Gwynfor felt Dylon’s eyes heavy on her, drawn to the white as snow fur she grasped in her fingers. It seemed to shine as a little ray of light from the moon poked down through the thick tangle of leaves to land upon it. The argument dwindled into silence as their group stared at the thing. Dylon shot a look at Caistlin who picked his way across the remnants of a battlefield, his boots making horrible squelching sounds with the occasional brittle crack of bone breaking beneath his feet.
Beside her, he asked, “May I?” moving to take the fur.
Gwynfor handed it to him, and he plucked it, staring, one hand slowly stroking through the tuft of fur. “There is still magic here, I cannot find any dirt marring it. We are maybe an hour or two behind the spirit.”
Dylon’s face turned into a satisfied smirk. “Excellent work mercenary.” He wheeled about-face to glare at Vericho and Gavin. “I haven’t time to argue, Give Caistlin one of your horses. Gavin, join us if you want, or leave, I do not care. I am not dragging Vericho around with us. If you leave though, I am not paying you.”
Gwynfor saw Gavin’s mouth turn into a distasteful curl, eyes furious. Then Vericho limped over to him, barely holding in a breath from the pain. “I can make it back just fine.”
“No you can't, you great lump,” Gavin growled. “If goblins struck at us here, then more will be around, that’s how it is.” He pointed a finger at Dylon. “This isn’t over between us, Lord Dylon. You will pay for this betrayal.”
“I am quaking in my boots,” he replied, sneering down at them. “Caistlin, take the horse, I don’t want to delay any longer.
Caistlin did, walking over to where Vericho’s horse stood unattended now, the entire time, Gavin’s eyes trying to make a bore through his back. He climbed into the saddle with an effortless motion, and whipped the horse towards Gwynfor. She clambered up, refusing a hand to help, and crawled into place behind him, strapping herself more tightly into the saddle this time.
“Lead the way Caistlin,” Dylon ordered.
And so, Caistlin led their horse off the road, and into the forest itself, fighting through brush to follow the path of a unicorn.
*
Caistlin felt his hand itch. It was an old wound reopened a long scratch down his arm. Even worse was the dirt and grime that caked around it, that dusted over his entirety. He had taken a hard fall in the battle against those goblins when his horse fell. Were it not for Dylon, he would have died. The noble had leapt towards the creatures that had pulled his horse to the ground, and smote them with his blade. That galled him, having to be saved by the impetuous elf.
He could not deny his skill in combat though, Dylon was a natural. But, the fall had winded Caistlin, and the grime which coated him seemed to itch and crawl across his skin, like little worms burrowing into him. He could almost imagine the minute little creatures named germs which spread the plague slugging across his body, ecstatic for his open wounds. He wanted to find a stream and throw himself in, do anything to clean his wounds. He hated feeling dirty. He smirked, if these last two decades hadn’t cured him of that old hatred, he suspected nothing would. He breathed in that discomfort, and like he did with other people’s minds when he didn’t want to hear them, shoved them into a far corner of his thoughts, and locked them away.
It was not a perfect solution, but it would work for now.
They carried on into the forest, and Caistlin was careful to have his new steed pick its way with great caution. Their pace slowed to a grinding halt. He could feel Gwynfor clinging to him in the saddle behind him, her mind racing with possibility. He did not need to pry into her cognizance to guess at some of them. Caistlin kept looking behind him, mind pricked to listen for Gavin or Vericho. He had heard Gavin’s hatred, his anger, when they left them behind. Another enemy made, Gavin could go join the list after Caistlin’s head. Caistlin doubted they would follow, but one could never be sure. He also kept his mind open for spirits. Mortal, spirit, animal, all of the same cloth, and yet each were different. Caistlin always had been excellent at reading and hearing mortal thoughts, spirits and animals one the other hand, were far harder. He could rarely pierce into the mind of an animal, and spirits he almost never did, unless their thoughts were directed at him and were close at hand. The goblins, he only heard right when they made their move to kill him. He barely had time to give out warning.
But, it never hurt to be extra cautious. So he kept his ears open.
Kaladhen…
A voice spoke, quiet, like a whisper on the wind. Caistlin, jerked back, looking around for the source of the voice. Gwynfor tightened against him. “What?”
“I…” Caistlin trailed off.
Kaladhen.
“What’s going–”
“Shh.”
“KALADHEN!” Kaladhen Antony II bellowed, spittle flying from his lips like raindrops over Kaladhen’s face. Turning bright pink, he swiveled around to face his father, stopped in the middle of the road.
