The quiet words hit Elen like a slap to the face. He’d never confided this to her or to his mother. Never. His words stung, spoken so casually, and to people he barely knew who were now his comrades—for life!—in a way she, who had raised him, could never be. He wouldn’t even look at her. Had he discarded her already? Not that she blamed him, yet the moment hit so bitterly, and she was so angry at herself for lacking the courage to tell him the truth.

“You haven’t finished your story about the captured prisoner,” said the haunt.

Luviara gave him a puzzled look. “I have related this tale to you before, Your Highness.”

“Here sit others who have not heard it.” He gestured open-handedly, easy to interpret as a command to make an offering. “An unfinished tale is a flight interrupted, is it not?”

Outside, a bell rang, the sound muffled by the walls. The door opened, and the custodian entered and bowed.

“With respect, courteous guests, it is time to douse all lights after the closing prayers. I must ask you to retire to the hostel for the night.”

The haunt rose at once, signaling his acceptance of the temple’s routine. In silence, their party returned to the barracks room. It was cold outside, the nip of frost in the air. Inside, the brick hearth brought welcome warmth to the long room. Quickly they made ready, washing up, removing boots. Elen tucked herself in under her blanket and cloak fully clothed but for her outer tunic. The custodian waited until all were settled, then pinched out the wicks and shut the door. No one spoke. Elen shut her eyes and dropped into sleep.

A touch to her arm, as brief as a butterfly’s alighting and departing, woke her. It was entirely dark, but she knew it was the haunt. She felt his presence like the heat of sunshine on bare skin.

He spoke in a murmur. “I want to show you something.”

34 A SLOWLY HEAVING MOVEMENT

The barracks room had no windows, so the only light came from a thin line of delicate moonlight that traced the crack beneath the heavy wooden door. She tugged on her boots and followed him past their sleeping companions.

Outside, it was a cloudless night. Fulmo stood next to the door as if turned to stone, face upraised to the stars. The gagast did not stir as they passed, and she wasn’t sure if he, too, was under the haunt’s enchantment or if he was feeding on starlight and thus frozen to the world.

“There’s no lamps,” she whispered as they crossed the courtyard beneath the stars and the waning moon.

“You already know you don’t need a lamp to see at night, don’t you? You never did.”