Luthan and I hurry down the narrow passage. Her illuminated stave casts a strange light on the walls around us: not the warm glow of firelight or the gentle sapphire wash of moonlight, but something cold and unearthly. Rather like starlight would be, if you could capture a strand of it and look at it up close. It sheds sharp black shadows that stretch up the rocky sides like fleeing demons. I should be focused on Toralé, but somehow I can’t stop thinking about the mirror I saw, back there in the cavern. It made me nervous, and I don’t know why.
“You once said that people can disappear in mirrors,” I say finally. “What did you mean?”
Luthan glances at me. “It’s in the stories. A woman who used her own blood to make a key of glass. With it, she could hide on the other side of any mirror.”
“That doesn’t sound too dangerous …”
“Not until she took her baby through a mirror with her. When she came back, the baby was gone. She never spoke of what had happened, but she had lost her child forever.”
“So the key only worked for her? It made the baby disappear?”
“Exactly.”
I think about that. It doesn’t seem relevant to our situation, yet something about the mirror’s presence continues to alarm me. Perhaps it’s just because I know that Ifor can use a mirror to spy on people, if he has their blood. Though when it comes to ill-intentioned magic, we have far worse things to worry about …
“There’s something you should know,” I say. “What’s going on in here … I don’t think it’s normal magic.”
“Otherpower? It uses other people’s blood?”
“Definitely. At least, I’m pretty sure the mages here don’t use their own. But …” I shrug uneasily. “Did you ever hear of linking?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, Toralé … he’s in the power of a mage. Tarrith. I don’t know how it works, exactly, but he did something to Toralé’s birthstone. Not like you did, to become a mage. Something else. It lets him keep Toralé asleep, except when Tarrith needs him. And …” I worry at the sore patch on the inside of my cheek. “If Tarrith gets hurt, he passes on the wound to one of his victims and is unharmed.”
I search Luthan’s face for a reaction, but her expression is one that I can only describe as controlled blankness.
“Tarrith wants to make Toralé his link,” I add. “Which seems to mean he’d … gain control of Toralé? So he wouldn’t need to keep him asleep any more. Some of the mages here – they call them mordathi – are linked to Ifor in turn. He controls them and he can draw on their power, without having to shed any blood himself.”
Still Luthan says nothing. We keep walking, and she frowns at her feet. Finally, she says, “Blood-drinkers.”
“What?”
“That’s what mordathi means. Blood-drinkers.”
“But – surely they don’t really – ”
“I don’t know.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “Usually the power in blood is short-lived. As soon as the blood flow stops, the energy fades. That’s what a stave is for, to store the power for future use. If you want to do something big, you have to keep taking little bits of blood over days or even weeks … or kill someone. That’s the appeal of sacrifice, of the Otherpower. Kill someone, and you get all that power in one go. But what you’re talking about … there must be blood involved. There must be. You’ve never seen Tarrith take blood from Toralé?”
“Only to hurt him. Not to use. He doesn’t have a stave, either.”
“And yet he has the power to pass on his wounds …” Luthan shakes her head. “I really don’t know. But it doesn’t sound good. And the worst thing …”
“What?”
“If Ifor is taking power from several mages, each of whom somehow draws power from the blood of several people … that’s a lot of power. And if he can pass on his wounds to the mages, and they can do the same to their victims …”
“He’s virtually indestructible,” I finish for her.
We’re silent. Then she gives me a lopsided smile and says, “Well. Thanks for telling me all this now.”
“I’m sorry! I should have said something before. I just didn’t have it all worked out in my head until now. And besides, I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Fabithe and Oriana. I was afraid, if they knew …”
Luthan nods. After a moment, she gestures ahead and says, “Nearly there.”
I peer through the shadows: there’s a short flight of steps ascending to a blank wall. My pulse accelerates. “A dead end?”
She shakes her head. “What would be the point? I wonder …”
She climbs the steps to examine the wall, then taps it with her stave and whispers something. In answer, a portion of the stone shivers and slides aside, revealing a low doorway. Luthan bends to look through.
“It’s covered by something – a wall hanging, maybe? I suppose that makes sense,” she murmurs, straightening again. “The entrance couldn’t be in full view, or with so many mages around, it would have been discovered long ago.”
