She didn’t answer. Her head was turned slightly, revealing her pale, sunken face and red-rimmed eyes, magnified by glasses. But she never looked at him.
After what felt like an eternity, her lips twitched and she asked with a dry, dead voice, “Don’t you have work to do?”
“I can take a moment for you.”
“You never do.” She paused. “Don’t bother now.”
Chapter 13
Ridden with guilt, I took Tayrel Kan to the field hospital. The frailness of his body terrified me. He always seemed emaciated, but he weighed almost nothing in my arms; his ribs were prominent even through his suit, his stomach not flat but sunken in, his hipbones sharp and protruding. I feared I might crush him if I squeezed too tight.
But it was when I dropped him in the field hospital, that a real dread descended on me. There were so many people here… I saw Malyn Tol with blood dripping down her temple, her eyes hazy. Argan Am with face covered in burns, a hand with conjoined fingers the only defining feature.
I saw Amma La, numb with shock, sitting beside a shrouded shape and my heart clenched.
I fled to the hills.
The rain of rocks stirred the ashes that were now falling in black petals. If that wasn’t a funeral setting, I didn’t know what was.
If the info they put in my head was correct, we lost all of our kas’shams, as well as over half of our aerial forces, and an untold number of people on the ground. But my thoughts kept circling back to Laik Var. I was right by him when that happened. I could have…
What?
I wrested my thoughts away from my vessár. But the second subject my mind came up with was not much better.
My father.
He was a rough, almost callous, man, but I knew that in his own way, he loved me. Sometimes he seemed more interested in his animals than the people around him, and in that regard, I was just like him. He died shortly before I joined Mespana, and however dirty that made me feel, I wouldn’t be able to do so if he lived. Bah, I wouldn’t even dare to express such a wish! I would probably do as he said, marry a girl he chose for me, build a house, try to have children.
His death put an end to such plans. I was free. I was… relieved.
Did that make me a bad son? A bad person? I loved my father and had great respect for his words and deeds, even if they weren’t always pleasant. I tried my best to mourn when he died, and I failed to understand why I couldn’t…
Why couldn’t I feel back then like I felt right now?
And there was Amma La. The daughter of Laik Var. How could I not notice? She had the same grass-blue eyes and prominent nose. But what gave him an aspect of almost regal authority only made her look like a witch from old tales.
I recalled the moment I first saw them two together. She didn’t call him father. Wasn’t that ironic? It made me wonder… if there was someone, somewhere, for whom Haneaith Tearshan was what Laik Var was for me.
How strange it all was!
I wondered if talking to someone, like Myar Mal suggested—although regarding a different issue—could help me clarify things. But I couldn’t do that. It was too shameful, too… wrong. I wasn’t in the mood for company, anyway.
Sadly, not everyone understood that.
“Got tchalka?” I asked, too tired and resigned to protest.
Without a word, Tayrel Kan procured two pieces of reed, lit them with a flicker of his fingers, then handed one to me. It seemed less unpleasant than the first time, and the relief came faster. I knew it wasn’t real and when it passed, it would leave me more disturbed than before, but I didn’t care at that point. We smoked in silence for a moment.
“Laik Var was the only person who stood up for me,” I said finally, not able to keep my feelings bottled any longer. Was. Not is, not anymore. It sounded surreal. The words left my mouth, but my brain refused to process them.
“I’ll stand for you,” Tayrel Kan replied, and I couldn’t hold back a chuckle. He sent me a puzzled look. “What?”
“I think everyone in the camp has heard Myar Mal yelling at you.”
He made his Dahlsian wave-shrug. “Yeah, he likes drama.”
The ease with which he took it—everything, Myar Mal’s wrath, and that fiasco—grated me. How could he be so calm? Did those deaths mean nothing to him?
“He blames you for what happened,” I said, wishing to break through his indifference.
“He’ll get over it.”
He seemed completely unaffected, the dark circles under his eyes the only mark of this morning’s events. The bastard didn’t even have a bruise from where I hit him with the brazier. His scars, though… they were red now, not pink, and deep, with skin taut around them, as if something was digging into them, threatening to cut through.
Although, if the unfocused gaze was anything to go by, I’d say it wasn’t his first tchalka. Perhaps he was lulling his nerves, too.
“You seem confident,” I remarked.
He chuckled mirthlessly and asked, “what is your score?”
It took me a while to figure out what he meant. Kevar scale, used to measure one’s magic potential.
“Zero point eighty-nine,” I said, somehow reluctantly. I’d heard some sorcerers were closer to two, and I suspected he’d be one of them. But he only smiled bitterly.
“Three point two,” he said.
What?
“Most humans have around one,” he continued, “Kassams vary, from one point five to two point two. Tsavikii are pretty consistent with two point six. Even fucking vhariars rarely reach two point nine. I have more than three. It’s a record, you know? In terms of sheer power, I’m officially the most powerful human sorcerer who ever lived.”
It made sense. If Kanven wanted to make him a better sorcerer, increasing his magical potential was a good start.
“How is that possible?” I
