Edit May 2010: FFN decided to eat all the scene dividers so I'm having to go back and add them all in again. I'm also removing the review responses. NOTHING ELSE HAS BEEN ALTERED; if you've read this story before, you don't need to read it again (although you're more than welcome to).
There was a problem with the last chapter; it wasn't showing up for some people. That was FFN's fault; I don't know what they did. Grr. My apologies for that. It should be working now, so if you couldn't see it before, try again before reading this one! (If necessary, try going to Chapter Eight and changing the 8 in the URL to a 9 and getting to it that way). Hopefully this one will work correctly.
Not far now. Numair slowed down, forcing himself to move more quietly; the focus couldn't tell him anything about what else might be there with her even if he had the strength left to keep using it, and the signs of spidrens were fresher. Rounding a bend in the stream, he felt his heart stop and he froze, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. Three of the monsters stood together, apparently discussing something; beside them, all but hidden by webbing, Daine lay. She didn't appear to be moving...
Too late. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his heart began beating again. The world spun around him and he began to tremble as emotions roiled through his mind, a bleak haze of pain and grief and other darker feelings; the one that eventually won the struggle was rage. After everything they had been through, everything they had endured, this was too much. Dropping the pack he still carried, he raised the staff Weiryn had given him, reaching for the Gift he had stored in the crystal. The closest spidren blew apart in a spatter of blood and other fluids; it wasn't enough.
Numair was usually a fairly gentle man, and his self-control was iron; but this was more than he could endure. Even his mind had limits, and now he had reached them. No Gift left now; it didn't matter. Hatred such as he had never known filled him, directed at everything that had happened to him since last autumn, since Carthak; his life had not been his own since then, and the last few months had been overwhelming. But to have come so far, against such odds, only to have it end like this... It was too much. Now he truly had lost everything.
He ran straight at the closest of the two remaining spidrens, vaguely aware of flickers of blackness at the corner of his eye; the darkings seemed to be attacking the last monster. That didn't matter either. As grief and fury roared through him, his world spiralled down to a single dark point, the spidren directly in front of him. Silently, he raised the staff and swung, feeling the shock running down his arms as he made contact; the spidren hissed, and he swung again, and again.
Then the creature was backing away, turning to run. Oh no you don't! He pursued, only barely aware of what he was doing now; he just wanted to hurt it. Blood flew again, that all too human face now streaked with crimson; the staff crashed down into the centre of the thing's face repeatedly. It seemed to take a very long time before it finally stopped moving. Panting, he leaned against the staff, utterly drained as the rage left him, staring at the bloody remains.
He should really turn around, he told himself numbly. From the silence he knew the third spidren was dead somehow; he should check on Daine. But if she really was dead... He didn't want to know, he realised, wasn't sure he could survive it. There had been times in their years together when each had feared that the other was dead; he had been through this before. That didn't make it any easier. To lose her would destroy something in him once and for all. Taking a deep breath to stop his trembling, he gathered his strength, steeling himself for what he might find when he turned around.
"Numair?" Her voice struck him like an almost physical blow, but he wasn't sure if he had actually heard it or if he was imagining it. He felt extremely unstable at the moment, no longer certain of anything. Faint movements behind him, and she spoke again, hesitant now. "Please... are you all right?"
He turned slowly, his mind numb, and stared at her. "You – you're alive," he said jerkily. "I thought..." He trailed off, unable to finish the thought aloud, beginning to tremble in reaction as the adrenaline wore off.
She staggered towards him, looking battered. "I hurt too much to be dead."
Oh, that was her; nobody else had that sense of humour. He dropped the staff and reached out, needing to reassure himself that she was really alive and safe, sweeping her into his arms. Her fingers tangled in his hair as he held her, and now he was shaking with the overwhelming relief flooding him, his mind no longer spinning but utterly blank.
She pulled back a little, not trying to get away, just far enough to look into his face. Their eyes met, and he hesitated, his resistance wavering and his mind too tired to overcome his emotions. He had been fighting this since Midwinter; since before that, really, although he hadn't realised it then. Now he stared into the depths of her blue-grey eyes and lost the battle at last; unable to fight any longer, he leaned closer until their mouths met.