“Yes Father, sorry Father, I did not hear what you said. I got distracted,” Kaladhen responded, heart pounding, as he bowed his head to his father. Ahead of them, a grand sight encompassed much of the horizon. From atop the hill they stood, the path forward wound down a switchback between the towering old pines, those at the base of the hill stood level with their current position. Through them, Kaladhen saw Agrenommen Arch, capital of House Cicero. In the middle of a wide and flat forest, a massive arch of stone rose high into the sky, higher than they stood now. The city, with buildings the size of toys at this distance, gleamed and shone brightly, stretching atop, beside, and below the arch.
“Idiot boy, pay attention,” his father growled, leaning against a heavy old cane, and Kaladhen flinched away. “There won’t be room for day dreaming when you’re one of them,” he said, gesturing towards the city in front of them. “They are like the fey boy, all smiles and kindness, but the moment you show them weakness, make a mistake, they take you, wring you out, and suck you dry, and will not leave much if anything left. Am I clear?”
“Yes Father,” Kaladhen replied, trying to force down the chill which bubbled across his skin and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
His Father nodded gravely, and kept plowing forward, digging gouts of earth up with his cane with each stride, making his mark upon the land as they walked. “If you drift off again while I am speaking, you will pay for it tenfold when we are back. We cannot have your looks making a poor impression on them when we get there. Nor will you make a poor impression with that brain of yours either. I am paying too much money for you to make Morterran look like a success, hear me?” Kaladhen saw his Father’s knuckles whiten as they gripped the head of his cane with a ferocity, digging a few inches deep into dirt they stomped over.
“Yes, Father,” Kaladhen meeked out. There was a sudden movement, and then a harsh eruption of pain across Kaladhen’s hand. “OW!”
His Father had stopped moving, and now jabbed his cane at Kaladhen’s chest, almost stumbling him to the ground. A few feet taller than him, even with Kaladhen’s recent growth spurt, Sir Antony loomed over him, face cloaked in shadow. “I hear weakness and uncertainty in your tone, boy. The nobility will have either gobbled you up, or dismissed you as nothing. I will not have that. Understood?” The final word was a growl of a threat, his Father’s eyes deadly still.
“Yes, Father, I understand. I will not fail!” Kaladhen forced out, putting as much power behind the words as he could muster while pain throbbed across his hands.
His Father studied him for a long moment, then a smile bared his teeth and he said, “Far better. Come on, I want to go over Lord McKenzie’s theory of the wolf and the sheep again.”
It went on like that, for the rest of the day. The city might have been in sight, but they still were a long way from it. It was like the mountains, once you could see them, they were still days off from being there. Kaladhen, in all his ten years, had never been so far from home, never walked so far. His legs ached and groaned, though he dared not make a complaint–he understood the consequences of that–and so trooped on with as much diligence as he could manage. His Father did not give him much help either, his longer legs, even weakened with age, kept a consistent pace, and Kaladhen would have to jog to keep up, and he went to bed each night with sweat plastered over his face. Today, as noon fell into evening and night approached, his Father finally began to slow. They set up camp, his Father grilled him the entire time on economic policy and political theory and who did what in the Dragon’s Court and who was in charge. Kaladhen got most of the answers correct, quick and primly, and he saw a genuine smile on his Father’s face.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, “Well done son!” he said, rubbing Kaladhen’s hair–Kaladhen tried to ignore the sensation of dirt and grime being left behind in his hair by his Father’s hand, but it made a constant sensation in the back of his mind, a warning of danger if he did not move to clean it. However, too, came a feeling of happiness sparked by his Father’s praise. “We will make a Noble out of you yet! Tonight, we shall eat better, and sleep longer. We have only a few hours march to the city. You remember the drill when we arrive?” His voice made it clear this was another test.
Kaladhen smiled and answered quickly and assuredly. “Upon arrival into the city, we shall make our way to the Gift of Knowledge, and there announce our presence to the Librarians. I shall demand my interest in securing a room for us, that we are here as invited guests of Lord Navelhaid Nero Cicero. Once we have our rooms, we shall freshen ourselves and prepare and practice for the Yuulvon Ball. There, I am to fraternize and acquaintance myself with the Nobility in attendance, especially among the peers my own age. You, meanwhile, will find me a suitable teacher to train me in the ways of the Court in preparation for me to take the test of Sophomancy at age twelve and to pass it, so that I may form a new Line of House Cicero and make us into Nobility.”
