Idris’s preparations for Joa’s visit were different to Layton’s. Layton did laundry, made sure both men had suitable clothes for a prince’s visit; Idris placed two seeds that Joa had given him, one in his own bedroom and one outside the vault. Layton baked vegetable tarts and took out his finest wine; Idris made a collection of leaf-wrapped pills. Finally, Layton went to the vault to retrieve the breastplate. While he did that, Idris went to Layton’s bedroom door.

Whatever was behind the bedroom door left a tang on Layton’s person that Idris could sense, a strange warping of the death aria that sounded discordant. If he pressed his hand to the door, he could hear it. It was not like the death curtain, or any other sound in the aria, and yet it was familiar to something that Idris could not identify.

Carefully, he marked the doorframe with black chalk, so fine that even Layton would not be able to see it, and he breathed the aria and whispered, “Come.”

With the taste of ash still in his mouth, he went back downstairs.

Layton was, for the first time since Idris had met him, truly fussy. He paced the parlour, making lists out loud. When Idris returned, his father paused, glanced at him.

“When will he arrive?” Layton said.

“Midnight. Everything will be well, Father,” said Idris, bringing Layton’s coat to the armchair. “Your coat.” He glanced at the huge chest, sitting now before the fireplace. “Is that it?” he said.

“The breastplate? Yes.”

The chest was iron, cut with remarkable patterns of bones and tendons, and wider than the armchair. No sound came from it, and yet the presence of the chest itself filled the room with an awkward hunger.

“The thralls are stationed?” Idris said.

“Yes. The curtain is relaxed, for the prince, and...” Layton sighed. “I think that is all.”

“He will be amenable,” said Idris, as reassuringly as he could. “He was a perfect gentleman to me. Besides, are you not neighbours? It would do well for him to be civil with you.”

Layton nodded, looking at the chest. His gaze finally travelled to Idris, where it rested on his coat and boots.

“You look splendid,” Layton said, picking up his own coat.

“Thank you.”

“Are you armed?”

Idris patted the stiletto on his chest. “Always.”

“Then we have nothing to fear.”

Layton had already created the paint that Idris had instructed him to make, of wild moss and mushroom; it was a grainy grey colour and did not spread evenly, but they managed to make a sizeable circle with the mixture. Thistle was confined to Idris’s bedroom, having tried to eat the paste previously. Once the circle was constructed, all the two men had to do was wait.

Idris hoped, silently, that he had done enough. The seeds were in place, the breastplate was out of the vault. Joa only had to keep to his side of the bargain. He could not help but feel apprehensive, though. There was so much at stake, and the parameters for failure were too broad. If Layton had even an inkling that something was wrong, the whole game was over.

Layton stood still and silent, watching the circle. His shoulders were straight and back; his face was alert.

Midnight came with a pins-and-needles sensation in the nape of Idris’s neck and a floral taste in the back of his throat. The grey paint, previously dull and sticky, began to shiver like a heat mirage, and glowed suddenly in twinkling gold lights. The tile inside the paint flushed with springtime grass and a mossy log, and there, in the centre, was Joa.

Willard was beside him.

Idris tried not to start, but this was not part of the plan.

Layton bowed. “Highness,” he said softly.

Joa smiled, bowed his head. “Lord Vonner.” He extended a delicate hand to Willard. “This is my son, Kin Willard. He is learning the ways of the fae nobility. I thought it would be a good learning experience for him to meet with other men of noble houses.”

Willard bowed low. “A right pleasure to be meeting you, Lord Vonner,” he said.

Both fae father and son were dressed and preened in mirror images, adorned in orange petals and delicate green lace; Willard’s hair, usually unkempt if he was not visiting the palace barber once a week, was as perfect as a painting. He did not look like the man Idris knew at all. Idris assumed he looked different to Willard’s eyes, too, in Vonner black-and-silver, with raven wings and feathers running along the seams and hems of his coat. Nevertheless, Willard’s presence made Idris’s stomach churn.

“You have already met my son, Highness,” said Layton, gesturing towards Idris, who took his turn to bow. “This is Master Idris Vonner. He is very excited about the opportunity to protect his, ah...”

Layton, stammering, glanced at Idris.

“The opportunity to avoid a long and painful death, Highness,” Idris said to Joa, with a friendly smile.

“Quite. The Spirit Glass is a marvel, is it not? A wonder of fae design,” said Joa. “May I leave the circle?”

“Yes. You are welcome in our home,” said Layton, now indicating the armchairs by the fire.

Joa and Willard stepped carefully out of the circle and into the parlour. Idris waited until they were seated and then offered to pour the wine (wine was expected in diplomatic situations, to prevent reckless aria usage, as wine dulled the ability to connect with the music), and once everyone was seated and served, Joa looked pointedly at the chest.

“The chest did a remarkable job of masking the breastplate’s location from us,” he said. “My kin have been scouring the land for the final few pieces of Spirit Glass for centuries. I am surprised that I cannot even feel it from here.”

