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The Undying
Puri Rabbit

II

Dawn comes to the city later with the change in seasons, so Rommath does his work in the dark pre-dawn hours.

He's shaken from his dream. Of course there is no relaxation after such things; just hours spent, staring at the ceiling, both willing and fearing sleep. It isn't that he dreamt of Kael'thas, considering that for months after his betrayal he dreamt of nothing but. It isn't even that he's dreamt about being with another man—such dalliances are not exactly promoted amongst his people, but if they are frowned-upon they are also ever-present.

He feels a chill grip him, although it isn't even cold—if anything his room feels suffocating, too warm. What scares him, if he's being honest with himself, is the fact that the dream came from him, was the product of his mind. That there is such darkness and fear still in him is disquieting; he thought that he has purged all the weakness from him, left no corner of his mind unlit by the light of reason. But now, here he is: every night is a terror, endless corridors that constrict before him in darkness.

Enough. He forces his attention to the pile of letters on his desk. His work seems limitless enough, although he takes pleasure in his discipline, but he can never shake the sensation that it is ultimately meaningless. To what end is all this dashing and confusion? More jockeying for power, more posturing, more silly political games. He used to have a boundless appetite for such things.

The first letter on his desk is a request from Magister Illarion, requesting more funding for what he terms "the betterment of all Silvermoon mages." Such loose phrasing always piques Rommath's suspicion. "Any amount supplied by the ruling council would, of course, be appreciated." And what will the amount go to, Rommath wonders. More robes for Illarion? New furniture for the instructors' rooms? A chandelier for the experiment theatre? The cost in gold is staggering. Rommath scowls. Trust a Magister to forget that they are near bankrupt from the war effort.

"Request denied," he writes in his most exaggerated script.

Then, from Magistrix Lambriesse, ever more complaints about the quality of the students attending the academies. He is tempted to throw it away, but doesn't. The woman is single-minded.

Surely we, the first spell-casting peoples of this land, can afford to be choosier in whom we admit. Are we so desperate to bolster our ranks that any talentless fool can gain admission to our schools? What about the good name of our institutes? Shall we cast that away too, another sacrifice so eagerly made in the name of the 'greater good'?

I recall the process of my own admissions, a procedure I would term, for lack of a better word, gruelling. Now any noble can buy his sons and daughters entry. Why? To what end? Why are we poisoning our pool of talent? Did the Scourge not take enough without us stripping ourselves of dignity as well?

Rommath winces, raising his head from the paper. Of course she is right, but some truths must not be uttered. Lambriesse has come dangerously close to treason. Only his respect for her (which, he admits, is sizeable but grudging) will keep her in her position, and only then if she learns to watch her tongue.

He responds as curtly as civility will allow:

We can play this foolish game if you wish, but there is no denying the truth: our blood was in decay ages before the Scourge showed up. Apprentices did not become fools overnight, and they have not become brilliant in the wake of our glorious Sunwell's restoration. To talk as if they ought to have is idle, and ultimately imprudent. We must deal with the problem as it is, and not as we wish it to be. Corruption is, and has always been, an issue, but in desperate times we were forced to make do. It shall be dealt with now.

He's only been seated for a quarter of an hour when the sound of the door opening downstairs startles him from his thoughts. He starts and, hating himself for starting, grips his staff then releases it in disgust. The house is locked, and no thief, however bold, would dare the wrath of the Grand Magister. His paranoia is an old man's delusion.

And then a flutter of hope in his chest. There are only a select few people with access to his apartments. Perhaps it is Vranesh, come to apologise at last.

His wish is soon destroyed. "Hello?" a rather slurred voice calls up.

Father Nishil'ever is waiting for him downstairs, and just one look at his flushed, merry face makes Rommath fume.

"Everyone is asleep," Nishil'ever wails. Then his eyes seem to focus on Rommath and he grows animated again. "Brother, the party continues here!"

He tries to push past Rommath and into the main hall, but merely trips in his slippers and falls down.

"It's five in the damned morning," Rommath says, pulling the priest up by his collar. "No, the party is bloody over."

Nishil'ever looks up at him, his eyes glazed and his expression blank, and then, frowning, he pushes Rommath away.

