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The little hallway at the back of the castle is windowless and stuffy. The smell of stale air clings to Sigrun’s clothing as she contemplates the door at the far end of the hall, keyring heavy in her too-tight fist. She doesn’t want to continue forwards, but a small part of her needs closure. She’ll never sleep again if she doesn’t say what needs to be said.
She draws her blade cautiously before bringing her knuckles to the hard wood of the door. “I’m coming in. Back away to the far wall.”
There is no verbal response, only the quiet shuffling of feet as someone on the other side meanders about. She sighs and inserts the key into the lock.
The former chancellor reclines on the bed in the far corner, and if this were not a prison, Sigrun could have almost guessed that he was on vacation. He lays on the bed with a book in one hand and a glass of water in the other, dressed in the fine leisure clothes afforded to members of the senate. He’s cut holes in the back, Sigrun observes, and his wings, stunted as they are, fan out upon the pillows and blankets like great swaths of black silk.
He turns a page before briefly glancing up and placing his cup on the nightstand. “Lady Sigrun. To what do I owe the honor?”
His voice is flat and emotionless, and that soft smile he’d carried for so long is gone. The scar that Ragnell had left behind snakes up his neck and onto his face, and in the right light, the dark shadow looks like a tear track.
But Sephiran isn’t crying. Not anymore.
Sigrun stands at attention; back straight, hand on the pommel of her sword. She doesn’t think he will attack her, but it’s a solid weight for her to lean against as she speaks; a crutch for her to grip onto as he begins to break her down, brick by agonizing brick. The chancellor has a way of looking at people now, as if he can barely see them. As if they are a fleck of dust in a sunbeam, and he’s waiting for them to fade out of sight forever. Talking to him makes her skin crawl with impermanence. She’s sure he feels similarly.
“I would like to…” She pauses to clear her throat, and Sephiran does not bother to grace her with a look of curiosity. “I wanted to apologize to you. On behalf of myself and Tanith.”
“Whatever for?”
“For not knowing. You were our friend.” There’s a lump in her throat now. “Perhaps, if we had known your situation, we could have done something to help you. Perhaps it would not have reached… this point.”
Sephiran turns another page. “Your knowledge, or lack thereof, would have done very little to ease my pain. I’m glad you didn’t know. It would have been a shame to see you get caught up in the wrong side of things.”
Sigrun’s gut twists. “How can you say that?”
Sephiran looks up from his novel, running the knight through with his piercing gaze. Have his eyes always been so unnatural? So cold?
“Zelgius knew. And look where that got him.”