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She had no idea how right she was.
And I think I need one, too.
He hadn’t been anyone’s friend in a long time, had no idea why she’d want him. Couldn’t dare to wonder if she felt the same thing he’d felt since he first heard her sing—like they were the same. Like she could understand the things he’d never told anyone else, because she’d lived them, too. Like he could do the same for her.
He studied her face, the strong arch of her eyebrows, the curve of her cheekbones, and tried to find something in those features that made up a face that could tell him if everything he was thinking, everything he was feeling, was all in his head. But faces didn’t quite work that way, and all hers told him was that, even sleeping, she looked dangerous; like the slightest sound could rouse her to vengeful wakefulness. And she would, he was certain, wake with vengeance if disturbed, like Ferrian rising from the Lake of a Thousand Sorrows, flaming sword in hand.
“I am glad you came by,” he whispered, knowing she was asleep and wouldn’t hear. “And I’m glad you stood up.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kialla
Clare responded to the gentle shake Numair used to wake her by swinging wildly for an adversary that did not exist. He’d already retreated six steps by the time her fist was moving, and when she came awake enough to recognize her surroundings she was already standing, a magelamp clutched in her left hand, ready for use as a bludgeoning object.
“I give you top marks on response time and creativity, but I’m going to have to dock a few points for morning presentation.” Numair leaned against his doorframe, looking entirely too awake and smug.
She scowled, trying to make his words make any sense, and placed the magelamp back on the bedside table. “Morning presentation?”
He drew a finger in a circle around his head. She touched her hand to her hair and discovered, if the feeling was any indication, that it had done its best to imitate a squirrel’s nest overnight. She glared at him—which made him laugh—and finger-combed it into some semblance of submission while sneaking a glance at the window.
The faintest rays of sunlight were peeking over the horizon. She’d slept the entire night and she hadn’t even had nightmares—not in the sense that she usually did. Something new had taken their place, dreams of the world disintegrating until she was the only thing left, her body poised above an endless void, the Song’s power lighting her from the inside, as if she were a lantern in the darkness of nothing, until she too began to unravel and only the Song was left, and she was the Song, but the Song was not her.
“Come on,” Numair said, “I have someone I want you to meet.”
“I hardly think I’m in a state to meet anyone.”
“You aren’t wrong, but it’s not my fault you traded a one in a million dress for clothes a beggar would scoff at. But don’t worry, you aren’t meeting anyone human so I doubt they’ll judge your taste.” He gestured her toward the door.
She hesitated. “I can go back out the window.”
“And why would you do that?”
She shrugged. “If you don’t want people to see me.”
“How are we going to be friends if people don’t see you?”
“Do you want to be friends?” Ferrian’s hells, she’d never felt more ridiculous in her life, and that was saying something. He hesitated, and she wanted to turn into a living inferno and burn everything to the ground, because that was the exceptionally rational response she had to embarrassment.
“I do, actually.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “But being my friend is not going to be the best thing for your reputation.”
She rolled her eyes. “Because women throw themselves at you?”
He winced. “Something like that.”
“I’ll take it under advisement. Lead on.”
She followed him out the door. His home was beautiful, spare embellishments and dark colors and jagged accent pieces. She hadn’t known it was possible to be envious of the way a place looked. She’d been envious of plenty of homes—the shelter and warmth they provided—but she’d never been in love with an aesthetic before.
They turned a corner leading to a stairwell and it was there, on the wall, that Clare saw the painting and had to stop.
“Is that…” She trailed off, unable to finish the question, the entirety of her attention absorbed by the thick brush strokes spreading across the canvas. Deep, burnt orange waves licked the air, and from their depths rose a woman with hair the color of raven’s blood, a sword of forged black metal in her right hand, a bleeding heart in her left.
“Ferrian and the Lake of a Thousand Sorrows,” Numair said softly.
Clare reached up, fingers shaking, to touch the flames lapping at Ferrian’s body. She half-expected her own skin to burn, but the heat of the lake lived only in the painting.
“Do you think she really existed?” Clare let her hand fall, but her eyes remained locked on the image.
