I cried out as the skin opened up and tiny daggers appeared along my arm.
“Again!”
“Dry’ash na hud! Dry’ash na nar! Dry’ash na hud! Dry’ash na nar!”
I tried to steady the rush of my heart as the chimeric burned along my arm.
“Dry’ash na hud! Dry’ash na nar! Dry’ash na hud! Dry’ash na nar!”
My voice was hoarse when finally the burning faded, leaving me breathless and dizzy.
Slowly, I opened my eyes.
It wasn’t a winter wing. No, these feathers were black like a swift or a crow or a raven.
“It worked,” I panted.
“Hmm,” he said as he studied my arm.“Ilyn’shar.”
I remembered that from somewhere. I’d heard the word before.
“Well done,” he said softly, and he squeezed my hand. “Mirror the feathers, now, and send them back.”
“How?”
“Reverse the incant and make them skin.”
I took another deep breath.
“Dry’ash na nar. Dry’ash na hud.”
I gritted my teeth, hissing as the feathers shrank back to be replaced by the soft, tiny hairs of a homani arm.
“Forge, that hurts,” I moaned.
“This is the easy part, I fear,” he said. “Do it again.”
I reached up with the back of my hand to wipe the sheen from my forehead. I puffed out a breath and nodded.
“Dry’ash na hud. Dry’ash na nar.”
Again, the skin burned, and the feathers rippled into existence, and within moments, I held up my hand, the palm and fingers covered in shiny black.
“But it’s not a wing.” I glanced up at him. “Why isn’t it a wing?”
“Small steps,” he said. “Making a wing involves changing your bones, and that is a very different thing.”
“Teach me.”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Now.”
His hand still held mine, his thumb pressed against my thumb, his fingers under my palm. They were long and elegant and threaded with gold, and I wondered how they would feel on the rest of my skin.
He noticed my gaze, and once again, his eyes flicked to my lips.
I wondered how his would feel on my skin, too.
