“You could have taken the front gate,” she hissed when she felt him close enough behind her to not have to speak up. “I am sure the guards would have let you pass…” she searched for words that wouldn’t make her sound so bitter “…you know, if the Meister is a friend of yours, I am certain you’d have gotten immediate passage into our sanctuary.”
A low snort was all the answer she got, and her mind instantly spiraled into what might have made him choose to make that sound rather than parry with words. He had certainly exceeded doing so earlier.
“You don’t think so?” She prompted.
And got another sound that this time wasn’t entirely identifiable—and had Gandrett peeking over her shoulder.
Nehelon’s face was unreadable, tight again, all hints he was capable of the smile she had seen him flash earlier wiped away.
For a while, they walked in silence, the only sound the waterfall before the entrance arches, rolling like a harbinger of the storm that was brewing above the priory.
When they crossed the yard, leaving the pool at the foot of the citadel behind them, the first drops of rain speckled the ground, making Gandrett choose the long route along the side of the citadel that had the shortest distance to the residential building, and crossed through the tightening rain in a jog with Nehelon catching up to her side in a few elegant strides.
“You must be someone special,” she sniffed, letting her own features distort at the gesture, a sign of how little she cared—tried to, “if the Meister welcomes you to Everrun with open arms… and without insisting on a cell.” They ducked under the roof of the residential building.
Nehelon chuckled, a sound that mixed with the noise of the thick blotches of rain now hitting the building from a sharp angle, forced by spikes of wind that usually remained outside the wall.
Inside, after inquiring with Nahir—the housekeeper and one of the few who had been there for decades to comfort the new arrivals every spring—where to best bring the Meister’s guest, Gandrett led him up the stairs to the second floor, where the ceilings were higher than at the other floors and the rooms equipped with more comforts.
“This might not be what you are used to.” She opened the carved, wooden door and gestured into a room with an antechamber and an adjacent bathing room. Simple but more than double the size of her own chambers. Not that any of the acolytes had the luxury of their own bathing chamber. “But it’s the best we’ve got.”
She half-expected to get a mocking comment, but to her surprise, Nehelon stepped past her, careful not to brush against her side as he slipped into the room, and inclined his head. “It’s more than I expected.” His face loosened a bit as he strode through the pale blue antechamber, and he peeked into the spacious bedroom. “Better than the cell, for sure.” He turned and leaned against the doorframe.
Gandrett eyed him for a moment, unsure of what to make of him, half-anticipating he might still attack her. Then, tense to the core, she reached down to her side to free his sword from her belt and held it out to him.
“I brought you to the Meister,” she said, voice terse. “Now you owe me the truth.”
“You can put that over there.” Ignoring her request, Nehelon jerked his chin at the slim, wooden table next to the door and, much to Gandrett’s relief, not showing any signs he was going to grab the blade and leap at her. His face remained unreadable, controlled, as if he had spent a lifetime hiding his emotions.
“The truth,” Gandrett reminded him as she took a cautious step then lowered his weapon onto the scenes of Neredyn legends painted in pale blue and shades of brown.
Nehelon pointed at her own blade. “Yours, too.” His mouth tightened as he watched her hesitate then lower the second blade beside his.
“Worried I’ll attack you?” she asked with the mildest satisfaction, but didn’t even get a chance to gloat as Nehelon responded, “Even with both of them, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
There it was again, that mocking grin and cold eyes—not cold, cautious, calculating. Distant.
“Our short history suggests otherwise,” was all Gandrett said as she dumped her blade onto the table, closed the door, and dropped into one of the wooden chairs beside it, crossing her arms.
And that was that.
“So, the truth,” she repeated, keeping her face indifferent.
Nehelon’s sharp eyes weighed on her, sizing her up, measuring, reminding her of her dirty, sweaty clothes and making her unfamiliarly self-conscious. She knew that when she took the effort and combed her hair and—for the holidays and ceremonies at the temple-rooms of the citadel, wore her only dress—she cleaned up well. But right now, what Nehelon must be seeing was a wildling in linen rags.
As if he’d heard her, he averted his gaze and strode over to the small window at the wall to Gandrett’s right where he observed the splattering rain.
“The truth is, Gandrett Brayton, I have come to get you out of here.
Chapter Three
The girl’s eyes widened at the mention of her name. She hadn’t introduced herself. She didn’t need to. It had taken him a week on horseback to reach the border of Calma—not a natural border but a border where the lush forests of Ulfray and the lakes at the ruins of Ithrylan ended as if someone had cut them off with a knife, turning the other side of the cut into wasteland. From there, it had been three more days before he had made it to the ghost town at the east of Everrun, all of which he had spent absorbed in thoughts of how to best find out if Gandrett Brayton truly was what the Meister had promised—what he was looking for.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He could tell the difference in the way she had eyed him before and the way she did now. The distaste, the mild mockery, they were both swept away by that simple detail—he knew who she was. And being trained by the best warrior in Neredyn—best human warrior, at least—Gandrett understood the attack, his appearance at the wall at the exact time she took her afternoon run hadn’t been mere coincidence.
He turned back to the window, giving her a second of space to sort her thoughts, her expectations of this conversation.
He was aware of the stakes involved. The stakes that Tyrem Brenheran, Lord of Ackwood had placed on Nehelon’s shoulders and sent him on this mission. And now that he had confirmed that at least Gandrett’s fighting skills were what he had been promised, it was time to figure out if the rest was true as well.
“You have been here before,” Gandrett repeated what he had avoided confirming or denying earlier.
“Of course I have,” he bit at her. He needed her, he reminded himself. He had to keep his tongue under control, his temper. With a too-swift motion, less adapted to his human environment than usual, he turned and faced her, only to find intent eyes staring him down. How he hated to need her. To need anyone. “But it has been a while…” He played with a string on his leathers and cursed himself for having to do this. “It’s none of your business, Gandrett.”
The bold use of her first name dulled the fire in her gaze enough to hate himself even more.
He couldn’t forget this girl had not seen the outside world for a decade. Her last memories of it probably—hopefully—as blurry as the rain-splattered window beside him. And if she remembered…