(Note: This chapter contains lines from the song "I Just Can't Wait to be King" from Walt Disney Studio's 1994 movie The Lion King.)

Heirs

I tell no one, not even Birch, about the manticore, and, as time goes by, I half-forget about the whole encounter. After all, I'm surviving in a dangerous forest, playing healer to dozens if not hundreds of faeries, and, most of all, raising two kids. Enough to distract anyone from manticores, even if Philomel's powers weren't developing, which they are.

Philomel's command of magic grows by the day. Soon she's not just wafting leaves around; she's making toys zoom across the cottage to her cradle, where she grabs them, gurgling with triumph, out of the air. She makes so many utensils fly that I start attaching chips of iron or steel onto all the heavy things, immunizing them to magic (Philomel's shrieking tantrum about this lasts the better part of two hours). She makes twigs grow legs and laughs to watch them dance. Constantly she works magic, seemingly without effort.

"Good Melly! Good girl!" cries Bettina the nixie one hot, sunny day as Philomel uses magic to zoom herself across the water like a boat, cutting a wake behind her. "You must be very proud," Bettina adds to me.

I nod breathlessly, surging across the pool after Philomel. Nixies are dangerous, but I'm not worried about swimming with Bettina. I saved the life of the chief nixie's daughter last year, curing her of her natal weakness and deformity, just as I did for Dogwood. In exchange, the chief gave me the freedom of the river: my children and I can swim or take fish with perfect safety anywhere above the waterfall that pours into the lake, and none of the water fey will harm us. Not that that stops the occasional mean-spirited prank—I've been held underwater for almost a minute more than once—but Bettina's all right, and she adores the kids.

"Mommy!" Philomel zooms to my arms, cuddling into my wet embrace. Her hair, darkened by water, clings to her tiny face. She glows rosy and healthy from swimming.

I smile and kiss her. I keep waiting for the moment when she uses magic on me, either by accident or on purpose. But it hasn't come yet. Maybe she knows not to hurt her mother.

Bettina wades across the river pool, hauling Dogwood after her. He laughs and kicks happily, sending up a white spume of water. "Faster! Faster!" He's getting so big: already he has a tiny crest of quills, reddening at the tips, though his ankles don't rotate like a purebred goblin's, and he has no tail. I sigh, the familiar worry gnawing me: while Philomel plays games with magic, he has yet to show the slightest sign of magical ability. What if something's wrong?

In any case, he's happy today. Bettina leans against a sun-warmed rock, letting Dogwood splash. Philomel agitates to join him in the water, and I hold onto her wrists, letting her float near him. "They're both such beautiful children," Bettina congratulates me. "And Philomel's so talented! I bet if your husband knew, he'd be sorry he kicked you out."

I shrug, manufacturing an appropriately woeful expression. I've done nothing to encourage the theory that's grown around my sudden appearance in the valley, and Philomel's paternity—I just haven't contradicted it. The story goes that I was a human bride, stolen from Ironside by a courtier, who then abruptly tired of marriage to a mortal and threw me out on my own, before he learned I was pregnant. It's an unpleasant tale, but it serves my purposes. It's garnered me some sympathy ("He should have taken you back Ironside if he'd gotten sick of you."), as well as explained Philomel's obvious aristocratic parentage. It also neatly deflects speculation away from the truth—though I think that those who know me best, like Birch and Heartwood, suspect the real story, just as Thistleweft did.

I'm getting cold and clammy in the pool. Come on, kids, time to go, I say.

They both moan but head for the shore. I indicate to Bettina that we're leaving. She waves goodbye cheerily and sculls off, humming.

I make the children dry off and dress quickly. It's irrational, but I always feel more vulnerable without clothing. It's always easier to face the forest dressed.

Dogwood's still sulky as I get him dressed. "Why couldn't we swim some more?" he whines. "I was having fun!"

We can't stay forever, I say. Just put your clothes on!

"Oh, dear," says a sudden, nasty, worm-crawling voice in my ear. "Children are such nuisances, aren't they?"