“Excellent,” Sir Antony said, once more slapping a hand on Kaladhen’s shoulder, and leaving a faint mark of dirt and dust on it. It would not make him sick, it was just dirt. “Stand up for yourself amongst them, but do not forget you are still a mere merchant’s son. We might have more money than a lot of them, but that is not all that matters to Nobility. Names are just as important too.”
“Like Fey,” Kaladhen said, and received another slap across the hand.
“Do not interrupt, especially over so trivial a matter.”
“Yes Father.”
Sir Antony nodded. “Good. Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
The next morning was a blur. Breakfast was had, the tent struck, the birds sung, and Kaladhen spent it all hearing more sermons and answering his Father’s tests. All day. They walked and he learned and reviewed more, getting scant few questions wrong. This time, his Father did not strike him for being incorrect, and he merely gained glares in turn. Each step brought the city closer. The sound of the woods was stolen away by the sounds of people, of civilization. The trees thinned around the city and buildings rose. Farms, mills, houses, ranches, all manner of building resided outside the city. When they reached the portcullis, the gates were open, and a steady stream of people flocked into the city. Horses, tall and proud, bore Nobility upon their backs, dressed in beautiful clothes, the kind Kaladhen knew would be all too uncomfortable, while peasants gave them space to move unimpeded–dressed in rags and smelling of dirt and grime. Kaladhen scrunched up his nose as he passed them by.
Agrenommen Arch was a thing of beauty. It was one of the oldest cities on the continent, built a century after humanity arrived from the Broken Land, and long before Edouard Lusamyre founded the Artaghan Empire. It had, at various points, been the most important city in the world, before and after the Empire. Whilst Dragon’s Throne succeeded it, the city was nothing to scoff at still. Even the lowliest houses were made of solid material, built to last and to look good in the city. They went upwards, onto the Arch, climbing ever higher into the sky. The peasantry began to dwindle as they did, and the streets began to smell of sage and thyme and pine. Grand estates walled by wrought iron fences or walls of stone towered over them. Soon, Kaladhen saw their destination: A tall tower, the highest building in the city, made entirely of a stone that bore resemblance to bark. Halfway up, the tower split down the middle, turning into two separate buildings, like a lightning struck tree.
Kaladhen led his Father to the building, and when he reached its threshold, hesitated only a moment before throwing wide the vast doors of ancient oak. They creaked and groaned and moved with surprising force, striking against the walls behind them with a loud thunk! Kaladhen felt his shoulders hunch inward at the sound and he flinched, waiting for his Father to strike him for the show of fear. Instead he felt a nudge to his body and Kaladhen made himself stride in and reassumed a posture of power.
The city might have been beautiful, but inside, was awe-inspiring. There appeared to be no full floors to the building, save the first. Instead, the building was hollow, and as it stretched upwards, there were twisting staircases and catwalks leading from balcony to balcony. Shelves and shelves of endless books danced in view, old scrolls, modern books from the printer’s guilds, tablets, pamphlets, broadside ballads, every little thing was compiled here. People moved about with a cautious gait, as the shelves were moving about on their own accord, the records shuffling around. Kaladhen had read of this place, known in theory what he would find. It was an entirely different thing to gaze upon it with his own eyes. It made his mouth water, mind wander, looking at it. All that information, all those stories, the histories, all at his fingertips.
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Never had he moved with more assurance than he did now. He needed a chance to stay here, to pry into its secrets and learn more. He needed this more than anything else in the world–more than becoming a noble, the guilty thought struck him. His feet drew him towards another awe-striking sight, and one that inspired more than a little trepidation.
Perched atop a chair fit for a giant, crouched a Spirit. Not one of the lesser spirits, who had magic themselves but no power to grant, but a true Spirit: A Librarian. It looked vaguely like an owl, but it was twelve feet tall even hunched over, its neck long and spindly like a giraffe native to Thespious. Its face was hidden behind a porcelain mask with a perpetual smirk and empty eyes, its clawed wings bent inwards and holding a massive tome large enough to crush a full grown man. The Librarian’s feathers were silver, not merely appearing silver, but Kaladhen knew were the metal itself, and with each movement, the feathers seemed to sing, like chimes when moved by wind. It was one of the Spirits of House Cicero, a gifter of Sophomancy, a being of knowledge and wisdom.