"Honestly, how can you be so dull? It beggars belief. I've met corpses that could have a better time."

"Then perhaps you should have your party with them," Rommath says.

Nishil'ever glances up at him. "Why, you're all dressed up!" he says, which Rommath finds baffling because he is merely wearing a black silk bathrobe, his hair hanging around his shoulders. "Are you entertaining?" And then: "Any ladies you can introduce me to?"

He hears the sound of soft padding footsteps down the hall and, glancing over his shoulder, sees his maid.

"My Lord?" she says, although Rommath can't imagine her wanting to deal with the drunk, stinking priest. "Might I help you?"

"Well!" Nishil'ever says. "Look at this gorgeous creature! You old dog, I knew you were cavorting up there! Be a good boy and introduce me."

"This is Miss Shiningriver," Rommath says, keeping his voice clipped. "You have met her, Father. She is my maid. She cooks for me and keeps the house. On Sundays she buys groceries."

"Oh, well," Nishil'ever says, pushing Rommath away yet again. "Pleased to meet you—again—Miss Glowingshiver."

While Nishil'ever is struggling to remove his slippers, Rommath takes the maid aside.

"Take him to the guest bedroom on the other end of house," he says. "Let him sleep there, and for the love of the Light if you know what's good for you stay out of his bed no matter what he tells you."

The maid gives him an affronted look. Her virtue has been offended.

As Rommath turns to ascend the stairs to his studio he can hear Nishil'ever's voice echoing down the long-empty halls: "Oh, a forward type are you? I like an aggressive woman—keeps a man honest!"

( )

No amount of frowning, smoking or pacing can return to Rommath his lost focus. The morning passes in a haze of wasted hours. By the time the sun has risen his hair is wild from all the times he has raked his fingers through it, and he thinks that he would like nothing better than to give his merrymaking friend a smack. A very hard smack. Right between the eyes, perhaps with the sharp edge of a sword.

And, of course, Father Nishil'ever never knocks; it's yet another bad habit that he's come to feel entitled to in his advanced age and position. But Rommath still finds his friend's unannounced visits infuriating.

That is why when Goldcrank sneaks upstairs to tell him that the priest is dressed and waiting to see him Rommath ducks into his study and bolts the door. He can hear Nishil's footsteps across the marble outside his studio, the stately click of his heels echoed by the frenetic clunk of Goldcrank's boots and the goblin's shrill, almost hysterical voice. He can picture the scene: tall and golden Nishil'ever pacing the room as Goldcrank struggles to keep up, offering him a drink, some Bloodthistle, a seat, anything to keep Nishil'ever entertained. But of course, Rommath is the reason for his visit, and he will not be distracted from his target.

He breathes. Nishil'ever is too well-bred to leave without thanking him, and he knows that this is how Rommath likes to spend his mornings: in study, in quiet contemplation, in peace. There's no pretending that he's been called out—who would dare call on him? Besides Nishil'ever, of course.

Rommath opens the door at last. His hair is falling over his face in a way he feels makes him look unkempt. He never goes out in public with it loose, and disapproves of the Regent Lord, who does. He cannot afford the appearance of carelessness, not after the cost his people have paid for it in the past.

Nishil'ever turns to him and smiles slightly, his face and carriage the epitome of composure. Only Rommath would recognise him from the sloppy drunk barely able to walk the night before.

"Ah, dear Rommath," he says, crossing the room in two long strides. "You are here."

As if he would be anywhere else. They clasp hands briefly before Nishil'ever steps past him, into his study.

"Something the matter?" Rommath says. He doesn't mean for the edge to show in his voice, but Nishil'ever doesn't notice anyway, investigating a pocket watch on Rommath's desk instead.

"A pretty trinket," he says. "A gift?"

"I can't recall," says Rommath. "Now. May I help you? Or have you just come to bother me when I should be resuming my studies?"

Nishil'ever shoots him a look of displeasure over his shoulder, and Rommath feels a twinge of guilt. It's just the two of them left over from the old Court now, he reminds himself, and his friend has been getting progressively odder as he gets progressively older and lonelier. There's no one left for him—no one but Rommath, to whom it falls to keep the aging golden boy in line.

