“I did finally learn to understand metaphor,” Lara admitted. “‘Truth will seek the hardest path’ sounds straightforward even to me. Truth is always a hard path. But if I’m supposed to be truth, then what about the new line you just said? Who’s the finder? Do your visions show you pictures?”

“Only words, I’m afraid. Stories have only ever been words to me, even before I lost my sight to age. Your path will lead you to the finder, or you will become what you seek, and we will bend or break with the changes wrought.” A finality came into his voice, like a bell tolling the end of some solemn service. Lara caught her breath, searching for questions that could be given quick, easy answers, but the music and the moment passed before she could voice any. Rueful with defeat, she looked around the wooded copse surrounding them and shook her head.

“Well, right now the truth is going to have a hard time seeking the path out of here, because I wasn’t paying any attention when I came in.”

“That,” Oisín said lightly, “I think I can help you with, Truthseeker. There is a path, a true way through these woods, and your eyes should be able to find it. Most could not.”

“All I can do is tell if someone’s lying, Oisín. I can’t even do that if they think they’re telling the truth.”

“Have more faith,” murmured the old man. “Close your eyes and look for the light.”

Lara shot him a skeptical look that went unheeded, his blind gaze serene enough to hint at laughter. She pulled a face, drily certain that Oisín would know it, and closed her eyes as she muttered “Look for the light” to herself.

The forest’s silence closed around her as her lashes came together. Wind trickled through trees, disturbing leaves, but there were no other sounds: no distant traffic, no whine of airliners, no voices raised in laughter or debate as there were at any hour in Boston’s streets. She had never known quiet to be overwhelming, but in the Seelie forest it had a presence of its own, surrounding her, cushioning her, pressing at her.

Look for the light, she reminded herself, but truthfulness had never come to her as light or dark; it came as music. Music didn’t, as a rule, make paths, though “follow the yellow brick road!” popped into her mind at the thought. She smiled, imagining such a road unfolding a brick at a time in front of her, though in an instant its color faded to white: yellow brick was simply too much at odds with the deep forest surrounding her. The music changed as well, shying from the perky traveling tune to a more subtle ringing, so deep inside her that for long seconds she didn’t recognize it as a tone.

Silver: moonlight on silver, so pure it had no earthly counterpart; that was its sound, and in her mind’s eye the brick road she’d built shot forward, drawing a line through the trees. She opened her eyes, unsurprised to find Oisín gone, and even less surprised to find a path leading straight and unbroken toward the ghostly white palace.

Heartbeat queer with the chime’s power, Lara got to her feet and followed her magic back into the heart of the Seelie court.

The glimpses she’d had going to and from Aerin’s chambers had been accurate: there were open spaces large enough to be called parks within the city’s heart, wilderness of the forest beyond tamed by ivory walls and open arches that, had it been a human park, Lara might have called gates or fences. They were neither: even the contained stretches of forest were too much a part of the city to be bound by such words, as if they had all grown up together, part and parcel of one another. She saw that clearly as the sound of the chimes drew her through the citadel’s halls.

Her sure feet led her to an arched doorway more elegant than any she’d seen so far. The music fell away suddenly, leaving silence broken by voices that seemed sharp and uncomfortable after the strength of chimes: Emyr, making demands. Demanding her presence, in fact, in such short commanding words that good sense deserted her and she stepped into the filigree doorway.

The king’s private chambers were chilly, silver-woven tapestries on the walls doing little to catch heat and keep it from escaping. The windows were rimed, and the floor beneath her feet crackled with hoarfrost. Heatless light rained from the tall ceiling as Lara had seen everywhere in the citadel, but in the heart of Emyr’s domain it caught silver and ice and brought the room to a shining, cool brilliance that only reinforced its chill. Looking around, Lara wondered if Dafydd had any real desire to assume his father’s icy mantle, or if he would as happily let that relentless cold power pass to Ioan. But then, they were Seelie: immortal in almost all ways, and perhaps a king’s heir was that in name only. Neither child might ever rule.

The second son stood a few yards away from his father, his whole body tensed for action: he was already turning toward the door, no doubt to do Emyr’s bidding, when Lara said, drily, “Don’t bother. She’s here.”

Both men flinched, a more gratifying response than Lara had expected. A smile swept Dafydd’s face, then disappeared, leaving a boyish hope in its wake. He didn’t want her to be angry with him, and Lara, searching for the emotion, found that it had largely washed away in the forest. Wry exasperation rose in its place: Kelly would say a man she couldn’t stay angry at was a keeper.

There was no such friendliness in Emyr’s gaze. He turned away from a basin-topped pedestal, mouth tight with displeasure. “How far did you go?”

Lara caught her fingers in the delicate archway to keep herself from backing up. “I went into the forest. I don’t know how far. Ten minutes or so, before—”

“Before?” Emyr glared down at her, such a picture of lordly pique that the impulse to retreat faded. She’d been second or third tailor to men who reminded her of the Seelie king: men whose self-worth was so invested in how they looked that they jumped on imagined slights. Emyr, she had no doubt, had the confidence those men didn’t, but the similarity was enough to let his irritation sluff away without bothering her.

“Before Oisín found me,” she said steadily. “We talked for a little while and then he showed me how to find my way back.”

“Oisín.” Distasteful resignation slithered across Emyr’s features. “That explains much.” He returned his attention to the basin, silver hair falling over his shoulders as he leaned in.

Lara muttered “Oh good,” and felt discordance race over her skin, inborn talent not caring for the sarcasm in her own voice. “What’s explained?”

“The Barrow-lands have only known one kind of mortal magic for a very long time. Yours is new, and disruptive. When it met Oisín’s—think of it as two waves coming together to create a larger one.” Dafydd brought his hands together in demonstration.

Lara looked between father and son, her gaze finally settling on Emyr’s stooped shoulders. “So you can’t do magic? I’m sorry. Is there anything I—”

“You do too much already,” Emyr snapped. “I had thought a simple spell to isolate your power would do, but with mortal magic met, there is a tide that would take a great binding to hold back. To work it would require the willingness of the land, and the land,” he said bitterly, “is very fond of Oisín. I cannot fight it to set you apart and work the scrying magic at the same time.”

“Can’t Dafydd—”

“The scrying spell is one of ice and water,” Dafydd murmured apologetically. “Neither is my element.”

“What is?”

The golden Seelie prince turned his palm upward, fingertips curved in. Electric sparks flew between them, lightning made miniature before it faded away. Lara made fists against sudden embarrassment. “Right. The sword you fought the nightwings with was electricity. I should’ve known.”

Dafydd arched an eyebrow, the expression sympathetic. “Hardly. Truthseeking gives no hint to the elemental strengths and weaknesses of Seelie magics.”