She draws her thumb across the spike at one end of her stave, letting her blood soak into the wood. Taking a deep breath, she straightens her shoulders. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” I know what’s coming next. As Luthan begins to mutter something in the old language, the one I don’t understand, I bow my head and close my eyes.
“You can look.” She sounds amused. I glance down at myself, and recoil. My hands are larger, hairier, thicker-fingered. My chest is flatter and broader, my legs longer, my whole body encased in close-fitting black and white. When I look back at Luthan, I see a middle-aged, pale-skinned man dressed in an identical uniform, and have to fight the automatic impulse to run.
“This is really weird,” I mumble.
“I know.” She’s laughing at me; it must be strange hearing my voice come from this body. As strange as it is hearing hers come from that one. “Remember, let me do the talking.”
Right. It’s much easier to create a visual illusion than an auditory one: something to do with the relative nature of light and sound. Luthan can disguise her own voice, at a pinch – and will almost certainly need to, given that we’ll have to convince someone to show us where to go – but if I speak, I’ll give us away.
She drops down to squeeze through the small opening. I wriggle after her, emerging in a shallow recess whose far side is the rough woven back of a tapestry. As soon as I’m clear of the doorway, the stone slides back into place. I touch the wall, but can feel no join.
“Ready?” Luthan breathes. I nod. Together, the two of us slip through the gap between hanging and wall, out into the Castle Retreat.
The corridor beyond is wide, with diamond-shaped windows on the far side that are each divided into four quarters: red, blue, green and yellow. They must have been beautiful when they were whole, but now several small panes of glass are missing from each. I put an eye to one of the holes and try to work out where we are in the castle. I lost my bearings underground.
“Will you please stop dawdling?” a man’s voice snaps. I jump and turn, but it was Luthan who spoke – or rather, the illusion she’s wearing. Her gaze meets mine, then slides swiftly sideways. Someone is approaching from the end of the corridor.
“We have to find whoever’s in charge of this bloody labyrinth as soon as possible,” she goes on, raising her disguised voice further, “and if you don’t stop grumbling and scuffing your feet, I’ll put you on half rations for the next week. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re here on Lord Ifor’s business – and I’ve a mind to inform him how little importance you place on it!”
The stranger is nearly upon us, but Luthan doesn’t even glance in his direction.
“Dear gods, straighten your shoulders, man! What have you done to your uniform? Don’t tell me, I really have no wish to know. You are a disgrace to Lord Ifor’s name – ”
Seeming abruptly to become aware of the third party, she turns her back on me and greets the newcomer with a welcoming smile. “By the powers, I’m glad to see you!”
The man halts, saluting. “May I be of assistance, Bladeleader?”
So that’s what the insignia on Luthan’s uniform means. I watch her with admiration; she’s the very image of a condescending officer as she leans towards him. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Hilnel, sir.”
“Well, Hilnel, we’re trying to find the prison cells,” Luthan confides. “Lord Ifor’s orders. He’s sent us to carry out an inspection on his behalf.”
The young man looks confused. “But Lord Ifor will be here himself tomorrow. May I ask what has changed?”
“Lord Ifor is concerned about the security of operations here. He sent us ahead to assess the situation. I am to check that the prisoners are well guarded, and report my findings to Lord Ifor when he arrives.”
“With the greatest of respect, sir,” Hilnel says carefully, “I’m not sure which prisoners you mean.”
“You know,” Luthan says, lowering her disguised voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “The ones in the mordathi’s quarters.”
“But we aren’t allowed in that part of the castle, sir. We post guards on the entrance to stop anyone going in, but that’s all. The mordathi take their orders direct from Lord Ifor.”
“Nevertheless, I wish to see those prisoners,” Luthan says. “I too take my orders direct from Lord Ifor, and he wants me to check that everything is secure. Everything, Hilnel.”
Indecision is clear on Hilnel’s face. It’s obviously an irregular request. Yet it will do his future chances of promotion no good to antagonise a Bladeleader, especially one who is in the confidence of Lord Ifor himself … After a few tense moments, he ducks his head in acquiescence.
“Yes, sir. I’ll take you to the entrance, sir. But I won’t be allowed through it,” he adds in a mutter that Luthan pretends not to hear, and gives me a sideways look. I shrug my resignation, though my stomach is twisted with anxiety and hope. Hilnel salutes Luthan, then turns on his heel and starts back the way he came. As the two of us follow, I let my thoughts drift down the silver bond that connects me to Oriana … just in case.
