He reached for his own glass; if she was at ease enough to turn to food again, then he could, too. “What other gifts are there?”
She released a breath. “I’m sure I don’t even know a fraction of them. It’s not as if empaths can safely talk about their gifts—and the only other empaths I ever knewwere my mother and Tiras. But my mother shared some of the gifts she knew about. There are some empaths who have the ability to detect lies—they feel them, like a physical burn. Others can create illusions, and some can touch a person and walk within their dreams. There are also empaths who can touch an object and glean things about its history. And while I can heal physical wounds, there are empaths who have the ability to heal emotional wounds, like grief or heartache.”
It all sounded so incredible. He shook his head slowly. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to have any of those gifts.” He paused, then asked, “Is it ever overwhelming? Feeling what someone else is feeling . . . I can’t imagine,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “Especially in a crowd, where the emotions of so many different people tangle together. It can be impossible to pick anything apart. And it’s easy to lose track of your own feelings in those situations because you’re caught up in what everyone else is feeling. Anxiety, anger, jealousy, happiness, excitement—it’s difficult to feel all of that at once.”
Saints, he couldn’t imagine. “Coming to Esperance and being surrounded by so many strangers . . .”
She dipped her chin. “That aspect alone was very difficult, especially when everyone was feeling such intense emotions. In Ferradin, I was able to keep to myself most of the time.”
“How do you stand it?”
A crease appeared across her brow. “Sometimes I don’t. It was especially hard when I was younger. And it only got worse after I lost my mother.” She swallowed. “Whenever I had to be around a group of people, my uncle would hold my hand. The physical contact helped ground me. Helped me focus on him. Sometimes he would even trace letters on my palm to give me something to concentrate on. My mother had a technique as well, which I rely on if I begin to feel overwhelmed.” She hesitated, but he merely waited, showing his eagerness to know. Her lips pursed self-consciously. “I can’t remember if I told you, but I play the cello. Losing myself in music . . . it helps. It’s almost like an outlet for all that excess emotion I pick up from others. I can channel it into the music and let it go. And if I don’t have the luxury of being able to play in the moment, I can think through the act of playing; I can imagine the feeling of the strings under my fingers, and it helps me feel the vibrations of the music even when it’s only in my mind.”
The longing in her voice made it clear she missed her cello, which was surely sitting in her room in Ferradin. The emperor hadn’t allowed them to bring anything to Esperance that could be considered distracting, which meant she’d been livingwithout something vitally important to her for months. It was a small thing she’d lost, all things considered, but it was still something the emperor had taken from her, and Carver hated that.
He forced a smile, though it felt a little tight. “I hope to hear you play someday.”
Color touched her high cheekbones, but she nodded once.
A large part of him didn’t want to ruin the mood, but he needed her to finish her explanation about empaths. “What about the third level of empaths?” he asked. “What makes them different?”
Amryn drew back slightly, her hands falling to her lap. Her eyes were cautious as she watched him, because they both knew what hadn’t been explicitly stated. Tiras belonged in this category, along with all the other monstrous empaths Carver had ever heard of.
She took a slow breath. “The first type of empath can discern emotions. The second can actually feel them. And the third can manipulate them.”
Ice slid through his veins. “How?”
“Very easily, if the empath is powerful.” She sighed. “When I was young—maybe three or four years old—I was playing with Tiras. I fell and cut my knee on a sharp rock. The wound was so deep, I could see bone. The pain was unlike anything I’d felt before. I started screaming. Tiras . . .” She swallowed hard. “Well, when my mother found us a while later, my leg was drenched in blood, my body shaking. But I was limping around and playing with Tiras. Laughing while tears streaked down my face. Because even though Tiras took away my pain and gave me only joy, my body was still suffering.” She met Carver’s stare. “When my mother asked Tiras why he hadn’t gone for help—why he’d replaced my pain with joy instead—he said he’d wanted us to keep playing.”
Carver’s insides rolled. “That’s . . .”
“Disturbing?” She offered a weak smile. “Yes.” She shook her head. “He was only a child himself at the time—eight or nine. It’s only fair to remember that.”
Carver frowned. As the oldest brother in the Vincetti family, he’d tended his siblings’ hurts many times. Even as a young child, he couldn’t imagine acting as Tiras had. If he’d had the ability to take away the pain of his younger brothers and sisters, he would have—in a heartbeat. But he would have also gotten them help.
He suddenly realized that Tiras was five years older than Amryn. That meant he was twenty-five now—Carver’s age. He didn’t know why, but that felt strange. The dangerous empath seemed older, somehow.
“Tiras’s empathic magic has always been strong,” Amryn continued. “Most empaths like him can only influence emotions, and usually only one person at a time—and sometimes touch is necessary. But Tiras can control an entire room. Even if you realize what he’s doing, he can still manipulate you. He can take away your anxiety or anger. You won’t fight him because he can make you feel apathetic, or even happy. You could face him, knowing he’s your enemy, but he could fill you with the desire to drop your weapons and smile at him, even as he killed you.”
Tension coiled at the base of Carver’s spine. Everything about what she’d just described was nightmarish. But one thing stood out. “How can Tiras cause people pain? You can’t, without feeling it yourself.”
“He doesn’thaveto feel any of it. He can choose to feel nothing. It’s another one of his gifts.” She fingered the edge of the table, her eyes following the motion, avoiding his gaze. “The night my mother was killed, Tiras changed in front of me. He shut off his emotions entirely, and he didn’t turn them back on afterward. He was twelve years old, and he made four highly trained knights turn on each other and rip each other apart. He didn’t even have to touch them. They slaughtered each other because he wanted them to.”
Carver’s heart clenched. “You had to see all that?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. “When I finally made a sound, Tiras seemed to remember I was there. He dulled my emotions. All I felt after that was . . . calm.” She shivered, her eyes closing tightly.
He breathed out slowly. He wanted the full story of what had happened that night—and where in the scorched plains her father had been during all of it, since apparently he hadn’t been dead and buried by then—but he couldn’t force her to continue talking about something like this. Not when her pain was so obvious. “I just need to know one more thing,” he said. “If Tiras is an enemy . . .” If Carver would have to face him one day . . . “Does he have any weaknesses?”
Amryn’s throat flexed. “My mother only ever mentioned one.”
“What?”
She met his gaze, pale and unflinching. “Me.”
Chapter 13
