“Yours, I believe?” Dualayn asked, handing it to Ōbhin.
He took it with a nod as she struggled to find her composure. Then she threw her arms around the rotund, older man in a shaking hug. She clutched to him, on the verge of apoplectic tears running down her face. It all swept through her, how close she’d come again to death. How she avoided it by the narrowest of margins.
“W-what is . . .” Her voice broke off into croaks as the sobs built in her chest.
“I’ve agreed to resume my working relationship with Grey,” said Dualayn. “He has promised me a primer for the Recorder. They’ve been looking for one.”
“How can they have a primer for it?” she asked, latching onto the question to flee the fear the sorcerer’s eyes seared on her mind. “It’s been buried for three thousand years.”
Dualayn shrugged. “They need what the Recorder contains. And so do I. So . . . a trade.”
She shook her head.
“It’ll be okay,” he said, slowly prying her from his form. He gave her a gentle nudge and she found herself suddenly leaning against Ōbhin, feeling his solid strength. His dusky features looked pale, bleached to a sickly tan, sweat shining across his brow.
He gave her a nod, a flash of understanding. He didn’t think her weak or womanish to tremble now. Not after experiencing that man’s presence. She clutched his arm, fingers digging into his naked skin as breath by breath the fear drained out of her.
*
“You’re not even afraid,” Avena whispered as she clutched to Ōbhin’s arm, her fingernails biting into his flesh. He led her out of the barn so the White Lady and Dualayn could attend to Carstin. Her naked, unashamed face stared at him with all her emotions revealed, her inner self laid bare to his scrutiny. “I was terrified. Look at me . . . I mean . . . that man . . .”
“Everyone’s afraid,” Ōbhin answered. His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword. He breathed in the fresher air outside. “Bravery is about managing fear.”
“How do you?” she whispered. “I’m about to shake myself to pieces.”
“It’s easy when your life is worthless.” An old wound throbbed in his heart.
“No life is worthless. Colours can be found beneath the thickest stain.” Her fingers bit deeper into his arm even as her trembling slowed. “Even your soul can be polished bright, like a diamond plucked from the earth.”
He glanced at his black gloves.
“You managed your fear well enough,” he said. “You held it together until he left.”
“I was just so furious,” she muttered. “That awful man wanted to take away what little hope Carstin has left.”
Ōbhin nodded. Dje’awsa’s amethyst worried him. It drank blood. What had the man meant? What dark magic could he perform with it? Did we do more than save Carstin’s life?
“There’s no shame in the rush of emotion after a battle,” said Ōbhin, his thoughts skittering away from Dje’awsa and his obsidian scepter. His bloody hand. “It affects us all differently. Don’t compare yourself to one numbed by life’s horrors.”
He felt her eyes on him, the same expression she wore when she stared at Carstin. A surge of anger filled him. He wasn’t a wounded thing to be pieced back together. No one could mend acts already committed. The past could not be unmade.
“Where did you learn such a skill?” said Dualayn.
The White Lady swept out of the barn trailed by the rotund man, his eyes wide. He rubbed at his flushed brow with his white handkerchief, his breath fast, stretching out the front of his waistcoat.
The White Lady ignored him and glanced at Ōbhin, her expression full of deep sorrow. “I am sorry, I could not mend him fully, but he shall have strength. He won’t pass away for weeks yet, but if he doesn’t receive more aid . . .”
“How did you use diamond to sustain him?” Dualayn asked. “It is associated with light and truth.”
“Truth can be used in many ways,” she said, “including to encourage a soul lost in darkness.” A soft smile spread on her lips. Her yellow eyes seemed to deepen to blue. “I do not know if you have the skill, good Dualayn, but he should survive the trip to your home. It is all I can do. I have other business to attend.”
“Thank you,” Ōbhin said, his voice croaking with disuse.
“You are most welcome,” she answered in his native Qothian, her words bright and airy, spoken with the same refined accent as found in the capital.
He wanted to ask her questions, but she had already turned around and swept towards the ruined farmhouse. Dje’awsa stood in the shadow of the sagging porch. Ōbhin felt the anger in the sorcerer’s eyes, a deep and odious rage.
If he could stab my heart with his gaze . . . Niszeh’s Tone resonated with the man, and not just because he used forbidden obsidian. The dissonant melody that ruined the perfect harmony of the Seven Tones caused all manner of problems in the world. Its song could drown out the other Seven and lead you to acts of jealousy, anger, greed, and lust.
His fingers clenched, the black leather creaking.
“Well,” Dualayn said, “we are free to leave when we wish, Avena. Ust and his disreputable companions will not hinder us.”
“Truly?” Avena asked. She glanced at Dualayn, opened her mouth, then snapped it shut with obvious displeasure.
“Could I pay you for an escort?” Dualayn asked the Qothian.
Ōbhin opened his mouth but could find no words, shock leaving him dumbfounded.
“What?” asked Avena, color paling from her cheeks.
“Well, we seem to be out of a guard,” Dualayn explained.
“Because he killed Ni’mod.” She pulled away from Ōbhin and planted hands on her hips, giving him
