1. Sirin #2
''Sirin!'' he barked, ignoring her finger as he moved to tower over her.
''People have died!'' He bit each word off so sharply the spittle flew from his lips.
8 Lowering his voice and leveling his face with hers, he reined in his temper and continued.
''For years, I have tried to steer you away from this because I can't imagine losing you, too.
Those deaths are our greatest shame, and my most important responsibility is to prevent more. ''
Sirin wasn't sure why Lord Lagrath expected this to be surprising to her.
Of course, people had been lost trying to find the source.
Everything she knew about the Arctic led her to believe it was incredibly dangerous because it was almost entirely uncharted.
Disappointment settled in the pit of her stomach, while he was always infuriating, he was rarely this blatantly unimaginative.
Scare tactics should really have been beneath him.
''We've lost no less than one hundred people on expeditions to find the source.9 Five full caravans and two search parties,'' he said, slow and quiet.
One hundred? Seven entire caravans of lunologists?
It couldn't be possible. She dropped back into her chair, recoiling from him as if she could escape the knowledge of such a horrific loss.
Blinking rapidly, she struggled to comprehend his words, tamping down her emotional response to the information.
Could so many people truly disappear without a trace?
It was unfathomable. There should've been records everywhere, whispers of lives cut short.
She'd spent ten years hunting down leads.
She'd have found something—wouldn't she?
But, as she considered it, she recalled a few…
anomalies. A lunologist that suddenly stopped publishing, or graduating classes that had seemed anemic in the reunion portraits, the explanations for absences vague.
10 There might have been a hint or two which could point toward such a thing.
She'd assumed the records had been expunged for being blasphemous. Now, she wasn't so sure.
''Those expeditions were fully manned and fully armed with some of our most talented lunologists and trackers. We lost practically an entire generation of lunologists to this damn question you won't leave alone!'' he snapped.
His breathing was ragged now. Sirin widened her eyes, shocked at how much this seemed to shake him.
She'd never seen him so out of sorts; this was more than simply the passage of time wearing on him.
He was haggard, a man worn thin from the stress of this secret.
The thought of so many lunologists dead was nearly as baffling as the fact that so many people had already tried to find the source.
''Perhaps someday we could mount an expedition prepared enough to survive, but you? Alone? Sirin, it would be a death trap. We don't even know…'' the Lord Lunologists cut off, voice wavering. He dropped into his chair, burying his head in his hands as his shoulders shook.
Mikail Lagrath, Lord Lunologist of the Watchful Order, the most senior member of their guild on the planet and bane of her adolescence, sounded like he might burst into tears.
''We don't even know what happened to them.
They simply vanished,'' he whispered. ''The last expedition was only supposed to ascertain the danger and return immediately, but even they were lost.'' He raised his gaze to hers and steadied his breathing.
''I forbid you from going. You must not, under any circumstances, venture further north. Do you understand?''
Sirin blinked back at him. This was meant to scare her into abandoning her course. She'd finally worn him down and forced him to admit what he'd been hiding. What perhaps the leadership of the Citadel had been hiding for many years since they lost all of those people.
She could appreciate the Lord Lunologist's caution—she could—but this research was her life.
Without it, she didn't even know who she was.
She couldn't just abandon it and find a new area of study.
Lord Lagrath didn't understand. That was fine, no one had truly ever understood.
But Sirin now knew that he, using the vast resources he possessed, would do everything he could to stop her if she persisted.
Sirin met his eyes as he raised his head. He was tired, and she could see his concern for her reflected in his gaze.11
''I understand,'' she whispered to him, pleased to see relief wash over his troubled face. ''I didn't know. I didn't—I didn't understand.''
''I know, my dear,'' he said. A great gust of air whooshed out of him.
''I hope you understand I must swear you to secrecy.
There are those who would be excited by the idea of searching for something so forbidden.
If you do not hold your tongue, I am afraid I will be forced to expel you from the Watchful Order and denounce you as a lunatic.
'' He shook his head sadly. ''Every student who comes here to learn is like a child to me, and I hope you know I only tell you this to keep you safe. I am sorry to break your heart so.''
Sirin nodded, standing to dust off her skirts. ''I'm sorry to have worried you so, Your Lordship. I understand the gravity of the situation. You don't need to worry about me any longer,'' she said as she moved toward the door.
''Sleep well. Tomorrow we shall see if we can pique that interest of yours in another direction,'' Lord Lagrath said, settling down into his chair with an exhausted smile.
''Goodbye,'' Sirin said, easing the door shut behind her.
The sun no longer glinted through the wavy glass windows of the halls and the gas lamps periodically spaced along the stone corridors were already lit.
The lighting had always been a favorite part of her day, ever since the lines had been installed when she was a student.
When she was in residence, she loved to sit on a bench in the hall, outwardly appearing as if she were studying, and watch as the maids glided between the lamps, lighting them in a routine so choreographed it seemed like a dance.
Lord Lagrath had even deprived her of that small joy, having lectured her through possibly the last opportunity she'd ever have.
It seemed a silly thing to be upset about, but she was too raw from the ultimatum to properly moderate her emotional responses.
If she left, she sacrificed her place amongst the Watchful Order, effectively choosing exile.
There would be no support from the Citadel, no rescue party to follow her.
Acquaintances at the Citadel had proven time and again that their loyalties only stretched as far as the Watchful Order sanctioned, so no one was likely to stick their neck out if she disappeared.
Her family had died of a plague while she'd been a student, not even a year after she'd presented as a lunologist. She had distant relatives, but she hadn't seen them in years and only wrote sporadically, having struggled to maintain the relationships with how often she moved.
She smiled for a moment, remembering her youngest brother jumping about the room with her cousins, excitedly raving about how he would alter his body if he too turned out to be as gifted.
He'd decided he would grow his muscles to be big and strong and have lightning-fast reflexes, like the heroes of old.
Even if they did not share her powers, her siblings would have become sought-after partners; everyone wanted the possibility of a lunologist in the family, and they shared her genes.
For a brief year, she'd drastically improved their lives and their prospects.
12 She supposed that was something to hold on to, to be proud of.
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the familiar prick of pain that heralded tears.
Sirin shook her head. She needed to focus; she didn't have time for this.
Opening her mind's eye, she plunged into her body, finding the trickle of lunula glowing through her veins.
She could feel the warm, steady pulse of it in her heartbeat, and she dipped into it now; just a bit, right at her tear ducts.
She nudged it, urging it to clamp down on them.
There were many ways to accomplish this task; she could have instead altered her brain's signals or the chemical makeup present in her brain.
Both felt dishonest to her, a betrayal of her family's memory.
Instead, she kept the emotions caused by those chemicals, even the signals her lunula allowed her to feel sizzling along her nerves.
She stopped the tears at the last possible juncture.
She didn't have time to mourn them again, but neither would she disrespect them by wiping away her pain entirely.
Her body responded to the magic's prodding instantly, stopping her tears while the stinging remained.
What the Lord Lunologist failed to grasp was she had nothing else.
Oh, she had casual friendships, colleagues she could rely upon to challenge her ideas when needed, and smiling faces to greet her in cities across the continent for a nice dinner and a quick liaison.
She had aunties and uncles to write to, but she doubted they really knew who she was or what she was like anymore since she couldn't bear to visit and see the empty house where she'd grown up.
In truth, she had nothing and no one to hold her back.
She had her work, and nothing more.