“How many of the others, Tal?” she asked, voice now clearly shaking as they approached the coffinlike box. “Am I the only one whose Essence you’re going to leech, or do you think it will take more to stop him?”
“It doesn’t matter. It had to be you, Is. You shouldn’t have used Knowing on me.” Caeden guided her carefully into the box, laying her flat and facing outward, her hands folded over her stomach. He hesitated, then gently shifted her slightly to the left. The needles would hold her in place once they began to drain her Essence, but it was important that he get the initial positioning right.
He met her gaze briefly, then looked away again. “Alkathronen itself will prevent you from ever being fully drained. The dok’en might get boring, but at least you won’t feel pain except during Shifts.” He indicated the three rings he’d placed on the shelf to the side. “And I’ll check in on you when I can. You have my word.”
He unbuckled the sword at his side and laid it at her feet, careful to ensure that it wasn’t touching her. It was too dangerous to keep around the others, and too valuable to leave anywhere else.
Then he took the Siphon from his pocket, set it next to the blade. He still hoped that the crystal sphere was something that he would never need … but he could not shake his suspicions about El now. If what he feared was even close to true, then this could well be his only option.
He placed a hand on the maw of the wolf’s head, preparing to activate the endpoint.
“Wait.” Isiliar looked up at him, emerald eyes pleading. “That time at the monastery. I didn’t sleep, Tal. Not once. I was aware the entire time.” Her whole body was trembling now. “I don’t think that the dok’en will work if I’m in that much pain.”
Caeden frowned at her. “You’re lying,” he said, though he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice.
“You have Knowing right there.” Isiliar held his gaze. “Cut me and see.”
Caeden felt sick. He hesitated.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he said softly. “It doesn’t make a difference.”
With the beginnings of tears in his eyes he shut the lid, muffling Isiliar’s terrified screams.
Chapter 19
Wirr exhaled as he quietly shut the stable doors and gestured Breshada forward, still wondering if he was making the right decision.
It had taken a while to sneak the Hunter in here, unnoticed by any of the serving men still working or the patrolling guards, but Wirr thought they had made it undetected. He had considered forcing her to leave immediately; even given their past, he felt deeply uncomfortable letting Breshada stay nearby. Despite her age, despite her supposed situation, she was a murderer. A mass murderer. One who not too long ago had believed in her cause, heart and soul.
But her appearance, and her outlandish claim, were simply too strange to ignore.
When they had finally made their way into an empty, clean stall, Wirr pulled up a bucket and turned it over, using it for a seat. After a couple of uncomfortable moments, Breshada did the same. Andyn chose to remain standing, his sharp gaze never leaving the young woman opposite.
“You should be safe in here, at least for the night,” said Wirr as a horse in the next stall over whickered softly. “Now. Explain what you meant, when you said that you were gaa’vesh.” He frowned. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I am. I have touched the power that should only be touched by the gods,” said Breshada, the words sounding like they made her want to throw up.
“That’s not possible,” observed Wirr. “People are born with a Reserve, or they’re not—and the Gil’shar would have found that in you long ago. I don’t know why you think you’re Gifted, but—”
“I am gaa’vesh!” Breshada snarled, gesturing angrily.
A blinding, twisting bolt of energy flew past Wirr’s face, smashing into the hay bales behind him and setting them ablaze. Wirr stared at Breshada wide-eyed for a long moment, stunned, as Andyn quickly set about beating out the flames.
Breshada gazed at the charred straw, refusing to make eye contact, clearly ashamed. “So. You see it is true. I do not know how it is possible, but we were crossing the bridge into Talmiel, and …”
Wirr groaned as he finally made the connection.
“You? You were the one in the ambassador’s party?” he said in disbelief.
Breshada looked up in vague surprise, inclining her head. “Yes. The Finder went off, and …” She swallowed, the memory evidently painful. “I thought it was a joke, a coincidence. Some Gifted using Essence nearby just as they checked me. Everyone did. We all laughed, talking about how funny the timing was. Joking about how I would have to be put down.”