Tossing his hair out of his face, Nishil'ever drapes himself over the divan.

"Don't be so unfriendly," he says. "I just wanted to thank you for allowing me to spend the night here. Oh, my wife would have skinned me if I went home drunk like that."

"I'm sure she's equally delighted you've not gone home at all."

"I'm sure she couldn't care less," Nishil'ever says. "Anyway, let's not talk about my family life, such as it is. I'm famished. Could you have your maid fetch us breakfast? Preferably something with lots of boiled eggs."

Rommath obliges, although Nishil'ever looks very disappointed at Goldcrank's subsequent appearance. While they wait to be served, Nishil'ever regales him with tales of additions to his wardrobe and a boating trip that almost Ended In Disaster. ("Allow me to complete the story," Rommath says. "You drank too much and fell over the side, and your servants had to fish you out." Nishil'ever is too cross to respond, instead loudly changing the subject back to his new suede gloves.)

The sun has completely illuminated the room by the time Goldcrank heaves their breakfast up the stairs, and Rommath has already had his fill of Nishil'ever, who is now roundly insisting that Rommath meet his newest tailor. "He's a genius," he says. "And he can make anyone look like a gem—yes, you as well! Imagine that!"

Even Goldcrank, who is spreading a napkin across Nishil'ever's lap, raises his eyebrows at this.

"I am perfectly content with my seamstress," Rommath says, "and my robes are more than sufficient, thank you. If there was nothing else you wanted to bother me with—"

"Well, actually," Nishil'ever says, examining the contents of his fork, "I did want to discuss something. I wanted to talk about your son. You know, dear Vranesh—remember him?"

Rommath grits his teeth. Normally Nishil'ever isn't so quick in getting to the point, instead taking various winding paths to the main issue with what he thinks is subtlety, but lately their discussions have taken on a note of urgency.

"I will invite him back to the estate when he becomes capable of civil speech. In the meantime, tell him he is quite free to continue dragging his knuckles on the ground and running around with his hoodlum friends."

Nishil'ever laughs, his expression brightening with delight. "Brother, you are cruel."

"I, cruel? Not at all, Nishil'ever."

"Do you not approve of your own Blood Knights?"

Rommath sighs, and signals for Goldcrank to fetch him a smoke. Preferably a strong one. "They are not mine, and as far as I recall they never were. But I tire of this line of questioning, brother. All right-thinking elves take pride in our Knights, and I am amongst them."

"You're being baffling."

"Evidently all those late nights have dulled your mind, you clever thing."

"Oh, I think you like vexing me," Nishil'ever says, sitting up. He's smiling genuinely now. "Come, don't you agree that it's only natural for a boy and his father to be friends? What do you gain from all this silly fighting?"

"If you think this is about gaining something," says Rommath, "or some petty power struggle, let me disillusion you. Immediately."

"Oh, very well," Nishil'ever says. "I don't want to fight with you—we were always friends."

Goldcrank appears, bearing Rommath's pipe on a tray. He picks it up, allowing Goldcrank to hop up on the desk to light it.

Nishil'ever watches the scene with his usual distracted smile. "Well, you look as imperious and radiant as ever, shoddy clothes or no." His gaze moves to Rommath's knee. "And how have you been feeling? Better?"

"In a manner of speaking. Once the pain becomes constant I can simply ignore it." He pauses, considering what he is about to say. "I was hoping you might look at it, actually."

Nishil'ever's smile grows. "Oh no. I never mix business with pleasure."

Rommath makes a noise of scepticism.

"What, you're displeased?"

"I simply don't believe you."

"Priestesses aren't business," he says, examining an apple, "and you aren't either. Don't ask for my medical opinion—you know it's suspect."

"I won't," says Rommath, taking another draw. "But do you think you could examine it, later?"

"Persistent boy," Nishil'ever says. "I'll do no such thing."

Rommath smiles, partly because Nishil'ever is one of the few living elves compared to whom he is young.

"And by the way—that goblin of yours is useless."

"Goblins and elves should not be held to the same standards," says Rommath. "Goldcrank is loyal, if nothing else."

Nishil'ever laughs. He's always laughing, as though everything is a joke that he's playing on Rommath, as though nothing is important enough to be unfunny. "Oh, so you've grown attached to him. Are you lonely, brother?"

