Ynarra’s lips trembled as she curtsied once more. Then she spun and raced from the room.
Noctis looked at Morella in disbelief. “What the hell was that?”
Morella eyed him. “Excuse me?”
“What the hell was that?” Noctis said again. “Why did you treat her like that?”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking, Noctis,” she said, making no effort to mask her impatience.
“You had no right to treat her that way. She’s just a shy, innocent girl who is just doing her damn job!”
Morella, who had been staring at him with an expression of distaste, suddenly burst into raucous laughter. “Oh, my sweet, ignorant Casc. That shy, innocent girl is one of the Unborn, or was once. She would just as soon skin you alive as serve you wine.”
This time, it was Noctis who burst out laughing. “Ynarra?” he said incredulously. “You think Ynarra is violent?”
“Of course she is,” Morella snapped at him. “Do you know nothing of the Unborn?”
Noctis felt his jaw tense, the familiar palpations of frustration in his stomach. “No, Morella, I do not know anything of the Unborn.”
She sighed and shook her head, then reached for his hand and pulled him in the direction of the loft. “Come on, lover. Let’s be done with this.”
Listen to her, let it go.
“No.” The quiet stillness in his voice surprised even him. “She has been nothing but kind to me and if there is something more to her, I want to know what it is.”
Morella rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Fine.” She spat the word. “First off, you can tell simply by her physical appearance where she comes from. However, if you were blind to that, the tattoo beneath her eye? It’s the marking of a captured Unborn. In the lands beyond the Daurhi Wastes, where slavery is still common, that is the mark placed upon such.” She shook her head and lowered it at Noctis. “Anyone with any amount of education could easily see that.”
She’d know better than I would. He searched Morella’s eyes, hoping to see something in there that . . . what? Hinted at a lie? Why would she lie about something like this? No, she wasn’t lying. And yet, even if it was true that he knew nothing about Ynarra or her past, it didn’t change his stance.
Noctis chose his next words carefully. “She is simply a serving girl within these walls. Whatever she was before she came to the Nordoth, whatever she was before I met her, is not my concern. After our grandfather’s death, she was the first person to extend any true kindness to my brother and me. I will not see her treated so harshly by someone. Especially someone I brought into her world.”
He expected another outburst, another twisted face and cruel eyes, but Morella simply scoffed. “However you’d like it, lover.” She turned toward the loft, holding out a hand and looking back at him over her shoulder as the shawl fell to the floor. “Shall we go make up?”
Her naked body was as intoxicating as ever, but Noctis shook his head. “I’d rather not.” His voice came out flat. “There are more important matters to deal with.”
Now came the outburst. The depths of her temper, which he had come so close to forgetting, flared and returned in force. She said nothing but the look on her face spoke volumes. Morella turned and stormed up to the loft, retrieving her clothes. She pulled them on unceremoniously and made for the door, giving Noctis a wide berth.
“I’m going to the Street.” Her voice was flustered, angry, impatient. “Maybe, once you get over your own goddam arrogance long enough to stop pushing away the one good thing you’ve got going for you, we can pick up where we left off.” With that, she turned and stomped from the room.
Noctis was left alone, confused and frustrated. A moment later, the door handle turned and he felt his heart race, but it was Ynarra returning with the fresh bottle of wine and two glasses. She looked momentarily terrified as she entered the room. Seeing only Noctis, she glanced around furtively and moved quickly, keeping her head down.
“It’s fine, Ynarra. She’s gone. I’m sorry about that. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Worry, sir?” Ynarra said quietly while setting down the tray. She did not raise her head to meet his gaze.
“I spoke to her about . . . about the manner in which she addressed you. She’ll . . . I’m sure she’ll be more courteous in the future. But still, I apologize.” He smiled, feeling something between tension and defeat. “You’re still safe here, Ynarra.”
“Oh, sir, thank you, sir, but it is not necessary,” she said, curtsying and ducking her head awkwardly. “I mean, please, sir, do as you will, of course. Sir.”