Layton smiled but did not stop watching Joa. “The chest is very well designed. I cannot claim I crafted it, but I am grateful for it.”

“And you are wanting a foot?” the prince said, lifting his goblet. “For the young master?”

“That would be most agreeable,” said Idris.

“From here it looks like you already have two perfectly working feet.”

Idris thought about the twig-foot that scraped his bones from the inside and bid the bile in his cheeks to subside. He did not speak, but he unbuttoned the side of his boot and showed the metal skeleton beneath. Joa did a double-take that was rather convincing.

“I see.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“How long would such an endeavour take?” said Layton. Joa crossed his legs, looked at the chest. Willard watched his father’s movements with a surprising amount of trepidation; he hardly looked at Idris or Layton at all.

“It is a large piece, and it requires more Spirit Glass to mould it. I would say until the next full moon.”

“A month?”

Joa nodded.

Layton shifted his jaw. Idris watched him carefully. The chill in the air was back.

“I need your assurance that you will not abscond with my property,” said Layton at last.

Joa laughed, but it did not take the edge off the iron-edged glare that Layton was giving him.

“What would I do with a breastplate that is largely useless?” said Joa.

“You stole other property of my family’s that I would like to see returned.”

“A-saying someone’s a thief ain’t right polite, Lord Vonner,” said Willard softly.

“No, no, it is quite fine, Kin Willard,” said Joa, waving a hand. “Lord Vonner is correct. The Court does have Vonner property in the vault. I cannot blame him for being sour. If he wishes to make a bargain with the Fairy Court -”

“I do not,” said Layton. “I simply wish what is mine be returned to me.” He sat back, sipped his wine. “I want to see the staff,” he said, “and I want to see it before I turn the breastplate over.”

“Father,” Idris whispered, but Layton ignored him.

“I do not think that is unreasonable,” The Remaker said.

“Where is the dagger, Layton?” said Joa.

It was very quiet, very quickly. Layton flushed pink. Joa finished his wine, smiled winningly. The chest sat, pulling the air towards its bulk.

“The dagger is gone,” said Layton.

“Oh? To where?”

“I know not where. It is gone.”

“The dagger?” said Idris breathlessly, turning to Layton.

“It is nothing, Idris,” said Layton, still not looking at him. “A trinket and nothing more.”

“A Spirit Glass trinket that tore across the countryside in the spring,” said Joa calmly. Layton hardly even flinched. “Now it is gone. We were happy to leave it with you, Lord Vonner. You did not seem interested in it. But miraculously, it is now in the ether. What happened to it?”

“I do not have it.”

What is Joa doing? Idris thought, panicked. This is not the plan. Then, Layton did not know anyone knew about the Spirit Dagger.

“I can hardly petition the Fairy Court to release the Spirit Staff if it is going to join its kin,” said Joa. “I need to know the location of the Spirit Dagger.”

Layton pursed his lips, his eyes aflame.

“See, Kin Willard?” said Joa softly. “He may call us thieves, but he is a liar, and I am unsure which is worse.”

“That, too, was stolen from me,” said Layton. “It is rather embarrassing, but it is gone. I cannot locate it.”

“For a man with such a remarkable tower, you do get rather a lot of your property stolen from you.”

“This is fruitless,” said Idris finally, frightened of the implications of the conversation. “We have a purpose. Highness, I am sure my father does not mean to insult you or your family. Father... Father, you may be asking too much.”

Layton took a deep breath, as if he was pulling the death aria into his stomach for a spell, and then let it out slowly. Idris watched Layton’s hands, as if he might see the spell being cast before he felt or heard it, but nothing happened.

“I will make a proposal, then,” Layton said. “I will give you the breastplate to fashion for my son’s foot once I have seen the staff. To ensure the staff’s safety, I will keep young Willard here as my guest until you return. You can reject my offer. That is well within your rights.”

Willard blanched. Joa tapped his foot, turned to his son.

“What say you, Kin Willard?”

For the first time, Willard looked at Idris, and Idris was certain that coming to Raven’s Roost was not really his choice at all – rather, Joa had a different plan and this was the likely outcome of it.

“I would rightly like to enjoy your hospitality until His Highness returns,” said Willard at last, standing and bowing low to Layton.

Layton smiled warmly. “Excellent. There. All settled.”

“The Fairy Court may decline your request,” Joa warned, but Layton shook his head and selected a vegetable tart from the platter.

“That is fine,” he said. “Rest assured – your son will be safe with me.”

The rest of the meeting was short. Willard stood beside Layton as Joa returned to the circle and stepped inside; Joa bowed and said he would return with the staff. With that, the circle shimmered once more, and the spring glade and Joy-Of-Autumn vanished on the wind with a hint of floral perfume.

Layton sighed, put his tongue in his cheek and did not glance at Willard when he said, “Idris, please escort the princeling to a room. He does not leave it for anything.”

