had healed. There was blood aplenty, but try as they might they could not find any cuts in the boy’s flesh. Bruises, yes, a swollen line above his groin that looked like a long-healed wound, abrasions. But the boy simply was not suffering from the dagger wound they had come running to attend. He was no more hurt than if he had been through a rough patch of sword training. He slept, breathing steadily, his face as peaceful as that of any child deep in the dreamworld.

“He will sleep until he wakes,” the queen said.

“But,” one of the physicians began, “how did—”

“The Giver has helped me heal him,” she said, inflecting the god’s name in the manner that gave its feminine form. “Let us praise her and be thankful.”

After verifying Aaden’s lack of injury with her own eyes, Mena had sought out her sister. Corinn had already turned her back on the scene and was striding away, Rhrenna rushing to keep up with her. Mena caught her in the hallway, but Corinn would not even look her in the face. She mumbled something about washing the blood off. That was all. She left Mena standing in the hallway, caked in grime.

Corinn had not even looked at Elya, and that was cruel, for the creature was trembling with worry, obviously afraid that she had not done well enough. Mena returned to her and assured her, through whispered words and caresses, that she had done very well. Wonderfully well. She was a beauty. She had saved Aaden, and Corinn would thank her for it once she recovered from the shock.

Believing this to be true, Mena could not have been more surprised with how quickly her sister had—well, recovered seemed the proper word. Proper, but not the right one. Several days later, Aaden still remained asleep, but Corinn had put her grief and fear behind her. She emerged from her chambers as poised and controlled as ever, washed clean and seeming all the more forceful in her beauty. Her face was leaner, perhaps, just slightly more angular and perhaps several years older, though this may just have been because of the tight-lipped expression she took on.