Sunday's Child(19)

Nicholas muttered near his ear again. “This year is quite different. Someone else occupies your time and thoughts.”

“Spying on me?”

The saint gave an affronted sniff. “I’m also the patron saint of one wayward ljósálfar.”

An elderly woman sitting on the other side of Nicholas leaned forward, glared at them both and made shushing noises.

Andor almost broke a rib trying not to laugh out loud at the idea of Nicholas being ordered to be quiet by a congregant in a church built in his honor on a day that celebrated his sainthood.

A mortified Nicholas hastily apologized in Italian to the woman and motioned for Andor to follow him outside the church. Andor didn’t need to be told twice.

Once outside, the elf glanced back at the church doors; they were closing, a signal that the mass was about to begin. “You’re going to miss the mass.”

Nicholas waved away Andor’s concerns. “I’ll attend the Thursday hymnals or an all-night vigil at one of the Eastern Orthodox churches. There’s also the Departure celebration in the Coptic church on the nineteenth. You’re welcome to attend that.”

“Humans certainly throw you a lot of parties.”

The saint sighed and offered a rueful smile. “I get a lot of requests for intercession.”

Andor shifted restlessly, the rhythmic surge of power moving like high tide under the church steps, sending arcane vibrations through his legs. “What did you want to tell me that’s so important, you’d miss the biggest celebration in your honor?”

“You found Claire again.”

Andor frowned, sensing more to Nicholas’s brief statement. “I did. And what strings did you pull to make that happen?”

Nicholas shook his head. “Not a one. I might suggest you look to your Norns for such machinations, but I’m a Christian bishop and believe something greater is at work there.” He began to pace, and Andor’s unease ratcheted up a good six notches. The saint was typically a calm, good-natured presence. “If you hadn’t come, I would have sent for you. The queen has summoned you to audience at the Ljósálfar court.”

Andor didn’t think his spine would freeze any colder if someone had poured ice water down his back. His exile wasn’t yet finished, yet Dagrun summoned him home. “Why? I still have a dozen years left to my exile.”

Nicholas’s pacing sped up. “I don’t know, but I received a message from Ljósálfheimr. Dagrun and Alfr both want to talk to you.

The elf instinctively reached for the sword he no longer wore at his hip. “If Alfr wants my head, he’ll have to fight me for it.” He wouldn’t surrender to his own execution without a struggle. He had too much to live for. One woman, one child. He’d slaughter his way across Ljósálfheimr if he must to stay alive.

“Peace, son.” Nicholas laid a hand on Andor’s arm. “I don’t think you’re being summoned to die.”

Every muscle in Andor’s body had gone tight, readying for battle. “When do we go?”

“Now, if you’re ready.”



The royal palace was unchanged since he’d last seen it a thousand years earlier. The fact shouldn’t have surprised him. A thousand years was merely a breath in time to the near-immortal ljósálfar. Yet, Andor paused before entering the soaring structure whose crystalline walls gleamed in the shifting, multicolored light from far-off Asbrú. The static sameness weighed down on him, a claustrophobic stillness that had watched time pass and never blinked. How had he ever lived in such stagnancy and not been driven mad by boredom?

Beside him, Nicholas cast an admiring gaze on his surroundings. “I will never adjust to how beautiful this palace is.” He glanced at Andor. “Are you glad to be back?”

“No.”

The saint’s eyes widened in surprise. The king and queen’s arrival forestalled any reply. Elf and bishop bowed before the ljósálfar monarchs who took their seats on the two great thrones set on a raised dais.

“Rise.” King Alfr’s single-word command formed icicles on the windows lining the throne room.

Judging by his tone, the king had not summoned Andor back to share ale and good company. Andor glanced first at the elf king. Tall and striking, he was an equal counterpart in appearance to his blindingly beautiful queen, except for the reptilian coldness she lacked. That alone had always made Andor’s hackles rise anytime he was in his king’s presence.

Dagrun spoke, her voice the sweetest music. Beside Andor, Nicholas sighed. “We have missed your presence at court, Andor.” The king snorted and was ignored.

She was his aunt and his liege. And a thousand years earlier, she’d been his judge and savior. Andor loved her as much as ljósálfar could love each other and prayed that whatever spurred this unexpected meeting between them, it remained peaceful.

“I treasure your affection for me, my queen,” he said.

She smiled, and where ice had hung on the windows at Alfr’s voice, crimson roses grew and spiraled around the columns. “Nicholas tells me you’ve been exemplary during your exile with him.”

Andor glanced at Nicholas who winked. “He has been a mentor of great wisdom.” And unstinting patience for the elf under his charge.

“Do you regret the actions that sent you to him in the first place?” Alfr’s serpent gaze did its best to strip the skin off Andor’s bones.