Havenfall (Havenfall #1)(31)

Stop. I can’t think about that.

“Can I see him?” I ask.

“Of course.” Graylin walks me to the door of their bedroom, and hangs back at the threshold while I go in.

Marcus looks the same as he did last night. It’s eerie—his chest is moving, he’s breathing, but he’s too still and uniform to be sleeping. I touch his hand—it’s cool, with his pulse fluttering faintly under his skin.

“Hey,” I murmur softly. “Try to wake up soon, okay? We all need you here.”

Of course, nothing happens. All at once it’s too much. It’s like talking to Mom through the prison glass, useless words falling on dead air. I feel tears and panic rushing up. I stand and back toward the door, unable to take a breath until I return to the living room.

“Did Brekken say anything to you?” Graylin asks. “He’s still missing, and Sal didn’t find anything of interest in his room. All his things are still there.” He picks up Marcus’s phone from the coffee table, enters the passcode, and scrolls through it, brow furrowed in concentration.

“No,” I say, my voice small. “No, he didn’t. And I’m afraid I need a new set of keys. Mine have gone missing …” I trail off, not wanting to fill the air with even more suspicions of Brekken. The instinct to protect him is still strong, some slow-on-the-uptake part of my heart wanting to pay him back for all the times he took the fall for a vase I’d broken, or hot chocolate I’d spilled, or a delegate’s toe I’d stomped on.

Willow looks at me with sadness as I return to the couch. “It could be something innocent. A misunderstanding.”

But I can tell she doesn’t really believe that. She hands me her set of keys and scoots a plate full of pastries and bacon in my direction. But I can’t eat even though I’m starving. The idea of eating makes my stomach turn over.

“We’ll have to tell something to the delegates,” Graylin says.

“Their meetings.” My heart starts beating fast as worst-case scenarios run through my head. During the summit, Marcus is everything to everyone, as he always says. Any agreement struck during the summit needs his signature. He smooths over any conflict and ensures that everyone is friends again by evening, when everyone gathers in the ballroom.

“Just take it one event at a time,” Graylin says cautiously, coming to join us.

My eyes meet his. He looks as tired as I feel, dark shadows beneath his eyes. I wonder if he, too, only thought ahead as far as the dawn. If anything beyond that was too horrible to consider.

Lead Havenfall. It’s what I wanted, what I’ve worked for. But I thought I’d have ten years, twenty, before it was my turn. Decades to live here and learn from Marcus all the history, the etiquette, the intricacies of interaction between Fiordenkill and Byrn that ensure that our summers see balls and not battles. I thought I’d always have Marcus.

But what’s the alternative? That the peace summit ends? A strangled feeling descends on me as I imagine everyone filing back through the doorways. It would be bad enough to end the summit early, but it’s no longer the solstice. Letting more than a handful of people through the doors at once could upend the balance, cause earthquakes or worse on the mountain. No. That’s not an option.

“What do I have to do?” I ask.

“Write everything down. Keep good records of every meeting. Marcus didn’t have to,” Willow says with a slight grimace. “That memory of his is unparalleled.”

My stomach sinks. Marcus has a photographic memory—paired with his charm, it’s what makes him a great Innkeeper, that he never forgets an appointment or a face. Every year at the summit, merchants from both worlds bring goods to sample, and they meet with the other Realms to strike deals that will be carried through the rest of the year. He keeps tabs on everything happening under this roof, knows the goings-on of each day like the back of his hand, always. A small, spiteful part of me is tempted to comment about how I would be more useful if Marcus had included me in the business side of things before now. But Graylin doesn’t need to hear that.

“I’ll tell the delegates he’s sick,” I say, thinking out loud. There’s a croissant in my hands, though I don’t remember picking it up. I rip it apart, letting the pieces scatter on the plate. Nervousness churns my insides. “I’ll ask them to tell me if there’s a meeting they want me at. I’ll make a schedule.”

Graylin hesitates a second, then nods. It’s the start of a plan, but what none of us mention is that it won’t help me at the meetings themselves. I don’t know the politics, the undercurrents that go into every year’s Accords.

“We’ll go with you where we can,” Graylin says. “Some of the delegates are more wary of us than others.” He exchanges a rueful glance with Willow. “Either we’re compromised because of our loyalty to our homelands, or we’re traitors for leaving them.”

Something inside my chest twists. They already carry so much. I should be able to rise to this occasion. But it sinks in, now, that the summit isn’t just a party. The peace of the Realms depends on it going smoothly.



When the delegates gather in the dining hall, the sun is streaming down through the high, frosted-glass windows, creating squares of shimmering light on the dark wood floorboards. The kitchen staff has arrayed heaps of food on each of the round tables. Earth food like pastries, eggs, bacon, and sausage; heaps of Byrnisian fruit the color of tropical flowers; the dark, rich meat-and-vegetable broth that Fiordens traditionally drink in the mornings. Tea, coffee, even liquor mixed with juice or tea—some of the delegates like to start the party early. But I notice that few people seem to be touching the booze, like everyone is still on edge.