Wirr listened in silence, not knowing how to respond to the emotion in Breshada’s voice. If he were being honest, part of him felt a savage satisfaction at the woman’s horror. Certainly, the image of her laughing with her friends about killing Gifted was more than just distasteful.
But he couldn’t deny the pain written clearly on her face, either, or the hopelessness that wearied her gaze. Breshada wasn’t just upset … she’d discovered that she was everything she despised, the exact type of person she’d been trying to cleanse from the earth.
She was broken.
“When they understood that it wasn’t a mistake—three different Finders, perhaps a dozen tests—they tried to take me. I could see it in their eyes when they finally realized. They thought that I was a traitor. An abomination.” Breshada’s gaze was still firmly on the ground, and her voice shook at the memory. “So I used Whisper. Ran. I even took one of the Finders, because I couldn’t believe it was me setting it off. I assumed it was a trick. But …”
Wirr rubbed his forehead, barely believing what he was hearing. “How, though?” he asked quietly. “Don’t the Gil’shar test—”
“Every year. Every year until we come of age, we are tested,” said Breshada angrily. “And I passed. Always, I passed. Gaa’vesh aren’t born in Desriel anymore, but still they test.”
Wirr exchange a glance with Andyn. “But if your ability hadn’t shown itself by the time you turned eighteen—”
“You think I do not know this?” Breshada hissed the last words in sudden fury; she gestured and another bolt of Essence burst forth, fizzing to the side and punching a divot in the hard-packed dirt. She quieted immediately, loose black hair swinging as she stared at the scarred ground with a mixture of fascination and disgust.
She raised her hand in apology at Wirr’s stunned look. “An accident,” she assured him, looking sick. “I do not use it deliberately.”
Wirr buried his head in his hands. “This is …” He groaned. “They think that you were acting on our orders, Breshada. They think we sent you amongst them as a spy.”
“What?” Breshada was on her feet, the intensity of her response having Andyn’s sword half drawn before the bodyguard realized that her anger was not directed at Wirr. “They cannot think …”
“They do,” Wirr assured her bitterly. “And they are searching with everything they have for you. Keeping a close eye on us, as well, in case we speak to you.” He gestured tiredly. “Like, say, exactly as we are doing here.” He doubted that the Gil’shar would be keeping a terribly close eye on him personally—he’d have to be worse than careless to meet with his own spy after she’d been unmasked—but even if he were only under casual observation, it could spell disaster.
Breshada balled her hands into fists. “I cannot believe that they would think that of me.”
“Can you blame them?” asked Wirr quietly. “What else could they think, but to assume that the reason you hadn’t been discovered before was because you were hiding your ability? And that if you were hiding your ability well enough to fool the Gil’shar, you couldn’t have been doing it alone?”
He took a deep breath. “So. Here we are. Putting aside the question of exactly how this happened, for now—let’s say that I believe you. What do you want of me, Breshada?”
Breshada grimace
d, saying nothing for a few seconds. Then her shoulders slumped just a little farther.
“I … I cannot control this. I get angry and it just …” She gestured at the hole in the ground for emphasis. “I need to understand how this could have happened, so that I might undo it. At worst, I need to know how to avoid using it. Knowledge of the power is normally forbidden, but …” She trailed off brokenly.
Wirr sighed, deeply and heavily. The easiest thing to do would be to give Breshada up to the ambassador. It would solve a range of problems—not only would he not have to worry about a Hunter at his family’s home, but the gesture would surely convince the ambassador that he wasn’t working with Breshada, too.
He hesitated. He could all but hear his mother telling him that as Northwarden, it was his best option … but he couldn’t do it. Political ramifications aside and regardless of what she’d done in the past, Breshada was Gifted now. And part of being a leader—the most important part, as far as he was concerned—was doing what was right, not just what was best.
He thought for a moment. “We could make you into a Shadow.”
