She rose, her feet rickety, and drifted through the quiet halls. Her steps carried her toward Grim’s quarters without thought, a child’s instinct seeking the only tether she had left.
She rapped once and entered. The bed was stripped, the hearth gone cold, the game board cleared of its pieces. Only a single veil hung there still, black and frayed, swaying from its hook beside the bed.
Her throat closed. She reached for it without thought, fingers curling tight around the familiar cloth. It smelled faintly of smoke, sweat, and cedar. She pressed it once against her chest, then folded it and tucked it beneath her arm before leaving the chamber behind.
She found Mother Inrith in the antechamber of the temple, robes gathered neatly around her, her dark eyes lifting from a ledger as Ilys entered.
“Where is he?” Ilys’s voice cracked against the stone. “Where is Grim?”
Mother Inrith regarded her with measured calm. “He has been released from service. His vows fulfilled, his burden complete. He has retired, as he has long prepared to do.”
The words sliced cleanly, too easily. Ilys clenched the veil tighter beneath her arm.
“Released? Without farewell?”
“He is one of the faithful now,” Mother Inrith said, closing the ledger with care. “His silence is part of his devotion. He may not speak with you. Nor you with him.”
Ilys shook her head. “No,” she denied. “No, I cannot allow that to happen.”
“You presume much, child.”
“I presume nothing,” Ilys countered, forcing her voice even. She stood straighter, folding her grief into the posture they had drilled into her since girlhood. “If I am to stand where he stood, if I am to take up the rites and bear their weight, I must be prepared. You say Grim’s silence serves the Veil, but my ignorance serves no one.”
Mother Inrith’s eyes narrowed. “You are not ignorant. You have been trained.”
“Not wholly.” Ilys’s tone sharpened. “I need not speak to him socially. I seek no comfort. Only answers. If you would see me fail, deny me. If not—” she held the Mother’s gaze—“then grant me what I ask.”
At last, Mother Inrith inclined her head, long in the tooth. “I will inquire whether such a meeting can be permitted. But you would do well to remember, Ilys, that Grim is not yours. He is not even himself. He belongs wholly to the Veil now.”
Ilys’s jaw tightened. She forced a shallow bow, her fingers burning where they pressed Grim’s veil against her ribs.
“Then let the Veil answer me through him,” she said.
The answer came days later, while Elspeth led Ilys to the stables. She introduced her to a striking white horse; a proud, elegant creature that Morrigan immediately tried, and failed, to herd.
Grim had taught her to ride, though she had never owned a horse herself. She had never needed one. But now she wastheVeilwalker. She would see the world at Death’s side, and a horse was no longer a luxury but a necessity.
Ilys mounted awkwardly, cringing at the unfamiliar ache in her hips. Leaning forward, she patted the horse’s neck.
“I shall call you Spire.”
Elspeth tilted her head. “What an unusual name.”
“It’s descriptive,” Ilys said dryly. “Mounting him feels like I’ve got one up my arse.”
Elspeth blanched. Ilys held her stare.
“You are used to Grim. I imagine you’ll dislike attending me.”
“I am merely happy to serve,” Elspeth said quickly.
To serve.Those fickle words.
A voice cut through the air behind them. Both women startled.
Mother Inrith stood in the stable doors, her shadow stretching long. “I have your answer, Veilwalker.”
Ilys straightened in the saddle.
