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"Another word for fate," Caenan whispers back. "Now, shh."
"What rites do the lords propose this conclave?" Ryther asks.“We’ve already wasted half a day. The hollow will not suffer bloodsports for long.”
"A race through the Hollow is custom, is it not?" a tall, dark man with familiar features ask.
I turn to Caenan, comparing them. They must be related. Brothers, if not twins.
“Yes, that bastard is my father’s.”
"What?"
They appear to be around the same age, somewhere in their early twenties.
Now that I’m pay attention, no one seems very old. Never younger than sixteen, thirty-five at a push.
Then again, Ryther speaks of living for over a thousand years, and doesn't look a day over thirty, so why am I surprised exactly?
“We stop aging when we reach our strongest form,” Caenan hisses. “Now, stop with all the astounded mental chatter and exclamations. You might as well hold a sign saying, ‘hey, I’m new here, guess who I am.’ Crap. Too late.”
He’s right, a few people glance towards us curiously. I’d like to say it’s because Caenan’s father referred to him, but I definitely see a few probing glances towards me.
But how am I supposed to stop thinking?
“Just think about something less obvious,” he grunts. “I don’t know, recite poetry or something.”
Right. That makes sense.
I bite my lip.
I want you to listen to me carefully, pretty little idiot.
Ryther’s not looking at me, but his voice rings clear, right in my head, while he keeps talking out loud. Something about the second rites. A tournament after the race.
You’re going to walk back toward the entrance, slow, no sharp movement. And then, you’re going to run like your life depends on it. Because it does.
I blink, watching as the people who were looking towards us whisper to their neighbors, stealing more glances.
I take a step back, and another, feeling like a cornered prey.
They’re not sure yet. But each of your silly little thoughts betrays who you are. And since you’re no longer in my camp, you will be hunted.
“That’s her!”
“She’s here.”
“Truly?”
“Let me through! That’s my slave. Let me through!”
That last voice freezes the blood in my veins, turning it to ice.
Junis.
I could never forget his rough tenor.
“Darina!” he calls, pointing right at me.
All the helplessness of being a guest in my own body comes crashing back, fear making me shiver.