“Ynarra.” Noctis held up a hand. “You don’t need to act like this. It’s okay, I mean it. You’re safe here.”
She kept her eyes on the floor and nodded. “Yes, of course, sir. We are all quite safe here, sir. If you are concerned about safety, sir, I will see that there are more guards in this wing. If you desire it, sir.”
“Ynarra, please,” he replied. “You don’t need to call me sir. Call me Will.”
He noticed his error as soon as he said it, but before he could correct himself, she finally raised her eyes. They were brimming with tears.
“Ye . . . yes,” she stammered. “Thank you, Will.” Then she dropped her eyes quickly.
“What I meant before, Ynarra,” he said slowly, “is that you are safe here. In this room. With me and with Madigan, whenever he returns. Don’t think of this room as part of the Nordoth, please. It’s separate, apart from the world beyond these walls. Think of it as somewhere that you are safe.”
She looked up at him again and this time the tears were running freely down her cheeks. “I . . . I understand, Will. Thank you, Will.”
Before he could say anything else, she turned and fled.
He plopped down onto the loft’s stairs and rubbed his eyes. They were dry and puffy. In fact, every part of him felt thick and slow. What the hell am I doing?
I don’t like the effect she has on you, Mad said, once upon a time.
He’s not wrong. Morella was like a drug to him; the past few weeks had proven as much, a world of distraction and intoxication. But more than that, there was something about her, something dangerous and fascinating. I keep coming back. There’s still so much I don’t know about her. About any of this.
He sighed and glanced at the wine longingly, then shied away from it. No, I need to clear my head.
Morella knew of Aurellaine Valmont. If he was to have any hope of rescuing his brother, he needed to know what Morella knew. That, and figure out wherever the hell Mad ran off to with Aurellaine.
Cephora had made it very clear that Madigan took the lead when the unknown Shadowborne approached them. Mad had determined a place to go—and that meant it was probably one that Noctis knew about.
Much as Noctis tried, however, nothing came. His thoughts were sluggish and muddled. Cephora probably backtracked everywhere we went looking for him, and she’s a hell of a lot better at this than I am.
An idea sparked somewhere at the back of his mind. He got up and moved to where he had tucked away the few belongings he brought from the Sapholux. He withdrew the cutlass from the sack and fastened the baldric across his chest. He tucked a hand around his key and raised it to eye level while letting the other hand rest on the familiarity of the bloodstone. The key’s colors were as hypnotic as ever. Why can my eyes never keep up with it? The pulsing of strange electricity raced across his skin when he released the key to settle against his chest. What is this thing?
Now’s not the time to get lost in that. He brushed the thought away and made his way to the window where he drew the curtains wide, letting the cold air of the high altitude blow into the room. He grasped a cord and breathed deep the fresh salt air. He hung out the window and thought back to his first night in the Nordoth. It had all been so new, and when the danger had seemingly passed, he’d felt the thrill of Aeril and Undermyre. The thrill of adventure, of a new world. He had hung out of this very win
dow, had discovered The Veleriat in the library, had climbed the rafters and discovered the place where he finally tapped into his Shade.
Noctis’s insides twisted with a sudden sense of loss. He’d tried for so long to ignore his Shade, to suppress it or move past it. But whatever the powers of Radiance, they could never completely fill the piece of him that had been lost. Do I really remember it though? Or am I just grasping at the memory of a memory, searching for something I never really knew?
He pulled himself back inside the window and, forgetting himself, poured a glass of wine that he drained quickly. Glancing up, Noctis smiled and ran to the far wall with the hanging ropes. He climbed to the cross section of the rafters where he had spent long hours meditating in search of answers. Perhaps now, as then, he might find some degree of direction.
Lying prone at the top, he peered down at the room. He had last looked down from this perch when he and Madigan had stopped the men assaulting Ynarra—the “test” staged by the Crow to prove to Cephora that the brothers were useful. The high space dredged up memories that din’Dael’s fiery rhetoric had tried to burn away, memories of a happier life. A life before.