“No.” Breshada’s face twisted at the suggestion. “Living on in shame, marked by the displeasure of the gods? Better to die honorably than that.” She held his gaze. “When I was told to spare you in Talmiel, I did not understand—not until I saw you again in Ilin Illan. Now I do. I must learn, gaa’vesh. I do not know whether this is a plot begun by one of my rivals in the Gil’shar, or whether it is a divine punishment for what I did to Renmar and Gawn. But either way, you and I are evidently tied together, and I must learn.”
Wirr grunted. “First lesson? You may want to stop calling us gaa’vesh,” he said drily. “Second? My name is Torin. And if others are around, it’s ‘Sire’ or ‘Your Highness.’” He raised an eyebrow at her scowl. “Unless you want the Gil’shar taking you back to Desriel sooner rather than later? Changing your hair might help you avoid the notice of anyone who doesn’t know you, but it’s only going to go so far. A mysterious, young, armed woman accompanying me and refusing to use my honorific? They’ll spot you in a heartbeat.”
Breshada continued to glower, but nodded sharply.
Wirr sighed. He hadn’t said it explicitly, but he knew he’d just agreed to help her. How, exactly, he wasn’t sure. But the decision had been made.
“Talmiel,” he said suddenly. “You say that you were told to spare us.” That night was all a bit of a blur; with everything else that had happened straight after, he’d barely even thought of it since. It seemed an age ago—but now that Breshada was there, he had to admit to more than a twinge of curiosity. “Why?”
Breshada hesitated.
“It was an exchange I made,” she said eventually. Her eyes unfocused for a moment as she remembered, and her hand strayed absently to the hilt of her sword. “Tal’kamar gave me Whisper, and all I had to do was save you and your friend.”
Wirr frowned for a second as he processed what Breshada was saying. She’d been given Whisper in exchange for saving them?
“This Tal’kamar,” he said eventually. He remembered the name now; Breshada had mentioned it when they had first met, but it still didn’t mean anything to him. “Who was he? How did you meet him?”
Breshada looked to the side, frustration evident in her expression.
“It is an old form of the name, written only in the histories of the Gil’shar,” she said softly. “Tal’kamar is what he called himself, but … most of my people know him as Talkanor.”
Wirr blinked, glancing across at Andyn, who gave him a wry shrug.
“As in, Marut Jha Talkanor? The god?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity from his tone.
Breshada scowled. “Yes.” She drew Whisper and suddenly everything seemed to hush. “I doubt every day—how could I not?—and then there is this. From whom else’s hand do you believe I would have been given a blade such as this? Whisper feeds on the very life of those he cuts. Would you not claim that a myth, too, had you not seen it with your own eyes?”
She sneered at Andyn, who had stepped between her and Wirr, but when he did not move she reluctantly sheathed the blade again. “I had not long been accepted as a Hunter—the youngest to have achieved such an honor in decades—and Tal’kamar …” She swallowed. “There had been reports of others of the gods appearing amongst us, more and more over the past century. Akran, who trained me and two generations before me, claimed that he had been visited by Gasharrid once as a very young man. A friend of mine called Sek said that he had seen Diarys herself emerge from the Untouchable Tomb as he worshipped.” Breshada’s words were flowing now; she stared at the ground as she spoke, as if she’d forgotten Wirr and Andyn were even there. “As strange as it was, when Tal’kamar revealed himself to me—showed me the secret signs and the divine marks written on his flesh—who was I to doubt?”
“And he gave you Whisper so that you could save us?” Wirr asked gently. It had to have been an Augur—someone with foreknowledge of their predicament, who had perhaps been able to Read Breshada and determine what was necessary to convince her of his divinity. Nothing else made sense, though Wirr had no intention of saying as much to her.
“He said that the blade had a great purpose, and that the only way that purpose could be fulfillled was through me. Then he told me what Whisper would cost—what taking it would mean. He is the God of Balance. He offered me the choice.” She looked Wirr in the eye. “But mortals do not give away blades like Whisper, Prince Torin, nor do they refuse them.”
