Three

The winter wind has died down some, but it is still cold out in the gardens, and I pull my coat closer to me as I walk slowly down the uneven stone path. The moonlight touches the barren trees and silent graves, throwing them into sharp relief.

I pause. A figure stands in one of the garden archways that lead to the moors beyond, still and silent, and for a moment I wonder if it isn't a phantom of some sort. It certainly doesn't feel like a phantom. I step forward slowly; he turns his head towards me, and shimmering gray eyes catch the moonlight.

My shoulders sag and I sigh. "Soren." I should have recognised him instantly.

He nods in acknowledgement and approaches in that graceful way of his. His father was fay, after all. He could not hide it if he tried. His skin is pale and his hair more so, so it stands out sharply where it brushes the shoulders of his black cloak. "I have received summons from Augustan," he says gently. "Have you been summoned as well?"

I groan and turn away. "Indeed I have, and I'm half inclined to refuse."

"He would not be pleased by a refusal."

"I am not pleased with him."

He chuckles. A strange sound that feels like a bit of spring flowing through the dark winter night. "Nor am I. But there are worse things than being ignored for these three long years. He could make our lives very difficult indeed, if he so chose."

"There was nothing worse for my father," I reply bitterly, looking towards the sepulcher where he now rests.

"I know," he admits quietly. "Neither of us have any love for Augustan. But what of Dunn Maris? His letter spoke of darkness and evil. Shall we ignore it?"

I clench my jaw. Soren is right, as he usually is, and I hate it. I hate giving in. I hate trotting back to Augustan like a dog hearing her master's whistle.

Soren comes up and rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Zaphael," he says. "I am going to Dunn Maris, with or without you. I would prefer your company. It is a dismal journey to make alone."

"That it is," I admit quietly. The wind picks up, shuddering around us and cutting into my face like an icy knife. Soren edges a little closer, squinting against the cold blast. I nod with resignation. "Very well. I'll go. Come inside and warm yourself while I make preparations."

He nods, and we hurry back down along the garden paths. I glance back once at my father's grave, glowing dismally in the fading moonlight.