Page 7

“Would ...” My mouth dries again. “Would one of you volunteer?”

Qequan and Ichlad exchange a look. Qequan says, “I’m amused. You may try it on me.”

He stands, and he isenormous. Over eight feet tall, surely. Taller than all the trolls in the room and on the bridge. He is broad and muscular, though his stomach is round and well fed. He is a troll who has seen battle; it’s evident in his stance.

He crosses until he stands in the center of that large monster’s pelt, then holds out his hands. “Do your worst, little bird.”

“I’ll have on your honor that I will not be harmed.” If trolls have oaths, they must have honor.

He grins, showing me his teeth, emphasizing his tusks. “Of course.”

I swallow. Men usually have two responses to fear—fight or flee. Qequan does not seem like one to flee.

Taking a deep breath, I adjust my stance, feet shoulder-width apart. I want to say I’ve never used my darkness like this, that it’s always been a last resort, self-defense, anything. But I have. I’ve used it in calm, quiet rooms against those both bigger and smaller than myself. Sometimes with my father’s hand on my shoulder, sometimes with his expectations pressed to my spine. I haven’t been so calculated about it for a long time.

I brace myself, trying not to cringe. My ability is a double-edged sword. I cannot wield fire without getting burned, so to speak, though knowing that the fire isn’t real helps me control the pain.

Qequan appears bored, so I dig down. My body is on edge, my mind bogged with worry, and so it comes up readily, a locust eager to feast. I pull it out of me, an invisible force, an unheard song that trickles through my veins and makes my heart race, my back sweat, my jaw clench. The physical manifestations hit first, then the mental ones. My own urge to flee, the tunneling of vision, the warping of time. If I push too hard, the fear goes straight to my heart and becomes my own blindpanic, rampant and hungry and cold. I gauge it carefully. I need to stay myself, but IneedQequan to see me.

Steeling myself against the fright, I shove it at the troll.

His reaction is immediate.

His breath hitches. Eyes widen, whites glistening. He takes a step back as though pushed. His knees tremble.

And then he rips the hammer from his belt and rushes at me with a war cry that nearly breaks my eardrums.

I cut off the fear immediately, but he’s still charging. I stumble back and fall onto the cold stone, natural terror surmounting me. I shriek, lift my arms to protect myself—

“Qequan!”Ichlad bellows.

Silence, save for heavy breathing that isn’t mine. My heart hammers quarter seconds. Several pass. Carefully, I move my arms and peer out. Qequan is right there, nearly touching me, his hammer raised. Confusion crinkles his expression, his chest heaving like a bellows, just like mine. The faint sconce light glimmers off two rows of turquoise beads on his right sleeve.

He blinks. Heavy lines crease his brow. He lowers the hammer slowly, as though the joints of his shoulders were rusted. Steps back. Again. Looks at me as though I’ve turned into a snake. I swallow deep breaths, trying to find my calm.

Two of the other four council members, Ichlad and the woman, have risen from their seats. Several heartbeats pass before the former asks, “Are you with us?”

Qequan’s body relaxes. He drags a large hand over his face and turns to them. “I am.” He glances back at me.

I’m ready for him to call me a monster, to cast me out the way Finnie and her family did, the way Andru did. But as Qequan studies me, unabashed, the confusion melts into intrigue. That is, if I can even hope to read the expression of a troll.

“You didn’t even move,” he says.

I get my feet under me. “I-I don’t have to.”

“By will alone?”

Rolling my lips together, I nod.

He returns the hammer to his belt and strides across the room, wholly dignified, taking his place in the center throne. The woman and Ichlad follow suit. Once Qequan is comfortable, he says, “How?”

I walk forward until my toes touch the animal pelt. “I don’t know. I’ve had it since I was a child.”

The troll on the far right says, “She would prove excellent in interrogations.”

Sweat beads down the center of my back. I hadn’t consideredwhatthe trolls might use my horrid curse for. They wouldn’t ... They wouldn’t make me torture people, would they? Because fear is a torture in and of itself. My father’s favorite method.

Stars above, what have I done?