“Come,” said Lara softly, as if she knew, as if she understood. “We don’t want you to be late.”
On the far side of the camp, where some of the younger Shistra-Phail were already sparring, exchanging good-humoured insults alongside the clash of fists or weapons, Indarin stood alone, an ominous figure in a dark grey cloak like a storm cloud. He was already glaring at her. As she came to a halt before him, her stomach growled ominously.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” she lied.
Indarin gazed at her for a long moment, studying her. Then he shrugged and led her away, back across the camp and into the trees, to the same copse of trees where she had met Shan the previous night, the same hollow, the same spot. Indarin stood before her and her cheeks turned scarlet.
“The two of you are playing with fire,” he said, his voice like the breeze through the trees. “Ylandra will cast you out if you meet him like that again.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but what was the point. He knew. There was no denying it, even if she wanted to. Instead, she bowed her head. She had been raised to obey, she had once told Shan. Now it seemed she would have to fall back into that habit, even if her new-born spirit resisted.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked in subdued tones.
“I want you to leave, Jeren.”
She started, her head jerking up. “You…you what?”
He stepped back and his staff moved in a blur, sweeping right at her head. Jeren dropped and rolled, coming up just in time to see the butt stabbing towards her midsection. She jumped back, narrowly avoiding it. The training Shan had given her came naturally now. Part of her wondered if Indarin was really trying, his movements seemed so graceful, so leisurely, and yet another part knew that was a lie. The staff swept by her face, and the wind it stirred up blasted her hair back. If she had moved a moment later it would have struck and struck hard. She tried to back away and the next thing she knew her feet tangled around the staff and she went down heavily, the air dashed from her lungs. She looked up as the staff came hammering down at her.
And stopped an inch from her forehead.
Indarin gazed down the length at her, his face entirely calm. “Your instincts are good, and your reflexes well honed. He’s been teaching you?”
She didn’t dare voice her reply, only nodded.
Indarin walked around her, studying her in silence. “Why are you here?”
“To…to learn.”
He snorted briefly, and then tucked the end of his staff under her chin, not entirely gentle, nor rough, lifting her face to look at her. “Perhaps.”
“I had no choice.”
“Another Holt would have taken you in.”
“To be a political pawn. To be used against my brother. Or perhaps to sell me back to him. No, that wasn’t possible.”
Indarin’s lips thinned. “You reason well too.”
“Thank you.”
“And your magic…”
She lifted herself back to her feet, moving slowly so as not to antagonise him again. Indarin just watched her, his eyes like ice. She couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell what he was thinking. It unnerved her. “I have to learn how to control it. Gilliad is…” She swallowed hard, curling her hands into fists at her side. “If you thought he was bad when he was here, that was before the curse took him.”
“And?”
Her breath fled. He wanted her to say it? Out loud?
To say her brother was insane didn’t begin to cover it. Dark magic had consumed his mind, had led him to do unspeakable things. Not least to Lara’s father, to Shan, and the things he had planned to do to her. It was hard to look at her brother as anything other than a demon now. Easier, actually, than admit the truth.
“And if anything happens to him, that could be me!” She advanced on him, step by step, and Indarin retreated, watching her like he would a wild animal. “I need to learn to control it rather than let it control me. I know a little. But it’s not enough.”
“You really want to know?” Indarin asked, his face as placid as ever. “Very well. Let me see what you can do.”
“What?” Bewilderment deflated her rage.
“Show me your magic.”
“I heal. There’s nothing here to heal.”
“And what happens when you heal another?”
“I…” She inhaled, trying to stop her anger rising again. What did happen? “I see the light inside them—their soul, their innate magic perhaps, and their memories, the world as they see it.”
“I said show me. Not tell me.”
“I can’t!”
“Try.”
Jeren glared at him but kept her peace. Try? Too right she’d try. If he’d just for once believe she could do anything of worth. Then she thought of Shan and her indignation punctured once more.
“Very well,” she replied, a little more calmly. “If you explain why you didn’t become a Seer.”
Indarin narrowed his eyes to slivers of light. Annoyance perhaps? Well, he deserved it. But much to her surprise he nodded. “Very well.”
He settled opposite her and closed his eyes. Jeren followed suit, still now, attentive, waiting for his voice.
“I had a choice when my sister, Falinar, died. I could remain a Seer or become Shistra-Phail. I am one of the few ever given that choice, for normally a Seer is a Seer and will not shed blood with their hands. But the blood our family needed…” He sighed and she wondered if he was watching her again, if that spectre of hatred was back. She didn’t dare look. “I suspect you know more of that than you think. I was allowed to become Shistra-Phail on the condition that I trained anyone with innate magic, that I test each warrior and if needs be show them how to control it. I also show those who do not realise they have magic in their blood what is truly there.”
“But the Feyna hate magic,” she said.
He fell silent, only the sound of his even breaths betraying he was still there.
“All Feyna are born with magic,” he told her at last.
Jeren’s jaw dropped open and she couldn’t help but look at him. Indarin hung his head, unwilling or unable to meet her shocked gaze. The Feyna hated and despised magic. She knew that, if nothing else. They called her serpent born. Even Shan had said it. How was that even possible if their warrior elite carried that spark inside them?
“It’s true.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “The Seers use it daily. The rest of the Feyna not at all. But you know enough of magic, little True Blood Scion, to know that it will not be denied. So we learn to channel it, and shun the brothers and sisters who are chosen to wield it instead. Just as the rest of our people shun the Shistra-Phail who wield weapons and death. A divided race, you see? But each balances the other.”
“How do you channel it?”
“Through our bodies. We filter it out to every last pore of our skin, every follicle, every breath. And because the magic must have purpose, it makes us stronger, faster, increases our hearing and our sight. We exist in every part of our bodies, aware at all times of exactly what we are and our place in this world. The braids are bound for ritual purposes. They are bound to keep a part of us that is so easily stolen close and safe. And if they are taken, as your brother took Haledren’s and tried to take Shan’s, it’s like losing a part of one’s soul, one’s mind and one’s heart all together.”
“Then…if one of you is wounded?”
“We lose a part of ourselves, unless the Seer can restore it.”
“And if I heal one of you?”
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth, not a pleasant smile. Bitter and marred by a certain cruelty she did not expect. “That would not be a thing acceptable to us. To any of us.”