Raithe lifted her up and began carrying her back toward the bridge. “I think you’ve had enough fresh air for one day.”
“No, no!” Suri said. “I don’t want to go back yet.”
She squirmed and he let her down. Suri wiped her eyes and took a breath.
“You okay?”
“Better.” Suri took a few more calculated breaths, then started walking back toward the bridge. She felt a powerful need to get farther away from that grassy place.
“What happened?”
She shook her head. “Felt something awful.”
“This is an Art thing, isn’t it?”
She nodded but wasn’t entirely sure. Suri really didn’t know what had happened. It felt a bit like the sensation of cold she and Arion had experienced in the city. But this sensation had been far more powerful, and personal. It had felt so strong that she was surprised—
“You didn’t feel it?” she asked.
“Feel what?”
“Never mind. Maybe it was just my imagination.”
You need to recognize that your imagination is more accurate than other people’s sight.
Suri didn’t like that idea, not in this case. She wanted it to be a mistake, felt it had to be, but not so much that she’d turn around to test the idea. Suri was happy to leave the question unanswered because, just as with the sensation with Arion in the city, Suri had the impression she wasn’t sensing some awful event from the past. Whatever horrible thing Suri sensed had yet to happen.
Feeling a need to hide from the terrible in a bath of ordinary mindlessness, she veered off course toward the once-a-tree. “Maybe we should just sit over here for a bit.”
“Sure,” he said. Then she saw him glance back across the plain, and he asked, “Suri? Can you really…” He hesitated.
“What?”
“Can you really move mountains?”
She frowned. “Yeah, but it was sort of an accident.”
“Sort of an accident?”
“I was upset at the time.”
Raithe stopped abruptly. “You’re upset right now.” He put his arms up feigning fear. “Should I be worried?”
Suri smiled and moved her hands as if she were going to hex him. “Very.”
“Ooh,” he said, grinning. “Going to turn me into a frog?”
“No.” She walked toward the stump. “Frogs are no fun. What would you like to be?”
“I don’t know. Something that can fly, I guess.”
She nodded. “Me, too.”
* * *
—
Nyphron entered the High Hold, a large living space on the seventh floor of the Kype that most of the Instarya called the Shrine. The suite of rooms, decorated with tapestries, sculptures, mahogany chairs, and gold-rimmed chamber pots, was originally built as the living quarters for the lord of the Rhist. In reality, the seventh floor had only had one resident, and he’d used it for just a short time. Although nothing official had ever been declared, the quarters—although meticulously cleaned and maintained—had been left empty and unaltered since Fane Rhist died. That had been a few thousand years ago, before Nyphron was born. Legend held that not a thing had changed. A golden cup famously rested precariously on the stone molding near the grand open hearth, and it was believed that Rhist had placed his drink there just before rushing out to his death—his last act in that room. Nyphron had come in and looked at that cup many times, wondering what foolish little thing might be his last act that future generations of people would look back on with misplaced worship. He hoped it would be something grander than setting down a cup of wine.
“So, what is it that has you so jittery you want to speak in private?” Nyphron asked.
Sebek didn’t answer. He closed the door behind them.
Nyphron folded his arms. “Oh honestly—give it up. What’s this all about?”
“It’s Techylor.” Sebek spoke just above a whisper.
“The kid? What about him?”
Sebek proceeded to walk briskly around the Shrine, opening the doors to the side rooms and looking inside. Nyphron waited until he was done. Sebek had always been a little volatile, a little odd, but the truly talented always were a touch crazy.
Nyphron had known Sebek for a thousand years. He couldn’t say they were friends, but then friends meant different things to different people. In all honesty, Nyphron had never had what he would call a friend—someone like him, someone he could relate to, someone who loved him and whom he could unequivocally trust. Sebek was more his opposite. Cold and detached, the Fhrey loved only his swords and cared only that he was the best at killing, which he was. Sebek liked killing. He cared nothing for power, for advancement, or wealth, just had a thing for fresh blood. Sebek wasn’t an intellectual, not a thinker. Thoughts other than those associated with combat were a distraction, something to avoid. Sebek was as interesting as a dull rock, but he was a damn fine warrior.
“Well?” Nyphron asked, taking a seat on the gold-framed, red-cushioned couch as Sebek walked back to him.
“I think Techylor knows.”
“Knows what?”