Intellectually he knew the kiss was wrong, for a lot of reasons he had thought out months ago; yet at the same time nothing in his life before had ever felt so right. And she wasn't pulling away or fighting him, she was... oh... she was kissing him back, her lips parting beneath his own, almost more than his mind could comprehend as desire stirred and sudden heat ignited in his blood. For a timeless moment that might have been an eternity, he wasn't thinking, wasn't even really feeling anything much; nothing existed for him except her. Her taste, her touch, her scent, overwhelming every sense he possessed.
Eventually sanity returned, and he broke the kiss reluctantly, his breathing a little ragged. Almost in disbelief, he heard her whisper, "No," and her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him back down to her. The second kiss was gentler, softer; he was too tired and too uncertain of his self control for more. He brought the kiss to a close and drew away a little, half-laughing in a kind of stunned, exhausted joy. This couldn't possibly be real, and yet his dreams had never been like this.
She could barely stand. He wasn't much better off, yet from somewhere he found enough energy to pick her up in his arms and stagger to a rock a little way away from the bloody remains of the dead spidrens. Sitting, he cradled her in his arms, shaking. "Goddess bless," he whispered finally, his voice hoarse with all the words he couldn't say, gently brushing her curly hair back from her face. "Magelet, I thought I'd lost you." She buried her face in his shirt and he let himself simply hold her, his mind blissfully empty, at peace for the first time in months.
Finally the real world intruded again. They were both hurt and exhausted, and they still had a long way to go. "We need to rest and eat," he said softly, thinking aloud as he always did. "It'll soon be too hot to travel, and there is the path to relocate as well. If I remember correctly, this river is on the map. It parallels our route and emerges from this canyon near the path. Once you feel better, perhaps you could fly up and locate it. What do you think?"
When she didn't answer, he shifted slightly to look down into her face. "Sweet?" She was asleep. Part of him wanted to laugh; a larger part wanted to join her – falling asleep with her in his arms sounded like a very good idea. Sighing, he stood up carefully, cradling her against his chest; she snuggled closer without waking. Turning, he noticed the darkings nearby and smiled wryly. "Let's find some shelter," he told them.
The sun's heat was fierce by the time he found the cave, little more than a hollow under the cliff of the canyon wall. Carefully settling Daine well into the shade, he managed to gather firewood and found flint and steel in his pack, lacking the magical energy to light even a small fire. Digging through what remained of their supplies, he set a pot of soup over the flames to cook, his vision blurring with exhaustion and his thoughts sluggish; in the end the darkings took the spoon out of his hand. Deciding they had the right idea, he nodded thanks and sat against the wall of their shelter, asleep in moments despite everything that had happened.
All too soon, it seemed, he was woken by the darking's high pitched squeak. "Food done." At least he hadn't dreamed anything this time, or if he had he didn't remember. He opened his eyes, fighting off a yawn, and looked over at the fire.
"Very good," he told the darkings sleepily, then glanced over at Daine. Finding her awake and looking at him, he felt himself blush – to his intense annoyance – and looked away. Inside, he could admit that he was scared. He didn't know what was going to happen now.
"How in the name of Shakith did you find me?" she demanded. He fidgeted uneasily.
"It was merely a simple magic, Daine – "
"Mouse manure," she snapped. "D'you think I've lived all this time with mages without knowing what it takes to find somebody and go to them?" He stared at the ground, wishing she didn't know him well enough to know when he was lying.
"I had a focus," he mumbled finally, reluctant to admit it.
"A focus?" she repeated. "Something of mine to connect us?"
"Yes – and I'm glad I had it," he added.
"Yes – but – may I see it?"
That had been the question he knew was coming, the one he dreaded. Now he regretted having made the thing in the first place; it had seemed the ideal solution at the time, something private he could daydream over without embarrassing himself that nobody else needed to know about, and at the same time a useful magical object. He wanted to refuse, but what reason could he give? Besides, she would find out sooner or later; he never should have kept it from her in the first place. Silently he reached out, the bracelet showing on his wrist, and let the locket fall into her hand, watching as she opened it and examined it.
The silence dragged out enough to make him even more nervous. When she finally handed the locket back, he broke and began falteringly to try and explain it. "I thought you might laugh if I asked you to sit for a portrait." He reattached the locket to the chain and let the bracelet vanish once more. "The painting was done by Volney Rain. The hair I got when you were delirious with unicorn fever six months ago."
Unable to sit there any longer, he stood and moved to the fire, spooning the soup into three bowls. He handed one to her, avoiding her eyes, and kept one for himself even though he didn't especially want anything to eat; the third he set on the floor for the darkings. This was so awkward now, and it hurt. Just hours ago he had been so happy; in the moments following their kiss, everything had made sense and all had been right with the world, but now reality was threatening to crush it all. She said nothing until they had all started to eat, and when she did speak she had changed the subject.
