wall. “I haven’t been struck down yet, and you’re not in trouble.” His flippancy died as he folded her hand in his broader, darker ones. “Zhir, are you sure—”
She shook her head sharply. “Not here. And yes, I’m sure. I’ll know by tonight.”
He nodded. “Be at the ferry by sunset, then. And thank you.” He leaned down to kiss her, then froze.
“Jabbor?”
He spun, one hand falling to the hilt of his kris-knife. Zhirin followed his gaze across the courtyard and jumped. A man sat in the shadows beside the fountain, eyes half closed as if he drowsed. No one she recognized, neither Assari nor Sivahri. Her cheeks stung as she tried to remember what he might have overheard.
The man blinked lazily and brushed black hair away from his face. “Roshani.”
If he spoke Assari, perhaps he hadn’t understood anything. Not that she’d said anything she shouldn’t. She’d done nothing to feel guilty for. Yet.
“Go on,” she told Jabbor in Sivahran, shoving him toward the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”
She turned back to the man and bobbed a shallow bow. “Excuse me.” He didn’t look or feel like a mage; the cut of his clothes was foreign, as was the line of the sword at his hip. “May I help you?”
“No, shakera.” Amusement colored his voice beneath the foreign vowels and she drew herself up straighter. Of course, she was blushing like he’d walked in on a tryst—which was very nearly true. “My mistress is visiting. I’m just waiting for her.”
“Visiting whom?” She tried to mask the wariness with polite curiosity; letting strangers in unquestioned would get her in more trouble than tardiness.
“Vasilios Medeion.”
“Oh!” Her cheeks flushed hotter as she remembered why her master had asked her to be on time today. “Excuse me.” She bobbed a curtsy, then turned and fled down the hall.
* * *
Power soaked the walls of the Kurun Tam, residual magic steeping the elegant soapstone lattices and frescoes. It reminded Isyllt of the Arcanost in Erisín, though this building was much younger and less austere. That it was primarily a research facility and not a school made its beauty all the more impressive. The corridors around them were silent and echoed empty to her otherwise senses.
“Many have gone to the mountain today,” Asheris said, catching her unspoken question. “They won’t return till nightfall.” He arched one dark brow. “Have you seen the mountain yet, Lady Iskaldur?”
“No, I only arrived last night.”
“You must. I’d be happy to show you, as your time permits. It’s a much more pleasant journey before the rains begin.”
“Thank you.” She caught herself studying his bright amber eyes, the planes and angles of his jaw, and forced her gaze elsewhere; she didn’t need a pretty distraction.
He had more than pretty eyes to distract her—his presence lapped over her, warm and rich. A powerful mage, from the diamond he wore on a narrow gold collar. Spices and smoky incense clung to his robes, and his magic left the taste of crackling summer storms on her tongue. No doubt she smelled of bones and death to him.
The stones chilled underfoot as they left the sunlight behind and entered a corridor lit by golden witchlights. Elaborate arabesque friezes lined the walls, and the tops of the columns were carved in delicate lotus blossoms. Asheris stopped before a brass-studded door and rapped the polished wood lightly. Someone called out a muffled “Come in.”
They stepped into a narrow study, lit by lamplight and tall windows. The air was thick with the scent of leather and vellum and wood polish; books and scroll casings lined the walls. An old man looked up from his book, forehead creasing in curiosity.
“You must be Isyllt,” he said before Asheris could begin introductions. Wrinkles rearranged as he smiled. “It’s not every day I see Vallish girls anymore.”
Isyllt inclined her head with a smile. “Vasilios of Medea, I take it.”
“I am he. Not that I’ve seen Medea in a good many years.” He rose and moved around his cluttered desk to greet her, favoring his left leg. A tall man, but he stooped till he was barely of a height with Isyllt. Gnarled, ink-stained hands clasped hers affectionately. A benevolent tutor, his smile said, a kindly grandfather—not a spy.
“Welcome, my dear. Kiril has told me good things about you.”
“He speaks fondly of you as well.”
“Told you stories of our misspent youth, has he?” Pale eyes glinted under creased olive lids.
Hard to believe this bent old man was only five years Kiril’s senior. Even after her