Kneeling beside Fabithe, Oriana clutches his hand and attempts once more to access the power she needs to heal him. She did it before, for Luthan. She knows it is possible. And yet, no matter what she tries – gripping her mother’s dagger, willing herself into the right frame of mind, staring at the light in the hope that her dazzled eyes will begin to see the myriad colours that she knows surround everything – nothing happens. She cannot even sense the ability, there but out of reach. It is as though she dreamed the whole thing.
I am sorry. She bows her head over his hand. You saved my life. You keep on saving it. And yet I cannot repay you.
It is not that he looks uncomfortable. If anything, he looks like he is sleeping. Luthan said it was magic that did it; perhaps that is why she cannot wake him. Yet although his life may not be in immediate danger, if he stays like this he will be defenceless against anyone who stumbles across him. And even if no one comes except Alyssia and Luthan, how will they get him back out of the Retreat?
We will not leave you behind, she vows fiercely. We will find a way.
The slight frown between his brows deepens, almost as if he heard the thought, but he shows no other sign of awareness. He looks gentler, like this. As if the shields he holds up as a barrier between himself and the rest of the world have fallen away, to reveal a softness that in the past she has only glimpsed. She finds it almost alarming.
Wake up, Fabithe. She concentrates as hard as she can, trying to heal him through strength of will alone. Wake up. Yet it is impossible. Either that, or her will simply is not strong enough.
Frustrated tears rise, but she forces them back. Luthan will be able to do what she cannot – or else find a way to help her access that mysterious power she found before. Either way, she just has to wait.
Everything will be fine. She smooths the hair back from Fabithe’s forehead. I promise.
She realises she is humming softly to him, a song her mother used to sing before she died, and breaks off mid-phrase. The sound seems to linger in the air, yet she hears no footsteps and the heavy shadows remain undisturbed. She is alone. If all goes to plan, Alyssia and Luthan will return here with Toralé, and all five of them will escape without Oriana herself ever having to come face to face with anyone else. They will climb back up the narrow, winding passageway and flee into the Duskmire before Ifor’s men even realise that Toralé has gone –
But if all does not go to plan? her fearful heart says. What then? Alyssia and Luthan will be captured, never to return. Or they will be discovered and tortured, and men will come looking for me. Or they will get back here with Toralé, only for the northerners to trap us on the stair, which is a long slow climb with no way out if –
We need a second plan. That thought, too, is born of fear, but she seizes it because at least it is useful. A fast escape route. Just in case.
She gets to her feet, circling close to Fabithe and then more widely. To one side of the cavern are the steps they came down to get here. To the other side, the passageway that held the magic, down which Alyssia and Luthan have now gone. Neither leads directly to the open air. Yet coming from somewhere is a faint draught.
Lantern in hand, she walks in what she thinks is the right direction. The cavern wall is uneven here, full of bumps and crevices that appear from the shadows as the light passes over them, only to disappear again. And there, in the very deepest darkness – she steps forward, holding up the lantern. The blackest shadow, lurking behind a craggy overhang in the rock face, is actually an opening. A third way out.
Perhaps not, she tells herself. Perhaps it is only a dead end. Yet the draught is stronger here, enough to stir her hair and make the lantern flicker. She glances once more over her shoulder at Fabithe; he has not moved. Then she steps into the darkness.
After a while, she begins to notice a change in the air. The smell of it is different, like the sea. There is a rushing sound. And once she has noticed that, it does not take long before the narrow passage opens out and she finds herself in another cavern. Blue light glints off moving water. She has found an underground river. A river with just a hint of daylight visible at the end of it, as though somewhere beyond the long curve of the corner she can see, it emerges into the open air. This must be part of the river that runs through the Duskmire, racing to join back up with the rest. And there, moored on the sloping stone bank below a locked iron gate that must be the main route into the castle from the river –
A fleet of small boats.
To begin with, Hilnel takes us along wide, pleasant corridors much like the one we arrived in, but before long, he turns aside into a different part of the castle. The routes here are narrower and smell musty, almost unused. We are climbing steadily, passages alternating with short flights of steps; at last we reach a round hallway, from which an arch leads onto a staircase that ascends out of sight. The arch is flanked by two guards, who step forward to block the way through as we approach.
