Tarin Sei'Tar
Tarin leaned his staff against his wall and sat quietly on his bed,
taking in the last of the setting sun on his already warm back. Normally
he would be out practicing until the River of Heaven flowed scintillating
across the sky, but somehow he could not drive himself to continue tonight.
There was something on the wind that he didn’t like, something that
told him important things were afoot and that he needed to be prepared
for them…which did not include practicing his staff until all hours
of the night. It had itched itself between his shoulder blades for at
least an hour now, and he had dutifully ignored it as long as his could,
even trying to slip into the Void to evade it, but to no avail.
He reached into his drawer and pulled out a towel, running it slowly
over his head and arms and back, meditating as it dried away the sweat
that had flowed over his body, trying to hear what the itch in his mind
had to say to him. He noticed with barely registered surprise that his
shoulders were much more muscular than they had been several months
ago. He’d worked incessantly at all his lessons, spending every spare
moment practicing with his staff, and taking lessons even in the accursed
sword, honing his body until he was past the point of physical pain.
Still, he was hardly past the point of any pain…
Flashback
He nearly jumped back in surprise to find Keelin merely leaning against
a wall a few feet away. He’d half expected that he’d need to track Keelin
down over field and forest but here he was, only a few steps away. He
also seemed to be physically hurt somehow, holding at his throat and
taking deep breaths, though Tarin couldn’t imagine how he’d already
managed to do anything to himself when the man had only been outside
for a minute or two. “Keelin?” The man looked up in surprise and Tarin
expected that Keelin would simply run away, strike the smaller man and
disappear, but instead he seemed only confused. Tarin took a small step
toward him and Keelin finally said, “Keir. His name was Keir. He was
a Darkfriend.”
Now Tarin couldn’t help but jump back in surprise. He didn’t make a
sound, only let his mind process the information as best it could. A
Darkfriend…a Darkfriend? What is a Darkfriend?…Keelin was with a Darkfriend?
Well, that certainly explained quite a lot, and at he same time nothing
at all. He blinked, his mind frozen in a single track of thought, before
he found himself leaning wearily against the wall next to Keelin. He
was too surprised to say a word. The two stood in silence for a long,
long time. Finally, Tarin spoke, not looking up. “You don’t have to
tell me.” He stared at his feet, examining his shoes. His eyes began
to fill with tears but he blinked them away impatiently. There was no
reason for them. “It was an unfair question. I just…” What? Wanted
to know? Wanted to exploit your only weakness when you seem so good
at exploiting mine? “I just wanted to know why you’re so hurt…”
He wanted desperately to lean into his lover, cry into Keelin's chest
and apologize for being so terrible, but he didn’t dare so much as touch
the other man. He felt dirty and merciless, hurting Keelin this way
when Tarin could see that Keelin was already in such pain. He knew that
the only thing that kept Keelin from crying was a thin strand of willpower,
and that thought frightened him. He’d rather spit in the Dark One’s
eye and stand around to see what happened than make Keelin cry. There
was something not right about it, something so profoundly incorrect
about Keelin crying that he could hardly even imagine such a thing possible.
He felt that he needed to say something more, but could not think what.
What a resigned sigh, he tilted his head back to see the stars, to ashamed
to even look the man in the eyes.
Tarin shrank back from the near snarl that Keelin directed at him, and
the tears in his eyes threatened to overflow. He could feel his heart
being crushed little by little under the weight of Keelin’s anger, and
part of him half-wished that Keelin would indeed run away—it would be
a thousand times less painful than the torture rack the Andoran had
him sprawling on now. Less painful for the present anyway…His heart
loved Keelin too much to want the man to go away forever, but there
seemed to be no alternative. Keelin rather violently turned his back
on Tarin, and one tear trickled down the Tuathan’an’s cheek. He wiped
it hastily away, chiding himself for having not yet grown out of that.
His mind was not sure what to do, and he found himself thinking back
to the past for the first time in ages. In some ways he still loved
Zipporah—he was quickly discovering that a heart never, ever stops loving
someone once it’s started, no matter what the recipient of love may
do. Part of him was repulsed by what Zipporah doubtless thought of him,
but part of him still couldn’t resist the charm in her eyes, the same
way that he secretly still longed to see Rhaidon. But even so, I would
tell Keelin about these people with not a single fear or worry…What
happened to Keir? Tarin thought he may have ever so vaguely recognized
the name, but wasn’t sure if it was real recognition or his mind searching
for some semblance of rationality to latch onto.
