The old man grins. I notice some of his teeth are missing. ‘The girl is learning.’
‘Well? What happened to it – the Eye of the Soul? If it exists, where’s your proof?’
There is a pause, during which a flash of anguish ignites his ink-blot eyes, so fleeting that I can’t be sure if it happened at all. ‘Lost.’
‘Lost?’ I repeat. ‘What do you meanlost?’
‘When Syla died, her Eye vanished. One last enchantment, it seemed. And one that, as yet, remains unbroken.’
Unease twists my insides. Mouse mewls dolefully in my arms, and I realize I’ve been squeezing her tightly. I take a deep breath. ‘Why did you tell me that story?’
The old man strokes his beard. ‘Why do you think I told you that story, girl?’
‘No, don’t do that. Answer the question.’
‘It plagues you.’
‘No.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You expect my truth in exchange for your lies? I think not.’
I scowl. ‘Fine.’ Then I pause, swallow. ‘I’ve been having these …dreams.’
‘How illuminating.’
I glare at him. ‘Dreams about … about …’
‘Speak, girl.’
‘About an eye,’ I say, the words tumbling out. ‘A golden eye.’
A slow, crooked smile spreads across the old man’s face. ‘The girl came to me seeking an ending,’ he mutters thoughtfully. ‘But the girl forgets that one cannot have an ending without a beginning. As one thing ends, another begins. She knows this well, I think. She who has seen both. She whoisboth.’
The beginning that brought the end.
That is what the Fidra call me. Death born from life. Life born from death.
Nausea churns in my stomach. ‘I don’t understand. What do you want from me?’
A raspy chuckle. ‘You must forgive an old man his ramblings. I fear you have indulged me too long. Now, leave me to my book. I require solitude.’
For a moment I just stand there, Mouse clutched to my chest. Is he out of his mind? Or am I, for letting him get in my head?
I draw myself up to full height, resolved not to dwell onthe story any longer. After all, whether she existed or not, Syla is gone, and so is her Eye.
The old man looks at me, head slightly tilted. ‘You remind me of her,’ he murmurs.
And for all my resolve, his parting words chill me to the bone.
That night, I walk through a winding, windowless passageway lined with flaming torches. There’s something familiar about it, like I’ve been here before. Then it comes to me – I’m in the evacuation tunnels beneath the palace grounds, the ones that lead to the Keep. My feet are bare and the ground is cold. I wait for it to tremble, shake, break in two.
But it doesn’t.
As I near the Keep, I become aware of the voices. The sound of my name envelops itself over and over.
Blaze.
I follow the whispering up the spiral staircase.