“Is there something we can do for you, Bladeleader?” one of them asks Luthan, after an exchange of salutes.
“I’m here to inspect the prisoners.” Her voice conveys more than a hint of impatience at once again being questioned by a common soldier. “Direct orders from Lord Ifor.”
The second guard shifts uneasily. “But sir, it’s more than our lives’re worth to let anyone in there! Tarrith wouldn’t like it, not at all.”
Luthan frowns. “Tell me, men, who is in charge here? This Tarrith, or our own Bladeruler?”
The guards exchange sideways glances, but neither replies. Luthan’s eyebrows lift.
“I see. Well, you may be running in fear from these mordathi, but Lord Ifor gave me my instructions, and I intend to follow them. So unless you wish to challenge my authority, I order you to let us pass!”
Reluctantly, they step aside. Luthan glances again at the archway – and freezes. Then she turns to me and says brusquely, “You go on. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve drummed the point into their heads.”
All right. So she wants me to go first, for some reason. With a deep breath for courage, I move forward. As I step through the archway, Luthan – still talking – paces round so that she’s facing me, forcing Hilnel and the two guards to turn their backs in my direction. At the same time, I catch sight of my hands and the reason for her actions becomes clear. I’m myself again. A girl in travel-stained clothing, not a man in uniform. Something about the archway has torn away Luthan’s magic. She knew it would happen, and so she distracted the guards while I went through. Which means –
It means I need to get out of sight.
As I scurry up the stairs, I realise what else it means: Luthan can’t follow me. Not without revealing herself as well. She’d have to get rid of Hilnel and the guards first, and I’m not sure what she’s willing to do within the constraints of the five laws – I know she won’t manipulate their minds, or hurt them – so maybe she’ll be looking for a way to trick them. Perhaps she could put them to sleep, but since a trail of slumbering soldiers would be the perfect way to advertise the presence of a rogue mage, I doubt she’ll do that unless she has to. In the meantime, I’m on my own.
At the top of the steps is a spacious landing lined with doors, with further staircases spiralling out of sight at either end. Everything speaks of wealth and grandeur, from the polished floor to the heavy silence. It’s so different from everything I’ve seen of this place through Toralé’s eyes that I’m suddenly unsure of myself. I thought I’d know which way to go, but now …
I push aside my concerns. I focus on nothing. I let half-remembered experiences and my own nascent sense of Toralé rise to the surface. And then, turning right, I start to run.
I slow again as I approach the end of the passage. The doors all look the same, and although I’ve shared more with Toralé this past week than I ever have before, it’s all been from inside his cell. I can’t remember anything that would tell me which door to choose. At the same time, my skin is prickling with the sensation of being watched; I keep looking over my shoulder only to see immaculate carvings, shining metal candle-holders, the lifeless corridor behind me. It feels like a nightmare, a chase through an unknown place with an invisible monster in pursuit.
I need to get a grip on myself. I’ll just start from the end of the passage and work my way along. If I’m going to be frightened then I may as well do something useful at the same time.
I march to the last door on the left, the one immediately before the staircase that I assume leads to the next floor, and put my hand out – but my fingers stop before they touch the handle. I have a strong feeling that this is wrong. That instead – I back away from the door – I should be climbing the staircase beside me.
This is nonsensical. I shouldn’t go even deeper into the castle when I know there could be danger. I should at least stay where Luthan would be able to hear me scream –
No. I have to trust myself.
I run at the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the top are lots more doors, but now I don’t even need to think. That one. He’s there. I push it open and fling myself through into a large, square room that isn’t as dark and oppressive as it seemed through Toralé’s eyes. It must have been grand, once; thick hangings adorn the walls, and the windows are wide and unbarred. Another step forward, and the familiar feeling of recognition hits me like a drenching wave, setting all my senses reeling. I’ve never actually seen Toralé before, but I know it’s him. I just … know, the same way I knew the others.
He is lying on a raised slab of stone, with a channel all round the edge that’s stained dark with old blood. At the four corners, shimmering bonds hold his wrists and ankles in place; another strip binds his forehead, and yet another his eyes. And in the hollow of his throat, where his birthstone should be – I press my fist hard against my mouth, biting my knuckles. A thin, transparent tube has been inserted into his throat, curving up and round so that the other end feeds into the channel at the edge of the slab, and down that tube runs a small but steady trickle of blood.
