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A hesitation, and then, “Some.”

“He seems rather unwilling to die,” Queen Alvira says offhandedly. “I assume it’s the nature of his kind. The beasts are most difficult to kill.”

“No,” says the stranger. “I do not think so. They are not so different from us.”

“He’ll be killed eventually, of course, regardless. But not until I get the Sabar girl back. She seemed attached enough to him that she might be lured.”

“You… you will bait her?”

“Perhaps. But it isn’t for you to know, witch. I’ve brought you here for your very specific area of expertise. So, let’s begin. Does this Glacian have the iskra magic?”

A pause. Whoever the witch is, she weighs her response before answering. “He must. He would be dead otherwise.”

“Can you rid him of it?”

“No.”

“Then awaken him. I wish to see how he might aid us.”

“Your Majesty. I do not think–”

“I did notaskwhat you think. Can you awaken him or not?”

A sigh. “Yes.”

“Will his iskra magic be a hindrance?”

“Perhaps,” says the voice, so small and inconsequential, it is almost disturbing to hear it beneath the Queen’s. “But not for long. These…Glacians,they absorb the iskra. They were made from it, after all. It must be replenished. This power within him likely weakens as we speak, helping him cling to life. Truly, you needn’t be so worried.”

A sigh of relief. “Quite. Wake him, then.”

“It will take some time. His wounds–”

“Time is of the essence, witch. Unless you would like me to parade you through the Mecca and have them see what you are, I would mind it.”

The sound of footsteps leads away, solid heels glancing off the stone as they disappear. Moments later, iron squeals against rust – a gate opening.

A hand lays gently against his cheek.

The first sensation of feeling in eons, in an eternity. The warmth of human skin on his. The stroke of careful fingers.

“Be well,” says that fragile voice, that disintegrating tenor.

And then something stirs deep within.

CHAPTERTWELVE

It is a glistening creature in his blood. It slides through him into every limb, reaching for the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. It stretches and turns, twists and runs, touching the very ends of him.

Finally, he can feel the tether that was missing – a tie between his mind and his body that was broken but is now fixed. He moves his toes, curling them inward. It takes a while longer for the pain to begin.

It comes as waves do. Swelling and crashing, relentlessly ensued. With the re-joining of his body and mind comes the awareness of every gnashing pain. He shouts and bellows but can’t be sure if his lips ever open. His chest is a pit of fire, burning him alive, and the iskra in him meanders through at leisure, slowly knitting the wound with its thread. It is painstaking, almost reluctant, as though it would rather Ryon had conceded to death and spared it the task. It goes about its work like a sullen child, and Ryon burns all the while.

He feels the snap of the last thread in his chest, the last tear stitching together and the burn mercifully fading. The crashing waves tame into something duller – a throbbing. He blinks several times, and suddenly he can see.

He is in a cell. As he thought. And she is not there.

The ache worsens. It has little to do with his wound.