“You’ll have to practice it too, but that was a wonderful start.” She glanced at the watching elves and added with a second, larger smile, “Thank you, Kirinil.”
The utter strangeness of offering gratitude to a worker of magic nearly wilted the words in his throat, but honor and courtesy bade him to make the attempt. “Yes,” he said, looking the elf in the face, “thank you.”
Kirinil’s mask of cool reserve didn’t precisely vanish, but it did crack, just enough to widen his eyes. “Faanshi spoke very well of you,” he said, his voice stiff with the first awkwardness Kestar had seen him display. “It was she who urged us to come here in the first place. You should thank her.”
Hadn’t he? But no, he hadn’t. There’d been no time in the chapel before Shaymis Enverly called the Anreulag down upon them, and Faanshi hadn’t awakened until now. All at once it was too much, standing there before the girl whose power had closed the wound that should have killed him, and before whose knowing eyes he felt as transparent as glass. He diverted his own eyes, blushing more fiercely now. A subtle tremor shivered somewhere through his chest, where her hands had touched. Words wouldn’t come.
“Please don’t be afraid, Kestar.” Faanshi stepped to him and embraced him, shyly, as if she feared he might flinch at her approach.
“I won’t.” His arms rose to encircle her. She smelled of the storeroom’s dust, and of the leather of her hat; she smelled of summer sunlight, and the clear, cool wind of a mountaintop. He couldn’t lie to her, not when the memory of drawing each breath as one with hers was still too raw and real. And so he had to add, “Much.”
Her eyes searched his face. “I fear it’d be too bold of me to ask, but perhaps you could come with us?”
Surprise must surely have blazed on his features, but Faanshi’s suggestion didn’t amaze him nearly as much as the answer he gave. “I wish I had that freedom. But I don’t, not yet. Maybe someday.”
“Then until that day, I’ll pray for you. Thank you for helping us.”
“Thank you for healing me,” Kestar countered, the gratitude reaching his voice at last, heavy and gruff. He needed to ease its weight, and all he could think to do was cant his head down just enough to brush his lips against Faanshi’s cheek, then pull back to offer her a weak answering smile. “Thank you for saving my life.”
He felt more than heard her gasp at his contact, a tiny puff of air just beside his ear. Only when he met her eyes again did she breathe a whispered, “You’re welcome.” She hugged him again, with strength he hadn’t thought her slender arms would possess. “Djashtet be with you, Kestar. Remember me.”
“I don’t think it’s possible for me to forget you.” Kestar didn’t answer her benediction in kind, since he couldn’t imagine that she, her assassin or the elves would welcome the blessing of any of the Four Gods. “Be well,” he said instead, stepping back from her with careful reverence. “You’ll have that head start I promised. All of you.”
Faanshi lifted her hands to touch his cheeks, a contact both new and utterly familiar. “Goodbye.” She stepped back at last, and returned to her assassin.
None of the others offered the Hawks a farewell, though both Kirinil and Alarrah inclined their heads before turning their attention to getting Julian and Faanshi ahorse. Kestar and Celoren exchanged awkward glances, and Kestar wondered whether his partner was as troubled as he at the sight of the assassin moving in such obvious pain. Not to mention how the man had been changed—by the girl for whom they’d risked everything, and who in turn had protected them all.
But before they rode away, Julian surprised him. Once he was in the saddle, with Faanshi before him, he pulled himself straighter and beckoned Kestar closer. “I won’t forget what you’ve done for her.” The man looked like he’d fall right back off his mount without Faanshi to support him; his stare was groggy, his voice rough with effort. But there was directness there nonetheless, an honesty Kestar had to respect.
“Likewise,” he replied. And because Julian had claimed the role of protector for himself, he added, nodding at Faanshi, “Look after her.”
“We all will.” Alarrah didn’t smile, but the look she turned on him was peaceful, almost kind. “If you should change your mind, we’ll keep watch for you.”
“If I do...” Kestar caught himself. Even now, he couldn’t exactly ask the elves how to find them again if he needed them. Not when Celoren was listening, and not when Celoren’s place in the Order was not yet in doubt.
Alarrah, however, seemed to understand. One end of her mouth turned up. “If you do, there’s a shrine on the western coast, north of Shalridan. Leave a message there. We’ll know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Kestar considered, and then offered the same wish he’d given Faanshi. “Be well.”
“And you, valann.” Alarrah glanced at Celoren and inclined her head to him. “Both of you.”
With that they set off into the trees, and with his heart in his throat, Kestar watched them go. The elves’ horses disappeared first from his sight, and then the black stallion that carried Faanshi and her assassin. Last to vanish was Faanshi’s hat, bobbing with the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.
When they were gone at last, Celoren clapped his hand lightly down on Kestar’s shoulder. “So, how long shall we give them before we go ask Abbot Grenham for our own head start?”
* * * * *
About the Author
The very first thing Angela Highland ever wrote, at age eight, was a short story about a girl who ruled over the leprechauns for a day. She progressed rapidly to pretending to take notes in class when she was actually writing novels, and writing fanfic before she had any idea what fanfic was! Music has been a part of her life almost as long, thanks to six years playing flute and piccolo in school band and an adulthood dabbling in flute, guitar, bouzouki and mandolin. Music is likely to appear in anything she writes.
Angela (Anna the Piper to her friends) lives in Kenmore, Washington, along with her partner and housemate, two cats, and a whole heck of a lot of computers and musical instruments. Despite the fact that she is a mild-mannered former employee of a major metropolitan newspaper, rumors that she is a superhero are exaggerated. (Even if she did pull the door off a refrigerator.)
She also writes the urban fantasy series The Free Court of Seattle under her real-life name of Angela Korra’ti. Come find out more about her works under both her names at angelahighland.com.
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