Right as Kaladhen was about to step up towards the desk where the Librarian sat behind, someone cut right in front of him. A flash of anger struck Kaladhen at the little creep’s boldness. They looked to be a few years older than Kaladhen, and were hideous. Their face was crooked and their hair beraggled, their clothes looked shabby, perhaps once tailored, but had gone without care. His skin was tanned and leathery, and Kaladhen could see a heavy scar across one eye leaving it white. Kaladhen grabbed his shoulder, puffing out his chest and hoping he did this right.
“I was here first, get behind me cretin.” He glanced at his Father, and saw the barest nod of approval.
The kid turned back, a look of surprise flashing in his eyes, followed by anger. A little droplet of spittle fell from the ugly kid’s mouth. How such a person was allowed in such a beautiful place, Kaladhen did not know.
The cretin pushed away Kaladhen’s hand with a surprising amount of force. “What did you call me?” he asked, in a low tone.
“A cretin. You don’t belong here.”
The kid stared at him for a very long moment, and Kaladhen began to grow impatient, before finally they spoke again. “You are the one who doesn’t belong here, merchant. Piss off before I teach you a lesson.”
Kaladhen’s eyes widened, and realized the meaning behind their words. This was not some outsider, this was a Noble’s son? How did they turn out so hideous?” “M-my apologies,” Kaladhen stammered out, and thrust a hand towards him.
In a single movement, the Noble stepped back, grabbed Kaladhen’s hand, and with a simple movement, threw him to the floor. Kaladhen landed heavy on the ground and a sharp pain wracked across his body. “Ow. Ow! Ow-ow-ow-ow!” Kaladhen complained on the ground, his body groaning. He fought back tears. This wasn’t right, even a Noble couldn’t lay a hand on him. Kaladhen slowly pushed himself to his feet, knuckles tightening. The Noble had turned away from him and was speaking to the Librarian, who had set aside his tome, and was seeming to pay intense attention to the scene arrayed before him.
Balling his hands into fists, Kaladhen readied himself to leap at the twat. Then, a girl stepped in front of him. He stumbled back, surprised. Her skin was a darker tan than the other kid’s and she seemed just about Kaladhen’s age. Her face was screwed up into an expression of anger, with one hand planted on her hip, the other thrust out like a sword towards Kaladhen. “Hey! Don’t you dare mess with Judge. He doesn’t deserve to be pushed around and I won’t let you!”
Ahead of them, Kaladhen saw this Judge freeze, turning back to face him and the newcomer. Judge’s face reddened, and embarrassment joined the anger and annoyance Kaladhen had seen before. “Arrietty, I don’t need you to fight my battles,” he said, in a loud clear voice.
Kaladhen raised an eyebrow at the name. “Arrietty? Arrietty Feylai Magnolia? Daughter of High Lady Magnolia?” She was among the most prominent children of High Lords and Ladies. Kaladhen had been forced to learn the names of every single one of them. If he could recall, she was considered brash and foolhardy, and unlikely to gain much in the way of support among her family. House Magnolia generally were a bunch of cautious cowards. “Sorry for making fun of your friend.” He held out a hand. “I’m Kaladhen Antony, and I’m trying to make friends!”
She slapped his hand away, and even deeper anger seemed to flash in her eyes. “Friends? I don’t want to be friends with a meanie like you!”
Judge trudged up behind her, and grabbed her shoulder. “Come on Arrietty, let’s not make more of a scene.” He turned, and eyed Kaladhen, his ugly face turning into a sneer and joined by a growl. “Especially not with a cretin like him.” And the two of them left.
Not exactly the best start to his day. As those two disappeared deeper into the library, Kaladhen turned to look at his father, and started, surprised to see him right beside–
Pain sheared across his face and Kaladhen once more was thrown to the ground. He landed with a thump, his entire face burned, and felt hot and hurt. A LOT. “Ow,” Kaladhen tried to say, but it came out sputtered and ugly sounding, full of liquid metal as his tongue struggled to pronounce the simple exclamation.
He felt his body pulled up from the ground, his feet raised from the floor. From only a single eye, half-closed and filled with tears, Kaladhen saw his Father’s face. It was a specter of pure fury, reddened to the point of a volcano about to burst. “You Morterran cursed miserable failure. You anger the daughter of a High Lady before we’ve even begun?” Kaladhen wanted his Father to shout, to scream, it would be less scary than the quiet tone of ice he used now. “You. Have. Ruined. Us.” Then, he fell for the third time, smacking against the floor hard enough to see stars flutter around him.