Suddenly Keelin’s voice was speaking again, and Tarin listened. He was
worried about the “price” he’d have to pay, but when he found that it
was silence he was comforted. That violent part of Keelin, faintly glimpsed
only a moment ago, had made him worry again about what he may have to
pay with, but silence was well within his budget. He vowed quietly to
himself never to bring up Keir again, and as Keelin unsteadily wove
the story for him, he filed away every part since he knew that he’d
never hear any of these words again. Still, his mind rebelled against
Keir being a Darkfriend, and rebelled even more against Keelin claiming
that he needn’t have died. The man was a Darkfriend…he had it coming,
really… Still, Tarin couldn’t help but have sympathy—he really did not
know what he would do if he were to earn Keelin was a Darkfriend, but
he didn’t think he could bring himself to kill the man. I don’t think
there’s a thing he could do to make me ever want to hurt him again,
let alone kill him…
He continued to listen as Keelin finished his story, noting the last
few words and the terrible emotion that they produced with overwhelming
guilt. Suddenly part of him was angry at Keelin, angrier than he had
ever been, and he found himself wanting to shout back, “If it hurts
so much, then why the hell are you doing it to me?!?” Now his tears
grew angry, and as a result he was even more powerless to stop them.
Keeping as silent as possible, he wiped both eyes impatiently and his
vision was clear again. Keelin was all but shaking with the effort not
to cry, his fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut. Now he was torn between
his own desire to strike his lover and his desire to comfort him.
He compromised. He moved closer to Keelin so that they were standing
shoulder to shoulder, crossed his arms and studied the ground for a
few moments. He forced the void onto himself just long enough to regain
his calm, then let his emotions back in. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he
said, softly, gently, voice apologetic. “I had no idea that I was piercing
you so deeply, but still…I wonder why you’re leaving me to feel the
same way…” He put it as softly as he could, voice tiny and unassuming,
but he knew that his own hurt was audible to someone who knew how to
hear it. He took a deep breath to steady out the anger that was rising
in him again, then leaned lightly against Keelin and put his head on
the older man’s shoulder; all lightly, in case Keelin should pull them
away.
End Flashback
After that night, as had happened too many times, he and Keelin had
parted silently and not seen one another for several months. Neither
sought the other, and Tarin was sure that whenever Keelin saw him the
Andoran chose a different path to his destination, just as Tarin did
when he saw his lover. He wondered silently whether they could really
be called lovers at all—in the long years that he had known Keelin they
had only had a handful of encounters, almost every one of them ending
in excruciating, mind-flaying pain. He hung the towel over his head
and breathed in his own scent, the bittersweet aroma of sweat mingling
with the unmistakable fragrance of hard work.
Suddenly he could not stand his room an moment longer and he flung the
towel on to the floor. He splashed cold water over his head and body
before wiping down again and changing into fresh clothes. A walk
would be good…Yes, a nice walk in the evening to clear my mind…
He slipped into his dark silks, the clothes he could never wear training,
but that just felt good against his skin when the wind caressed his
thin frame. He raked back his hair, slightly darker for the water, and
flung himself wholly into the twilight.
He walked quickly and slowly, dancing and dragging his feet, holding
his breath and breathing the night air deep, soaring and falling, crying
and laughing; he set himself free, forced his mind away from its Sisyphusian
labor, forced himself to fly. It was hard work, and he found himself,
exhausted, fallen like an angel, leaning against a large stone wall
Light-knows-where. The stone was cool as death, and just as pleasantly
welcoming, the wind calling him to sleep and forget, sleep and dream.
He knew its siren’s song—sleep was nightmare, if it happened at all,
and he would not give in. He raised sapphire eyes to the onyx sky and
watched the diamonds sparkle there, in a heaven he knew he’d never reach.
Keelin
Delaney al’Belia
While seeking revenge, dig two graves
- one for yourself.
Keelin
stalked along the hallways, his smile bright and dangerous as he made
his way towards the Great Hall. His bondholder, an unwilling participant
in his party games, trailed along behind him. He’d explained what she
was to do over and over again, until he was sure she’d come out of her
trance to listen and understand. If he pushed too hard, Corenne retreated
to somewhere deep inside her mind where he couldn’t get at her. It infuriated
Keelin; not even the bond, so useful at almost every other time, could
pry her from her thoughts. Still, he would find a way to get around
that, too. She would come with him, after this night, and the Great
Lord take what the other witches thought! Having his own tame witch
would be exceedingly useful.
