Page 55 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

Fidens Nighthand, Irian Guinne

Their third day back on the islet of Glimt, eating plums on the top of the palace stairs, Anya and Christopher witnessed a scene. Neither fully understood it—not, at least, until they were far older.

It was between Irian and Nighthand. He was preparing to leave the island. His trunk was packed, and he was bidding farewell to Irian.

“I can’t stay,” he said. “I can’t stay, and remain a Berserker.”

Irian turned to him at the bottom of the steps. The garden of the palace bloomed around her, and her gaze was steady.

“What if we tried? What if you decided to try? An experiment in living alongside another person: intertwined? What then?”

His face was agony. “I cannot. No Berserkers allow themselves to love. To love is to fear. I would not know myself. Who am I, if I fear? What use am I then?”

“Fear is a fair exchange for love, Nighthand.” She looked at him. “Fear has wisdom in it, if you treat it well.”

A cry—a true cry—came from the great granite mountain of the man: “I do not know how.”

“Nobody knows. No one person is meant to love in the same way as another: we all invent it fresh, each time, for each person. So we will invent our love.” She laughed. “Love is the greatest weapon, Nighthand, against the world’s cruelties. Add it to your arsenal.”

He looked at her: strong and, for the first time in his life, desperate.

She walked up the steps toward him: three steps. They cost her: they took intelligence, and daring.

Nighthand did not speak: but he held out his hand. She took it.

He said: “Irian.” He visibly shook; shook as if a wild wind had swept past him. The lines in his face took on a shape they had never yet formed. It was like watching the first rising of a newly invented sun, so brightly did he glow. It was like watching a mountain laugh.

He bent, and she lifted her face to his. They kissed; a kiss for the ages, for the mermaids’ songs.

Irian looked toward the wood and the sky.

“Come,” she said; and they went.