"No," Rommath says, and then he silently curses himself, because it's a lie and he knows it.

"Why don't you ever join me at my retreat? It's lovely there. You'd feel better."

"My duties," says Rommath, "keep me in the city. I cannot simply vanish whenever I like. Not everyone has the luxury of disappearing."

Nishil'ever stretches like a cat. "Oh, very well. Your dedication is admirable—I suppose." He regards his friend, a look of sweet indulgence on his face, and outstretches his fingers. "Now come, and let me see that little battle scratch."

Rommath approaches and takes a seat next to him. Nishil'ever is gentle as he pulls back the hem of Rommath's robe, brushing the pads of his fingers over the old wound while watching for Rommath's reaction. When he doesn't show any pain, Nishil'ever clears his throat.

"I am... most surprised."

Rommath twitches an eyebrow. "Surprised? You alarm me, brother."

"Oh, no, do not be alarmed! But, it's just... the scar is fading, have you noticed?" he says. Lowering his eyes, he bites his lip. "The healing has been progressing. And it's natural healing, moreover."

Rommath stares at him, and then catches himself. "That is impossible. You yourself said the same—such wounds don't heal." His voice is gruffer than he intends it to be.

"I know what I said—but Rommath, look at it."

He does, although he doesn't need to, but he will concede nothing. He's accepted that his body is permanently broken, and accepted all the pain and humiliation that go with it. He is flawed in a city of flawless beauty, and he must bear that knowledge to the end of his life. To hope for better, to allow himself to believe that there could be better, will only wound him.

Nishil'ever smiles and, eyes glittering, leans forward. "Alright, you're up to something. What is it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your leg.

Rommath winces. "Are you not a priest? Examine it and decide for yourself."

"Examine it with what? Don't be absurd. No, Asariel will do it for you, if you're curious."

When Rommath does not respond, Nishil'ever sighs. "You are too proud," he says. "Don't tell me you're at war with him, as well."

"Not war, exactly," says Rommath. "But now I fancy that your reluctance is some sort of ploy to force me to seek him out."

Nishil'ever waves the thought away. "No, that's silly. I know things have been a bit... strained between you two, but surely they haven't grown that bad? You are still speaking, are you not?"

"Speaking, yes. Not much beyond it."

"You are a difficult man."

Undoubtedly. Rommath doesn't even bother to defend himself. "You were missed at the Dawnstriker's."

"Oh!" Nishil'ever sits up, happy to change the subject back to him. "Yes, I suppose I was-Sunfeather also had an outing on his boat, which I couldn't miss owing to our business relations. Why, it was charming. And his new wife was there—yes, he's remarried at last—and she is a dish."

While Nishil'ever prattles on about who wore what out-of-season robes, Rommath's mind wanders to his scar. A magical cut so deep should not heal, especially not after all this time, and yet he has noticed a change; the edges around it have started to turn from vicious red to silver, a border of grey so small he himself barely noticed it. Lately he has felt the pain diminish as well, although he dismissed it at the time as increased tolerance, or at least better things to worry about. But now he is not so convinced.

"You oughtn't have missed me, though," Nishil'ever is concluding. "I heard you were the toast of the evening. You handsome rascal."

"You heard that, did you? And from what source? A little bird?"

"Oh, no, Fanalen joined us afterwards for a bit of late-night carousing. He said that you were quite impressive, and many ladies asked after you."

"Don't listen to rumours," Rommath says.

"It isn't rumour! Fanalen said that he was hounded for information about the silent and mysterious Grand Magister."

"Matrons, I suppose, trying to get their children appointments."

"Oh, be quiet," Nishil'ever says, rolling his eyes. "Such modesty ill becomes you. I am glad to hear this: it's proof, I suppose, that we old farts have still got it."

It. Rommath feels like pointing out that he never had 'It.'

"And on that topic..." Nishil'ever sits up, his face brightening with mischief. "The young Redfletcher, is it?"

Zaedana Redfletcher. He's been so immersed in night-time misery that he entirely forgot the events of the previous evening's party. Now he remembers her father as well: Baresh Redfletcher, a petty noble with more mouth than money renowned for his immense gambling debts. No wonder he's so keen to have her married off.

