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Laughter rattled through Gilliads voice. Because if you kill me, youll sealher fate. Doria almost laughed, though laughter was beyond her now.No onewants it, child. But in life, and death, were bound together. And well do what we must. All of us. Youve been true to us, Jeren, you— she glanced up at Shan.“—you and yours. My boy... Her face fell again and the pride melted back to grief and pain. “My boy would want no less.” I moved my hand away from the computer. Wed never located the place Salyer had held me, and no one else held there had survived.He knew Id watch this. He would have left a message no one but me would understand. The news crew in the van hesitated, not sure whether to follow me or wait for information on the crime scene. Shan? She followed him, less certain now, more the woman he knew and loved. Part of him wanted to turn back, to gather her in his arms and hold her close. But his anger was too great. He couldnt believe shed done this, started the war theyd tried to avoid, the one which they knew would destroy them. Shan, what are you doing? The girls laughed and struck their glasses together a second time. Ill get Doria. Silence descended on the dinner table, which Samara attempted to keep at bay with a frantic scratching of the charcoal. Add to the eyes, the glistening obsidian orbs. Use the method Miss Jones had taught her. Consider the source of light, the curve of the eyes… Samara dumped her sketchpad on the table and enjoyed a refreshing gulp of her icy lemon drink. She dropped her coat onto the opposite bench, glad to be free of it. Her long-sleeved shirt was warm enough in the pub with the fire blazing. The chunks of wood in the hearth emitted a pop with a small shower of golden sparks, reflected in the window on an impenetrable dark background. Shed have to get the bus home at night, but that waited in the future. No need to worry about going out there just yet. And everything he had tried just made it worse. Very well, she replied, a little more calmly. If you explain why you didnt become a Seer. Ylandra screamed and shadows poured from her distended mouth. Shadow upon shadow, black as night, flowing like hot tar. Indarin froze in horror as the nearest coalesced into the form of a Fellna and threw itself at him. It slammed into his solar plexus and he went down beneath it in a gasping heap. I brought it for you. Its your birthright, Jeren. She is my gift to you. Violet feels herself grow light-headed. Her limbs are too heavy for her body; her thoughts a soft swirl. Thirty years of memories spin, gently, in front of her drowsy eyes. She tries to centre herself. Sees herself doing as she was told; making her way to the secluded little spot halfway up the fellside in a knotted tangle of trees. She had been sweating from the steep climb through the forest, boots caked with mud, shirt clinging to her back, camera bouncing from her softly rounded belly with each step up the near-invisible path. A broad-shouldered, shaved-headed woman had greeted her with an embrace, pressing her own softness against her. She had shushed her even before she found breath to talk. Had helped her from her shirt and her shoes. Led her inside the sacred place and laid her down. She had not spoken. Didnt make a noise until the incantation began. Nobody wanted another insane Scion of Jern loose on the world. To pillage their way across the Holtlands, to burn the temples and spill blood across the fertile soil of her home. And they feared that in Gilliad, such a monster was rising again. Yes. Do you plan on trying to stop me? No, I can handle it. They were good people. They didnt deserve to die like that. I took off walking again. I dont want to talk about myfeelings, either. The woman reaches down to pick up a stone. She wants to hold something solid: to fill her pockets with weight so she does not drift away. She starts to bend down and notices that her feet are bare. She thinks of her feet as ugly things.Trotters, her last man called them. Her little toe crosses over the next one on both of her feet. There is hard, calloused skin upon her soles.Like sleeping with a cheese-grater. Thats what he said, whenever she drifted from her side of the bed onto his side. Such teasing always served as a gateway. The insults would drift up and over her as if she were lowering herself into water. Chubby ankles, toddler legs, pudgy knees, dimpled arse. Hed reach over and grab her belly. Squeeze great handfuls of her. Shed be crying by the time he reached her nipples.Rubber-fingers, he called them. Pulled out his phone and shoved pictures under her nose; sows suckling their young: swollen purple teats, bruised and sticky with greenish milk. Her tears would stoke his temper. He’d call her weak. Tell her she disgusted him. That by 46 she should know her strengths and how to cope with a little banter about her appearance. Peevishly, fatly, he would turn his mass away from her, shaking his head into the pillow, muttering about how he was trying to have fun, to make her laugh, that she could take the piss out of him if she wanted and he wouldn’t fucking cry about it. It would fall to her to apologise: clinging to his sweaty shoulder like moss..