And, just like a highly sensitive shop client, he relaxed a little, some of the cold inching back from where it had grown around him. “Hafgan would never believe me to be in any way responsible for his son’s death. To be so would be to risk my own child Ioan’s life. Even so, the assurance would not go amiss.” He took one step down from his dais, approaching Lara, though it was his court he addressed.

“I am Emyr, king of the Barrow-lands, and I tell you this now: I have had no hand in the death—the murder—of Merrick ap Annwn, child of Hafgan of the Unseelie. I neither nocked the arrow nor drew it nor released it.” His gaze went to Lara, and quietly but sharply, he added, “And those words are both literal and figurative in their truths. I am not part of the plot that designed his death. I did not shape it, nor do I have any knowledge of who did. I only wish I did, if for no other reason than to assure my oldest son’s safety.” The ice that had left it came back into his voice. “Now, Truthseeker, are you satisfied?”

Lara tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed as she considered the king. Then she took a handful of skirts and dropped a brief curtsy that felt unnatural, but which she meant with as much genuine respect as she could muster. “I am. You were very thorough, and I don’t think I have any follow-up questions.” She released her skirts and turned to Dafydd much less formally. “Which only leaves you, I guess.”

“Why bother?” Aerin stepped forward from within the courtiers. “There’s no one among us who doesn’t know Dafydd ap Caerwyn was the murder weapon himself.”

Ice erupted in Lara’s stomach and froze her breath as surely as though Emyr had cast a spell to chill the air. Bravado had pushed her through facing his anger; bravado and the certainty that if she let herself admit to the awe she felt, she would crumble in a whimpering heap at the throne’s edge and never get up again.

Even that narrow strand of willpower deserted her, resonating pure tones in Aerin’s charge stripping what strength she had to draw on. She swung toward Dafydd, the ice in her belly spreading to her arms and legs and leaving her a clumsy marionette. Only the way the skirts crumpled in her hand promised her gown was still gossamer: its weight was such that it might have turned to stone. There was nothing to her voice, only a protest of disbelief she knew would go unanswered: “Dafydd?”

Unanswered, at least, in the way she wanted it to be. Weary regret in the lines of his body told her everything she already knew to be true: that Aerin’s accusation held merit, and that the son of the Seelie king had somehow lied to her.

“I nocked the arrow.” Dafydd’s shoulders slumped, all his slender alien beauty wiped out with such a human stance of defeat. “I drew the bowstring and loosed the arrow that ended my brother’s life.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me this?” Venom melted the cold in Lara’s chest and carried heat to her cheeks. Worse than blushes, bitter water stung her eyes. She knotted her fingers more tightly into the thin fabric of her skirts, willing herself to not draw attention to tears by dashing them away, and wondered sharply if the Seelie cried from frustration or anger. It was a human fallibility she’d be glad to give up. “What the hell did you want me here for, if you killed him?”

“He claims himself innocent of the crime.” Emyr spoke again, disdain in every word. “Our poet and seer insisted he be given the chance to clear himself, and that can only be done through a truthseeker’s talents.”

“I loosed the arrow.” Dafydd’s hands slowly turned to fists, his body taut and his face downcast. His gaze, though, remained on Lara, fiery with desperation. “But my actions weren’t my own, Lara. I remember still—I will never forget—the thickness that came over me. I can see what I did, can feel my arm bend and take the arrow from its quiver, can feel the weight of the bowstring against my fingers, and in nightmares I watch the arrow fly true while my mind screams against my actions. I was the weapon, but I am not the killer. I swear it.”

Strain released him abruptly, as though offering his explanation had been a battle of wills that, once ended, left him drained. “I’m sorry,” he added in a whisper. “I should have explained it all, but I was afraid you wouldn’t come with me, and I have no other way to prove myself innocent.”

Lara sat down gracelessly, scraping her hip painfully on the edge of the throne dais as she did. The wince that crossed her face was excuse enough to cup her hands around her forehead, shielding herself from the curious light eyes of so many strangers while she caught her breath.

Shielding herself, too, from showing confusion and relief and dismay, though she knew hiding her expression was as much a giveaway as sharing it would be. The courtiers’ silence pressed on her, unforgiving in its interest, inhuman in its patient extension.

She broke before they did, shivering under the weight of their anticipation. “He’s telling the truth. At least he believes it’s the truth. He was the weapon, not the murderer.” Aerin had named Dafydd the weapon as well, a distinction that had meant nothing to Lara a few moments earlier. She folded her fingers down, searching for Aerin’s willowy form among so many others. “Is that possible? Dafydd just laid a compulsion to answer on all of you. Can one be laid on someone to make them act against their will?”

Hesitation clouded the Seelie woman’s clear eyes. “I would have said no. That there must be a part of the one enchanted that wishes to act as the enchanter wishes him to.”

“But?” The single word echoed sharply in a hall too filled with bodies for reverberations to sound at all. Discomfort crawled over Lara’s skin, raising hairs, and the muscles in her neck creaked with the effort of holding her head still. Magic was being employed, making her voice carry. She was almost certain of it, but looking around to question Dafydd or Emyr’s hand in it felt, somehow, like losing ground.

“But I’ve known Dafydd and Merrick all their lives,” Aerin said. “I saw rivalry between them, as with any family, but I can’t believe there’s any part of Dafydd that wished Merrick harm. Either I don’t know him as well as I think, or there’s a magic that can force a man’s hand against his will.”

“Unseelie magic” came out of the gathering, accusing words spoken in more than one voice. Others nodded, muttering agreement as a spasm of uncertain concurrence shaped Aerin’s mouth. Lara released her self-imposed stillness and twisted to glance first at Dafydd, then Emyr. Her neck ached from the angle, but getting to her feet seemed risky: tremors rattled her, Dafydd’s confession still leaving marks.

“A few more questions, if you will, your majesty. Am I right in assuming you’re one of the most skilled magic users of your people?” A trill of body-weakening absurdity ran through her, making her glad she hadn’t risen. A week earlier she hadn’t believed in magic at all. Now she was interrogating a monarch on his talent for it. She felt as though a bandage had been torn off, the sting fading so long as she didn’t look too closely at the wound it had covered.

Emyr stared down at her, impassive enough to be threatening. He finally nodded, a single short action that informed Lara as to her rudeness in asking. She sighed and climbed to her feet again, feeling more able to face Emyr’s acidic gaze that way. “Then for the purposes of this trial, I’m going to consider you an expert witness. As such, would you say it’s possible to enchant someone into doing something he didn’t want to?”

“I have never tried,” Emyr said after a lengthy silence, “but I believe I could.” The faintest emphasis lay on the final “I,” making it clear that he doubted it was a skill owned by all.