Corenne had promised that she would do exactly as she was told, her
unwillingness overcome by Keelin’s threats and promises. If she did
as he wanted, he would let her free for a while, and she could do as
she liked without having to worry about him. If she did not, she would
suffer worse torment than she could ever imagine. Corenne might not
want to live, but if she had to then she wanted to live without any
more pain. Keelin knew that, and so had the advantage. She would
do what he commanded. By the end of the night, he would be triumphant
– and then he would leave. This White Tower full of its witches and
cringing so-called warriors was not a place for him. He had plans.
Over time, those plans had changed and grown. It would no longer be
enough just to leave his sister dead; now he had things he needed to
take with him, places he needed to go. There would have to be a life
after Dillan’s death; if he died with her, then she had won. Keir’s
work had not been completed before he was murdered, and Keelin’s training
had kept him from pursuing his mentor’s passion. But after this he would
be free. He quite liked the idea of buying a little inn, a safe place
– well, as safe as any place that the Great Lord’s servants could be
in – for meetings and deals. At the moment he was not exactly powerful,
but that would change, given time. After this, he would have time aplenty.
He would need subordinates, men and women sworn to his Lord and willing
to obey his orders. After the defection of Cair Aman, Keelin had almost
no one on his side. There was Corenne, of course, but she hardly counted;
the woman was weak, and had incurred the Great Lord’s displeasure more
than once. Her bond to him was evidence of that; they both knew she
hated him more than almost anything else in the Pattern or out of it,
and he was not exactly fond of her either. Out of the Tower it would
be easier to contact others of his kind, but he wanted a group of loyal
servants before he left. Even just one would be enough. Someone who
loved him and would not betray him – he knew exactly who that should
be.
The best of it was that his little Tinker would come with him without
too much persuasion. Keelin was not one to exaggerate his own charisma,
but he knew that Tarin seemed to find him almost irresistible. That
in itself made the boy perfect for his plans; he would mold and form
him, creating exactly what he wanted. Keir had done the same thing,
using Keelin as his clay, and everyone could see how well that had worked.
Everything Keir had done had worked, except for his attempt to kill
Dillan. Keelin would improve and then continue, using the tricks his
lover had taught him long ago.
His fingers stroked the hilt of the dagger in his belt, idly toying
with the metalwork twisted around the crosspiece. The Flame of Tar Valon
graced it, stark white against the steel blade and leather-banded hilt.
Keelin had not been able to think of any better weapon to use against
his sister than this, the symbol of all she loved. Besides, it was not
uncommon for a Gaidin to treasure his Sei’Tar dagger for the rest of
his life, and therefore she would not be suspicious that he wore it
even to a feast. He would be able to kill her in any case, but the woman
was strong and should not be given much of a chance to fight. Keir would
have disposed of her as quickly as possible, and Keelin would follow
that plan. The only difference was that he would not be killed.
It was all clear in his mind. He knew exactly how all this should go.
Dillan would enter the ballroom, or else she would be there when he
arrived – it didn’t matter which, so long as she was there. He – still
disguised, of course; it would never do to have her recognize him –
would smile, ask her to walk with him, say he had been posted in Andor
and had news of her family. She would come with him – she would want
to hear about her family. As soon as they were out of view of the ballroom,
Corenne would drop his disguise, and he would kill Dillan. Then he would
walk back, collect Tarin from wherever the boy hid, and leave the Tower.
Simple yet effective.
Corenne was still following him, a couple of paces behind, and he could
feel her annoyance tempered with attempts to keep herself calm. If he
hadn’t needed her to behave and do as he ordered, he would have allowed
himself the mild pleasure of annoying her even further. As it was, he
was denying himself such small delights in order to have one big delight
later. Though he didn’t want to admit it, he needed Corenne’s help to
pull this off. Keir would have sneered, scorned the use of a witch –
but Keir’s way hadn’t exactly worked.
Now they arrived at the outskirts of the Great Hall, and parted ways.
Corenne had been given her instructions: go into the ballroom, and wait
there unless Dillan entered and then left. If she saw the Gaidar, she
was to follow her, so that Keelin could track them both through the
bond. In the meantime, Keelin would scout out the gardens, finding the
perfect place to deliver the coup de grace to his sister. He tilted
his head up and sniffed the breeze. Summer was just fading into autumn,
with the hint of snow in the air. If he could have waited just a few
more months, he could have killed Dillan on the same day as she had
murdered her husband, but he could not wait. With every day, the risk
of detection was heightened. If he wanted to live, he must escape.
