Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Sixty Two: A Name

All through the night and into the next day, people had been arriving and departing in an endless procession of visitors. The sound of knocking at the door, the sound of it opening and closing, had become background noise. Jordan had been freed from his studies for the day, but Yddris was at the castle and everyone else was busy, so instead he'd been left to his own devices in the house, unable to leave but unable to bring himself to work anyway.

After the weeks he had spent living with the Unspoken, this murder felt much closer to home. He hadn't slept; all night he had watched the window for a cloaked figure with a curved sword, and listened to Astra crying in the next room. The screams and howls of demons had seemed less threatening than silence.

He felt useless. There was nothing he could do to help, and nothing he could do to distract himself as a result. He didn't know the customs in Nictaven or within the Guild itself. He didn't know Astra like Koen did, so his presence wouldn't help there, either. Nika seemed to be doing everything in his power to distract himself and was rarely around, and he couldn't leave the house by himself.

So he drew.

He was reaching the end of his sketchbook, and had already used up two of the pencils Nika had bought him. The beginning of the book was light-hearted; a sketch of the family cat, his sister's face, a study of the kettle. Then, in the middle, it went dark, morphing into pages of runes and drawings of demons. Using his mirror he had tried to do a self-portrait, and hadn't recognised the man he'd drawn. Dozens of cloaked figures were scrawled across some pages as he studied the Unspoken, and by now he could draw the cut of an Unspoken cloak with his eyes closed. At the back was an hour's absent-minded doodling that he'd looked through the next day and realised he'd drawn a man with one blank eye and a large scar.

"You draw?"

Jordan jumped, pencil rolling off the bed and clattering to the floor. Ren squeaked and dived after it.

The opening and closing of the door had become so ingrained in the rhythm of each passing hour that Jordan hadn't registered when it was his; it had startled him, but not as much as the identity of his visitor.

He and Darin Blackheart eyed each other warily from opposite sides of the room. It was clear Jordan was not forgiven; clear that Blackheart was not here of his own free will. He swallowed, but the lump in his throat wouldn't shift.

"Your apprentice friend let me in," Darin said, feigning lightness. He closed the door behind him, and Jordan felt a trap snap shut. "I said I wanted to thank you for saving me from demons a couple of weeks ago."

He met Jordan's eye, a glance which told Jordan in no uncertain terms that no thanks were forthcoming.

"I'm sorry," Jordan croaked. "I'm so sorry."

Darin's expression didn't change, but Jordan thought – or perhaps only hoped – his eyes softened a little.

"I've been told to give you a message." Darin's mouth curled into an unhappy little smile. "I think you know who from." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of paper. If he could have thrown it so he didn't have to come closer, Jordan thought he might have, but with visible effort Blackheart crossed the room and handed it to him. Jordan took it with trembling fingers.

The handwriting was spiky and written quickly, judging by the ink splotches and the letters that faded to nothing mid-word. For some reason Jordan had assumed Arlen couldn't write, but the handwriting was neat enough. With a sinking stomach he realised Arlen had overlooked one crucial detail – Jordan could only barely read it. An ugly flush of embarrassment crept up his neck when he realised Arlen probably expected him to have picked it up faster than he had. He thought he grasped the gist of the note, but couldn't possibly be looking for a missing leg. He read again.