Dogwood screams and Philomel clutches me as I whirl around, drawing my knife and seizing my salt. It's a Ly Erg, pale and stringy and horrible, dressed in rags, that's snuck up on us through the forest.

It slopes closer, licking its lips with a long gray tongue. "Are you the Lady Healer?" it says in a smarmy voice. "Are you the Unicorn-Blessed? I've heard ever so much about you: the mortal girl blessed by the unicorn." It gives a horrid laugh. "But how can a mortal be blessed by the unicorn? No mortal deserves such an honor." It creeps closer, voice hardening. "Sneaking in, stealing our magic, I'll show you—"

It breaks off with a shriek of agony as I throw a handful of poisoned salt in its face, then lash out with the knife. Blood sprays, and it screams even louder as the venom eats into its wounds. I grab the kids, and we run.

Wild thrashing behind us, as the wounded, blinded monster lunges. "You fucking mortal bitch, I'll kill you—!"

"NO!" Philomel whirls around, her hair aglow. "Leave us ALONE!"

And then there's fire.

Shining silver fire, in a blazing wave from my daughter to the monster. It leaps from her glowing hair, her outthrust hands, crashes over the Ly Erg, burning, biting, stripping away its flesh in charred curls. The Ly Erg cowers back, screaming in agony. A wave of red light runs from its flailing hand, a spell of pestilence or destruction—

I scream silently and lunge forward, but Dogwood is faster. He catches the Ly Erg's spell in his hands. I see him do it. He actually grabs hold of the spell and literally flings it back, snarling.

The Ly Erg screams as its own spell lances into it. There's another voice—someone crying out through the roar of flames and the Ly Erg's shrieks—but I can't hear them clearly—

"STOP!" roars the new voice, and Philomel breaks off as we all turn. The fire disappears, and the Ly Erg collapses, breath squealing in its fire-tortured lungs.

Birch swings down from the canopy. "Are you all right?"

I nod, sweating. My knees are weak. The children defended me.

"Yeah," says Dogwood with a fierce scowl. "That Ly Erg wanted to hurt Mommy!"

"Vile…little…brat," the Ly Erg pants from its collapse. "Kill you…"

Birch's mouth tightens. Without a word, he strides over, kneels down, and takes the Ly Erg's head in his hands. With one swift, practical jerk, he snaps the creature's neck. We all flinch at the crack. The Ly Erg's eyes go dull, redness fading as it dies.

Birch stands up, wiping Ly Erg slime off his hands, and turns back to us. "Are you all right, really?"

Shaking off my shock, I nod. The children nod too. "We're fine!" Philomel says proudly. "Did you see my magic, Uncle Birch?"

"I sure did," he says, ruffling her hair. "Good work, defending your mother. And Dogwood…!" He turns to Dogwood with shining eyes. "I saw your magic too! Well done, my boy! It's finally come out!"

Dogwood shakes his head. "Not mine. The Ly Erg's."

Birch's smile fades. "What?"

"It was the Ly Erg's magic," Dogwood explains matter-of-factly. "I threw it back."

What? I ask.

"Dogwood takes other people's spells," Philomel explains patiently, "and does 'em again." She and Dogwood exchange a bewildered, pitying glance: how can adults be so stupid?

You mean this has been going on for a while now? My fingers are shaking with urgency.

"Yeah," Dogwood looks up at me, puzzled. "I copy Melly's spells. All the time." He glances between me and Birch, nervously. "What's wrong?"

Neither of us can reply. "Echo," Birch says at last, heavily. "He's an Echo."

I've never heard that term for it, but I know at once what he means. At Court we called them Mirrors: faeries with no active magic, who can't cast the simplest spell on their own, but who can reflect another faerie's spell with perfect accuracy. With training, they can also nullify any spell cast in their proximity, and destroy any long-standing magic. They're rare, and as highly prized as they are despised: for a faerie without magic is a disgraceful mutant, but also a potentially very valuable servant. Madoc had a knight who was a Mirror, who could reflect martial spells back onto any assailant or enemy to deadly effect, and Madoc held her in high esteem. "That's one reason why you shouldn't get too reliant on magic alone,"my stepfather was fond of saying.

