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I study him, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words.
Does he know of my failed attempt to enter the Opal Court? Or is this a backward volley into discussions of mirror travel, which has been gone from his sithe since he demanded the return of Healer Nyt’Fall.
It had come as a surprise at the time, since the Dark Sithe had many more powerful healers, but I had taken back my mirrorwright without complaint, and we had spoken of it not at all, as kings do when we do not wish to appear weakened by each other’s actions.
The distinctive Nyt’Fall clan should be easy to pick out among the assembled courtiers, their coloring leaning toward starlight white amid the dark sea of their brethren. Yet none are present in the hall, nor can I remember passing any during our visit.
A muscle twitches in Nyctarian’s jaw at my continued silence, but his smile remains fixed in place.
Nyctarian waits until the nearest servant has moved beyond hearing. “Your brother sought answers in dangerous places.”
So, he is referencing the rift, after all, and being as direct as any king can be about such things. “And yet some dangers appear difficult to contain.”
“Some doors cannot be closed forever,” he replies. “The question becomes not how to close them, but how to control the fallout.”
I study him across the rim of my goblet, catching the calculation beneath his casual manner. “And have you mastered that control, Dark King?”
His laughter startles nearby courtiers into scurrying away. “If I had, Silver Flame, your brother and your wildling would not be missing, along with many who should have been safe under my dominion.”
“Where are your healers, King Nyctarian?” I murmur.
He rises abruptly, and the music cuts off with a discordant shriek, drawing every courtier’s attention to the high table.
With a languid hand, he waves for them to carry on before turning to me. “Walk with me, Brother-King.”
The familiar address brings me to my feet, and when Thalindor moves to join me, I lift a hand to tell him to stay. Whatever Nyctarian wishes to speak of, it will not be said in front of others.
We walk out of the hall and into the gardens, away from prying ears.
Nyctarian leads me deeper among the night blooms, following a path that twists between hedges tall enough to swallow the spire from view. We walk until the music dwindles to a distant thrum and even the glow of the hall disappears behind us.
“You knew,” I say, when I can bear the silence no more.
Nyctarian does not bother to respond to such an ambiguous statement.
“You knew my brother was gone before I arrived in your sithe.”
“I knew he could not be found,” Nyctarian corrects.
My hands curls into fists within my robe. “And yet you said nothing.”
He turns back, his chin lifted. “What would you have had me say?”
“That my brother had vanished while under your dominion,” I seethe.
He blinks slowly. “And then?”
Cold anger flashes through me. “Do you hate me so much, Brother-King?”
“I despise you a great deal, Theron.” His lips shape around a name he has not spoken in a long time. “But hate my brother-king? How could the infinite hate one small moon suspended within it?”
My temper snaps cold. “Careful.”
Nyctarian smiles. “There. That is what I mean.”
“What are you saying?”
“The Silver is not the only sithe that mistakes my domain for emptiness simply because you cannot comprehend its vastness.” He turns away from me, continuing along the path. “Silver. Gold. Diamond. You concern yourselves with what shines and mistake yourselves for the whole of the heavens.”
