Page 12 of Of Iron and Moonlight

He returned the vial to its place and gestured to a pair of chairs. Duncan cast a final glance around the room, then took a seat. Maps and ledgers lay in thoughtful disarray on the table between them.

“I read the emperor’s writ,” Albrecht said, pouring them each a glass of wine. A subtle tremor passed through his hand. “He sends you to Norrelia?”

Duncan nodded, accepting the wine. “I hoped you might tell me what awaits me there.”

Albrecht sat and studied Duncan over the rim of his glass. “What do you already know?”

“Very little,” Duncan admitted. “That the fae are not one people. Three kingdoms. Three bloodlines. They keep apart from one another much as they keep apart from us.” He paused. “They are said to be faster and stronger.”

“That is already more than most,” Albrecht said. “Many never move beyond the word fae as a children’s tale. Some even remain oblivious to the myth.” He raised a brow. “And their magic? What have you heard?”

“Only that each bloodline carries its own gift.”

Albrecht nodded and leaned over the desk. “The Norrelians have sway over the elements.” He tapped an old map. “Air. Water. The more powerful and skilled among them can command storms.” He pressed a finger gently to his temple. “That sway extends to the path a thought takes once it enters your mind.”

Duncan frowned. “That is not comforting.” He leaned back, wine forgotten. “How does a man walk out of a place like that alive?”

Albrecht opened a drawer and set a plain iron band on the desk between them with a dull thud. “Wear this. Always.”

Duncan reached for it and tested its weight in his palm. “Iron truly works?”

“It helps,” Albrecht said. “Not perfectly. Iron is most effective when the fae themselves are bound to it. Even so, it will blunt the touch of their magic.” He hesitated, then added, “There are other protections whispered about. Most are rare or impossible. I would not stake your life on rumors.”

Duncan slipped the band over his wrist. It bit cold. “What can you tell me of King Oorlon?”

Albrecht’s expression tightened. “To understand Oorlon, you must first understand how fae kings are chosen. They do not inherit crowns as we do.”

“How are they chosen?”

“By power,” Albrecht replied. “Magic inherited and hoarded through purity of blood. Their noble houses breed for it, as ours breed for alliances, hoping for an heir powerful enough to claim the throne.” He set his glass aside. “Oorlon shattered that order. He murdered the king, then forced the princess into marriage to cloak his rule in legitimacy.”

Duncan’s brow creased. “Why not wait? Compete, as tradition demands?”

“Because he could not win.” Albrecht drew a handkerchief from his pocket and stifled a cough. “His blood is mixed. Tsuchitsan influence. You will see it in the green of his violet eyes. Among the fae, such lineage marks one as lesser. Diluted blood means weaker magic, and Oorlon never suffered that judgment well.”

“You paint a grim portrait of the fae.”

Albrecht laughed dryly. “Fae and humans are not so different. Both wage wars for power. Both fear being cast aside.” Another cough. “But do be careful. Oorlon is called the Mad Usurper even among his own court. The Northern King may welcome you as an honored guest in one moment and order your death in the next—with a smile.”

“And how,” Duncan asked, “am I meant to negotiate with a male like that?”

“Make no bargains with him and leave as soon as you are able. He only offers terms if he stands to profit, and he will not tell you the price until you have already paid it.”

Dread settled in Duncan’s stomach. “All that power. Why do fae simply leave us be?”

“For the same reason men do not trouble themselves over insects. We are fleeting to them—our lifetimes short, our bodies weak.” The distant look returned to Albrecht’s eyes. “They forget us,” he added quietly, “until some whim stirs. Once in a blue moon.”

Duncan frowned. “There is no moon of that color.”

“Precisely.” Albrecht’s gaze flickered toward the window, where Selvarath had begun her climb into the evening sky, filling the study with her haunting violet light.

“Thank you,” Duncan said, Wolmer’s charge now settling more heavily, along with the realization he may not survive it. “I will remember this.”

“It is a rare pleasure to share such knowledge,” Albrecht replied. “I am not often afforded the chance to speak of my experience so openly.” He took a sip of his wine. “Now, have you any other questions?”

Duncan reached for his wine and drank deeply. He set the glass down, then lifted it again for another swallow.

“Yes,” he said at last. “There is one more matter I hoped to discuss.”