“Father...” Idris touched Layton’s elbow softly. “Can we discuss this? This is not what we -”

“The situation changed,” said Layton, his voice terser than Idris cared for. “Do as I ask.”

Idris hesitated, glanced at Willard’s still, plaintive face, and said, “Yes, Father. Whatever you wish. Come, princeling.”

“My lord,” said Willard, with a final bow to Layton, and the two of them hurried out of the parlour and onto the stairs.

“Say nothing,” Idris hissed as they climbed. “The thralls – I think they feed him information. We cannot talk here.”

Willard nodded, following close.

The bedroom above Idris’s was empty, save for the same sorts of furniture that occupied his space. He led Willard inside, closed the door and checked the room for death arias or hidden animal thralls and found none. All the while, Willard stood still, watching him.

“This was not the plan,” Idris finally said, rounding on him.

“It was Joa’s plan,” said Willard. “Figured he might need... leverage, he said. Don’t worry, the rest of it, we think we can do. The seeds?”

“In place.”

“Then we ain’t got nothing to worry for.”

Idris sighed heavily, ran a hand through his hair. “I do not think Layton means to harm you.”

“Me neither.”

“Lila? Riette?”

“They know what they’re doing. The Old Honour is on his way, too.”

Idris frowned. “Kurellan?” Willard nodded. “That could be exactly the support we need.”

“Don’t you a-fret about Willard,” said the hedge witch, patting Idris’s shoulder with a smile. “I know my role. Can play it right smart, too. Ain’t no trouble.”

Idris gripped his shoulder back. “I should go.”

“What you said, about your dad, in the woods?” said Willard, when Idris reached the door. Idris turned, and Willard licked his bottom lip. “I get it,” he said. “I understand.”

Quickly, Idris returned to the parlour, where Layton was sitting eating tarts and drinking wine, facing the chest. Either arrogance or complacence had made Idris believe that there was nothing Layton could do to surprise him or derail the plan, but he had done it without a tremble, and that frightened Idris.

“That was not what we agreed upon,” Idris said, being as firm as he could manage. Layton shifted his head lazily, rolled his wine around the goblet.

“It was not, no, and I do apologise.”

“What was that? We have a hostage now?”

“Did I not impress upon you the power that the Dead Walker armour holds?” said Layton. “Or that it is ours, by birthright? It was stolen from us. I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

“You said the dagger was buried in the ruins,” Idris said, and Layton looked him dead in the eye and smiled.

The smile was enough to make Idris sweat.

Black bells, he is playing me.

There had always been the undercurrent, the creeping uncertainty of Layton’s intent – the strange ice behind his eyes – but this time, Idris knew it unconditionally. There were three games being played here: his own, Joa’s, and The Remaker’s. But Idris had been so consumed in his own that he had missed all of the signs. Layton had already proved himself capable of lying quite easily. Why would he not be deceiving Idris?

“I did say that,” said Layton quietly. “You are right.”

“Joa said someone used it -”

“The fae prince need not know about the whereabouts of the dagger,” said Layton in a louder, more final tone. “Besides, I do not think we need to worry about the dagger anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I think it is gone. Broken, at the very least.” Layton shrugged. “It hardly matters.”

Hardly matters. As if the agony Idris went through to destroy it was nothing.

“What matters,” said Layton, with a kinder smile, patting the chair beside him; Idris sat cautiously, wondering what rug Layton might pull out from beneath him next, “is that we are going to have our family heirlooms returned to us. That is worth celebrating.”

“That may be true,” said Idris, “but what do we do with the princeling?”

Layton laughed, shook his head. “Nothing. He will be quite harmless. I do not even think he is full fae, you know. I doubt he can do anything that might threaten us, or the sanctity of the tower. You really are concerned about this, aren’t you? Idris,” he said, touching Idris’s knee lightly, “this is diplomacy. It is not personal. Everything was very civil, I think.”

“It is not the sort of diplomacy I was expecting,” said Idris.

“I have to keep some things close by. I did not mean to surprise you.” Layton filled Idris’s goblet. “We shall toast, to Johannes Vonner. Then, we will feed the princeling and take ourselves off to bed. Everything else can wait until the morrow.”

Idris joined the toast with a thin smile, drained his wine without tasting it and retreated. In his own bedroom, Thistle mewed and scampered around his feet. Needing the comfort, Idris took the tiny creature to the bed and held him close to his cheek. Thistle’s little scratchy tongue licked earnestly at Idris’s chin.

“What have I done?” Idris whispered, lifting the kitten and looking deep into his algae-eyes. “I should have... should have done as Riette said. This is madness.”

He would be home by now, sipping iced tea under the full branches in the orchard, watching Lila do her sword practice and observing Willard’s stances. Instead, he was trapped in a three-man tug-of-war over a piece of cursed glass.

“Think, Idris,” he whispered, putting the kitten on his lap. “How can we fix this?”

He knew the stakes, now. Whoever won, it was going to be a war.