The wildcat had appeared beside them, silent as a wraith. It padded closer, as if witnessing a dull game of capture-my-lord, plunked itself down, and stretched, its front paws coming so close Ronan could see the tips of its giant claws. Then those claws shot out, razor-sharp talons as long as finger joints, barely a hairbr
eadth from his face.
The girl turned to the cat. She made a noise in her throat, a cross between a grunt and a growl. The cat sighed, then straightened and proceeded to clean a forepaw. Yet it kept its gaze on Ronan.
A hunting cat? He'd heard of such things, in the deserts to the south, where the climate was ill suited to shaggy hounds. But the girl was clearly Northern-born, with her pale skin and blue eyes.
"Are you the youngest of the damned?" the girl asked. To Ronan's surprise, her voice was low, almost rough. With her red-gold hair and finely cut features, she looked like she ought to speak with a teasing lilt. Of course, she didn't look like she should be able to send him flying either--or knock out his breath with a well-placed knee.
"What?" he said.
"The damned. The exiles. Are you the youngest?"
He was, but he had no idea what it mattered, so he stared at her.
"They sent me to find the youngest. Are you he?"
"Who sent you?" he asked carefully.
Her free hand fluttered, but she said nothing, only asked the question again, sounding impatient now.
"And if I was the youngest?" he said.
She looked around, as if waiting for someone. "Do you know what would truly help?" she said, speaking to the air. "Clearer communication."
The cat chuffed and seemed to roll its eyes.
"I know, I know," she muttered under her breath.
She's mad, Ronan thought. I've been taken by a madwoman.
That would have been cause to resume struggling if she weren't already sliding off him. She sprang to her feet, as gracefully as her cat, and pointed the dagger at his chest. "Keep your distance, boy."
Boy? She was older than he'd estimated at first, but she still had to be a summer his junior.
She gave one last look around, muttered, "This was a waste of time," and began backing away. After a few steps she stopped, and her head swung to the side, as if she'd heard something.
"What?" she said.
"I didn't--" he began.
She silenced him with a wave, then focused on the air to her left.
Spirits. She hears the spirits.
No, that didn't make sense. True, there were spirits, all around them, all the time. Everyone knew that. But only the spirit talkers could hear them, and those were mystics who'd sacrificed every other sense to earn that one. Blinded, tongues cut out, nostrils seared, forbidden to touch anything except the paper on which they scribbled messages from the second world. This girl was clearly not one of them.
He looked at the cat. The sight of it triggered some memory. Yes, there was an answer to this riddle, and he should know it, but he'd relegated it to the refuse heap of things he didn't need to remember.
Or the girl was mad. That seemed more likely.
"Are you mad?" she said, as if echoing his thoughts, and he jumped, but she was still addressing the air. "What good will--?"
She paused, then muttered, "Clearer communication. Is it too much to ask?"
She turned to Ronan. "Stay there."
"What?"