For that was truly the case, he realized. His life had broken in two, with a before and an after. The break wasn’t at the death of his grandfather or the discovery of the passage to Aeril; it came in the Shale when din’Dael first laid his hands upon him, changed him. Noctis stared at the distant ground and let his mind wander. I set out to know what he did to me and didn’t even realize I gave up, somewhere. I became the tool that din’Dael needed me to be.
Training in the Sapholux had been so all-consuming, so different than training with his grandfather. Jervin had been tough and strict, but it came from a place of love. He trained Will to be a better version of himself, not a foreign version of himself. Not someone forged from other people’s beliefs. So that your minds may be your own, Noctis remembered. Grandda was always adamant. I’ve lost that.
He had lost so much since Jervin gave the keys to his grandsons, since Senraks murdered him. Noctis’s eyes widened. Senraks. I haven’t thought of that creature in months. How much else had he missed? What else of his home had he forgotten? What else could—
His breath caught in his throat. Trembling swept through his limbs and he set a hand against a beam to steady himself. That was it.
He knew exactly where to find Madigan.
17
Winter Winds
Madigan shivered. Winter had come in strong this year, the river wind’s biting chill more forceful than he could remember it. It always managed to find the smallest creases and crevices in the tent he called home and dig at him with icy claws.
He often wondered if it might not have been better, perhaps, to put themselves back on the grid. At the very least get an old RV or small trailer. Something that at least had some actual goddam doors. Ileta had scoffed at the idea when he first mentioned it and had done so ever since. Her disdain for his world and its technological luxuries was glaringly apparent. So, Madigan had just sighed and braced for the uncertain weather patterns of the Pacific Northwest.
They’d been fortunate, at least. Ileta did a damn good job of keeping the camp tight and, after her initial survey of the area, had actually put together a pretty clean site that stood up damn well to the weather, whatever the season. They’d done a good job of shoring up the surrounding areas and building relatively solid environmental defenses. His grandfather would have been proud, had he been alive to see it. Those winter nights camping up on Mt. Hood certainly paid off.
Still, the wind is a bitch.
It was dark when he woke, not that that was too much of a surprise. He tossed and turned for a time, debating on returning to sleep as Ileta now didn’t seem too terribly concerned with early morning wakeups. Ultimately, he opted to venture out into the cold and see what the day had in store. Breathing hard to get his heart racing and bracing himself for the November chill, he unzipped the tent.
He stepped out into the white stillness of snow. His bare skin immediately prickled, making the numerous scars even more apparent. His Shade, a constant part of his presence now, drew near to his body as he pulled at what warmth there was in the air. It didn’t help.
Madigan sighed. The cold still bothered him despite Ileta’s frequent protestations that he should have adjusted to it. “One of these days, you’re just going to have to figure this out,” she had said two days ago when he collapsed in the snow. It was a common phrase of hers.
His failure, to the best of his understanding, was to fully use his Shade to draw heat from the particles of light that cascaded through the air, then use the heat to thermoregulate his own body. Apparently, the opposite could be done in cases of extreme heat. He hadn’t gotten the hang of that either.
Maybe I’ll just go invest in a goddam space heater.
He sat cross-legged on the snow, pulled his Shade back, and let the chill cascade about him. There was something familiar about it, something about being in his home on frosty mornings. While the house was long since destroyed, this place was still home. He knew the trees, the smells, the sounds. All that was missing was an annoying little brother. That, and their grandfather’s laughter. But that was something he’d never hear again.
Will, though, with Will there might still be a chance.
Mad looked around, scratching at his beard. When he’d finally recovered from his fall, he’d had every intention of ridding himself of the damn thing. But when he’d seen his reflection, he hadn’t actually hated the look. The whiskers had been wild and in need of a trim, but after he attacked them with scissors, yes, it worked.
Not to mention it makes the cold a lot more bearable.
