Kingfisher(24)

Daimon stood at the edge of the pool, where Calluna’s first visitors had painted their gifts to her on the raw stones: animals, birds, flowers. The earliest image of the goddess’s face floated among them, inspired by the moon, archaeologists thought, reflected through a hole in the upper ground onto the dark water below. She had enormous, staring eyes; a wreath of hair or light rippled around her face. She watched. Daimon, meeting her dark, urgent gaze, found as much pain as power in it. She understood the sufferers who sought her. She understood her fate.

Moved by the glimpse of ancient glory and sorrow, Daimon bent, dipped his fingers into the pool, watched the ripples form and slowly spread.

Perdita called his name, needing him back; he heard the clamor of other voices in the antechamber. As he turned, a pair of bewitching eyes opened across time, space, memory, and smiled, blurring the face of the goddess in his thoughts.

In the dark privacy of the cave, he smiled back. But, he remembered, he had a lunch to get through first with his father, whose unexpected summons earlier that day took precedence.

When his shift behind the goddess’s water bar ended, he ascended to the upper realms, unlocked his electric bike from the parking rack, and made his way through the busy, labyrinthine streets of Severluna to the calmer, tree-lined avenues that ended at the vast grounds and high towers of the palace of the Wyvernhold kings on the cliff above the sea.

“The queen asked me to talk to you,” King Arden said.

They sat in the king’s private chambers, eating a seafood stew, a salad of strawberries, hazelnuts, and a dozen kinds of baby greens, and chewy, sour rolls flavored with rosemary. The servers had withdrawn; they were completely alone, which Daimon found disquieting. As the youngest of Arden’s five children, and illegitimate to boot, he enjoyed a certain amount of lax attention, an absence of scrutiny from his father as long as he did what the king asked when he remembered that Daimon was around.

“About what?” Daimon asked bewilderedly, and caught the flash of the wyvern’s attention. But the king hesitated. He trawled for a bite, then lost interest in it, and let go of his spoon. He sat back, gazing at Daimon, an odd, quizzical expression on his face. He was a handsome, energetic man who commanded respect, explained succinctly when he had to, and held his secrets as close as any gambler; Daimon was unused to seeing him uncertain about anything.

“She said it’s time. High time, her exact words. That I talk to you about your mother.”

Daimon, stunned, felt the blood flush into his face.

“Now? Why?”

“I have no idea. Genevra is an acolyte of the goddess. She pulls things out of the air sometimes. Ties up a loose thread before anyone else sees it. She herself never wanted to know anything more about your mother. And I never meant to not tell you. The time just never seemed—easy. But she said you have a right to know, and now is better than not.” He was still again, frowning at the past. “I wish,” he breathed finally, “that I understood it better myself.” He raised his salad fork, aimed it toward Daimon’s plate. “Eat. While I find the place to begin.”

Daimon took a few tasteless bites, listening to his father’s silence. “I always thought,” he said slowly, trying to help, “that she must have been independent, maybe poor, considering where I was born, but someone who didn’t expect—who wanted to take care of herself.” He looked at the king, so lost in the past, it seemed he had all but forgotten his son. “She must have had a name. You could start there.”

The king stirred, rearranged a few leaves in his salad. “Her name was Ana. That’s all I knew of it. I met her at a party. I don’t remember whose. I was much younger, then; life and details blur. Her face never did. It is as clear in my memory as yesterday.” He paused, seeing her again, Daimon guessed, the face that had never changed with time because she had so little left of it. “She had come to Severluna at the invitation of your great-aunt Morrig. They were related in some far-flung way; they shared ancestors in a family whose name is in annals older than Wyvernhold. Are you in love?”

Daimon coughed on a hazelnut. “I don’t think so,” he said vaguely, and was held in the wyvern’s intent, powerful gaze.

“You know that what you feel is not love? Or you don’t know, yet, what love is?”

Daimon felt the burn again in his face and guessed that perhaps his life was not so comfortably ignored as he had thought. “I don’t know enough,” he said finally, “even to answer the question.”

His father nodded. “That’s a good place to begin learning. I didn’t realize how much I didn’t know until I met your mother. And you are right: She was very independent. She wouldn’t let me give her anything. Morrig helped her find work; she took an apartment in the hinterlands of the city, which is why you were born out there.” He broke a piece off a bread roll, crumbled it absently. “All we had was that one night together, after the party. Not even a night, just the few early-morning hours. She wouldn’t see me again. I had no idea where she went after she left Morrig’s house; my aunt wouldn’t tell me. But they kept in touch with one another. It was Morrig who told me when and where you were born. And that your mother had died.” He paused; his mouth tightened, more rueful than bitter. “It was Genevra who taught me a few more things about love, then. How far it can bend, and in how many ways, without shattering. I knew your mother so briefly. But to this day, I have never forgotten her. And I have never understood exactly what had hold of my heart that night.” He picked up his fork again, missing Daimon’s sudden, wide-eyed stare as the king’s words echoed in his own heart. “You look like her. That’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry. I don’t know how much you’ve wondered about the matter, but if you need more, you might ask your great-aunt Morrig. These days, she seems to remember the distant past much better than she remembers last week. Another thing,” his father said, moving on with a touch of relief, “I might as well bring up while you’re here. There is a matter that Sylvester Skelton brought to Lord Ruxley’s attention; he brought it to mine.”