"What happened to you? What about those rock things?"
More relieved than otherwise by the change of topic, he answered. "They carried me off. I used my Gift to shield myself, but it took them some time to learn that I was the source of their pain. Once they did, they fled. When I returned to the Chaos-vent, and realised that you had gone over the cliff – " He stopped and swallowed hard, the memory of fear and grief stirring briefly.
"You can thank a number of trees and a deep part of the river that I'm reasonably alive." Daine moved to sit next to him, then scooted closer until he was forced to raise his arm clear and settled into the curve of his body, resting her head on his chest; a little of his tension eased and he relaxed fractionally as her warmth soothed some of the ache. "You're trembling," she murmured a moment later.
"I'm only tired," he lied. Tired, confused, happy, scared, overwhelmed; take your pick. "I used my entire Gift to reach you."
"You shouldn't have. You need it to defend yourself – and we still need to reach the Sea of Sand."
His arm tightened around her. "If I'd lost you and kept my power, I would hate myself." That was an understatement. It would have destroyed him. "Eventually magic returns, even after a draining. I had no way to know if you would."
She twisted a little to look up into his face and smiled, the expression warming his whole body. "It would take more than falling off a cliff to keep me from you," she told him, her words sending a shock through him. For a moment rendered speechless, he kissed her again instead, slow and lingering, still half-afraid that this would turn out to be a dream. It seemed impossible that this could really be happening, after all these months of longing and hurting. Please, if this is a dream, please don't ever let me wake up.
"I'd hoped you felt that way," he whispered, kissing her eyelids and the tip of her nose before finding her lips once more. He could so easily lose himself in her. Reluctantly, he forced himself to stop, and sighed. "I should look at your cuts."
Moving stiffly, she sat up, and he reached for his pack. When he glanced back at her, she was lifting her shirt, and he sputtered in sudden shock. "Daine!"
"What?"
He was blushing again, and cursed himself for it. He wasn't an adolescent any more! His legendary eloquence deserting him, he floundered for words. "You – we aren't – you should be clothed!"
"I've a breastband on, dolt," she told him tartly. "Besides, this shirt's in shreds – like the rest of me."
Both valid points, he had to admit, but even so... Vaguely aware that he was being stupid, he shifted position, trying to explain himself. "It just doesn't seem right. I feel that I'm... taking advantage of your innocence," he said lamely. "A man of my – years, and reputation – "
"'Taking advantage of'?" she repeated, interrupting him. "And what reputation?"
"You of all people should know that I've been involved with ladies of the court." He couldn't even remember them all now, and none of them had meant anything to him; he suspected he would always be ashamed of that part of his life. Besides, the gossips in the Palace and elsewhere had placed Daine in his bed for years. His reputation had been trash by then anyway, but she had suffered from being associated with him.
"What has that got to do with the price of peas in Persopolis?"
"It's easy for an experienced man to delude a young woman into believing herself in love with him," he answered shortly. "It is the basest kind of trickery, even when the man does not intend it."
"Do you love me or not?" she demanded.
"That is not the topic under discussion." Although truthfully he was losing his grip on the conversation and wasn't entirely certain what they were talking about any more. Oh, wait; why it was a good idea for her to stay away from him, and why he should have just kept his mouth shut. Yes. Awkwardly he fumbled through his pack to find Sarra's ointment; Leaf and Jelly brought water to him and he thanked them shakily.
Daine peeled the tattered rags of her shirt away. She'd been right; between the trees, the rocks, the river and the spidrens, there was barely anything left. Nor was there much remaining of her breastband, but it didn't seem important any more because he knew he was screwing this up and knew he was on the verge of ruining four years of friendship and love and losing everything that made his life worthwhile. Gently he began to smear ointment on the worst of the cuts, concentrating on the simple task.
"We're not talking about love?" He knew that tone only too well; she wasn't going to let this drop. "What are we talking of, then? Canoodling?"
She couldn't have hurt him more if she'd slapped him. His hand trembled as he continued mechanically rubbing ointment into her injuries. "Daine! Is that what you think I want?" he asked shakily, dismayed. "Sex?" And yet, why should she believe any different? There had been a great many women linked with him over the years. He'd been discreet, but the whole court knew his usual attitude to women as a whole. Aside from Varice – and look how that had turned out – the longest relationship he had ever had had lasted less than a week. He only had himself to blame. Even so, it hurt to realise she thought that little of him.