There was silence after that last pronouncement; Wirr just stared at the Hunter, not knowing what to make of what she was saying. Someone had given her a sword—a Named sword—to save them. That, for now, was probably the only thing that he could safely take away from the conversation.
He shuddered to think of how many Gifted lives had been lost because she’d accepted that blade, regardless of whether his and Davian’s had been spared as a result.
He glanced across at the stable doors. They were far enough away from the main house, and from Captain Rill’s patrols, that any noise they’d made shouldn’t have drawn any attention. Still—his mother was clearly uneasy about his presence. If he stayed out here for too long, she could easily end up sending someone to look for him.
He was curious to learn more from Breshada, but it would have to wait.
“If you want my help—whatever form that might take—there is one condition. No matter the outcome, I need your word that no more of the Gifted will die by your hand.” He leaned forward, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. “Ever.”
Breshada licked her lips, and Wirr could see the frustration in her eyes. But there was something else there, too.
Resignation. She’d known that this would be something he’d stipulate.
“Agreed,” she growled.
Wirr shook his head. “I want to hear you say the words. Swear it by the Nine Gods.” Desriel was a barbaric place at times, but oaths were deeply important to them.
Breshada looked at the ground, silent for a long moment.
“In exchange for your help, I will not kill another gaa’vesh. I swear this by the Nine Gods,” she eventually said softly, sounding as if Wirr had just ripped away something dear to her.
And perhaps he had. Killing the Gifted was probably the only thing Breshada had ever known.
Wirr nodded and stood; he’d risked staying here longer than he should have already. “Thank you,” he said, trying to make his tone gentle. Whatever her sins, Breshada had not had it easy for the past few weeks. “I’m in your debt for Talmiel, no matter why you did it—so if you decide you don’t want my help, you’re free to leave, and I will never mention that you were here. Otherwise, just stay out of sight. I’ll figure out what to do and find you again before anyone comes this way in the morning.”
Breshada inclined her head; while she didn’t look pleased, exactly, Wirr thought he saw at least a hint of relief flicker across her features.
He left the sta
bles and started back toward the main house, lost in thought. Eventually, a polite cough from Andyn brought him back to the present.
“Are you certain about this, Sire?” his bodyguard asked cautiously.
“Not even slightly.” Wirr shook his head grimly. “I haven’t the first idea of what I’m going to do with her.”
“What about the Tol?” asked Andyn.
Wirr shot him a wry look. “I’m not sure how welcoming the Council would be to a former Hunter.” He glanced back. “Particularly when I can’t really vouch for how much the ‘former’ part applies, despite what she just said.”
“Don’t put the Gifted killer in amongst the Gifted,” acceded Andyn. “Politically savvy as always, Sire. But if I may ask, then—why help her?”
Wirr shook his head slowly. “She mysteriously becomes Gifted, when everything I’ve ever heard indicates that shouldn’t be possible. She gets sent to save Davian and I in Desriel by someone who knew we’d be there well in advance, and who gave her that fates-cursed sword as motivation. Who’s to say that she’s not right—if they foresaw we’d meet in Desriel, how do we know that they didn’t See that we would meet again, here and now? How do we know that we’re not being pushed together for a purpose?”
“Even if true, there is still the matter of what that purpose might be, Sire,” observed Andyn quietly.
Wirr nodded. “I know. But—I think—as long as she is this way, she won’t try to harm us. She needs our help. And if she’d wanted our deaths, she wouldn’t have bothered talking.”
Andyn just nodded thoughtfully, saying nothing. They continued on toward the main house in silence.
Wirr wearily climbed the wide, curving stairs from the entryway and then started along the hallway toward his old room.
His mother, it seemed, had already retired for the evening. One of her hired men had greeted Wirr and Andyn at the door and then tried to escort them for a while, but his presence had irritated Wirr to the point that he had ordered the man to leave. The guard had looked reluctant—clearly Geladra’s orders had said that he should do otherwise—but whether because Wirr was the prince, or because Andyn’s posture had suggested that he would happily reinforce the command, the man had eventually slunk away.
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