A shadow in the courtyard caught his eye. A human – or was it? – flopped
against a wall. Keelin stalked a little closer, dark eyes peering through
the gloom. A male shape, he thought; a man with pale hair. He seemed
familiar. The young Darkfriend tilted his head to one side, and smiled.
Well, well, what have we here? It seemed he wouldn’t need to
go in search of Tarin after all. Here was his boy, right where Keelin
wanted him. The Great Lord was clearly smiling on him tonight. A good
omen. He would be able to fetch Tarin later - now, all that was needed
was for Dillan to show up.
Corenne
Micara
She
was adrift in silence; in pure, boundless white.
Formless, without substance, she hovered in a womb-like pulsing of perfect
quiet light, letting the world and her thoughts churn below her unnoticed,
while she floated above. All sight, sound and smell she ignored, shutting
it off with barriers in her mind that she formed effortlessly. For this
moment, she was at peace. She nestled a virtual cocoon, cut off from
the maelstrom that threatened to suffocate her. In this state, she could
almost forget the bond that held her in it’s chains. Keelin was a buzzing
biteme, easily ignored, slapped away and forgotten. The music, the laughter,
the golden light, the smell of food and flowing wine—all of it may as
well not have existed as far as Corenne was concerned.
She sat alone in a dimly lit corner, perched on the edge of a velvet
covered bench, a goblet of chilled water held in her fingertips. Her
eyes were closed, and her breathing was shallow. Her dark hair spilled
down her back, catching the glow of the candlelight so that it shone,
making neat contrast to her snowy silks. To any eye, she was the picture
of a White sister caught up in her meditation, hardly unusual for a
sister like Corenne Micara.
Of course, anyone who knew her at all might have wondered why she was
here, of all places. Corenne did not care. She was beyond caring, beyond
any emotion that did not stink of anger and despair. If she did not
detach, her mind would crack like an egg. Despite years of ignoring
her fragile mental state, she only now acknowledged just how far her
maddened bondholder had taken her beyond any point of reason. She had
to preserve something of her own, or…or…
…or what?…
The voice was a soft whisper, slipping into her reverie, but she did
not notice it. She let it roll off her like water sliding off flower’s
petal.
Keelin would be angry, to see her sitting here with eyes closed. He
would accuse her of ignoring his ‘instructions’, of not ‘paying attention.’
Fool man. Now there was an oxymoron if ever there was one. Corenne
would know when the woman arrived. Her mind was detached, enshrouded
in it’s white light and stillness, but another part of her watched,
and listened. She could fragment her mind many times over, and not give
it a moment’s extra thought.
And so…soft…silent…stillness…the lapping of waves on a sandy white beach,
the hot sun beating down in brilliant white light…a stagnant, depthless
pool of water in an ivory forest…all was still, all was silent…
“Corenne?”
The silence roared.
Her grey eyes snapped open, pupils dilating, lips tightening. A small,
pale-haired young woman stood before her, tiny hands tucked in a white
fur muff of all things, a crooked smile on her plump lips. It was Ivara
Neimblin, one of the younger, newer sisters of the White. Corenne did
not like the woman, but then, she did not like most women. Ivara was
too self-important, and boasted too much of her ‘grand philosophies’
and her ‘keen sense of logic.’
“Yes?” Corenne’s voice was carefully mild. Her bitter observations made
no bearing on countenance or tone: too long she had worn a diligently
crafted mask to allow disdain to show through now.
“Corenne Micara? Light, sister, I did not expect to find you here!”
Her laughter was a tinkling of bells. “I don’t believe I’ve ever
seen you at a party!”
“No, you probably have not,” Corenne replied softly, setting her goblet
beside her, forestalling the woman from taking a seat.
“Well, then, sister, what brings you here? I’m always fascinated by
what causes people to break their own molds, so to speak. It’s an object
of one of my many studies.” She moved closer, white skirts swaying,
revealing insets of silver and gold. Tiny seed pearls adorned the cuffs
of her tear-drop sleeves, and a large moonstone rested in the hollow
of her throat. Her golden hair was done up in a silly affectation that
Corenne supposed was meant to resemble an arching wave in mid-crest.
The answer rose easily to her lips. “I am here to pursue studies of
my own,” she said.
“Really?” Ivara said, her smile widening. “And what studies are those?”
Corenne looked at her, wondering if that vacant stare was affected,
or if the woman was truly as brainless as she seemed. She felt a surge
of rage that her meditations should have been interrupted by such an
exercise in stupidity, but she pushed the beast aside. Later. Not
now.