This is how Tarrith gains his power. He cut out Toralé’s birthstone, and now he’s gathering blood from the never-healing wound left in its place.
Don’t panic. Concentrate on how to free him. It must be reversible, because he managed to resist giving in and becoming a link. And I know he can be woken, because I’ve seen it happen. Yet that wasn’t quite the same, was it? Tarrith wakes him without restoring his birthstone. To wake him properly – to break him free of his bindings and make him whole again – will be a very different task. One that may be beyond me.
If I fetch Luthan –
No. I can’t. Not without getting us caught. Luthan is buying me time. Rescuing Toralé is down to me.
I drag my gaze away from his throat to study the rest of him. He is young, only a couple of years older than me, though the starkness of his cheekbones gives an impression of extreme age. Golden brown skin, and red-blond hair: a boy bathed in fire. His clothing is torn and bloodstained, his breathing faint. A multitude of old scars and new wounds mark his forearms and the exposed part of his upper chest.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. All those cuts, the bruises and the broken skin … I felt some of that being inflicted. Tarrith always patched him up afterwards, to seal the wounds and stop the blood escaping, but he never worried about knitting skin, tendon and muscle together properly – his only concern was to avoid waste. As a result, Toralé is covered in lumps and knots and angry red ridges. And his left hand … I touch that, gently, unfolding the twisted fingers. The long scar across the palm, the one that matches mine, is still visible. But the hand itself is mangled, the last two fingertips missing. Tarrith didn’t bother to mend it. It might not be bleeding, but he has left it broken.
I curl Toralé’s fingers back into place, and feel the tears wet on my cheeks. I never cry, yet here I am. Here we are. And though I have no idea what I can do to help him, I can’t possibly leave him like this. He is my friend, and I owe him my aid.
One hand on his shoulder, I shake him gently, then more roughly. He doesn’t wake, and his blank expression doesn’t change. I didn’t expect anything better, not really – he’s in the grip of something more powerful than mere sleep. So I walk to the foot of the stone slab. For now, I’ll ignore the tube draining blood from Toralé’s throat; the thought of removing it and seeing him bleed to death in front of me makes me cold all over. Instead I’ll concentrate on the bindings holding him in place on the stone.
I reach to untie the first knot, then snatch my hands away as pain sears my fingertips. Blood is welling from my skin, though I used only the slightest pressure. Blinking back tears, I suck my fingers. I won’t give up. I won’t.
Shirt wrapped around my hands, I reach again for the bindings on Toralé’s left ankle. It’s harder to undo the complicated knots this way, but at least they don’t cut through the shirt as easily as they did through my skin. Each time the fabric gives way, I wrap a new part of it around my fingers and continue. Finally I reach the last knot, the most tightly tied of all. Time and again the fabric prevents me from getting a proper grip, until I let it go and attack the knot with my bare hands. Blood splashes steadily onto the floor, the stone, Toralé’s skin; the individual cuts merge into one constant throbbing pain, which travels up my arms to lodge in my skull. My vision blurs. Still I fumble on, tugging at the remaining strands, my aching fingers slipping on my own blood – and at last, his left ankle is free.
Only five more sets of bindings to go.
By the time I’ve finished the final set, I’m dizzy. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and the feeling gradually recedes, leaving only a clammy nausea. I look at Toralé. His expression is unchanged; he remains in the same position, on his back, arms and legs outstretched. I wipe a smear of my blood off his forehead with my sleeve. Don’t panic. Don’t – But I still don’t know what to do about the wound at his throat.
I examine it more closely. The outline of a birthstone is visible around the tube – so Tarrith didn’t cut it out completely. That was what he said, wasn’t it? Not out, just away. He’s using it to draw off Toralé’s blood without killing him. So if I pull out the tube, maybe the birthstone will come back …
I grit my teeth. I can’t think of an alternative. And I already know he’d rather die than live like this. I’ll kill him or I’ll set him free, but either way he’ll be saved.
