Chapter 24
For the Rising Channellers, éadha thought, the days that followed on Second Island must’ve felt like a dream of perpetual twilight.
Of mornings spent sleeping off the hangover from the night before, rising in bedrooms with the curtains closed against the afternoon sunshine, bathing and eating in a haze before dressing in some fine outfit, channeling fresh energy and going in search of that night’s party.
Second House was hung with lanterns that came alive in the early winter dusk, drawing the apprentices on and out into the night.
Every night after that first Welcome Ball, there was another party hosted by the Risen somewhere on the island: in apartments, in courtyards, out on the battlements, down by the lake at the heart of the island.
It was a tradition as old as Second House itself and the Risen’s first duty as fully fledged Channellers, this hazing of Ionáin and his classmates.
It was also the Risen’s last hurrah before they left on a year of dragon patrols, a life of sleeping on bare ground, living off rations, and knowing not all of them would return.
Taken together it made for a wild ride as the Risen lost themselves under the winter sky and dragged Ionáin’s class into the night with them.
Each Risen Channeller took it in turns as ringmaster for the night, competing to outdo each other—the wine and beer, the exotic foods, the wildness of the music, the dancing.
Smoking braziers burned molash. Inhaling it heightened the rush of power, so the threads around them were more visible, shining in the smoke.
The apprentices would lift glowing coals from the brazier with tongs and place them in a silver bowl, cover their heads with a hood and lean over, breathing in the smoke while the coal burned.
Then lying back, they’d drain power, the drug heightening the senses so the life force flowed into them with an almost ecstatic surge of pleasure.
And slowly, night by night, the Fodder were more in evidence.
Always discreetly hidden behind a curtain or a screen, but accessible now to the curious.
Some, éadha saw, stayed away. Avoided the curtained alcoves, changed the subject when it came up.
Others, though, pressed eagerly in, gawking at these creatures—the “volunteers”—finally revealed.
They were almost always young—not much older than the Risen Channellers, young men and women dressed in plain gray shifts.
They weren’t chained like the people éadha had seen in Ailm’s Keep but sat docile, heads bowed, never speaking, even when the Channeller students sat beside them, heads spinning on molash, seizing their hands to drain their life force more directly.
Of them all, Senan took the most sadistic pleasure in the effect of his channeling.
Each evening as she dressed him, éadha was forced to listen to him speculating about who they’d get, griping petulantly about used goods when the same faces appeared.
“That boy last night was far too weak; I only got one were-dive out of him. If he’s there again this evening, I’ll have something to say,” or “If she’s there tonight, that’ll be three days in a row.
I’ll finish her tonight for at least a week, though, see if I don’t. ”
Her self-control held despite this; she never reacted no matter how much he sickened her.
And every night she made her way to the Banqueting Hall after tidying his quarters.
Attendance was compulsory even though she, Gry, and the other less popular Keepers spent most of their time on the benches at the entrance.
“It can’t be an exclusive party unless someone is excluded,” noted Gry dryly on yet another evening spent trying to get comfortable on those hard seats.
Senan, the twins, and Ionáin still formed the same core group as they had on First Island, but they were joined now by Ailbhe, Cara, and their hangers-on.
Ailbhe never left Ionáin’s side, keeping him supplied with wine, hanging on his words.
From what éadha could see, he hadn’t been sober since their first night on Second Island, a wine goblet never leaving his hands.
He shrugged off Senan’s and Coll’s teasing when he was too drunk to compete in whatever contest the Channellers had dreamed up for that night: riding his horse into a ditch at the start of a race around the island or tumbling headfirst into the water before any were-diving contests.
éadha, meanwhile, had simply faded out of his world. Ionáin didn’t speak to her, didn’t look at her, seemed to move in a reality where she didn’t exist. As she and Gry sat together on yet another night when his group strolled in past them without a glance, Gry nudged her.
“The Masters should really be making more of our powers.”
She was hunched on the bench, hands clasped around her knees, but this startled her into turning her head. “Shh!” she muttered. “Someone might hear you.”
“But these powers of invisibility we seem to have developed. Surely they could find some use for them?”
She sagged back, closing her eyes with a “humpf” of a half laugh.
In front of them, the band had started playing a round of traditional airs—laments about Channellers losing their Keeper loves to a dragon’s fiery breath.
All around the hall, couples were coming together to dance in slow, intimate circles.
She saw Ailbhe stare up at Ionáin under her lashes, her expression meaningful.
He was just finishing a large goblet of wine, but then he set it down and reached his hand out to her.
The two of them wrapped their arms around each other, Ionáin closing his eyes as Ailbhe rested her head on his shoulder, swaying in time to the music.
“Come on,” said Gry. “How about we don’t give them the satisfaction of sitting here like sad little rejects?
After all, there’s no rule that says we can’t have our own party.
” He stood up, stretching out a hand to pull her up as well.