"I swear if the people in this city fought like they gossiped, we would have conquered this world and half another by now."

"Well, don't be a little brat about it—it's so unappealing. But tell me, is it true that you're courting her?"

"I spoke to the girl at Dawnstriker's last night. We went for a walk. If that is what counts for courting nowadays, then yes, I suppose am courting her."

"But I heard," Nishil'ever says, "that you gave her your cloak."

Oh, this does beat all.

"If you have a point, brother, make it," says Rommath. "I've neither the time nor the interest to pursue silly girls and fend off their outrageous tales."

"Baresh tells a different story."

"Of course he does. I was ambushed by the little Redfletcher. I should have seen it coming."

Nishil'ever grins at him. "But was it such an unwelcome ambush? I've noticed her around the city. She's a gorgeous thing, isn't she? I'd never have thought that she could be interested in an old badger like you."

"I'm not such an old badger as you thought, I suppose."

"Or your fancy title and lovely estate more than compensate," Nishil'ever says, pointing an accusing finger at him, as though Rommath has been conspiring to keep all the eligible ladies for himself and Nishil'ever shall be left with none.

Rommath laughs. "Oh, a bolt through my heart. It's nothing to me. Let her enjoy both, if she earns them."

Nishil'ever laughs as well, but quickly sobers. "So you truly do intend to find another companion? Fourth time lucky, is it, old boy?"

"I am not looking for another wife, if that's what you're asking. So no, I will not be pursuing her with any great zeal."

"But if the girl pursues you sweetly enough, you might submit?"

"Precisely."

"Brother, you lady-killer."

"Oh, hardly. I've never killed a lady in my life, and that's the honest truth."

"But here you are," Nishil'ever says, grinning, "playing this sweet girl for all she's worth. Keep that attitude, brother, it will drive them wild."

In all honesty, Rommath doesn't want to drive anyone wild. He wants to spend quiet afternoons in his light-bathed office in Sunfury Spire, immersed in his research and in the running of the city, treated with no more respect than his dignity and old age demand. He doesn't want to be trailed by a girl so beautiful that she will constantly bring him unwanted attention, and all the things that go with it: undeserved admiration, envy, hostility. But Nishil'ever, exhibitionist he is, doesn't understand this.

Nishil'ever yawns. "Goodness," he says. "How tired I feel! And the day has barely begun." He rises, stretching. "I shall have to take my leave now. But remember to see Asariel later."

Rommath rises as well, and moves to escort Nishil'ever to the main entrance. "You are always welcome to spend the night here, brother," he says, and as always, he is surprised by how much he means it, how much he would like to pretend that he and Nishil'ever are troublesome boys again, romping around the house and being a bother. Childhood feels an age away—which, he reminds himself, it is.

"You're too kind. But really—if you want to be truly kind, try and talk to Vranesh. Boys need their fathers, brother."

"I make no promises."

"I wasn't asking for any."

At the door, Nishil'ever pulls him into a quick embrace. "It's been a delight, though you might have feigned a bit more interest."

"You know I've a lot on my mind," Rommath whispers.

Nishil'ever pats his arm. "Yes, of course you do." He turns to leave but suddenly turns back, as if remembering something. "I thought I would mention-I was at your family's ossuary and I left some flowers at Vunari's place." He avoids Rommath's gaze. "Perhaps you ought to go there, old friend. Pay your respects."

Rommath doesn't lose his composure; on the contrary, it is in such moments that he shines, the ice that is innate in him closing over his manner entirely. He is cold, and it is in coldness that he lives. "Do not remind me of my duties, Father. I know them too well."

"Yes, I'm aware," Nishil'ever says, his voice low.

Rommath wants to strike him down with a look, to ensure that he retreats back to his place amongst all the decadence and self-indulgence of their class. What does Nishil'ever understand about suffering, or about being a father? Nothing, nothing whatsoever. He watches Nishil'ever saunter away, careless and forgetful. There is a depth of pain that must be lived to be known.

( )

It is early enough still that the normally crowded streets are subdued, as if recovering from night-time celebrations of their own. The great bell tower is ringing seven tolls to mark the hour. Sitting atop his hawkstrider, seeing the city without noticing it, Rommath is glad for the quiet.

