Magic.


    How can that be? Magic doesn’t exist outside Maskamere. It’s the one thing the priestesses at the convent made sure to teach her.


    Sorcery is the blessing of the silvertrees. And with that thought, her heart leaps. There must be a silvertree! She wipes away her fatigue and presses on with renewed hope.


    Then, as she approaches the foot of the mountains, the creatures flying overhead—


    *


    “What did you learn? What is it?”


    Avon gazed at her with implacable intensity. She thought of that terrifying moment over two years ago when he had borne down upon her on his horse, sword held aloft. She remembered fleeing across the courtyard and back into the convent… The screams of the acolytes as the Drakonian soldiers cut them down…


    She wasn’t entirely sure if that memory came from this life or another. She’d dreamed of the invasion so many times that the night had become a blur.


    Drakon’s fearsome general, the son of the Emperor, had wielded Maska’s sword against her own people. And the truth that the sword revealed to her not only intensified her hatred of the Empire, it also cast Avon’s role in a strange new light.


    “I…” She faltered.


    “Valerie,” he said, a bite of impatience entering his voice. “Tell me.”


    Right. He ought to know. Whatever shock she felt paled into insignificance compared to what this meant for him.


    She took a breath. “I think we should sit down.”


    They retreated to the bed, Valerie clutching the queen’s locket at her neck. She made herself focus on the mattress supporting her weight, the soft rustle of her gown and Avon’s jacket as they settled down—anything to ground her in the present. She felt that otherwise she might spiral out of the room.


    Then she looked at Avon and smiled weakly. “You know, I’m almost glad you put that curse on me. I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you without it. I can hardly believe it myself.”


    He shifted, drumming his fingers on his knee. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”


    She didn’t know, but she began anyway: “What your father said about you being the only one who can wield the blade… He was right. I mean, I think you must be the only man in Drakon who can wield it.”


    He frowned. “Why?”


    “Because… there are two conditions for bearing Maska’s sword. The first is that Maskamere must hold a place in your heart. You feel love or admiration or pride for Maskamere…” She hesitated, trying to capture in words the emotion that the sword had provoked. It wasn’t quite patriotism, although that would qualify, but more a sense of… longing. “And the other condition…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, even though they were alone. “You must be a… a child of Maskamere.”


    He stared at her.


    She imagined the earth dropping from their feet. That must be how he felt right now.


    She hastened to clarify: “I mean, you were either born in Maskamere, or—”


    “I wasn’t born in Maskamere,” he said at once.


    “Or at least one of your parents were,” she finished. “Avon, what if your father—”


    “No.” He shook his head. “No, this is absurd.”


    He recognised the implication. She saw it in his response, the instant denial.


    “But your grandfather was an Ambassador to Maskamere,” she pressed. “What if he fathered a child in Maskamere?”


    “My grandmother never set foot outside Drakon.”


    “Maybe she did,” said Valerie, “or maybe she’s not your real grandmother. Your uncle told me that she hated only your father, not him. Maybe she knew he wasn’t her own—”


    Avon made an incoherent sound. Abruptly, he stood up, turning his back on her as he paced about the room.


    “Why would a mother hate her own child?” she persisted. “She hated him because she knew he wasn’t hers. I think that’s the secret the Emperor is trying to hide. He’s half-Maskamery. You have a Maskamery grandmother! And somehow the Patriarch knows, and he’s holding it over your father because he thinks the Senate would turn against you if they knew—”


    “No,” said Avon, turning towards her, “no, if this is true, it’s far worse than that.”


    She frowned. “What?”


    “If my father’s heritage is as you say… Then he is a bastard, and I am the child of a bastard, and that means all our land, our titles, everything is forfeit.”


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    She gaped at him.


    “It can’t be true.” Avon resumed pacing, full of restless energy. “It can’t be. There must be some fluke, some accident…”


    “I don’t understand.” She stood up, leaning against the bedpost. Valerie had expected him to be agitated, but not this agitated. “What do you mean, he’s a bastard? What does that have to do with your land?”


    Many Maskamery had adopted the Drakonian term bastard as an insult to their oppressors. She had called Avon that herself. But she had no idea that the word carried another meaning.


    Avon paused. “Under Drakonian law, the eldest son inherits his father’s title and estate. But that child must  be legitimate—he must be the son of his father’s wife. Children of whores, courtesans, other affairs—they are illegitimate and inherit nothing, not even the family name. A bastard is an illegitimate child.”


    “So that means… your father…”


    “If my grandmother did not bear him, then he isn’t my grandfather’s rightful son,” Avon finished. “And unless Grandfather was foolish enough to conceive two sons outside of wedlock, that makes my uncle Rhys the true firstborn son and heir to my grandfather’s land and fortune, along with his children.”


    She could hardly take it in. Rhys Avon, the Admiral, was the true heir? And the Emperor was… what, nothing?


    “But Reinard is the Emperor. What happens if he’s found out?”


    “There would be immense pressure on him to step down.” Avon folded his arms, expression grim. “It’s unprecedented. Technically, there’s no law against it, but the noble families of Drakon would see it as an outrage. A scandal. I don’t see how we would survive. No, this is… This is a secret that could destroy our family. Not only me. Ophelia and Edrick too.”