I grasp the tube at his throat and pull. It comes away quite easily, falling from my hand to drip on the floor. The shadowy outline of his birthstone vanishes, the flow of blood from his throat increasing tenfold. No, please … Heart racing, I press my hands to the wound – and as soon as my slashed fingertips touch the place where Toralé’s birthstone should be, the ghostly outline returns and the blood flow slows a little.
I chew on my lip. It must have been my blood that did it. There’s power in blood; that’s what all this is about. I have to buy Toralé’s freedom – but I’m not bleeding enough to bring his birthstone back completely.
I fumble for my knife. This won’t hurt. Much. And even if it does, what does it matter? I have to free him. Whatever it takes.
I draw the blade across my left palm, following the line of my scar. Then, as the blood wells up, I place my hand on Toralé’s throat. Please let this work. Please … yes. I hardly dare to believe it, but his birthstone is firming beneath my touch. When it’s whole again, the wound vanished, I stumble back a few steps and wait.
Time passes, yet the silence in the room remains unbroken. Relief giving way to renewed anxiety, I peer into Toralé’s face. Is it just my imagination, or has his breathing deepened? And … yes, his eyelids are flickering, his skin flushing back to life …
“Toralé?” I ask uncertainly. The silver thread falls into place, my new awareness of him settling beside the others. For an instant, all four bonds shine –
A black wilderness.
He still has not stirred.
They believe every word I’m saying.
A voice. A girl’s voice in the darkness.
– but then they fade, and everything is the same as it was before.
I’m in too much of a hurry to feel disappointed, and yet I do. Toralé is the last of us; I thought meeting him would change things, somehow. Yet although Ifor feared it so much that I was sure it must be the key to all this, it’s as if the five of us coming together has no real significance at all …
Though I suppose we’re not quite together. Not yet.
“Toralé!” I urge him.
“Kai.” His voice is hoarse, his eyes open but unfocused. Even they have a hint of flame about them: they are a rich chestnut brown. “Laqmitte adia? Laqral il’lintia’no karlit?”
“I – I’m sorry, I don’t – ”
“Who are you?” This time he’s definitely speaking a language I understand. The fingers of his good right hand explore the skin around his eyes. “Why can’t I see?”
He’s blind. Did I do something wrong? I don’t know what to tell him. How am I going to get him out of here if he can’t see?
As the silence draws out, Toralé drags himself into a sitting position. A shudder grips his body, but he braces himself against it. “Whatever this is, Tarrith, it isn’t going to work.”
“He isn’t here,” I say hastily. “I promise.”
Toralé’s expression hardens. “But he sent you. So what are you going to do? Hurt me in interesting new ways? Or perhaps you are a softer form of persuasion.” He shakes his head. “Tell Tarrith I won’t give up my soul for the promise of pleasure.”
“No! That isn’t – I’m here to help. I broke your bindings, and – ”
His hand flies to his throat, tracing the outline of his birthstone; a tremulous smile spreads across his face. Yet then it fades. “I know what you intend. You will give me hope, then snatch it away.”
I touch his arm. “No. I promise. I came with three other people, and we’re taking you out of here.”
Slowly, his other hand comes up to cover mine.
“You feel real enough, tek’adar,” he whispers. “But I have been deceived before.”
I catch his fingers before he can move, interlocking them with my own. “Please, just trust me. What do you have to lose?”
He frowns. “What is your name, eminalithé?”
“Alyssia Gale.”
“You – you gave me back my birthstone?”
“Yes.”
“And you will lead me out of here?”
“If I can.”
He bows his head. Then, unexpectedly, he raises the back of my hand to his lips. His tears water my skin. “Thank you.”
“It’s all right,” I say softly. “It’ll be all right.” I want to cry, too, but I’ve already done enough of that for one day. So instead, I put a hand under his elbow. “Here. If I steer you like this …”
With my help, he gets down from the stone table. He’s unsteady on his feet, legs shaking with urgency and exertion. We take a few stumbling steps across the floor, and I grit my teeth. This is going to take a long time. We need to get back to Luthan so she can cast an illusion on both of us. Or maybe just me. If she restored my previous disguise, we could pretend we were taking Toralé for questioning …
“I’m afraid I will have to stop you there.” The voice sends a reflexive shiver down my spine, a fear not wholly my own. I’ve heard it before, but never in person.
I look up, across the room, into Tarrith’s eyes.