In the ruins of the granary, Nolan struggled to prop up half his body. Through the narrow cracks in the timber and soil, faint light spilled in, and he looked silently at the unconscious girl before him.
Between the collapsed ceiling and the ground was space for only the smallest wedge, shoulder pressed to shoulder, arm against arm. He could feel Clytia’s skin, burning with abnormal heat.
“Is she feverish…” Nolan remembered when Diya had fallen sick as a child—her forehead had been hot too, and he’d spent a whole night cooling her with damp cloths. But compared to Clytia now, that had been nothing.
Faintly, he heard the commotion of voices outside. He tore at his hoarse throat and shouted a few jumbled cries for help, not knowing whether anyone heard.
He raised his hand and pressed at the planks above his head. Perhaps something heavy still weighed on them; the broken timbers didn’t shift at all. Helplessly lowering his arm, he suddenly felt the body beside him give a shudder.
He turned his head. The girl’s eyes were open.
“Ah—how do you feel? Did I wake you?”
The words had barely left him when, to his surprise, hot breath spilled against his neck. Clytia suddenly flung out her arms and wrapped them tight around Nolan’s body—
Why? Why would she cling to me?
His mind went blank. Confusion and shock flickered only an instant before he realized this couldn’t be a gentle, languid embrace. The girl’s burning body shook in his arms like a leaf. Her thin arms seized with a strength from nowhere, locking his chest like iron bands.
“Uhh—ugh!”
Nolan’s breath grew ragged. He nearly felt he would be choked into fainting. But from the girl in his arms came a shivering cry:
“It hurts! It hurts!”
“Hurts… where? Your hand?”
He struggled awkwardly, just enough to gasp some air.
“No—not me. It’s her who hurts!”
The girl’s fingers suddenly clenched his clothes:
“She’s in pain—save her!”
“Save… who?”
“Save her!”
The cry broke into a hoarse wail. Then the girl quieted, her body’s trembling easing. Nolan looked down—Clytia lay against his chest with eyes shut, as if asleep.
“A nightmare?” Nolan wondered. He touched her forehead lightly; it didn’t seem as hot as before.
But—even if it was a nightmare, she had called to him for help.
No. He couldn’t just sit here waiting for death. With that thought, Nolan raised his hand and slammed at the boards above.
Thud, thud! Thud, thud!
“Help! Someone! We’re here, in here!”
He could swear he had never shouted so loud in his life, like he would shout his lungs out.
After who knew how long, his throat felt aflame. Outside came hurried footsteps and the barking of dogs.
“Nolan, are you in there?”
“I am! It’s me!”
He spent the last of his strength to cry out. Soon he heard villagers calling to each other as they worked at the wreckage above.
Then the timbers were lifted away. Blinding daylight stabbed down, making tears stream from his eyes.
“Brother!”
“Ah… Diya, I’m all right.” Nolan forced a crooked smile. His raised right hand dropped weakly, settling on the girl in his arms.
Weariness surged over him. His mind sank into dark.
“Hey! Wake up! Nolan, wake! The Baron’s envoy wants words with you!”
“Uh…” Nolan groaned from his throat, someone roughly shaking him.
When his eyes opened, he saw a boy with a face full of pockmarks standing at his bed.
“Alex…”
It was the Headman’s son. Nolan looked aside. From the blue-black stone walls, he realized he was in one of the rooms of the village chapel.
“Where’s Clytia?”
“Forget her! Didn’t you hear? The Baron’s envoy wants to see you! Get moving!”
Nolan pushed himself up. The dust on him had been at least brushed away, and his left arm had been newly bound—surely by Diya and Berli. He felt a quiet gratitude. Then he asked:
“The Baron’s envoy? Why would he want me?”
“They’re in the chapel hall. Go.” The boy didn’t explain, only urged him on.
“All right. I’ll go.”
Nolan stood. At the first step he felt aching through every joint. Looking to the window, he saw the sky like burning coals at dusk.
He left the room and went down the wooden stairs. The preaching hall below blazed bright. Candles that usually sat unused were all lit tonight.