Dogwood stares up at Birch trustingly, curiously. "What's an Echo?"

"It means you can't cast your own spells," Birch explains, "but you can echo other faeries'." He manages a smile. "It's a rare talent, Dogwood."

"Really?" Dogwood beams. "Nice!"

Why didn't you tell me? I demand angrily.

Philomel speaks around the thumb in her mouth. "'Cause you might tell us to stop."

Fair enough, I suppose. I'm not going to do that. I kneel down, facing them both. But you must listen. Your gifts are dangerous. I fight back a shiver: my children, little more than toddlers, have almost burned another faerie alive. If anyone found out how powerful Philomel is, or that Dogwood is an Echo, they'd want to use you. They wouldn't care about your safety or happiness. They might even take you away from me.

"No!" Dogwood howls and throws his arms around me. Philomel too clings hard. "They can't do that!" she cries.

I squeeze them back, dizzy though I am at this sudden transformation from creatures of raw power, wielding blazing magic, to frightened, wailing toddlers.

"There are those who could," Birch says, slowly and seriously. "There are those who would. So don't go displaying your power, you two. Not in front of strangers, not too much. And no hiding things from your mother. Okay?"

"Okay," Dogwood says in a small voice. Philomel knuckles tears from her eyes and nods.

"Oh, Mommy," she says suddenly. "You're bleeding."

I look down, and see that I've scraped a bare knee against a hidden rock. Blood oozes from a shallow cut. It's all right, I say. I'll patch it up when we get home. I still can't use the unicorn's gift on myself.

"Why not heal it right now?" Birch asks. We look at him. "Call up your gift," he says, "and let's see if Dogwood can't echo it back onto you." He shrugs. "Can't hurt to try."

Dogwood and I look at each other, both rather surprised at the simplicity of this solution. I shrug and summon the unicorn's gift in a white glow around my fingers.

Dogwood echoes it. The light disappears from my hand and wreathes around his own fingers, limning his claws. Grinning in triumph, he bends over and places his glowing hand on my knee.

The cut heals instantly, sealing closed, all pain disappearing. Just like when the unicorn healed me before. I flex my newly healed knee, and smile at my son. My miraculous, amazing son, who can echo blazing spells of destruction and small, gentle magics with equal aplomb.

"Yay Dogwood!" cheers Philomel, and we all laugh. For a moment, despite what's just happened, despite whatever fears we may have for the future, we laugh together.

Naturally, word gets around quickly. We don't exactly tell anyone else about the encounter with the Ly Erg, but soon the whole forest knows anyway. Awed whispers follow me and my children through the canopy: "Did you hear…?...Those kids killed a Ly Erg…The boy's an Echo…"

I'm braced for Dogwood to face mockery and disgust: he's a faerie without magic, as unnatural as a bird without wings. But, though adults mutter darkly and children stare at him with wide eyes, there's very little actual bullying. Some of the village children now avoid him, but mostly things go on as usual.

I'm surprised, really, I say to Heartwood during a trip to the village. Dogwood and Philomel are playing with their village friends, racing around the central platform, reenacting their defeat of the Ly Erg with much shrieks and flailing arms. I thought poor Dogwood would be an outcast.

She shrugs, smoke from her pipe wreathing around her head. "I think people see it as only typical of your family." At my inquiring look, she explains, "You're strange. Philomel is strange. Naturally, Dogwood too is strange."

I blink. Is our oddball status really that cemented? Heartwood chuckles.

Philomel comes hurtling up. "Come on, Mommy, come show how the Ly Erg attacked us!"

