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Authors: Jenna Rhodes
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dodge hole, a cavern at the edge of an abandoned warehouse, deserted because of fire, with the timbers left creaking and swaying unreliably. It still stank of its ruination, a heavy, choking reek of devastation by flame.
Sevryn squatted on his heels in the corner of the lean-to, and looked at the gentleman who, at least, had to catch his breath. Behind Sevryn was a rotting half barrel which led to a tunnel through the precarious debris of the warehouse itself, an escape route for him that any sane person would think about a number of times before going after him if Sevryn made a break for it.
The gentleman caught his breath, narrowed eyes hard to see through the silken mask, but observing him. When he could speak evenly, which was before Sevryn could catch his own breath, that fact alone dismaying, he said again, “Who in the hell are you to use Voice on me?”
He thought of doing it again to calm the man down, but it didn’t seem prudent. “No one. I’m a gutter brat. I don’t know what you mean, but that’s the way I talk to the caravan animals at the traders’ stables. I can handle them, sometimes, when no one else can. I can soothe them. I get paid for it, when the stables are busy. When they’re not, I mine the streets for whatever I can get.”
“Calm them down, eh?” His visitor took his hands off his knees, and straightened, but he was too tall for the dodge hole, and had to bend a bit. “Do I look like an irate pack animal?”
Actually, he sounded rather like he could bellow like a fork-horn. Sevryn clamped his lips shut tight, holding that thought.
His visitor stayed wary, eyeing Sevryn. “Ever use it on a man?”
“Only sometimes. Drunks. No one who could remember me. I don’t want any trouble.”
“So you said.” The other assessed him for a long moment. “Tell me your name.”
That, he wouldn’t do. “No one,” he said evenly. “I’m just no one.”
The man pulled off his mask. The startling, swift beauty of his blue-green eyes with their streaks highlighting the iris hit him, as did the planes of his face, and the points of his ears. He stared at the high-bred Vaelinar. “Tell me your name,” the man repeated, staring into Sevryn’s own, plain stormy gray eyes.
“I . . . I haven’t got a proper one. No one admits to my birthing.”
The Vaelinar took a deep breath. “One last chance, and if you’ve half the smarts you seem to have, you’ll be telling me the truth. You know what I am. I don’t recommend lying to me.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, one hand moving behind him to touch the side of the rotting barrel, readying for another escape. “Sevryn,” he said. “That’s all to it. No House, no lineage.”
“You’ve Vaelinar blood.” Tension left the gentleman’s body as he folded his mask neatly and tucked it an inner pocket of his cloak, seeming to have gotten what he wanted. “You know that, I presume.”
It seemed futile to deny it, in the face of the other. He nodded.
“Who was your mother?”
“I barely remember. She was an herbalist. She made powders and fine soaps and scented candles, and she dumped me here. We didn’t even live in the same town, and I can’t remember where we came from anymore.” He shrugged.
The other arched an eyebrow. “Kernan, then? Likely. Your father would be the one you don’t know at all.”
It didn’t seem a question, but Sevryn answered it anyway. He nodded again.
“She brought you here and left you?”
Old feelings tightened his throat. He would look away if he could, but the eyes of the other drew him, like a moth to a sputtering candle flame, darting in and out of its influence and glamour. “She . . . she went after him, and never came back. There was a flood. South, where she went. Everyone said, such a shame. A shame.” He wrenched his gaze away, his words strangled by memory.
“And she certainly had a name . . .”
“Mista. She read the weather, too. People would come from far away and bring
Sevryn squatted on his heels in the corner of the lean-to, and looked at the gentleman who, at least, had to catch his breath. Behind Sevryn was a rotting half barrel which led to a tunnel through the precarious debris of the warehouse itself, an escape route for him that any sane person would think about a number of times before going after him if Sevryn made a break for it.
The gentleman caught his breath, narrowed eyes hard to see through the silken mask, but observing him. When he could speak evenly, which was before Sevryn could catch his own breath, that fact alone dismaying, he said again, “Who in the hell are you to use Voice on me?”
He thought of doing it again to calm the man down, but it didn’t seem prudent. “No one. I’m a gutter brat. I don’t know what you mean, but that’s the way I talk to the caravan animals at the traders’ stables. I can handle them, sometimes, when no one else can. I can soothe them. I get paid for it, when the stables are busy. When they’re not, I mine the streets for whatever I can get.”
“Calm them down, eh?” His visitor took his hands off his knees, and straightened, but he was too tall for the dodge hole, and had to bend a bit. “Do I look like an irate pack animal?”
Actually, he sounded rather like he could bellow like a fork-horn. Sevryn clamped his lips shut tight, holding that thought.
His visitor stayed wary, eyeing Sevryn. “Ever use it on a man?”
“Only sometimes. Drunks. No one who could remember me. I don’t want any trouble.”
“So you said.” The other assessed him for a long moment. “Tell me your name.”
That, he wouldn’t do. “No one,” he said evenly. “I’m just no one.”
The man pulled off his mask. The startling, swift beauty of his blue-green eyes with their streaks highlighting the iris hit him, as did the planes of his face, and the points of his ears. He stared at the high-bred Vaelinar. “Tell me your name,” the man repeated, staring into Sevryn’s own, plain stormy gray eyes.
“I . . . I haven’t got a proper one. No one admits to my birthing.”
The Vaelinar took a deep breath. “One last chance, and if you’ve half the smarts you seem to have, you’ll be telling me the truth. You know what I am. I don’t recommend lying to me.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, one hand moving behind him to touch the side of the rotting barrel, readying for another escape. “Sevryn,” he said. “That’s all to it. No House, no lineage.”
“You’ve Vaelinar blood.” Tension left the gentleman’s body as he folded his mask neatly and tucked it an inner pocket of his cloak, seeming to have gotten what he wanted. “You know that, I presume.”
It seemed futile to deny it, in the face of the other. He nodded.
“Who was your mother?”
“I barely remember. She was an herbalist. She made powders and fine soaps and scented candles, and she dumped me here. We didn’t even live in the same town, and I can’t remember where we came from anymore.” He shrugged.
The other arched an eyebrow. “Kernan, then? Likely. Your father would be the one you don’t know at all.”
It didn’t seem a question, but Sevryn answered it anyway. He nodded again.
“She brought you here and left you?”
Old feelings tightened his throat. He would look away if he could, but the eyes of the other drew him, like a moth to a sputtering candle flame, darting in and out of its influence and glamour. “She . . . she went after him, and never came back. There was a flood. South, where she went. Everyone said, such a shame. A shame.” He wrenched his gaze away, his words strangled by memory.
“And she certainly had a name . . .”
“Mista. She read the weather, too. People would come from far away and bring
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