Lee’s trials

Follow it west

*Lee*

Fileas leans forward. "Pericles is missing, Lyrian. I understand that the distinction feels unbearable. I understand you want a different answer. But I will not allow this council to drift into fantasy while Father lies upstairs fighting for breath."

My face burns.

The worst part is that I can hear what everyone else hears. A grieving son. A frightened grandson. A young prince too attached to a ghost to recognize a crisis in front of him.

I push my chair back.

The scrape of wood against stone cuts through the room.

"If you are named regent," I say, "what happens to the search for my father?"

Haron frowns. "The official search concluded after eighteen months."

"It concluded because there were no leads."

"There are still no leads."

The compass burns against my ribs.

Fileas studies me. "If credible evidence is brought forward, the matter can be reconsidered."

"Credible to whom?"

"To the council."

I give a small huff, "Convenient."

"Necessary."

I look toward my father’s empty chair.

When I was eleven, I came into the map room looking for Fealor. Fileas had been standing beneath my father's portrait with a stool beside him. The portrait was already gone from the wall. A pale square marked where it had hung.

‘Dead branches invite rot,’ he had told me when I asked what he was doing.

I had wanted to hit him. I had wanted to scream until the guards came.

Instead I had said, ‘I thought he might come back.’

Fileas had looked at me with almost gentle pity.

‘Then you will be disappointed twice.’ Had been his only answer.

"Fine," I say.

Fileas's brows lift slightly.

"I want it entered into the record that Pericles Swiftarrow has not been declared dead. His claim remains intact."

Vaelis nods. "That is already the legal position."

"Say it aloud."

Her mouth tightens. "Prince Pericles Swiftarrow remains the lawful heir to King Fealor, pending a declaration of death or verified death."

The words feel thin. Still, I make myself breathe.

"And I want a copy of every search report from the last five years. Every correspondence from outside Eirawen. Every record of magical disturbances at the western boundary."

Fileas sits back. "You intend to investigate personally?"

"I intend to read."

"That is not the same thing."

"No," I say. "It isn't."

For the first time, a little color rises in his face.

Councilor Haron shuffles his papers. "Those records are not restricted."

"Then I will have them delivered to my rooms."

Fileas's fingers close over the parchment before him. "You may inspect them in the archives."

I smile at him.

It takes effort. My jaw aches with it.

"Are you planning to hide them under your mattress?"

"Do not be childish."

"Then we agree. Have them sent over."

His eyes go flat.

Vaelis speaks before he can answer. "The prince is entitled to the reports."

He turns toward her. "The palace is under strain. We should not encourage unnecessary movement through sensitive records."

"You have just argued that Lyrian must be treated as an adult member of this family," she says. "I suggest you survive the inconvenience."

A small, dangerous satisfaction moves through me.

Fileas looks back at me. "Very well."

The vote takes less than three minutes.

No one asks whether I support his regency. They ask whether I object on legal grounds, and I do not have any that will hold. Fealor is sick. My father is gone. Fileas is the senior prince available. The council approves him five votes to one, with Vaelis abstaining.

When the bronze seal is pressed into wax, the sound is soft.

It feels louder than the horns outside.

"Prince Fileas Swiftarrow," Vaelis says, "you are named Regent of Eirawen until such time as King Fealor resumes his duties, or the succession is lawfully resolved."

Fileas bows his head.

"Thank you, Councilor."

He looks toward me.

"Lyrian."

I stand.

"Prince regent," I say.

His expression suggests he hears the insult anyway.

By the time I leave the council chamber, my hands are shaking hard enough that I have to shove them into my pockets.

The corridor outside is empty except for two guards. They straighten as I pass. Their faces are carefully blank.

I keep walking.

The palace has always been a maze when I am upset. Every hall leads to a memory I do not want. A window seat where I hid from tutors. The gallery where Fealor once made me stand through a four-hour reception because I had spilled wine on an ambassador's shoes. The narrow stairwell where Pericles taught me how to whistle through my teeth, then laughed so hard he fell against the wall.

I nearly walk straight past the turn to the west bough.

"Lee."

Thalia is waiting beneath a hanging lamp, arms folded across her chest.

For one ridiculous second, all I can think is that she has changed clothes. She is wearing a loose green shirt and dark trousers instead of her travel-stained sweater. Her hair is still half-unbraided. One green stripe has curled forward over her cheek.

I stop.

"What happened?" she asks.

"Fileas is regent."

Her shoulders drop a fraction. "That quickly?"

"They had the wax ready."

"Of course they did."

I laugh once. It has no humor in it.

She comes closer. "And you?"

"I made a speech. It was very stirring. Everyone immediately ignored me."

"That sounds rude."

"I asked for the search records."

Her gaze sharpens. "Because of the compass."

I look toward the guards at the far end of the corridor.

"Not here."

Thalia nods. She does not ask again until we are inside her room with the door locked behind us.

The room Fealor gave her is lovely in the way old royal rooms are lovely. The bed is large enough to house a small village. Leaves have been woven into the ceiling in patterns that shift slowly from green to gold. A narrow balcony opens over the river, where dark water slides between the roots of the city.

Her backpack sits beside the wardrobe, still packed.

That hits me harder than it should.

"You haven't unpacked."

"I had other plans this evening," she says. "Mostly sleeping. Then your grandfather nearly died."

I nod, unable to meet her eyes.

She walks past me and pulls the curtains closed. "Show me."

I take out the compass.

Her fingers brush mine as I place it in her palm. The brass is warm from my pocket. The needle spins once, then jerks toward the balcony.

West.

Thalia stares at it.

"It always did that?" she asks.

"No. It always pointed north."

"Could it be reacting to the city?"

"It has been in Eirawen before."

"To your grandfather?"

"I thought that too."

She looks toward the closed curtains. "And?"

"And it points past the river. Past the forest."

"Where?"

"New York is my best guess."

The words sound absurd in this room. New York is subway heat and wet pavement, food carts, too many human bodies moving as if nobody has ever told them they are allowed to slow down. It is not where an elven prince disappears. It is not where my father belongs.

Thalia turns the compass over. There is a faint line around its rim, a seam I have seen a hundred times and never noticed.

"Did he make this?" she asks.

"I don't know."

"Could you open it?"

I shake my head, "I've tried."

"Try now."

I take it back.

The seam is barely wide enough to catch a fingernail. I press my thumbnail into it and twist. Nothing.

Thalia watches, then takes a hairpin from beside the bed. "Move."

"You think you can pick my father's compass?"

"I think you have been staring at it dramatically for thirty seconds."

"That is a cruel way to describe grieving."

"You are not grieving. You are losing a fight with a small circle."

She slips the pin into the seam. Her tongue presses against the corner of her mouth in concentration.

Click.

The brass lid springs open.

Inside, tucked behind the compass face, is a narrow strip of folded paper.

My breath catches.

Thalia goes still.

I pull it free with two careful fingers.

The paper is old, creased and faded at the edges. My father's handwriting covers it in hurried blue ink.

‘If this turns west, follow it. Do not come alone.’

Below the words is an address.

A place in Queens.

And beneath that, written so deeply the pen nearly tore through the page:

‘Trust no one who wears the crown.’