Page 89 of The Demon Tide

Echoing out after he was murdered, he means.

My hope falters for a moment, but then rebellion sparks, burning hot against the horrific thought.

“We must hope that Raz’zor is intelligent enough to not lead the Vu Trin straight to you,” Fain cautions.

“The Xishlon festival will be her friend,” my aunt Li’ra says, her Uriskal inflection lilting and lovely. “It will hide her well.”

“I was told about the festival by the refugees I met in the Dyoi Forest,” I mention.

“It’s the Noi people’s biggest festival,” Li’ra tells me, her purple-lashed amethyst eyes sparkling. “One of Noilaan’s thirteen lunar celebrations, this one honoring the Goddess Vo’s love incarnation on the night of the Lavender Moon.”

I recall little Tibryl’s enthusiasm as she told me about Noilaan’s purple moon. “Does the moon truly turn lavender?”

“It does,” Li’ra answers with a smile.

“An astronomical occurrence that happens once a year,” Or’myr explains. “For one night the moon and stars are aligned in such a way that they reflect the light of the purple Xishlon star. The occurrence casts a mood over Noilaan that pulls people’s focus toward love of all kinds—romance, friendship, family ties. Scatters people’s wits a bit if they try to think on anything else too closely. And luck would have it that the Xishlon holiday is the day after tomorrow.”

“Xishlon is a ridiculous holiday,” Wrenfir spits out, his spider-leg-edged mouth twisting with obvious disdain. “The Noi run around decorating everything with heart-shaped flower wreathes and runic moon orbs, professing their love and kissing each other.”

Or’myr grins at this. “It’s also the perfect time to evade Vu Trin notice. The soldiers who haven’t deployed west yet will be caught up in the moon’s thrall.”

The library’s black door abruptly opens.

I look toward it, along with everyone else and alarm races through my veins.

A horned man with lightning-glazed skin is standing in its frame. He’s obviously another Zhilon’ile Wyvern-shifter. Like Vothe, his hue is a similar midnight black, his dark eyes silvered with lightning, his pupils vertically slit. He’s attractive, his ears pointed, his horns a spiraling obsidian, and he appears to be about Fain’s age, his black hair edged with a tracery of gray. My alarm draws down a fraction as I note how calm everyone is.

“Sholin’toiya,” Fain enthuses, rising to greet the man, his expression lit up as his water affinity flies out to encircle the shifter, his power seamlessly met by the man’s own formidable water magic.

Confusion races through me. Because the shifter is wearing Gardnerian sacred black garb, the same as Fain, a necklace with a white bird pendant gracing the shifter’s neck.

“This is Sholindrile Xanthile,” Fain announces with a beaming smile, “my toiyanon.”

His bonded mate.

Surprise wells as Fain’s hand slides around the man’s waist and they lean into each other, exchanging a fond look, their magic converging in a loose caress. My shock over their Gardnerian dress is quickly subsumed as my mind reels over how startlingly different it is here in the East. No hiding in the shadows for Fain and his love.

Which means no more hiding for Trystan.

Something tight and pained buried deep inside me—something I didn’t know I was holding—relaxes. The injustices of the Western Realm have been ingrained in me for so long, I could think only in terms of concealment and escape for Trystan. Never in terms of freedom from the threat of terrible cruelty.

But now, here we are, in a whole other land, this cruelty swept clear away.

And I realize, as imperfect as this new land might prove to be, there are things here that are vastly better than they are in the Western Realm. Things worth fighting to hold on to.

“Sholin’toi,” Fain says, slowly and with great significance as he gestures to me, “this is Elloren Gardner Grey. Edwin and Wrenfir’s niece.”

My fire power shudders against Fain announcing my identity so blithely.

Sholindrile’s black brow lifts, the lightning in his eyes intensifying, as Fain’s gaze takes on a more serious light, likely reading my guttering magic. “Toiya, you’re safe with Sholin,” he assures me. “Both Sho and I are allied with my sister and Jules Kristian in all things.”

I cautiously meet Sholindrile’s gaze to find him studying me probingly. He has Vothendrile’s same unblinking dragon stare, but his expression radiates a serenity that lessens my concern, despite his troubling attire. He acknowledges me with a formal dip of his head, his gaze weighted with import. “Welcome to our home, Daughter of the Resistance.”

“Why are you wearing Gardnerian blacks?” I can’t help but blurt out.

Sholindrile’s mouth lifts. “I am a convert to the Gardnerian Church of the First Children and a student of many religions. I teach philosophy and theology at Noilaan’s Voshir University.”

My mind tilts, not understanding how this could possibly fit together. I imagine how the priests of the Western Realm would react to Fain and Sholindrile claiming the Mage faith as their own. They’d be struck down immediately.

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