Seteal seemed incapable of having a regular conversation anymore. She spoke of nothing other than her recently acquired animosity toward silts. El-i-miir felt tempted to unravel Far-a-mael’s weaving just to spite him, but thought better of it. Not only would he know that she’d done it, but such hatred was presently the only thing empowering Seteal to do anything other than curl up on the floor.
El-i-miir stared at the wagon perched across the road. Ilgrin laid uncomfortably in the cold. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for the creature with his leg chained and hands tied. El-i-miir shook her head. What was she thinking? This was a silt, a demon. He deserved whatever he got . . . regardless of how attractive he was. El-i-miir widened her eyes disbelievingly at the inappropriateness of her thoughts.
What might a demon feel like? El-i-miir wondered if he’d be cold to the touch as she gazed upon his bare white chest. She wandered over and reached out to poke the tip of his wing. The demon mumbled under his breath and El-i-miir leapt back in fear. After regathering her confidence, she reached out and placed a hand flat against his chest. He was warm, like an ordinary man. El-i-miir hadn’t known what to expect, but she hadn’t anticipated he’d feel the same as anyone else. Her eyes slid along the silt’s slender, muscular body. His features were warped, angular or elongated in certain places, but not at all in an unappealing way. El-i-miir snatched back her hand and glared at the silt as though it’d been his fault that she’d had such thoughts. She took a moment to remind herself that if the stories were anything to go by, he was a monster constructed of purest evil.
Bright purple eyes opened and took away El-i-miir’s breath. They were beautiful. She stepped back nervously.
‘Thank you,’ the silt whispered. El-i-miir had been educated to believe that Ilgrin was a terrible foe and yet she could feel no evil in him. Her instincts were finely tuned to detect even the faintest taste of treachery and yet she could find none in the man before her. His aura served as a window into a soul filled with more kindness and compassion than El-i-miir had seen in a long time. She couldn’t understand how Far-a-mael was so unable to see it. Or unwilling.
‘What for?’ El-i-miir replied, glanced over her shoulder to check if anyone was watching.
‘For checking on me,’ Ilgrin replied.
‘That’s okay.’ El-i-miir shrugged nonchalantly.
‘Do you believe what I told the others, El-i-miir?’ Ilgrin lifted his head and leaned on an elbow.
El-i-miir’s heart raced at the sound of her name on his tongue. It was beautiful when it came from his lips. ‘I have to believe you.’ She sighed. ‘I’m able to detect dishonesty. From you, I’ve heard none.’
‘Then you’ll set me free?’ The silt sat up, hope filling his eyes.
‘No.’ El-i-miir shuddered at the thought. ‘I can’t.’
‘But you said you believed me.’
‘I’d be condemned for such an act.’ El-i-miir threw out her arms. ‘They’d kill me.’
‘Then come with me,’ Ilgrin beckoned.
‘No,’ El-i-miir gaped. ‘Where could we possibly go?’
‘Who cares?’ Ilgrin replied. ‘We’d be alive. If you do nothing, they’ll kill me.’
‘I’m sorry. I really am.’ El-i-miir shook her head wearily. ‘But I can’t just throw everything away . . . my life . . . my family. I can’t give that up for a . . .’ She trailed off.
‘For a demon,’ Ilgrin finished, his tone becoming bitter.
‘I suppose that’s true.’ El-i-miir clenched her teeth. ‘You’re still a silt, whether you were raised in Sitnic or not. You’ve killed people.’
‘And you haven’t?’ Accusation was written across Ilgrin’s features.
El-i-miir opened her mouth to reply, but could think of no way to defend herself. Through him, she too had raised the dead. El-i-miir turned to walk away.
‘Wait!’ Ilgrin cried.
‘What?’ El-i-miir snapped furiously.
‘Is that . . . ?’ The silt shielded his eyes to gaze up the road. His attention was locked on Briel, who was busy slicing up the remains of his horse. With long days ahead, there was no sense in leaving the meat to rot.
‘Goodbye, Ilgrin,’ El-i-miir grumbled. ‘I’d keep quiet if I were you.’
‘No!’ the silt shouted, leaping to his feet. ‘Emquin!’ The howl tore from his throat, revealing a level of compassion not ordinarily expressed for a horse.
‘Shut up,’ El-i-miir pleaded that the silt be quiet if only to protect him from Far-a-mael’s wrath.
‘You have to stop this,’ Ilgrin gasped, tears pouring down his face. ‘If you have any heart at all, you have to stop him.’
‘It’s just a horse.’ El-i-miir shook her head, confused by the silt’s dedication. ‘I don’t understand?’
‘No, you don’t.’ Ilgrin’s purple eyes burned with fury. ‘You really don’t!’
‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll have to shut you up!’ El-i-miir warned.
‘Stop him!’ Ilgrin shouted. ‘Stop him and I’ll explain. She deserves a decent burial.’
‘That’s it,’ El-i-miir gritted her teeth, ‘I warned you.’ She embraced the Ways, spun a string of light around the silt’s aura and severed it. The aura dulled as the silt’s head hit the earth. El-i-miir glanced at Far-a-mael’s tent and was relieved to see he hadn’t exited. She’d split Ilgrin’s consciousness quite deeply and was satisfied that he wouldn’t wake up for hours.