"It isn't?" Kneeling, she began removing her ruined breeches; he moved away without responding because there was nothing he could say. To say no would be a lie; to say yes was despicable. Meeting her eyes when she looked at him was the hardest thing he had ever done. Instead of the contempt or the distrust he had feared he would see, however, Daine merely looked puzzled; then sudden understanding dawned in her face, and he almost flinched as she reached out to grab his wrist, her fingers finding the chain there. "You're in love with me?"
Now she finally knew. He looked away. Truthfully, once he had had time to grow used to the idea, he had wondered how nobody had guessed it before; looking back now, it seemed so painfully obvious that he still couldn't believe he hadn't realised sooner.
"Love's fair wondrous. Where's the harm?"
He spoke before he thought, almost choking on the shame and hurt and utter confusion that had been eating at him for months. "I was 'canoodling', as you so charmingly put it, when you were four." Probably before then, but he'd been too depressed to try and work it out. A fourteen-year age difference was bad enough without analysing it any more closely. "You're so young, Daine. I knew that if I spoke, you might think yourself in love with me; you might mar–" He stopped talking abruptly, far, far too late.
"Marry?" she squeaked. "Marry you?" The incredulous disbelief in her voice at the idea finally broke something in him. He'd been a fool to think even for a moment that this could end in any other way. He couldn't make himself look at her.
"One day you'd turn to me and see an old man," he mumbled. "You'd want a young one." Unable to stand it any more, he stood abruptly and walked out of the shelter into the sun, barely noticing the heat rising from the rocks as he stumbled blindly down to the river and crouched by the water, staring into the shallows with eyes that threatened to fill with tears. It had been a stupid, foolish dream, nothing more. He wished now that he had held his silence and maintained his distance, spidren attack or no; saying nothing had been driving him insane, but this was so much worse. His dreams were in tatters; he had nothing left to cling to.
The simple truth was that he wasn't good enough for her. It had nothing to do with rank or power or anything so mundane; in truth, they were fairly equal in such matters, one reason they had worked so well together. She was simply a better person than he was, and she deserved better than him. Cupping water in his hands, he drank a mouthful and splashed the rest on his face, forcing himself to calm down, refusing to allow himself to think.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and he heard her hesitant voice. "Can't we just go on as we have? This is a fair weight to solve when things are so – mad." He turned reluctantly, shading his eyes with a hand against the sun, strong as a Carthak noon; she had wrapped herself in one of his shirts and was looking at him worriedly.
The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips, although it wasn't a happy one. Here he was, falling apart internally, and she was being the responsible adult, the mature one. Gods, he was pathetic. "That is certainly true."
"I know I love you." The words hit him like a physical blow. "Maybe I always have – "
"Which is what I was afraid of." She ignored him.
"Once we're home – once the war's done – we can work it out. We'll talk then." Hope stirred; maybe he hadn't ruined everything after all. Maybe there was still a chance; and if not, at least he might be able to salvage their friendship. It would kill him to lose her now; nobody else understood him the way she did.
He stood slowly and reached to cup her face in his hands gently, leaning in for a kiss. "Indeed we will." Feeling slightly better, he retreated from the heat of the sun and turned his attention to the tasks that had to be done before they could move on.
Having finished altering some of his clothes as best he could – unfortunately he couldn't use his Gift without utterly destroying them; with the best will in the world, Daine was not going to be well dressed – Numair sat waiting for her to return from scouting their route back to the path, his mind in turmoil as he tried to process the events of the last few hours. He was emotionally exhausted, wrung out and drained by everything that had happened, and felt almost in shock. Going from crushing despair and icy terror at almost losing her to ecstatic happiness at her response to him so rapidly, only to immediately plunge back into the sea of doubts and fears that had haunted him for months, was almost too much to cope with.
She said she loves me, he repeated to himself for what had to be the hundredth time, still unable to quite wrap his mind around the sheer wonder of it. He wasn't certain he could let himself believe it; for all that she had seen and done, she was still so young, and they were both under a great deal of stress. Yet... this was Daine; he'd never seen her at a loss to understand her own emotions, she was too practical and common-sense for that. There was no reason to believe that she didn't know her own mind in this, as in all else, except that it seemed too good to be true.
