Aro’el, she said.Child of the north. Chase the mirror. Find the mage.
Tears stung my eyes at the sound of her voice.
And so, I sat, a fulcrum between two worlds, one hand on him, the other on her, feelings like memories sweeping through my bones. Love. Loss. Grief. Joy. My heart broke and mended with each successive beat, and I closed my eyes as the chimeric sang the song of suns and moons, islands and trees, and the hawk that soared between them all.
But they weren’t my memories. I didn’t know what they were, but I knew they weren’t mine.
I’m not sure how long we sat, but at some point, he stirred,the feathers changing beneath my palm. It was so smooth, so effortless, just a rush of feather and fabric and midnight black hair. He was a man now, reclining on the chest, back arched against the windows, one leg tucked, catlike, beneath him, the other draped over the side.
My hand was on his thigh, and I pulled it away.
“Why are you here?” he murmured. “You should rest before the Dreadwall.”
The words I had planned were gone, dissipated like Forge in Winterdark.
“Why are we doing this?” I asked. Forge, I was so blunt.
“Now is not the time,” he said.
“You know what you’re asking of me,” I said. “I might not come out on the other side, and I want to know you before the end.”
He turned his head to stare out the mullioned windows, thought a long while as if weighing my worth.
“You and Kirianae,” I said, and I leaned forward. “And the House WoodRaven. I know you’re the last Priestlord. Your name’s recorded in the list of the dead.”
His eyes were heavy-lidded, and he ran an elegant hand across his face, exhausted.
“And theTouchstoneis the RuneTree. But she is a goddess, too, yes?” I took a deep breath and forged ahead with the question I’d been afraid to ask. “Who was she…to you?”
The air was as heavy as a gathering storm.
“Who was she?” I pressed.
“Aro’el…”
“Was she your lover?”
He grunted, released a long breath.
“I am not a Priestlord,” he said finally, not looking at me.
“Not a Priestlord?” I blinked. “What the hels?”
“Not truly,” he said. “It requires forty suns, a series of exams, and trial by chimeric. I may have the power, but I do not have thename.”
Suns. Even the ironmages called him Priestlord.
“I was sent as an acolyte twenty-two years ago, when the order was strong and vibrant and in the crosshairs of an insecure king.”
I nodded slowly. He hadn’t answered my question yet, had tacked neatly around it, but I knew he would come about eventually. He always did. And I respected that about him. He could change course when given the right winds.
“In fact, I was the youngest ever to be sent. Six suns, I believe. The youngest age allowed was eight. I was good.”
He looked down at me with a twitch of his lips.
“Verygood.”
I almost smiled back.
