Thunder boomed as they threaded their way down the spiral of stone, each minding the several treacherous steps without thought through long familiarity with their subtle variations. The candle threw wavering shadows on the rough walls, shadows that danced around them like ghostly attendants on their journey.
"Vayel?" asked Cala when they had paused on the first landing to allow her to catch her breath.
"Magistra?" he said, polite but distant.
"Will not your wedding be soon?"
Cala had wanted to ask him since his arrival, but he had thrown up barriers both mental and physical whenever she had attempted to broach the subject.
She had hopes now of a full frontal attack while he was distracted.
"Not soon nor ever," Prince Vayel of Carleone replied, his voice as hard and cold as the stone steps he strode away on.
Without the courtesy of waiting for her this time.
"My, my," said Cala mildly as she trotted down the steps after him. There was an irritated look in her eye.