Page 42 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“No.” Njall’s mouth thinned, as if he were biting down anger. “Oorlon still has her.”

The usual pang filled Gavriel’s chest. Then he remembered why his sympathy for Astriyed always began, and ended, there. “Is she worth it?” he asked carefully. Discovery of their affair would mean death. It made Oorlon’s intemperance all the more grotesque.

Njall’s jaw tightened, no doubt thinking of the same morbidities. “I know you don’t care for her,” he said flatly. “But I do. I can’t simply unfeel it.”

Gavriel shook his head. “It isn’t that I don’t care. It’s that I’m not sure she’s able to truly return what you give her.” It was honesty without gentleness, meant to protect rather than wound.

Tension rose between them, but not uncomfortably.

“She rebels in any ways she can,” he went on when Njall didn’t answer. “Even when it’s reckless.” He exhaled. “I want you to be happy. But more than that, I want you alive.” Then, softer, with a crooked hint of a smile, “This place would be miserable without you.”

Gavriel remembered the first time Oorlon made them cross blades for his amusement. When Njall lost, there was no bitterness in his eyes. A deep respect settled between them instead, along with the wordless understanding of another who was a misfit within Norrelia’s bounds.

Njall drew in a breath and lifted his head. The corners of his mouth eased, just enough. “I appreciate your concern,” he said. He clenched his fists, then released them. “And I wish it were not so. But if I can avoid the Festival, I always will.”

Gavriel nodded, knowing when to stop pressing, and let the matter rest.

“What about my father?” Njall asked. “Did he attend?”

“I didn’t see him,” Gavriel replied. He glanced at Njall. “How long has it been now?”

“Nearly a year,” Njall said. “I haven’t seen him in nearly a year. Haven’t spoken to him in longer than that.”

“Do you know if he still works for Oorlon?”

Njall shook his head.

“I’m certain you will see him soon,” Gavriel said carefully, “and bury whatever hatchet has been wedged between the two of you.” He offered a small smile, knowing even as he spoke that what sounded simple rarely was.

“I hope so,” Njall murmured, almost to himself. Then, turning to Gavriel, “And you?” His voice carried no resentment from earlier. Only genuine concern. “How was the Festival? I heard you embarrassed Sarvo rather thoroughly. That, I am sorry to have missed.”

“Oh, yes.” Gavriel’s grin came easily. “Easy as breathing.”

“Good.” Njall laughed. “And the duke? Was he able to reach an agreement with Oorlon?”

“He tried,” Gavriel said with a sigh. “Good man. Not bad with a sword, either. But it seems Norrelia won’t be rid of me just yet.” He made a mental note to, next time, impersonate a lord of higher standing. Preferably one better liked.

“I’m sorry, Pietre,” Njall offered, a consolatory huff following the words.

Gavriel answered with a half-shrug, kindly dismissing the sympathy, and tilted his attention back toward the moons. Particularly the Green Moon.

“Njall.”

“Hm?” Njall lifted a dark brow.

“Is it possible the wards on the garden temples were removed?”

“I don’t think so…” Njall frowned, puzzled. “Certainly not in my lifetime.” A pause. “Why?”

Green eyes flared in Gavriel’s mind, blending with traitorous yearning for freedom.

“No reason,” he murmured, barely stirring the air. “No reason at all.”

Chapter 23

Isander

Isander knew the turn by the lay of the hill, by where larks rose from the sedge, and by the glint of river between alder trunks before it bent from sight. He had watched the first signs of Emberglade Valley rise on the horizon more times than he could count, yet the sight never dulled his pleasure. As Alaric derWhitte would say: travel sharpens a man, but home restores his shape.