I smile, but shake my head firmly. I don't want to be reminded of that terrifying encounter, let alone play it out for an audience. I keep hearing the sick crack of Birch breaking that monster's neck, the smell of scorched flesh. It worries me a little, how proud the children are of themselves. But I suppose it's inevitable: everyone's praising them for defending their mother, for the adroitness of their magical gifts. And they're too young to really understand what Birch did to the Ly Erg.

And here comes Birch now, striding across the platform. "Come on, Philomel, leave your mother alone," he says. "Can't you see she's talking to Heartwood?" He bows politely to the Chieftainess, and she nods in reply.

Now he turns to me. How are you feeling, Albia? he signs, eyes softening.

I'm fine. And I think I am, too. The flashbacks will fade with time, and the encounter was hardly the worst thing that's ever happened to me.

I smile at Birch. Perhaps I should feel more trepidation or disgust toward him—he's killed someone in front of me, after all—but I don't. He killed an enemy, in defense of me and my children. How churlish and hypocritical it would be, to fear him for that. Besides, who am I to judge? The memory of the soldier's despairing whimpers wafts like foul smoke.

"Come on, Uncle Birch!" Philomel tugs at him. "Come play with us." Laughing, he lets himself be pulled into the game.

"He's very good with them, isn't he?" Heartwood remarks approvingly. "Funny, since he doesn't usually care for children."

He's always liked mine, I can't help boasting proudly.

She grunts. "Can't say I've ever had any talent for children," she says musingly. "I don't really blame the Gentry for making mortals raise their kids." She puffs peacefully on her pipe. "I wonder if the Lost Heir's nursemaid made off with the child, back Ironside. That's happened before, you know."

I stare at her. What's the Lost Heir?

"Haven't you heard?" Heartwood peers at me through the smoke in mild surprise.

I shake my head

She leans in conspiratorially. "Rumor has it that one of the Greenbriar princes actually managed to father a child," she murmurs. "A baby, who disappeared—or maybe it's hidden away deliberately. No one knows."

A chill runs down my spine. It takes huge effort not to look at Philomel, now echoing the lyrics as Birch teaches her and the other children a new song from Ironside. That's ridiculous, I say quickly. If any of the Greenbriars had fathered a child, we'd know all about it. Even out here.

Heartwood shrugs. "I know. But that's the story. They're calling the child the Lost Heir. A hidden claimant to the throne of Faerie." She leans back and flicks her ears dismissively. "Wishful thinking, if you ask me. Eldred's getting weak—and those sons of his are all worthless. No one wants to think that one of them will soon take the throne."

Frantically, I put my finger to my lips, gesturing her to be quiet. Heartwood smirks a little. "The trees have ears, Albia? Well, perhaps you're right to be cautious."

I lean in. Is Eldred really dying? Not that I have any personal interest in that vile old faerie's health—indeed, there's a kind of smug, malicious triumph to the thought of Eldred wasting away. So much for the faeries' supposed immortality! But if he does die…then who takes the throne? An image arises of Balekin being crowned, and my skin crawls.

"Who knows?" Heartwood breathes back. "That's just what I've heard. But I can tell you this: if half of what I've heard is true, then we can brace ourselves for civil war in the not-too-distant future."

Another chill, running through me like ice. My children's voices pierce the silence, bright and happy:

"I'm gonna be a mighty king

So enemies beware!"

I look up, to see Dogwood and Philomel both crowned in leaves, singing at the tops of their voices with the other children.

"I'm gonna be the main event

Like no king was before!

I'm brushing up on looking down,

I'm working on my roar!

Oh, I just can't wait to be king!"

I sit, unable to tear my eyes away from the sight of my daughter, wearing a crown, singing a song about taking the throne, and laughing as she does it. I want to grab her away from Birch, I want to slap that stupid goblin. You idiot, I want to say, Philomel should never sing such songs! She should never even contemplate the throne! Of all faeries, Philomel should never, ever even pretend to aspire to the crown.

But all I can do is stand and watch my daughter, my Lost Heir, dance and sing, melodious and innocent, hair a corona of white around her head, more majestic and magical than any crown.