- He only thought of the words this time. He did not cry. He felt the tears welling behind his eyes, felt them threaten to burst like a dam. He did not cry. He did not want to fail his Father again. He could not fail his Father again. Kaladhen scrambled to his feet.
Ahead, his father was striding like the wind, his cloak billowed out before him, his voice a low growl and muttering about needing a drink.
“WAIT FATHER!” Kaladhen struggled out, and reined in his words, trying to regain his control. “I will not fail you again. What should I do?”
“Make friends somehow. You won’t though, you screwed up already.”
And his father left him.
There was silence in the library. The Librarian was utterly still, perched upon his chair, watching him with a face of unmoving porcelain. There was no one else. Kaladhen lay crouched there, before finally stumbling to his feet, and running off. He found a little alcove, hidden away from everything, from everyone. There, he fell onto the bench and began to weep. Ugly tears ran down his face and wetted his shirt and neck and his eyes turned red. He could feel the wound his Father left him swelling, one of his eyes left blackened. How was he going to make friends like this? Prove to his Father he was not a failure like this?
“Hey,” a voice said suddenly from right above him.
Kaladhen squirmed, and tried to wipe away his tears. The girl, Arrietty, stood over him, her face no longer looked angry; it looked full of pity. “Go away,” Kaladhen said, and immediately regretted it. He was given a chance to make a friend again and he already ruined it, why couldn’t he do anything right.
But, he realized, she didn’t go away. “Why should I?” She said, after a moment. She clasped her hands around her back and seemed to prance towards him. “I am going to be Dragon one day, so I don’t need to take orders from anyone.”
Kaladhen looked at her, and would have gaped if opening his mouth wouldn’t have hurt like Morterran’s hell. A flash of guilt ran through him for using a filthy curse like that, even mentally. “I…”
She sat beside him, and he had to move out of the way to give her room, his entire body groaned in protest. “Are you okay? Why’d your dad hit you?”
“Because I messed up.”
“So?” She asked.
Kaladhen shook his head, bewildered. “That’s what Fathers do. They make you strong, and when they stumble, they punish you to make you remember.”
“That’s not what my dad does,” Arrietty said, looking pensive. “I don’t think I like your dad.”
Kaladhen forced himself not to respond in anger. He needed to make friends. “He’s a good Dad. He’s helping me become a Noble.”
“Oh? Are you not one?”
“No, is that a problem?”
“Nope,” Arrietty said. “I don’t really like a lot of them anyways. But I don’t know if I like you either meanie.”
“I’m not a meanie,” Kaladhen protested, forcing himself to sit on the bench instead of lying on it.
She rolled her eyes. “Then why were you a meanie to Judge?”
“I…er. I don’t know,” Kaladhen sighed, hands clutching around his head, it pounded with pain. “I thought he was a peasant and–”
“And what? Being mean to a peasant is fine?”
“I, my dad–”
“You are a meanie then!” She declared, crossing her arms, and nodding sagely.
“What can I do to not be a meanie?” Kaladhen asked, trying to turn the conversation to his advantage.
“You can be my friend!” She said, eyes bright.
Oh, that had been easier than expected. “Oh,” Kaladhen said. “I can do that.”
She smiled, holding out her hand. Kaladhen took it, and there was a sudden flash of purple light. His head no longer pounded, he felt his face grow ice cold, then it felt normal. He could see out of both eyes again, as he blinked away the swelling and the pain.
“Maybe I can make you not into a meanie! Want to go apologize to Judge?” she asked standing up.
“I would love to,” Kaladhen said. As she pranced away, looking happy, Kaladhen smiled, and thought that perhaps he could still make his Father proud.
*
“Caistlin?” Gwynfor asked, nudging at his back. She saw the man shake his head, a sharp movement to it, and she felt his muscles tense. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked.
“Yes, just… got lost in my own head for a second there.”
“Best avoid that in the future, mercenary, I am not paying you to day dream,” Dylon scolded.
“Of course, my liege,” Caistlin responded. He whipped the reins and their horse trampled forward, pushing through brambles. Their pace had been slow and annoying all night, and Gwynfor felt that approach of dawn. She could still not make out the sky, but she felt it in her bones, that inherent certainty of night becoming day. There was a noticeable shift when it occurred, a power you could feel. Gwynfor had spent many dawns and dusks watching the sun rise and fall, watching his splendor shift the world. Even cut off from his light, she could tell.
