“Why should we? Each moment spent with our loved ones might be the last.” Alfaris offered the turtle to Janus. “Turtur’s a good sort. Might make you feel better if you carried him.”
Extending a hand, Janus let the turtle crawl into her palm. Slow and ambling, the ancient turtle climbed up her arm and nestled into her cloak. Feeling him there soothed her, for some reason.
Smiling, Alfaris turned around, and Janus walked to his side. “So. . .”
“Are you going to inquire about my past again?” Alfaris presumed. “Here in ancient stone, yet you find me more interesting?”
“Can you blame me?”
“I suppose not.” His black eyes twinkled. “I’ll allow three questions.” Alfaris folded his hands behind his back.
Something told Janus he would be strict about this. Gluing her mouth shut, she considered her first question carefully. “How did you discover you could read the stars?”
“The magic came as easily to me as evoking came to you,” Alfaris answered. “And I was not the only practitioner in my homeland.” He stopped, and though Janus wanted more details, he did not give them.
“Where-” Janus bit her tongue before the question could emerge. “So, are you a cefra? It’s. . .” Janus looked him over. Short and slight, with bright white hair not caused by aging, Alfaris was certainly not human, but. . . “It’s hard to tell.”
“I’m not a cefra,” Alfaris replied.
Shit. Janus should have been more specific. Rolling her tongue in her mouth, she thought over her next inquiry. “How did you and Gemellus meet?”
Alfaris’ mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile. He probably expected that question, but unlike last time, he answered. “He asked me to join him on a suicide mission. I agreed.”
Vague and unhelpful. And Janus was out of questions. “Are you not going to answer anything else?”
“No,” Alfaris said shortly before pointing down the hall. “This is the newest wing. A different style was used here than the rest of the Monolith. Care to take a look?”
The newest wing meant the freshest dead. Peering into the dark hall, Janus observed the stone. The arches were far straighter, less curved, with beveled edges. The tombs were thicker, with heavier lids and narrower bodies. Curiosity drew Janus into the hall, and she drifted down its length, reading the names and observing the impressive masonry.
Janus cursed under her breath. She should have asked a million other questions than what she had. Maybe Alfaris’s answers would have been equally vague regardless of the inquiry.
“You’re more cryptic than even Gem,” Janus said, voice echoing.
“Gemellus’ ego inadvertently forces him to reveal his secrets.” Alfaris looked amused. “I’ve always been the least straightforward of us all.”
“Ego?” Janus mused. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.” She paused. “Us all?”
“Of the dragons.” He smirked and turned away.
Cryptic answers. Janus wondered what they meant.
As she passed another tomb, she froze and backpedaled, rereading the name on the plaque. Recently carved, the tomb was noticeably newer than those further back.
‘Veren of the Gaevral, Son of Estel, Father to Brand and Felsin, husband to Heras.’
A memory from Janus’ childhood stirred in her mind. In Halcyon days, when Eros was still alive, the thrill of grasping evoking consumed Janus’s waking hours. She’d trailed after Gemellus, enduring his preliminary tests as she awaited learning a real spell. And on one such day, Gemellus had received a private letter—one he had not wanted Janus to read.
“Ah, Veren,” Alfaris said sadly. “He was a good man and a better father.”
Janus dwelt on that memory as she stared at the old man beside her. “You knew him, didn’t you? You were friends.”
“. . . yes,” Alfaris replied a bit hesitantly. “Did you assume that because I teach his son?”
“No, I. . .” Janus hesitated. “I read a letter from you to Gemellus a long time ago. You were telling him about Veren’s death.”
“Oh.” Alfaris’ eyes darkened slightly.
“Were the three of you friends?”