The cathedral, once magnificent, has fallen into disrepair: the shining dome is chipped, and its marble steps are darkened with the smudges of thousands of fingers. The mortar of its walls are cracked; Rommath is sure that he sees the shadows of scorch marks in the tile, rubbed out hastily and with little skill.

Once this place was a hub of the city, the hush of contemplation falling over it like a veil. You could go there to pray, to meet, to fall apart. Prior to two years ago it had grown progressively more silent, isolated from the rest of the rebuilt city as though it was an embarrassment that no one wanted to consider. It was not from the Scourge that it gained its shabby appearance; it was their disrespect. The elves learned their Light-worshipping ways from men, but when the shadows came to their land both men and Light were missing.

Still, there is hope now, and he has noticed that with the Sunwell restored, the cathedral has brightened a little, seen a bit more traffic. But nothing compared to before the War.

He ties his hawkstrider in an alley around the corner of the building, stroking her face gently to calm her, pausing to smooth back his hair and compose himself. The side doors, however, are locked, and pounding at them does nothing but get the attention of a curt, young-sounding boy.

"Hello?" he says. "We are closed for the morning prayer."

"I must see Asariel," Rommath says, ignoring his tone.

"Father Asariel is occupied," the boy says. "Come back later."

"I will do no such thing. I am no mere supplicant, and I will not leave until I see him."

Rommath seethes while the boy, sighing, begins to undo the long line of locks on the door. When the apprentice sees who he has been talking to, however, his expression seems to collapse, and he falls into a bow, muttering apologies. Rommath sweeps past him, ignoring his babbling. At one time he'd have reprimanded the boy for his rudeness, but it doesn't matter any longer. He does not rule the city, not in name or reality. He was once fearsome, but personal cruelty isn't required when his reputation does all the hard work. It's just as well. He never took enough pleasure in torture to be any good at it anyway.

The door to Asariel's study is wide open, and Rommath can see his nephew seated at a desk, his head bowed over a book.

"Asariel," he says, and the empty basement seems to amplify his voice.

But Asariel is not scared of him, was never scared of him. When his eyes meet Rommath's, his face does not even stir from its harsh expression. Asariel is identical to his father, Rommath's dead brother: so serious, so tense. But good—as good as they once thought Nishil'ever was. The goodness and the severity make him a boy easy to love and hard to like.

"Uncle," Asariel says, looking up as Rommath enters the room. "I am surprised to find you here so early. Is everything well?"

"Yes, as always. May I sit?"

Asariel makes a movement, as if to suggest that it does not matter, and Rommath does so. His nephew's casual disrespect once bothered him, but now he sees that it is not disrespect, not exactly, but instead a sort of obliviousness to the world and his place in it.

His eyes go to Rommath's forehead. "You are flushed. Is everything alright?"

"Just the heat."

"Do be careful," Asariel says. "We won't have many more warm days like this one, but you mustn't over-exert yourself."

"I'm not dead yet," Rommath says. If Asariel is going to treat him like an ailing relic, he's going to behave like one.

"I can see that. Let's try and keep it that way, no?" He turns back to his papers, tidying a particularly high stack. "What brings you out to my little hovel then?"

"I was speaking to Father Nishil'ever this morning."

Asariel's expression darkens. "I see."

Rommath refuses to be put off his target. "I had him look at my wound. He—and I—have noticed a... a change."

"A change," Asariel says. He doesn't even blink. "And what change might that be?"

"It..." Damn this concern; what's it to him if Asariel thinks him a fool? "It appears to be healing."

"And that is why you are here." Asariel sighs and reaches for a pair of spectacles sitting on his desk. For the first time Rommath notices that his hands look worn, calloused. An old man's hands. "I assume I don't need to tell you why that's unlikely."

"I'm well-versed in magic, I assure you."

"I wasn't implying otherwise," Asariel says, but he sounds more annoyed than sympathetic. "Uncle, with the utmost of respect, are you certain that you are not just imagining things?"

"Even if I were, would Father Nishil'ever be prone to the same imaginings?"

Asariel's lip curls. "Who knows what Nishil'ever thinks?"