A swirl of movement caught her eye, and she rose. “Excuse me.” She moved
past the woman, quite clearly ending the conversation.
Dillan had arrived. She was met with calls and hello’s, waved hands
and beaming smiles. A pair of servants moved towards her, bearing trays
of wines and punches, giving half-bows and pleasant curtsies, all the
while holding their burdens steadily. The woman might not be Head Gaidin
anymore, but she still carried with her an air of sturdy authority,
and as she moved attentions moved with her.
Corenne’s gaze slanted to the opposite end of the room. Keelin was weaving
his way through the swirling crowd. No calls or smiles for him, for
with the Illusion Corenne had woven about him his face would spark no
recognition. The flows were inverted of course, and her own hold on
the Source was masked with a complex weave she had learned long ago.
She could feel his rising anticipation through the bond, and she felt
a strong urge to clean herself, to scrub herself free from the stain
that would never wash away. Oh, how she despised this man. She hated
him with a deep and sustaining hatred, a hatred that she caressed and
stroked like a child, raising and molding it so it grew ever colder
and sweeter. He thought he had her wrapped round his finger, bound to
him by these strange ties that should not be, bound by Oaths they both
shared to their Master.
You are wrong, she thought, forcing her fists to unclench.
She watched as he drew close to Dillan, pulling her aside with his head
bowed deferentially, murmuring words in her ear. Corenne could not hear
them, but she knew what he said. News of Dillan’s family, news she would
need to hear. The Gaidar’s expression was stony, unreadable, but she
nodded and gestured for Keelin to lead.
Corenne had a sudden urge to cry out. She cared little for this woman,
but she did not want to see her die. She did not want Keelin to win,
to have his way and dance in exultation over the woman’s slain body.
She did not know why Keelin was doing this, but it didn’t matter. She
only knew she didn’t want to take part in it.
She moved through the shadows, her white skirts trailing behind her,
slipping out the double doors into the night. Keelin and Dillan moved
ahead of her, their forms dissolving in the shadows, curling away down
a path that lead into the Gardens.
In her mind, she could imagine herself taking sudden action. She could
see herself darting ahead, grabbing hold of the woman’s arm, tearing
her away form Keelin. She could see her reaching out and ripping out
his throat with curled fingers, tearing into his eyes, pulling out his
hair, reaching into his chest and plunging her claws into his blackened
heart, then flinging it as far as she could in a spray of hot crimson…
Her white slippers padded noiselessly down the path. The moon was barely
a fingernail crescent, obscured by thick, silver-blue clouds, and the
night’s shadows were thick as soot. Her steps slowed, and up ahead,
through the silhouettes of leafy trees, she saw the pair, standing beneath
the arching arms of an elm. Corenne dropped to a crouch, peering through
the cracks of the leafy brush, eyes fixed on the two of them.
When you see that we have stopped, you will drop the Illusion.
Keelin had repeated his instructions near a dozen times, as if Corenne
hadn’t perfectly held them in her mind the first time. He thought her
so stupid.
Her breath came in short, soft pants. She would end it now. She would
weave something he wasn’t expecting, a simple slice of Fire to cut his
throat, to spill his life’s blood on the earth. That would certainly
drop the Illusion. Or no, she would shout out, cry for the woman to
run away, hurl bolts of flame and lightening down upon him so there
would be no chance of escape.
She formed the weaves, jagged bolts of Fire and Spirit, preparing them
to lance from the heavens…
And yet…
She could hear herself screaming, far away in her mind, a wretched wail
that only she could hear. That damned bond, that bloody, cursed,
life-forsaken bond that would not let her disobey his direct
bloody order…
A sharp cry tore from her throat, and the weaves of Illusion fell away.
Keelin
Delaney al’Belia
There’s no such thing, you know, as
picking out the best woman: it’s only a question of comparative badness,
brother.
“Dillan
Gaidar.”
She didn’t know him; he could see the confusion in her eyes. Polite
confusion, of course – his sister was still so naïve. Keelin took her
elbow, moving her away from the crowds, trying to find a patch of quiet.
And she followed, Light save her, she followed! He could hardly keep
the smile from his face. But he required solemnity, for now; after all,
his disguise was that of a Gaidin who had only just returned, who had
news that this woman might want to hear. Gaidin didn’t go around beaming
at everyone. Keelin glanced around, checking to see if anyone was listening
too closely. Or to see if Twilla was around. If that Aes Sedai turned
up, she’d find a way to ruin everything. Corenne would do her work again
if the plan was compromised – he’d drilled that into her, too. Hopefully
she’d been paying attention.
