Prodigal - Book III

Letters in the Dark

Something to tell Feuilles, Hiran adds on in his thoughts—the tidbit peculiar enough to intrigue, innocuous enough not to reveal too much. He knows the High King will attribute it to nerves as they grow ever closer to Vatra.

"A nervous tick," Hiran can hear Feuilles snipe. "But what of Ruben? Have they talked in private again? What has she said—"

The High King's letters have grown more frequent, his probing more insistent. And, in direct opposition, Fae's have grown shorter, slower in their return.

If we weren't marching to determine the fates of four kingdoms I would hightail it back to Solveigard City, Hiran thinks, not for the first time, his mind flitting back to the last, sparse letter, to all the things—Caj, Beinsho, the Cabal—left unmentioned. The Halften general is in the city now, supporting what seems to be a crumpling reign, but all Hiran thinks about is Fae during the Gauntlet, the bright splotches of fury that had been painted across her cheeks as she burst through underbrush. Of how much it must chafe her now, to be given so much responsibility with so little power. 

She had told him about Feuilles' refusal of aid and Kali's visit to Solvigard, and the ugly knot twists in Hiran's stomach again.

We should have never—

"Hiran!"

He turns, peering through the rain, at the cloaked huddling form that trudges toward him. It's hard to discern who it is in the moonlight, but the rotund shape gives Hiran a dreadful suspicion.

"Returning from the mess hall?" Ruben queries, his eyes narrowed underneath his hood as he catches up.

He always catches up, Hiran thinks sourly. This is not the first time the Skill master has conveniently bumped into him on the way back to his tent.

Not that he's said anything yet, not that he's asked. Parts of Hiran are curious what these "chance" encounters mean—what is coming—and other parts are not. The parts, mostly, that linger on the sharp, quiet look the Paragon has been giving him, the way her information grows thin.

"Late dinner," Hiran replies to the old man and he tries to pick up the pace, but the sludge around his boots is not helping much.

"You will be in the war tent in the morning?" Ruben asks.

"That is where the Paragon has asked me to be."

"I heard about today," Ruben ventures, because of course he did and of course he wants to talk about the bones that came to them, because it wasn't bad enough to just witness it and bury it, along with all the other times.

I wish I was with you, Fae had written months ago, when her letters were long. Hiran wonders if she really would if she could see what is happening now.

"We'll be there soon," the Skill master tries again. "Sooner than you think. Trust me."

Hiran turns, offering him a pointedly raised eyebrow.

"It's always sooner than you think," the old man says, his voice quieter, difficult to pick out amongst the pinging of the rain. "And when you get there, you wish you had more time left."

"Yes, I do wish this part was extended," Hiran retorts. He picks up the pace, the mud squelching, his boots pulling down on his feet, and the Skill master drops behind him.

"Hiran," Ruben calls after a pause and Hiran halts, turning back yet again, even as his fingers flex. "When this is done, what will you do?"

Spend all my time writing to the High King, Hiran thinks sourly.