I nodded slowly, some of the tension slipping away. “I have no intention of destroying the world,” I said, “for whatever that’s worth,”
“I know this,” he said with quiet power. “I truly do. You carry a ‘danger’ that some would like to harness, and no,” he said with a smile, answering the question before I asked it, “I am not one of them.”
“I said once before that dangerous things are used, destroyed, or contained,” I told him. “Are you content with how Mzatal intends to contain and use me?”
His gaze went to the pile of bricks at the bottom of the hill. “I would rather hold—as Mzatal does—that you have the will, courage, and heart to contain yourself and to make use of your potential. Should that prove not to be the case, then I would need to reassess.”
I let out a low sigh. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Seretis looked back to me, held the brick out. “You disliked carrying these up the hill.”
I took it, weirdly relieved to have it out of his hand, even though I knew damn well there were a hundred other ways for him to kill me before I could even blink. But by passing it to me it seemed as if he relinquished my fate back over to my control. “Exercise and I don’t always get along.” I told him. “We agree to disagree.”
He crouched. “Amkir. Jesral. Rhyzkahl. Kadir.”
My gut clenched, and I made a sour face. “You mean the Four Dickwads?”
Seretis let out a soft snort of amusement. “The Four Mraztur.”
“Sounds like a nasty word.”
“There is no direct translation,” he said, “but, in your vernacular, perhaps ‘motherfucking asshole dickwad defilers’ will serve.” His gaze penetrated me, and when he spoke again, the air seemed to tremble around him. “Every brick you carry, every time you climb the column, you strengthen yourself against them. They do not rest in their purposes. Dance the full shikvihr and you become a true thorn in their side,” he said, eying me appraisingly. “Mzatal believes you have the passion, resolve, and skill to do it.”
My eyes went to the top of the column. Memory of the terror of that yawning void whispered through me, and I shuddered. “I have a long way to go,” I murmured, then looked back to him. “But I’ve been described as a tenacious bitch more than once.”
He chuckled, then his smile softened. “You would not have survived Rhyzkahl’s venom or Mzatal’s assessments were you not, Kara,” he said gently. “The Four seek you, and they seek Earth. They believe you carried power in the form of Elinor’s essence and they seek to use you to advance their plans.” He shook his head. “You were more than they had bargained for and less of what they thought they had.”
I turned his words over in my head. “What do they want of Earth?” I asked, though I had a feeling I already knew the answer.
“What most all of us lordlings want,” he said, tilting his head. “Connection. Access. Since the cataclysm, we know it is critical for stability and control of the arcane, as well as the vitality of the qaztahl.” His smile faded. “The Four Mraztur want more though. Benevolent alliance is not what they seek.”
I scowled. “I’m not going to let them fuck up my world,” I said, though I was fully aware those were big words for someone who could barely carry ten bricks up a hill.
“Perhaps that purpose and determination will make this—” He tapped the brick in my hand. “—lighter.”
“Nothing will make the burden lighter,” I replied. “But it sure as shit makes me more willing to bear it.”
“It is much to bear.” His eyes dropped to the sigils that were visible above the neckline of my tank top. For the first time his smile faded completely, as if a light had gone out. He lifted a hand toward me then paused. His face was unreadable, yet I could see in his eyes his need to touch the sigils and his loathing to do so.
I went very still, sensing the silent, motionless battle within him. My pulse thudded as I waited, and I realized I wanted him to touch the sigils, wanted him to really know what I went through.
He shifted his attention up to the trio of syraza on the tower, though his hand didn’t waver. His gaze stayed on them for half a dozen heartbeats, and I had a feeling there was a silent discussion going on between them.
Seretis looked back to me, eyes haunted. “May I?” he asked softly. Beneath the words I felt his hope that I’d say no.
I worked moisture into my mouth. “Yes.”
He shifted closer, pausing with his fingers barely an inch above the sigil on my sternum. Unbidden, the memory of the torture that fired this sigil flared. It is as though I am immersed in acid and my skin boils away as I scream and thrash. Clenching my hands into fists, I tried in vain to control the shudder.
Grief shadowed across his face as he absorbed the memory. He visibly shook, then sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening in brief horror as if the power that had formed the sigils reached for him. He recoiled hard enough that he lost his balance and landed awkwardly on his backside, breathing heavily, eyes never leaving the sigil.
I realized I was staring at him in shock, and I quickly controlled my expression as best I could. “Yeah, that’s usually the reaction guys have when they look at my boobs,” I said lightly, trying to break the bizarre tension and give him a chance to recover.
Seretis closed his eyes and drew three controlled breaths, clearly drawing on the pygah and possibly others. After a moment he exhaled and opened his eyes. The horror had faded, yet the revulsion and grief still remained. He shifted to a half cross-legged position with one knee up, similar to the kneel/sit that the syraza so often used, then raised his eyes to mine.
“I am so very sorry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper but with no less strength.
“It is what it is,” I replied quietly.