Once the war was done, she had said. That wasn't likely to be for a long time yet. Even if they arrived back in the mortal realms tomorrow and killed Uusoae's pawn the same day – hardly likely – there would be months of work ahead before the fighting would cease. There was also the small problem of there no longer being a barrier stopping immortals from entering the mortal realms. It would take months if not years to sort everything out. Waiting that long would be almost impossible, but after all, he had waited almost half a year. In a way, he'd been waiting most of his life for this. He could wait a little longer; he'd wait as long as necessary.
It felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He no longer had to watch everything he said or did; it was out in the open now. Waiting until they were free to talk was child's play compared to that dreadful, strangling silence. And there was a chance of something between them – he refused to let himself dwell too long on the possibility, but it was there. If it didn't work out, if his fears that she had made a mistake turned out to be true, at least there was a chance of staying friends; that wasn't just something he wanted but something he needed. Daine kept him grounded, kept him human. Her friendship was what mattered, but he still couldn't help hoping for more.
And their kiss... Numair had known so many women throughout his life that he barely remembered them all, but he had never known anything quite like that. If that was the difference being in love made, well, he clearly wasn't as experienced as he had thought. He might indeed have a 'vivid imagination' as the badger had said, but none of his wistful and sometimes desperate dreams and fantasies had come close to reality. Even now he could taste her, something sweet and fresh and clean that he craved like a drug. A quiet, wicked voice at the back of his mind – a voice that usually got him into trouble – whispered that if it had been that good when they were both exhausted and scared and hurt, what would it be like in better circumstances? He found it hard to imagine anything better, but he desperately hoped to find out.
"Daydreaming?" Daine's voice broke through his reverie, startling him so badly that he yelped and almost fell over.
"Don't do that!" he snapped breathlessly, aware that he was blushing again, caught in guilty thoughts. He hadn't been this easily embarrassed as an awkward adolescent. She grinned at him, entirely unrepentant.
"Sorry, but you should have been paying attention." She didn't ask exactly what he'd been thinking about so hard, which was just as well; he was reasonably certain she knew, anyway, since she wasn't quite meeting his eyes. Taking a breath to steady himself, Numair took a closer look at her and bit his lip to stop himself laughing.
"You look utterly ridiculous," he told her truthfully. He was a foot taller than she was; even hacked off short, the clothes he'd cut down were far too big for her. Even so, that small, treacherous voice whispered that the clothing looked better on her than it did on him; he shut it off hastily.
"In future, you'd better carry a change of my clothes in your pack," she agreed ruefully. "This happens fair frequently."
"Good idea. Although I would hope you could avoid falling off cliffs in the future, for the sake of my sanity if nothing else." Standing up, he stretched stiffly. "Did you find the path?"
"Yes. It's like you said, if we follow the river we'll meet it at the edge of the desert."
They set out again an hour later, once the sun had begun to set. Numair set the pace this time; he was more familiar with deserts, after all. It was such a relief to not be constantly feeling worried and guilty all the time; the continual nagging ache in his chest was gone. He walked without thinking of anything, his mind wonderfully empty and calm, almost meditating as they travelled. There were no sunbirds that evening; they walked on in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts, as the air cooled and it grew dark.
Daine's voice broke the silence as they left the cliffs behind and emerged into more open country. "There are friends up ahead."
"Friends?" he asked, blinking. "Oh – you mean Rikash?"
"Yes. Barzha and Hebakh and their flock, too. They're up by the path."
Strange definition of 'friends', Numair thought wryly as they climbed up through the rocks onto the trail once more.
This had to be one of the strangest journeys of his life, he mused sleepily, eyes half-closed against the rushing wind. Still, he could get used to flying like this, with time to enjoy the view and no aching flight muscles to worry about. For the earlier part of the journey he had been discussing the war with Barzha and her consort, but the royal pair had left him alone a while ago. He watched the desert slipping past below them, only vaguely aware of the cold, until a familiar voice hailed him from alongside the sling.
"I have four words for you, mage."
"What?" he asked warily, lifting his head and looking at Rikash. Even in the darkness, he could see the Stormwing grinning at him.
"I told you so."
Groaning, Numair let his head fall back to the ropes of the sling. "Oh, shut up." Damn the immortal. He was certain Stormwings couldn't read minds; he was equally certain that Daine wouldn't have said anything. So how did Rikash know?
The familiar mocking laugh sounded as Rikash glided closer. "Admit it. I was right about Carthak."