Caistlin held up a hand, motioning silence. He corralled their steed forward, pushing through a thick tangle of vines of undergrowth. They emerged into a paradise. The trees thinned and made room for a vast circular field of grass and flowers, tall as her waist. A lake glittered in the center, lit up pink and purple by floating flowers that glowed with phosphorescent light. Birds trilled and flew, a few deer carefully lapped at the water, while a few bunnies darted around. Gwynfor raised an eyebrow, seeing antlers on one of the rabbits. A singular white owl watched them from atop a lonely willow tree, half hidden by the long vines that fell over the lake.
“Welcome to Glowgrotto,” Caistlin whispered. “Do not damage anything here, be it plant or animal. This is a place of Spirits, a part of the old world, and it will not take kindly to interference.”
Gwynfor nodded. She did not need to be told. She could feel the power here, the place smelled of another age, fresh and yet musty. Moss blanketed the floor beneath the grass, and the ground felt squishy beneath her feet as she dismounted their horse. “What do we do?” Gwynfor asked, voice low. It felt proper to speak quietly and with reverence here, as one did in a library.
Caistlin, looking far off to the other end of the grotto, said, “Wait here. I am going to scout ahead. If we are lucky, the unicorn is not far off. Do not disturb anything. Am I understood?”
“Yes mercenary, I get it,” Dylon said with a wave of his hand.
“Good, I will be back soon.” He left, taking their horse with him and leaving Gwynfor alone with Dylon. They stood without saying a word.
An hour passed. The grotto was beautiful beyond words. Gwynfor carefully made her way to the water's edge, hidden still beneath the canopy. How did such verdant plants grow here without the sun’s grace? She saw fish swimming without care beneath the clear waters. They were illuminated both by the floating plants above, but also by glowing algae of blue beneath the waters. Pink and blue battled in the shifting tide of the lake, the colors dancing and seeming near hypnotic. She sat at the edge, breathing in the old world, letting go of all other thoughts.
Eventually, she found her peace interrupted, Dylon standing over her, watching the waters himself.
She opened a single eye, and glanced at him. He seemed almost contemplative, and more than a bit wistful. “Why do you want a Gift?” she broached.
He seemed surprised to see her talk, and when he looked at her, she could see his brows furrowed, his narrow upturned nose scrunched up. “Why do you care? You are here to get me the Unicorn’s Gift, not ask questions.”
Gwynfor shrugged her shoulders, turning back to the mesmerizing water. Then, she hazarded a guess. “I know what it is like to feel as if the world is against me. Must have hurt when House Bitter refused you a Gift.”
Gwynfor heard only the movement of water and leaves for a long moment. Even the birds were silent.
“The Cranduine are simple in their requests, compared to other Houses,” Dylon said finally. “They have no tests, no requirements for whom they grant their Gifts. They tell Bitter when one of them is willing to grant Herbomancy, and the House chooses whom to send. It should have been me. I had the most talent, was the hardest working, proved myself more than any other. Instead, twice when it should have been my turn, I was passed over in favor of someone in a more powerful Line, someone who wasn’t an elf.” He spat the final word as if it were a curse. Perhaps, it was.
“Then, I found my benefactor, and he promised me a Gift, were I to help him.” Dylon turned to face her. “I deserve a Gift, I’ve worked my entire life to get one. You will get me it.”
“And this Gift,” Gwynfor asked, struggling to dampen the fury that boiled in her belly. “Is it worth all the lives you trampled over to get? All the elves you’ve damned, all the people you’ve killed?”
“Yes. To not be trampled over myself again? I would do it a thousand times over girl. You would too. So would Caistlin. Power speaks. Power gives. Those without it crave it, those who lack it die to those with it eventually. I will not die or be trampled over again. So shut it with the grandstanding. Your Lydia took power and worked with people you would hate. So have you. At least I admit it.”
Gwynfor said nothing. There was nothing to be said. Dylon was wrong though. She had never struck at someone beneath her, and she never would. She would fight, work with terrible people, but she would never hurt someone whose only crime was not having as much power as her.
Another thirty minutes or so passed, and Caistlin rustled out from the far end of the grotto, covered in leaves. Gwynfor thought she could see him brushing off dirt with a disgusted look on his face. But, when he reached them, he was all calm and collected. “The Unicorn is near.” He looked at Gwynfor, holding another tuft of snow-white fur. “Time to earn your keep.”