"Asariel, enough," Rommath says, and even Asariel is smart enough not to push the issue past this point. "I know your opinions on him well enough by now—by heart, really. So spare me more of your grumblings, and if you won't take my word, why don't you examine it yourself?"

For a moment longer than is comfortable Asariel simply stares at Rommath, his expression inscrutable, as though he is weighing things over in his mind. Then he shakes himself.

"Let me see what I can do," he says, standing and turning towards his cabinet. "I believe I have something to dress it with, as well, to ease the pain a little."

"Your cousin sends his regard," Rommath says, without really knowing why he spoke at all. Asariel says nothing, and his back is to him so that Rommath cannot see his face. When he turns, however, his countenance is still expressionless.

"Surprising, Uncle. Am I to believe that you and Vranesh have made amends?"

"Perhaps you are confused," Rommath says, somehow managing to control his voice. "Vranesh is no son of mine. I was referring to Saremar.

Asariel blinks slowly, his eyes enormous from behind his glasses. "Vranesh shall always be my brother, Uncle. But I am glad to hear that you are still speaking to young Saremar. His father's death still affects him, though he feigns strength."

Rommath feels the anger spread through his stomach. There is no sense in chastising Asariel, though. The words may be insulting, but they are not intended as an insult.

"Here," Asariel says, "I am ready. Now show me."

For the second time that day, Rommath draws his long robes back over his knees. He feels strangely like some sort of fallen girl, showing the priest her legs to woo him into a life of corruption; the comparison makes him snicker, a sound he bites back.

(Has any girl ever shown Asariel her legs? He wonders. He wonders whether, if one were to, it would make a difference, or whether the priest is so lost in righteousness and virtue that even beauty leaves him cold.)

Asariel gently brushes his fingers along the scar, as though feelings the ridges, a secret cartography only he and Rommath know. For a long moment there is no sound but Rommath's breathing and the slow clack of the others priests' heels against the stairs above them. Then Asariel exhales.

"You must forgive my scepticism," he says, his tone subdued now. "Uncle, this is incredible. It is a miracle."

"So you agree."

"I can't explain it," Asariel says, jerking his hand away. Rommath covers his knees, almost shyly. "Have you done something new? Are you hiding something?"

His animation startles Rommath. "I do not have anything to hide. I assure you, if I'd known, I'd have told you sooner."

"The Sunwell," Asariel says with a fervency that Rommath has never seen before. "The holy energies of the remade Sunwell. Of course, of course. Even being around such a thing would have an effect on your body." He strides across the room to his desk; in his excitement he seems to have practically forgotten Rommath. "Amazing, isn't it?"

"The Sunwell is a miracle, it's true," says Rommath. "But why would it take so long to see a change? The Sunwell has been restored for over two years now."

Asariel immediately quiets. "An excellent question. Why, indeed."

He allows Asariel a moment of silence before clearing his throat. "There is still the matter of the treatment."

With a bit of start, Asariel looks at him, as though he'd been dreaming and Rommath has awoken him. "Oh, yes, of course," he says, picking a leaf off his desk. "Show me again," he says. "It will only hurt a little."

Rommath obeys, and Asariel places the leaf between Rommath's knee and his fingers. Then he feels it, the same as always, the soft warmth of his nephew's fingers like that of a fire on a cold night. The wound stings fiercely for a moment, and then stops. When he touches his knee, the angry redness has faded even more.

"Thank you," he says. Asariel is full of these simple acts, each one small and perfectly beautiful, and so Rommath's thanks confuse him. And perhaps they should. Why be grateful? You might as well be grateful to the rain for falling, or to the sun for shining. It's just in his nature to help.

"You are welcome, Uncle, as always."

The darkness and silence of the cathedral's basement seems to have bled into the outside world. The city sleeps as if it is locked in a dream, as though it has been preserved in amber and, untouched by history or by mortal grief or by years, it has maintained its ageless perfection. Then Rommath turns, and he sees the dust along the sides of the buildings, the cracks in the tiles, and the illusion crumbles. He takes his hawkstrider's harness in hand.

Together they step out into the blazing street; dazzled, Rommath has to shut his eyes against the brightness of the sun.