For a moment, I think it might. But then Lyra turns her face away. “I’m quite tired.”
My body stiffens. “I see.”
It shouldn’t matter. I’m nothing to her. Just another Darkwielder. But as I stand to leave, I ask her one more time. “What’s your plan here, Lyra?”
She lifts one shoulder, her braid slipping. “Who knows. Perhaps I’ll be dead soon, if Duskbane has anything to do with it. I doubt most will accept my presence here, if today has shown me anything.”
“Kaelen won’t hurt you.” Although I can’t argue with her other point. “And right now, they do not trust you. If you truly intend to stay, then help us.”
She snorts. “Help you win and betray my own people? I’m flattered that you think I have that ability.”
I debate my next words. “We don’t want to win. We haven’t thought of victory since before my lifetime.”
When her eyes lift, I meet them.
“We just want to survive.”
***
The floor of this place is as damp as I remember. Pulling up my knees, I balance my wrists on them and lean back against the wall as I listen.
I haven’t heard any noise from Lyra’s cell since I left. Perhaps she’s still sitting there, bolt upright with military posture and swollen hands.
Or perhaps she’s sleeping.
Despite my Council duties to assist in meting out justice, it’s rare that I enter someone else’s dreams. And never without preparation. Never without someone close by. A rule that my father instilled into me from birth, preparing me for the day my erevas would emerge.
The Veyr bloodline has always borne walkers.
Twisting my wrist, I run my thumb over the deep riftline that covers the inside of my left arm. Eres will be waiting in his chambers. Kaelen too, if he persuaded him to stay. It won’t help the friction between us if I don’t show up.
But I’d feel better if I could give him something useful, instead of speculation and suspicion. There’s been more than enough of that, between us.
Perhaps this will be enough.
Perhaps I will finally beenough.
But that all depends on what Lyra dreams about.
I listen again. Nothing. I’ve been here for just under two hours, so if my calculations are correct…
I close my eyes. My father would be furious, but he’s nothere. And I have nobody I can ask, thanks to him.
For the love of Erevan, let me fix this.
It takes me a few moments to find the strands. Mental erevas is a different beast to our physical manifestation. Tricky, almost sentient. When I find them, I nudge them outward.
If Lyra’s mind is open to me, if she’s unconscious and unguarded, the connection should be quick enough.
There.
The flickers of movement at the edge of my vision are muted, as if I’m watching them through water. My erevas reaches for them, catching on to the threads Lyra casts out without knowing. The shadows wrap around those threads—one, then a second, then another, building a link I can use to slip inside.
I breathe in.
And then I let go. Let go of every panicked, agonized, pathetic thought in my own head, and I reach for Lyra’s. The threads grow darker, stronger, weaving together into a rope between the two of us that I use to pull myself closer.
It’s harder than I anticipated. I can feel my breathing deepening, becoming jagged and uneven to anybody who might walk past.
