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The Otherlings killed as they passed, if they felt like it. A shudder of revulsion ran through him again. But you said nothing. Well? What do you think youve been doing? They can probably smell Shan on you. You probably reek of him. Why had Jeren not told him who she really was? He would never have allowed her anywhere near a River Holt town if he had known the truth. He could have taken her to Sheninglas, keeping her safe from her brother and his madness. If she had only trusted him enough… Shans hand squeezed hers and he spoke, his voice lifting with the breeze and carrying to them all. Calm, certain, rational, in a way she could not have managed at that moment. Jerens heart blossomed with pride and love, but all she could do was smile and let him speak. Sect Mother, forgive me that I do not know your high words to ask. I humbly petition the Shistra-Phail of this sect, and the people of the Feyna, for shelter, safety and guidance. I am Jeren, Scion of Jern, and I am True Blood. My kin have turned traitor, my brother seeks to imprison me and has taken a Feynas life. Indeed? Sam? said Lily. What are you doing? Jeren surged up again, snarling.Leave him alone. Dont touch him. Dont you dare— He smiles to himself as he stares at the list of names, provided so helpfully by the site administrator. Sees Catherines names in among others that, so far, mean nothing to him. An older pupil, her avatar showing an attractive brunette with a Botoxed forehead and inflatable lips, has promised to dig out some class photographs for him. He notices a couple of Friend requests from members of the group. Accepts themboth and opens an accompanying message. Its from a sweet-sounding lady called Natasha. Stay back from him, said a second. Hes one of them, pale as he is. You can see it. Just…dont get too close. What are you— No. Stop this, Jeren. I command it. Unlike me. It sounded like a dreadful confession, some deep and terrible sin he had to share. Jeren stared at him, opened her mouth, but couldnt say anything. Unlike him. Yes, perhaps. She hadnt meant it like that but still— There are a dozen pupils seated in haphazard semi-circles in the cosy, high-ceilinged space known to staff and pupils alike as the Map Room. When the school was still a private residence, this large, wood-timbered space was one of the main rooms for entertaining guests: peacock-patterned silks and Javanese furniture, splendid in the glowing warm light of the great black fireplace. Now it is a study space– beanbags and slouchy chairs, book-cases crammed with well-loved paperbacks and pristine textbooks, donated by any one of the new age charities that have done their damnedest to be associated with a facility that offers a truly unique education, focussing as it does on hearts and souls as well as academic excellence. Its a pleasingly tatty room, with threadbare carpets concealed with big multi-coloured rugs, and the cracks in the walls are covered with old maps of the local area; contour lines grouped tightly together like the whorls in a thumbprint. But she wasnt done with it just yet. I closed my eyes.The walls and floor are concrete. Theres no windows and one door..