“Do I know you, Gaidin?” That was the fancloak she spoke to, not him.
Her eyes flickered over the Illusion that concealed him, trying to find
something she recognized. Keelin gave a half-bow, pretending obeisance.
If he seemed as though he could never present a threat, she would feel
safe. If she felt safe, she would come with him. That was all he needed.
Great Lord bless Corenne and her disguise!
“No, Gaidar,” he said softly. “I know you only by name and reputation.
For the past few years I was stationed in Andor, near Caemlyn – I knew
a family with your name. They moved away a few months ago, but...well,
I have news of them. Now, I don’t know if they’re your kin, and if they’re
not I’m sorry to bother you, but if they are...” Yes. There it
was; she was hooked. He could see the hope in her face. In truth he
knew no more of their family than she did, didn’t know which of his
brothers had fathered a child or been killed in battle, but he didn’t
need to. Before she had questions to ask, she would be dead. “If we
could get away from the noise?” he requested. “I find it hard to concentrate
with so many people around.”
“Of course.”
He walked off, and she followed, unsuspecting, trusting. Now Keelin
couldn’t keep his lips from curving into a smile, nodding to anyone
who gave him a sign of greeting. His sister’s steps continued behind
him, steady and confident. His heart beat faster, victory coiling like
lightning through his veins. Even now he could feel her body caving
under the steel of his knife, hear the gasp of her last breath. He moved
out into the night, past the courtyard where Tarin still rested against
a wall, Dillan trailing him on the last walk she would ever take.
Night covered him like a cloak, masking his Illusion-clouded features.
Would it be now that Corenne chose to drop the Illusion and let his
face be seen, or would she wait? He’d told her to wait, and she could
hardly disobey. Wait until they stopped...he would stop, turn, and have
the knife in his sister’s body before she could think to move. The last
sight she would see would be his face, so similar to hers, and her own
blood coating his hands. And then she would die, knowing who killed
her, knowing why her life was forfeit...and he would walk away, collect
Tarin, and become everything that he was meant to be.
His footsteps slowed. Keelin tilted his face to the night sky, barely
visible through the thick shadows of the branches above him. The dagger
in his belt had found its way, as if by magic, into his hand. He didn’t
recall lifting it from his sheath, but here it was, just waiting. And
the world was so silent, so still, for this last act in the play that
had waited for years. He could hear only his own breathing, his own
steps, and Dillan’s just behind him. In the dark she had drawn closer,
so as not to lose him. Closer...
Now.
A scream ripped the night as he turned around. Corenne! The bitch
had warned her! Metal scraped, a glint of moonlight shimmering off his
sister’s knife. Keelin lunged forward, only just evading Dillan’s counter
strike. She turned, and his blade met only empty air. For a moment he
had seen surprise in her face, before her training took over; she recognized
him, now. As she turned again, she mouthed his name, her face only just
visible in the moon’s flickering rays. Keelin held back his scream of
rage and frustration, striking at her again. If she had the time, she
would call for help, and it would all be over. He had to kill her, and
fast.
He leapt again, uncoiling like a snake, his blade flashing light. Dillan
dropped, rolling sideways, her own knife coming up under him. Keelin
tried to sidestep, but too late; a line of fire seared across his leg,
blood dripping like molten lava across his skin. But she had trapped
herself; as he dropped, his weight fell on her, pinning her to the ground.
Keelin pressed the tip of his blade into her throat, leaning on it until
it drew a trickle of blood. He could see the wild pulse of her heartbeat
as the moonlight twisted across her neck, could feel the strain of her
muscles. She had to know that if she moved or breathed, she would die.
Pain in his leg again, burning, freezing. Keelin let out a whine of
agony, realizing only belatedly that she’d stabbed him again, even though
he knelt on her arm. “You bitch,” he spat. Dillan gazed up at
him, dark eyes defiant. Her brother gritted his teeth, blocking the
pain. “Burn you, Dillan,” he hissed at her. “This is for Keir.”
For a moment her eyes opened wide, then squeezed shut as he leaned harder
on the dagger. Keelin gathered himself, then drew the blade down towards
her chest, slitting her shirt open along the way. A fine line of blood
sprang up, dark in the shadows cast by his body. The scar that marked
his lover’s attempt to take her life stood pale against her skin. Keelin
smiled, bringing the dagger to a halt over it, and then pressed down.
His sister let out a keening wail, her muscles tensing against the pain.
“Goodbye, Dillan,” Keelin whispered, and drove the blade home.