She didn’t resist, too full of the pain of fighting down her reaction to seeing Ionáin in Ailbhe’s arms. Without a word Gry led her out of the hall into the corridor beyond, where they could still hear the music but they were alone, together.
“My lady,” said Gry, bowing in the silence of that cool, high space, his eyes holding hers as he reached out his hand.
She stared at it for a moment before lifting her own and taking it.
And it was like being brought back into the world, a reminder that, after all, she existed.
He stepped in closer, his strong arms encircling her, his hands resting on the small of her back as the tendrils of music slipped out into the hall and wound about them both.
A part of her knew she shouldn’t be doing this.
Going in so close to him after the way her body had reacted to his power in the infirmary.
But another part of her was too hurt and angry at what Ionáin was doing, at how far he was going, to care anymore.
If this let her forget, even for a short while, it was worth it.
For a few minutes the two of them swayed together, almost awkwardly, their bodies still finding the rhythm of the music, learning how to move against each other.
And as they did, éadha felt a deeper beat begin to stir inside her.
Gry’s chin came down to rest on the top of her head; he breathed in deeply, so she felt his chest rise and fall against her.
Without realizing it, as they’d found each other’s rhythm they’d moved together, closer, and closer still so that now she could feel the lean, hard strength of him down the whole length of her body.
Her breath grew shallow as she felt her own body start to respond to the feel of him.
This is all wrong, she told herself, though the thought felt slow and fuzzy-edged, as if she couldn’t hold on to it through the heat that was beginning to rise through her while his hips swayed against hers to the distant beat that seemed to come at the same time from inside them both, commanding them, subjugating them to its slow, insistent rhythm.
“Show me the real you,” Gry whispered, his lips brushing her ear and lingering there.
She closed her eyes at his words, at the way they called to her power, yearning as it had for months now toward his, and she couldn’t—she couldn’t fight it anymore.
He was too close, the sense of that latent power caged in his body too strong as he leaned into the sway of the music.
And so she let it fall, her thought-wall, the one she’d kept in place since the day she’d first set foot on Lambay.
She let it go, her power, her silver strength shining out in all its beauty and its vulnerability, and she heard Gry give a small in-drawn gasp above her as he reached out with his senses.
“éadha,” he said in a voice filled with awe and wonder, “I’ve never…”
He didn’t finish, only lowered his head to rest against the side of her head, and she felt rather than saw how in that moment he let his own wall fall, so his power shone out, too, the bright molten core of him.
And she knew they were taking a terrible risk, there in a drafty corridor outside Lambay’s Banqueting Hall, but she could no more stop her power responding than she could hold back the tide or still the wind.
Her hands clenched into his fine shirt as she felt it, the galvanic kick of her power rising up to meet his.
And they were two people clinging to each other as the powers within them roared up, helpless in the wave of desire that crashed over them both as their powers churned and churned, begging to come together, to set fire to the world.
éadha gasped, realizing how desperately close she was to losing every shred of control she had over herself, her body nothing more than a vessel for the sudden raging desire that threatened to overwhelm her.
“Gry,” she begged, her voice ragged. His head came up, and in his eyes she saw mirrored the same blinding desire, and only his arms holding her up stopped her knees from buckling underneath her.
“Gry,” she said again, a sob rising in her voice, “I can’t do this.”
“éadha,” Gry groaned, his voice hoarse. With the last vestiges of her self-control, she loosened her arms from where they’d crept around his neck, letting them fall back to his chest, though she still couldn’t summon the strength to push him away.
Dropping her head, she pressed her forehead into his chest, and her voice, when she spoke, was muffled.
“This…this isn’t real. It’s our power. Not us. ”
“Define real,” said Gry, his voice tight, and she could sense the immensity of the effort it took for him to bring his power back under enough control to be able to say even that. “Because it feels pretty real to me.”
“I want you, Gry,” she said, and it felt as if every word had to be torn from a place that didn’t want to let her speak, only to feel, only to yield. “You have that power over me. I’m asking you not to use it. Please. Don’t make me betray who I am, not any more than I already have.”
“Why should I help you stay loyal to someone who doesn’t even deserve you?” he said, his voice so low it was almost guttural.
“Because it isn’t about him. It’s about me, who I am. He trusts me. Don’t make me hate myself by betraying that. Please, Gry,” she whispered.
With a great, shuddering breath, Gry dropped his hands from around her waist and stepped back.
Tears stood in her eyes as she stared at him and felt the wave of desire begin to subside as they both slowly, painfully rebuilt their thought-walls, locking away their power and becoming again the half persons they’d chosen to be in this cursed place.
“Just don’t say this isn’t real,” said Gry as he turned to go back into the hall. “Only that it isn’t what you choose. I deserve that at least. To be real to you.” And he was gone, leaving her alone in the stone corridor to her lonely, unsated love.