Angelfire | The Whispering Wall #3

Seventy Five: Red

"It feels like I'm going to an execution." Jeorge approached the study, Hap at his side. "Why do I have such a terrible feeling about this?"

"You didn't part on the best terms in your last meeting," the Unspoken replied.

"That's not it." He struggled for words for a minute, but could only repeat, hopelessly, "I don't think that's it."

His week had passed slowly, blessedly so. While he was acutely aware, at every moment, that the lord who stood between him and his death no longer trusted him, he couldn't help but enjoy the space and the peace it gave him, even if it left him with far too much time to stew over his predicament.

Hap had done his best; Jeorge had to give him that. He'd given the old Unspoken no reason to care about him, yet the man had been here at the castle every day, on hand to fetch Jeorge help when he needed it — his ribs were still a delightful shade of deep violet thanks to Marick's thug, and heavily bandaged — and to make attempts, however hopeless, at thinking of ways through this mess, on top of trying to help him control his connection to Nictaven.

"I wouldn't trust it, Jeorge," the Unspoken had said, when he'd caved and told the man about the offer Mercy had made him. At night, when he lay sleepless and Nictaven tortured him with incessant pounding and vivid, fire-fuelled dreams, he thought about that glinting blade she'd promised him would make it go away with a feeling akin to desperate panic. "It's never that simple when it comes to Nictaven. Anyone who thinks they have that kind of control over her is missing something fundamental, and I wouldn't want to be the one to bear the consequences of that ignorance."

He knew it was too good to be true. The Unspoken talked of such blades with a kind of quiet dread, as if there was no worse fate than to be cut by one. But Jeorge wasn't Unspoken. He was never intended for this magic. He'd stopped bringing it up with Hap, but hadn't quite stopped considering the possibilities. If he could find a way of getting hold of one of the blades himself, ideally with its opposite counterpart, he could experiment without being beholden to Mercy or Marick Silversong, neither of which he was much inclined to see ever again, let alone follow through on their bargain.

Which meant he had to get Harkenn back on side, and he was certain he wasn't going to like what that would take.

"Whatever it is," Hap said gently, raising his hand to knock on the lord's study door, "we'll make a strategy for it."

Jeorge swallowed, unable to manage more than a tight nod.

"Come in," Harkenn's voice cracked sharply through the silence following Hap's knock. Jeorge flexed his wings and rolled his shoulders, ignoring the nervous looks it gained him from the guards on either side of the door. He'd not left the castle all week, had barely left his chamber, and he'd not bothered with the cloak. His wings had benefited from the lack of confinement, and he was increasingly apathetic about anyone else's reactions to them. It wasn't like hiding them had got him better treatment.

They entered the study. The lord was at his usual place behind the desk with a face like he'd smelled something rotten. For once, though, it didn't appear that Jeorge was the problem; Harkenn's gaze was on the other man in the room, who seemed utterly unconcerned by the look or by the fact that there were guards inside the study as well, all with their eyes on him. Jeorge's wings shivered of their own accord, his misgivings deepening. Though the new visitor looked completely unconcerned on the outside, his aura exposed the lie; he was perfectly aware of everyone in the room, in the way a predator might size up competition, and his gaze, when Jeorge met it, was pure calculation above a falsely cheerful smile.

"This is Jeorge Nerahardt." Harkenn's lips had thinned to almost nothing. "Mr Nerahardt, this is Mr...Red."

Jeorge blinked. The man smiled amiably back, eyes still cold. It was clearly not his real name, and no one in the room was under any illusion that it was. Beside him, Hap tensed, hands flexing on his walking stick. Jeorge felt his chest loosen a little, because he had little doubt that despite his injury the Unspoken knew how to wield that stick.