The room smelled strongly of cinnamon, concealing the dusty scent of old bones and burned wax. Morgynn had lit several candles with a wave of her hand and the barest of whispers. The aasimar struggled to break free of the enchantment that held him in place. She smiled at his attempts and waited until he seemed satisfied of their futility.
She circled, looking him up and down, admiring his strangely handsome features. "You chose well, Khaemil," she said finally, stopping in front of him and exploring the depths of his pearly eyes. "Almost too well." "Thank-you, Lady Morgynn," Khaemil said. She leaned in close to him, brushing her cheek against his neck and listening to his heartbeat, calm and steady despite the situation. She reached up and touched his cheek, whispering arcane words in a deep voice, her breath warm against his throat. Though the Hoarite could not resist her spell, something reacted to her magic, blurring her attempt to see his thoughts. Shadows cloaked her mind's eye like dark clouds in front of a high sun-faint beams of light sought to blind her in a celestial radiance. Through the bright and the dark she could choose wandering thoughts, fleeting emotions in a sea of experience, but only those floating near the surface. The depths of the aasimar's spirit shut out her dissecting sight, shifting and swimming in a pitch black fog that eluded her intrusive magic. "Mysterious, aren't we, pretty one?" she said, withdrawing her hand and dismissing the spell. "No matter. Your secrets are unimportant. Though I am intrigued by the paradigm.
"Shadows and light," she said thoughtfully. "And only the barest hint of a man beneath them." "The Pale Sisters have retreated, Lady Morgynn," Khaemil reported from the window, "but the storm is dissipating without the priests, far more quickly than it should. The tower could be in danger soon." Unnaturally loud thunder roared in the sky outside, punctuating his words as stones shook and dust fell from the ceiling. Multicolored lightning ripped through the clouds, casting an eerie glow across the shadurakul's deep black skin. He tapped his claws anxiously on the stone window sill. "Worry not, all will be well. Besides," she replied sardonically, "we have a guest to entertain. A guest who'd have been wise to move on after slaying that oaf of an ogre for us, and even wiser to have ignored this prophecy business." She moved closer to Quin again, gazing at his eyes and face, sniffing slightly and noting the faint lines of old scars running across his neck and disappearing beneath his breastplate. "I sense no hero in you, Hoarite. There is cruelty lurking behind those angelic eyes of yours, a coldness that belies any trace of charity or goodwill you might possess. Even the name your mind reveals is a lie, isn't it? Quinsareth? A term in Old Mulhorandi, is it not? Meaning 'falsehood,' I believe." She smiled, realizing some private humor, and added, "How quaint." She studied his reaction though his pale eyes revealed little. "Was it the girl who brought you here, I wonder? Oh yes, I know of her, this Elisandrya. I have tasted her name on the lips of two men now who reached the end of their time in the last few days." She thrilled to hear a slight change in Quin's pulse, momentary but telling. She traced a fingernail across the ancient designs in his armor, following the symbols and letters of an alphabet she did not recognize as she continued. "A hunter for the oracles of Savras, a warrior for her people, brave and beautiful, brash and wild. What a monster she must think you, eh?" Then she leaned close again, breathing heavily against his ear. "You might have been better counseled to have pursued a darker mistress." His eyes drifted to the floor and his sword, so close, lying against the deep pile of bones along the nearby wall. Skulls from Jhareat's last days leered at him with empty sockets and grins that never waned. She stepped aside, allowing him to see the weapon he so desperately wished to wield. "Or was it the prophecy that guided your steps, aasimar?" His gaze went to her at the words. Turning, she looked over her shoulder at him, searching for some spark of emotion in his eyes. Pleased to have his full attention, she coyly brushed a strand of dark hair from her face and drew a long dagger from her belt. She licked her lips and wiped absently at imagined spots on the blade. "I imagine the old witch of Brookhollow must have spun quite a tale. Even now they hide in their temple, trusting in her words while steeped in the stench of plague and fear." She raised an eyebrow and regarded him conspiratorially.
"Want to hear a secret?" Thunder again shook the walls, sending bones to clatter on the floor as the dusty piles shifted. Morgynn's eyes sparkled in dancing shadows as the candles died one by one, deepening the darkness of the chamber.
Horses pranced in place and snorted impatiently as Eli rode past, churning through the muddy puddles along the sides of the cobbled streets. Riders watched with grim countenances, holding back their steeds and awaiting the next call of the watchman's horn, the one that would send them to battle. Elisandrya pulled hard on the reins, stopping at the wall and looking up to the nervous face of the young hornblower. Dismounting and ascending the ladder, she expected to see the worst beyond the wall. Though she tried to shove images of massive armies and mounted cavalry out of her mind, they marched in her thoughts anyway. The unlikelihood of such a force in the Reach was not enough to quell anxious fear, that passing terror that grips all warriors before combat and pushes them to exceed their own expectations. Gripping the battlements, she peered into the dark, blinking past sheets of rain and racing lightning. What she saw in the distance was unlike anything she expected. Bobbing slightly, teetering from left to right along what could have been an invisible horizon, were tiny lights, some closer and closing, others following behind.