Madigan glanced at Ileta’s tent. She hadn’t stirred yet. That was a rarity but one he’d gladly take. The morning was peaceful, and he wasn’t sure how ready he was for her sharp tongue to break the calm. He had a tentative, reserved affection for her that still bordered on fear, but they’d definitely found their stride. Ever since the fall, though, she’d been different. In the weeks since his recovery, she’d insisted that they return to Aeril, return to a hidden place she knew. Mad had refused. After that, a strange, weary disappointment suffused her.
Wherever her hidden destination was, it would no doubt further her secret agenda. And Madigan, well, he wanted to keep as much control of the situation as he could. Which still isn’t much. Some semblance of control meant someplace he knew and knew well. Aeril didn’t have that to offer. Cephora—his mouth twisted downward at the thought of her—had not even pretended to understand. Ileta, while frustrated by his choice, had at least acknowledged his desire to train in secret, safe from Valmont and whatever Necrothanian forces were being mustered against him. Assuming it’s even me that he’s after.
Mad breathed in the cold and thought back to those first days together. Although annoyed, Ileta led him to the Ways. They traveled closer to Undermyre than Mad cared for, but given that he and Will had exited the Ways and entered the Nordoth in a single day, he supposed that wasn’t too terribly surprising. They’d had to dodge multiple patrols, all bearing the tall pauldrons that marked them as agents of the Crow. Ileta had seemed just as determined to avoid their attentions as Mad was.
At least we saw eye to eye on that one.
Navigating the Ways had taken only a few hours. Ileta was extremely familiar with them, though he wasn’t sure why that surprised him. The pair ventured toward the Cascanian path that his grandfather had sealed so well, once upon a time. Mad told Will, once, that there would be plenty of time for exploring the Ways together at a later date. He still hoped to be proven right.
They’d crossed through the cavernous chamber with the bridge where he and Will finally saw the proof of their grandfather’s tales. They’d passed through the ancient door barring the Cascanian entrance and into the world beyond. When they’d crossed the chamber with the decayed corpse of the creature Will killed to save their lives, a strange sense of separat
ion had come over Mad. A dissonance. Will will find me, if he survived, he told himself. He’ll figure it out.
That had been nearly three years ago, by Cascanian standards, and there was still no sign of his brother. He survived, Mad thought as the chill of the snow set him shivering. He has to have survived.
Ileta got them through the roof of the chamber easily, but the manner in which she did so left Mad in shock. She floated. They both had. The memory, the feeling of it, still stuck with him. The sensation had been nearly as cold as the ground upon which he now sat, but his adrenaline had spiked, excitement racing through him like he was a kid on a carnival ride. She had encircled them both in her Shade and then used it to change the room. The strange light from the pool had grown and intensified, spreading to the walls but, rather than diminishing, the darkness had compressed around them. Compressed and pushed them up, into the air.
He couldn’t wait to learn that trick.
After that, navigating through the tunnels had been surprisingly easy, something he never would have guessed from his first adventure into them. Ileta took them along a different route than the one he and Will used. She stepped easily through the trap-laden paths, showing Madigan how to use his Shade to probe and balance, then moved through the dark underground with barely a second’s rest. They’d surfaced, finally, after Ileta destroyed a cement wall in the path that led them into a dusty, web-ridden basement on the east side of the river.
And just like that, Madigan was back in Portland.
The first few weeks had been more about establishing a base to operate from rather than any real training. He’d been convinced when they’d approached his home that the city would have reclaimed it, that they’d find a new housing development just like those he’d seen popping up everywhere along the way. But for whatever reason, the land was untouched. Overgrown and in poor condition, yes, but still there.
He’d avoided the wreckage of the house and the memories of the terrible battle that was waged there. He hadn’t been ready for that. Instead, they’d set up camp a short distance away, near the old gardening and storage sheds. The bikes and wagons were still in there, so he and Ileta were able to travel quickly to the family’s storage unit where he and Will had outfitted themselves. It, too, was untouched, and the wreckage of Will’s bunk brought the memories of that time flooding back.
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