May Sunlagh take you by the hand,
To where Other-worlders play
Let Sunlagh take you by the hand
To the land beyond the veil
We all stare at Chiyo, mesmerized by the words, the men clearly captivated by her voice. Chiyo gives a seated flourish and announces, “Thank you! Feel free to toss a coin for your humble bard.”
We laugh and chat about songs we grew up with, exchanging stories. Kilkenny tells us the legend of the war goddess Damarlach, who wed a mortal man and made an undefeatable warrior of him. Osheen shares the story of Ostanha, the god of spring and love. Clearly, Ostanha is struggling this year, based on the blight that’s slowly spreading.
We discuss a few things regarding our journey, Kilkenny showing us the map that Alys has entrusted him with. We still have quite a way to go, including another mountainous trek.
As summer approaches, the weather should be a little more bearable, but the closer we get to the Verge, the colder it becomes. I fidget with my fingers and my dampener once we finish eating. The tedium that was my life is so distant—I yearn for the simpler things. I wish I’d packed some knitting needles and wool. I could use a channel for my nervous energy.
Each day that brings us closer to Taig also brings a greater possibility of danger. At least, it feels that way. We’ve managed to somehow stay ahead of the Forayers. Maybe they’ve even lost our trail by now, but there’s a constant sinking in my stomach.
I’m so lost in thought that when I glance up, Chiyo and Osheen are on their feet, Chiyo tugging him by the sleeve toward the water. Kilkenny’s questioning look lands on me. “A shilling for your thoughts?” he asks, turning so that he’s fully facing me, his legs crisscrossed.
I’m not sure what to say without sounding like I’m indulging in self-pity. Kilkenny wouldn’t appreciate it. I turn so that I’m facing him as well, our knees touching. “It’s nothing.”
“I don’t even need to be a Whisperer to know you’re lying.” He fixes me with a stern expression. “What’sreallyon your mind?” he signs.
I face the riverbank where the silhouettes of Osheen and Chiyo are practicing fighting skills—or rather where Chiyo is trying to teach Osheen how to fight. I’m not sure which of us is the worse student. Kilkenny waves his hand in front of my face very gently and I turn to him again.
“I know I haven’t been the friendliest.”
“That’s an understatement.” The words fly past my lips so quickly, I’m not even able to filter them. Gods, I should stick to solely signing—at least that may give me a chance to stop myself. Maybe. But I’ve been so used to speaking aloud for so long.
Kilkenny grins at me. “How did that feel?” he asks.
“How did what feel?”
“Saying what’s actually on your mind rather than bottling it up?”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “Who says I do that?”
“You may keep your thoughts to yourself, but your face is an open book, Durvla.”
My jaw slackens for a moment before I catch my lower lip between my teeth.Durvla. My name on his hands is like a warm hug.It’s so pleasant, so affable, so unlike Kilkenny that I don’t know what to do with myself for a moment. Then, I’m grinning like a fool while fighting the urge to hide.
“What are you grinning at?”
“You called me Durvla.”
He stares at me as though I’ve jumped up and started doing a jig or something. “It is your name, isn’t it?”
“Gods…” I sigh. “You’re impossible, Kilkenny.” There’s no way he didn’t realize it’s the first time he’s not called meGarrick. The glint in his eyes is clear, even by firelight.
“I have to keep you on your toes, Garrick. Good for practice.”
I huff out an exasperated sigh and he laughs.Laughs. My annoyance quickly disappears, and I smile again. “I would love to hear your laughter…” As soon as the words are out there, I regret it. Heat floods my face, and the laughter dies on Kilkenny’s lips. But it isn’t an unpleasant expression that remains—it’s curiosity.
No words are exchanged between us for a while. I stare at him, wishing that I had mind whispering rather than dreamwalking. Wishing that I could just catch a glimpse of his innermost thoughts. More facial hair has grown along his cheeks and jaw, hardening his features, but his eyes hold such warmth. His lips move as if to say something, but even if he did, I’m too busy wondering what they’d feel like against mine.
Ostanha, spare me. I need to keep my resolve.
“Why?” he asks.
