Nightshade balanced between amusement and annoyance without falling squarely into either.
I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but could you hurry?The Consort’s back was dwindling as she progressed down the hall. The roaring, however, had banked; it had been replaced by snarling, growling; it reminded Kaylin of hunting Ferals.
Kaylin remembered the forest Ferals. She remembered Ynpharion.
Yes, Ynpharion said. The word was like a flash of lightning; he was angry.
Is that what they are?
Yes.
How many?
Three.
Three.Don’t let them bite anyone!
Everyone present has faced them before, Chosen. They understand the risk.
She wondered why, as she forced her thoughts away from Ynpharion, that it was Ynpharion she interacted with the most. She felt no fear of him, and no discomfort from his constant irritation, his endless condescension. She could, at this distance, feel the tension in him; and his anger—if she weren’t careful—would color everything.
Lord Ynpharion is young, Nightshade said.He is not accustomed to hiding his own thoughts. When fear is absent, this is who he is. Fear in his life, given his status, has very seldom been absent. Were you to hold Evarrim’s name, you might find the experience similar. Silence followed; it was a thicker silence, a heavier one, the difference between a sheet and a tarpaulin.
Kaylin closed her eyes. She could see the marks on her arms, regardless—but that had always been true. She could also see Hope’s wings. Hope himself disappeared beneath the reddened dark of eyelids, but his wings were alight, and far more transparent.
She looked through those wings.
Through them, she could see Nightshade dragging his sword. Had there been actual ground beneath his feet, she would have cringed; dragging swords was permissible only if you were badly injured and had no way to lift them. It was part of the reason Kaylin had never taken to the sword as a weapon; swords were too heavy, too ungainly, given her height.
She sheathed her dagger, took a step and, reaching through the wing—which she understood was a visual metaphor—held out her hand, palm up. Nightshade’s eyes widened slightly; he could see it. He could, with effort, see her. He made that effort.
I must give my brother some small credit, he said as he made his way toward her.This is far, far more difficult than I could possibly have imagined.
He’s not carrying that sword when he steps sideways.
No. I am not entirely certain the sword would condescend to allow it.Nightshade kept the sword in his right hand as he reached for her hand with his left. His grip was tight.
Kaylin pulled. Hope helped. Nightshade landed in the corridor with a distinct thud. There, he bowed.
“Not the time for manners,” she told him as his grip on her hand eased.
“Only for you, Lord Kaylin. For those of us who have lived this life, they are as natural—and oft as necessary—as breathing. They are not work. We do not have to fight base instincts to be polite.” He drew himself up to his full height, and used the leverage of her hand and arm to pull her toward him. There, he gazed down at her, his eyes upon her cheek. “I would ask you what you were attempting to do, but it will have to wait.”
“Trying to find you.”
“By attempting to remove the mark itself?”
“I wasn’t trying to remove it.”
“You were. In no other way would it cause the damage it has caused.” He inhaled, gained a few inches of height and released her. “I am of a mind to kill Ynpharion.”
“Stand in line.”
If the Consort was happy to see Nightshade, she gave no indication other than the pause in forward motion. She accepted his bow—which was deeper by far than the one he’d offered Kaylin—bid him rise and then continued down the hall to where Teela and Severn were at a standoff.
These creatures were very like the forest Ferals that had attacked the Consort’s party on the road to the West March, a journey that had, in the end, set everything in motion. Everything.
“I think,” Teela said almost conversationally, “that this might be your job.”