On the stairway he let his eyes sweep the hall. First he saw a man of thirty, short black hair, in a long coat of blue velvet, gaiters laced high, a badge at his chest glinting in the candlelight.
“A posture like that—must be the Baron’s envoy.” So Nolan thought. His eyes moved further: Berli, the Headman, Diya… and Clytia.
Then his blood froze.
No—not possible. How could this be!
His pupils shrank. The silver-haired girl in a drab gray dress sat against the chapel wall, wrists and ankles shackled in black iron.
Seeing it was like his heart being wrenched.
The Baron’s envoy rested a hand on his sword-hilt, his cold gaze fixed on the silent girl.
“Sir Envoy, I’ll stand surety—this child bears no ill will. There must be some mistake!”
Diya’s voice, urgent, pleading to the envoy. But the man only frowned and waved her off.
“I asked you already. No need for more. Has no one taught you manners? Take her out.”
At his word, two attendants moved forward and put hands on Diya.
“Stop!” Nolan strode down, shouting. “What are you doing!”
“I’ll go myself.” Seizing the moment’s pause, Diya threw Nolan a look, then turned and walked out of the chapel.
“Who’s this now—another insolent brat?” The envoy ignored her. He frowned. Berli stepped up, voice low:
“This is Nolan Cyril, the one you said you wished to summon.”
“Oh? So it’s you?”
The envoy turned his eyes on Nolan, voice laden with false gravity.
“I am present. May I ask what you would inquire?” Nolan glanced at Clytia, then schooled his voice, recalled old forms, and bowed.
For all his courtesy, disdain flickered in the envoy’s eyes.
“Disturbing the court—three strokes first, questions after.”
“You mustn’t!” Berli at once blocked him, stern. “You may not know—Cyril is the descendant of a knight. And the girl you just drove out bears divine favor. I ask you treat them with dignity—”
“Divine favor? A knight’s line?” The envoy’s eyes wavered. Berli gave Nolan a look, then whispered a few words in the envoy’s ear.
“Oh—Cyril. I remember now. That luckless house of Cyril!” The envoy thought a moment, then raised his voice.
Silver hair hung down either side of her cheeks. Clytia lowered her head, staring at the black iron shackles on her limbs.
“Is she afraid?” I felt Clytia’s state. It wasn’t fear. More like her mind had gone blank.
If nothing could be changed for now—better to yield to fate than weep over it. Was that her thought? I couldn’t be sure.
“It’s all right. Shackles like these—once the body recovers, there are plenty of ways to deal with them.”
I thought it, trying to send comfort outward. Sure enough, Clytia felt it too, and gave the faintest nod.
Yes—I should have realized earlier. We cannot speak directly. But since her first day, I could sense Clytia’s emotions. By the same token, it was only natural she could feel mine.
I think the lack of comparison meant she never realized ordinary people cannot feel two hearts’ worth of emotions at once. To her, what flowed from me seemed perfectly natural.
It’s like the old thought experiment: a man born colorblind who sees red and green reversed. He’d never know the colors he saw weren’t the same as others.
So only recently—today—did she confirm my existence.
“Oh—Cyril. I remember now. That luckless house of Cyril!”
The envoy’s voice swelled, breaking my thought. My attention snapped back to the farce before me.
“Nolan… when did you arrive?”
I saw a shadow pass across the boy’s face.
“Yes. I am the grandson of Knight Fenn Cyril.”
“Son of Winter Cyril, aren’t you? The notorious fraud who borrowed the knight’s name to swindle the Harbor Guild of a fortune, then was caught and executed like the scum he was. By that reckoning, you’re a criminal’s get.”
“I…” Nolan’s teeth clenched. “Our family—already paid for that!”
The envoy gave a hissing laugh. “Well then. For the sake of that scrap of knight’s blood, I’ll forgo your offense.”
“Now. Everything you know—about this demon—speak it out.”
Pacing, the envoy lifted his leather-sheathed sword and pointed at Clytia.