    “Oh, Maska,” she whispered.


    This was far, far worse than she had thought. The Emperor’s heritage implicated all of his descendants. And it seemed the Drakonians had tied up their marriage and property laws in such a way to ensure the worst possible outcome for an illegitimate child.


    “It could be false,” he muttered. “It could be, couldn’t it? You said born in Maskamere. What if I was born in Maskamere, not my father? What if it has nothing to do with my grandfather at all?”


    “But you just said you weren’t.”


    “Yes, but I don’t remember my own birth. Perhaps my father covered it up.”


    He was grasping at straws. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe your grandmother’s attitude and your grandfather being Ambassador is just a coincidence…”


    She couldn’t make it sound convincing, and she could tell he didn’t believe it either. All the pieces added up.


    “Look on the bright side,” she went on. “You’re one of us! You’re part-Maskamery, Avon, you have our blood in your veins.”


    He snorted. “No, I’m not.”


    “No, come on.” She closed the distance between them, reaching out to take his hands. They felt warm and calloused, proof, she thought, that he was more than a spoiled Drakonian lord. “You’ve always had sympathy for us. You couldn’t wield the sword if a part of you didn’t love Maskamere. If Drakon doesn’t think you’re legitimate, then forget Drakon. You’d be legitimate to us. Somehow out there you must have a real grandmother, a matriarch. You could find a home with us.”


    “Ridiculous,” he murmured. “By that logic, you ought to be welcoming my father with open arms.”


    “The Emperor doesn’t love Maskamere,” she said. “I get it now, I get why he was scared. I get why he said he was protecting you. But he made his choice. He turned his back on his heritage. He chose power in Drakon, and he chose to destroy us. You don’t have to make the same choice.”


    Avon fell silent. She looked at him, hoping, waiting for a response, but the look in his eyes seemed far, far away.


    Maybe it was silly of her to feel excited that he was part-Maskamery. After all, as he had pointed out, they suspected that the Emperor had Maskamery blood too, and that hadn’t stopped him from invading her land. But with everything she knew about Avon’s fascination with Maskamere, his interest in Maska’s Testimonium, in her… Was it wrong to hope that he might someday come around to the Maskamery way of life? That he might envisage a future as a Maskamery and not a Drakonian?


    “James?” she said hesitantly.


    He blinked, then shook his head and gently removed his hands from her grasp. “Forgive me. The irony is palpable. I’ve made every effort to keep you on a leash, and now I’ve handed you the weapon to take down my family.”


    “That’s what the Patriarch thinks,” she said. “He thinks this secret is a weapon he can use against you. But he can’t prove it, can he? If he accuses you, we’ll deny it.”


    “Rumours like this have a way of sticking.”


    “Rumours aren’t proof.”


    “You’re right, of course,” he conceded. “That is how we must respond to any such accusation regarding my birthright. Father would deny it too. What about you?”


    Valerie swallowed. She understood the importance of this question to Avon, even as he tried to make it sound offhand. Now that she grasped the implications of the sword’s revelation, she knew that she had been handed a killing blow. She had been looking for rifts in the Empire. Well, here was a gigantic one. The Emperor’s power rested on a foundation of sand, and the right words to the right people could bring the entire regime crashing down.


    But only the Patriarch would benefit from that.


    “I said I’d deny it,” she reminded him, “but can you answer something too?”


    “Answer what?”


    Again, the image of the courtyard flashed into her mind, the acrid smell of burning, the silvertree going up in flames…


    “Tell me you’ve changed your mind,” she said. “Tell me that you wouldn’t invade us again. Promise me that you’ll go back and undo all the damage you did. You destroyed Maskamere for nothing. Do you still not feel any regret?”


    She couldn’t relive the war again. The next time had to be the last.


    She stared up at Avon, and she found the sympathy that she so desperately wished to see in his eyes. For the first time, he looked torn, anguished even.


    “Regret,” he said, seeming to roll the word around his tongue. “I wish that I could say, but… I need some time.” She opened her mouth, and he raised his hand. “Please. Where’s my uncle when we need him? He’d tell me we need a stiff drink.”


    He smiled at his little joke, and she smiled back. “You want to sleep on it?”


    “Yes. Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “And thank you for your trust. That I hope you won’t regret.”


    She spoke softly. “I hope so too.”


    His reticence didn’t surprise her. Avon hadn’t just learned a secret that could destroy his family; it had shaken up his entire identity. He was not the type to take in this information and act without delay; he would need to process it first, much like he had done that night she’d revealed the secret of the queen and the goldentree.


    Valerie had much to think about too. This new information completely reset how she thought about Avon and his place in the Empire. And that wasn’t even considering the revelation about the wyvern claw and the presence of magic beyond Maskamere’s borders…


    And with that thought, she felt quite overwhelmed. A wave of fatigue crashed over her, and she hid a yawn behind her hand.


    Avon raised his eyebrows, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Am I boring you?”


    “Mmm.” She stifled another yawn. “You got me. You’re the most boring person I’ve ever met.”


    Another wave of drowsiness swept over her, but this one didn’t go away. She gave into it with a sense of blissful exhaustion and toppled face-first into Avon’s chest.