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A real smile comes to my lips at that. Not all his secrets—just one will do. “How many secrets do you have?”
He saunters over to a pile of clothes on the ground, reaches down, and pulls on his shirt. “That’s a secret, too.”
“Is it a secret why you’re practicing in the dead of night?”
“It’s hardly the dead of night. It’s almost morning.”
“That’s not much of an answer. Let me guess. It’s because you have to be the biggest, meanest Wardana?” I’m not sure if I’m teasing him in the vague hope he’ll give away something about Pa or because I get a little thrill out of the way his eyes widen in surprise and his cheeks redden. I might be acting a part—but it’s a part I’m liking.
“There are plenty who are bigger and meaner than me.”
“Oh, so it’s because you’re playing catch-up? I don’t believe that.”
He looks at the ground and tugs on a leather cord that’s tied around his wrist, wearing a shy little smile. “It’s not that either.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” I take a step back.
He glances up, his eyes the brightest thing around. “It’s that... themore I practice, the more power I’ll have over my fear, when the time comes.”
His honesty startles me. “You mean when you fight the Storm?”
He tugs at the cord around his wrist and then makes a production of adjusting his gauntlet.
“I didn’t realize.”
He gives me a crooked grin. “What, that we’re afraid? Maybe everyone isn’t. I don’t think Izamal is.”
“But you are.”
The Ven’s ikonlights turn on, flooding the dim courtyard with golden light. Dalca blinks at me, as if remembering that I’m no one. A polite mask falls over his face and he claps me on the shoulder, like we’re chums. “There’s no reason to be afraid. The Regia’s got it all in hand.”
He gives me a princely nod and strides off.
I call after him. “I never said I was afraid.”
He doesn’t look back.
Fifteen minutes until dawn. The stars are hidden behind a layer of gray clouds that hang so low the border between Storm and sky is indistinct. The halls echo with the muffled sounds of people rising and preparing for the day. I make a quick circuit of the courtyard. The colonnade’s columns cast shadows that stretch across the courtyard as day breaks and the sun shines through the clouds.
Casvian is nowhere to be found. I lean against the wall and yawn so hard my jaw cracks.
Just as the sky begins to lighten, a pair of doors bang open. Casvian stands frowning, the wind making a halo of his pale hair.
I step out from the shadows and wave.
His frown deepens. “Damn.”
The feeling is mutual. “Good morning.” I paste on the sunniest smile I can manage.
He rolls his eyes and turns on his heel so abruptly that he’s halfway down a hallway before I catch up with him. His legs are long, longer than mine, and he walks without any recognition that I’m jogging to keep up with him.
Fine. He can have his petty little power play. I unclench my jaw and try to commit to memory the path we take through a series of halls that would be identical but for the patterns in the sandstone walls.
He stops at a small door and flings it open.
The light from the hall barely penetrates into a room so packed with junk that I can’t make out where the walls are. And what a stunning variety of junk: bins of colored glass bulbs emptied of ikonlight, a crate of wrapped bar soaps, a grinning bestial skull the size of my torso, three leather trunks each with a dozen padlocks, and a lone red glove.
“I want this sorted by the end of the day.” Casvian pulls a timepiece from a pocket, nods to himself, then turns on a heel, and walks away.
