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“You may believe I came to you with nothing, but I banished it nevertheless.” She had to push on, before she thought too hard and burst into tears. She burned with anger, and she must remember the right person to blame. “I have no griffin feathers now. If another galla comes for me, I am helpless.” She could not swallow; she could not speak lest her voice tremble. Yet, why not? Let Kansi believe her terrified. It was the truth.
“If you want me alive, understand that I am helpless now against the galla. And understand this: The galla are after your son as well.”
“Zuangua says Sanglant has griffins. He is well protected. Wise boy!”
“He had griffins. They are flown back into the east to breed. He has seven feathers left him. For each galla that comes, he has one less. Do you mean to let him die once he runs out of griffin feathers?”
“I cannot fight these galla without griffin feathers? Then tell me, Liathano, if you care for my son: what sorcerer calls the galla to pursue you?”
Liath smiled, and her lips formed a silent prayer as she weighed her words and spoke. “I cannot know for sure, I admit. There is only one person who in the past had the knowledge and the skill and the desire to call galla. Her name is Sister Venia, although she was also once called Biscop Antonia of Mainni. I don’t know where she is.”
There came silence for such a long time that Liath finally decided that Kansi must have left. She peeled open one of the fruits and savored the sweet, sloppy mess inside. She tasted bitter to herself, wiping her chin with her fingers and licking off the trails of juice.
Kansi’s voice slipped out of the darkness, surprising her.
Her tone was cool, but it made Liath shiver. “My people will find her, and I will deal with her.”
“Why do you keep me here?”
“That is a foolish question. You are—what would they call it at the court of Wendar, this game of carved pieces moved across a board? You are a pawn, in my keeping. With you in my hand, I have power over those who desire to take you for themselves.”
“Who would that be?” Liath demanded, for it seemed strange and ominous that Kansi used the plural.
“The blood knives, and of course—” She broke off, then finished.“—my son.”
“Sanglant wants peace. He needs peace, to rebuild after the cataclysm. Why do you wish to fight him?”
“I wish to protect my people. We cannot trust humankind.”
“You let Henry raise him.”
“That was all along the intention of the council of elders. A poor plan, which failed. We will do better, I promise you.”
“Those days are long past. We must trust each other in order to survive.”
“These are tiresome words. Do you even believe them yourself?”
“Sanglant is not your enemy.”
There was no answer, and in time Liath had to accept that Kansi had gone.
So be it. She rested a while longer and ate and drank a little more, starting with the raw eggs, which were sure to get broken. Afterward she chipped away at one of the blunt rocks to get more of an edge on it. She took off her wool outer-tunic and stripped off the lighter linen under-tunic before putting the over-tunic back on. The wool itched, but it was better to save the sturdier, warmer tunic. With the scraper she severed threads and managed with real effort to separate the tunic so that with knots and curls she could hang all of her provisions safely around her hips. She finished the eggs, rose, and walked and jumped a little to test the security of her knots.
They held.
Facing the center of the cavern, she called her wings.
They flared and faded so quickly that it left afterimages against her eyes. She tried again, but it was no use. The undercurrents of aether still thrummed through this heart, but something was missing: Li’at’dano’s power calling to her from the far side of the gateway.
Had it always taken two to open the gateway of the burning stone? Was there a thread woven between one and the other? Did she need more of a focus, or was the burning stone fading surely and slowly from the compass of the world?
She wiped away stinging tears and scratched her itching shoulders and allowed herself one burst of frustrated overpowering thwarted despairing fury, not a scream but a wash of emotion like the tidal surge that had obliterated the shore.
“Liath.”
Just like that, she snapped alert. In like manner, a hound comes to point, sensing an enemy. Any creature does. She was clear and empty and as sharp as steel.
“Liath,” he said again.