"I have no idea," Numair replied with what little dignity he had left. "The subject hasn't come up."
"Bah. Don't split hairs. I was right about the two of you. She didn't say no, did she?" the Stormwing asked, leering at him in a way that Numair found decidedly unsettling.
"No," he admitted finally. "She didn't say yes, either," he added before the immortal could respond, wanting to wipe the smug smile off Rikash's face.
"The pair of you are far too stubborn for your own good," Rikash told him cheerfully. "Especially given that you're at war, and the fragility of human life, et cetera, et cetera. Seize the moment, and all that."
"I refuse to accept romantic advice from a Stormwing," Numair muttered. "It's pathetic."
"No, what's pathetic is that you need it. So what exactly did she say?"
Actually, Numair decided, the really pathetic part was that he did want to talk to someone about this. Well, part of him wanted to scream it to the world, but he'd been ignoring those kinds of impulses for years. Rikash was hardly anyone's ideal confidant, but in his own strange way the Stormwing was a friend, and had been surprisingly supportive. A matchmaking Stormwing. Next thing I know, I'll discover that hurroks appreciate fine art and spidrens enjoy knitting. Giving in, he sat up in the sling. "She said we'd talk things through properly once we're home and not fighting for our lives."
"Well, there you go," Rikash said encouragingly, before leering again. "And dare I hazard a guess that more happened than just talking?"
"None of your business."
The immortal burst into his raucous laugh again. "I knew it! Well, then, you have nothing to worry about. I know the pair of you well enough to know nothing would have happened unless you both wanted it." Abruptly the Stormwing's green eyes widened, and he began laughing so hard he lost height and had to flap his wings rapidly to return to his place beside the sling; apparently he'd just thought of something.
"I realise I'm going to regret asking, but what's so funny?" Numair asked warily.
Spluttering, Rikash managed to explain, "It just occurred to me; you do know that Sarra and Weiryn have been watching the pair of you since you left, don't you?"
Horrified, Numair stared at the Stormwing in dismay. That hadn't crossed his mind. "Oh, gods," he said in a small voice, cradling his head in his hands. "Aren't I in enough trouble already?"
Sniggering, Rikash replied, "Apparently not. When did this... ah, not-talking... happen?"
"Earlier today," he mumbled. "And it wasn't what you seem to be thinking."
"That would have been far more obvious," the Stormwing told him dismissively. "I think you're safe. We were at Weiryn's house earlier, getting these slings made. I don't think they were watching." He grinned. "I'm certain you would know by now if they'd seen anything. One of the animal gods would have brought a message of parental fury."
"You're so comforting," Numair muttered. There must be some way of hiding from lesser gods... I really, really don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if they're watching me.
"You don't need comfort, mage, you need someone to tell you you're an idiot."
"I have a great many friends who do that already," he retorted, a smile tugging at his lips despite his embarrassment. It wasn't as if his personal life could get much worse, and if they survived the Dragonlands they would be too busy fighting a war to worry about anything else. If Sarra and Weiryn wanted to unleash divine wrath upon him, they'd have to get in line. He looked up at the Stormwing. "How did you know, anyway? It can't have been that obvious..."
"It wasn't, not to anyone who hasn't met you before," Rikash said kindly, if somewhat condescendingly. "Unfortunately, I can't seem to get away from the pair of you, and I have had a chance to observe your relationship changing. And when I saw the two of you earlier, you both seemed... more settled, somehow. You looked far less worried and uneasy, and she looked more confident, more relaxed." He smirked. "And you were smiling in a frankly vacant manner and looked like you'd been poleaxed. You probably want to work on that before you get home."
Numair smothered a laugh, suspecting that that was probably true. Poleaxed wasn't a bad description of how he'd been feeling. "Oh, shut up."
"Well, if you'd just listened to me, or better yet paid attention, you could have sorted all this out months ago," Rikash told him smugly. "You only have yourself to blame. Now, go into a trance or whatever it is you mages do before going into difficult situations; we'll be at the gate to the Dragonlands by dawn."
Well... that was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster... And Numair doesn't really get time to sit and think about things for a while yet. He must be feeling dizzy. And Rikash probably isn't helping.
Anyway, I hope this met with your expectations? I have to admit I was worried about this chapter in case I didn't do it justice... Let me know what you think. I'd like reviews from all the lurkers out there, too, this time, as this is the scene everyone wanted from the prologue of Teacher.
Loten.