A Blackbird In Darkness (Book 2) by Freda Warrington

blindly to the village without her; for all her coldness, she was not insensitive.
    He felt dizzy, suddenly affected by the way she looked so self-contained and utterly alone. There were swathes of darkness around her, like the wastes of space, and anyone who ventured into that darkness would die of cold before they ever found Medrian at the centre.
    He did not know why she needed to hold herself apart from everything, protecting herself in layers of callousness. She had often shocked him, even terrified him, as though behind her coldness she was the Serpent itself, and he had never been able to hold the terrible darkness of her eyes. Yet in spite of that, she had always fascinated him. He had never felt repulsed, even by her worst hostility. At the heart of her iciness he sensed a misery so great that it had become her whole being. He had longed to draw it out of her, to replace it with love and hope. But she had steadfastly refused all his attempts to comfort her, as if she found any trace of comfort agonizing. Perhaps he had not tried hard enough; perhaps he had been afraid to discover that he was wrong and that she really was formed of solid ice, with only petrified evil at the core.
    This thought grew in strength. She was proving it herself. She’d shut herself away from him more completely than ever, at a time when even a word to show that she understood his loss would have helped. He was falling. Falin could not catch him, for he was falling too. But Medrian could have done, because in spite of what she appeared to be or what she actually was, he loved her.
    They had faced death and danger together, many miles from his beloved family and home. Now his family was gone and only Medrian was still there. His head was spinning. He stumbled to the bed and sat down on the patchwork cover before he fell. Something was constricting his chest, he could hardly breathe. He put his head in his hands, looked down at the floor – and there saw a rug that his sister Lothwyn had woven. It was a simple thing, one of her first attempts at weaving as a child. He had forgotten that she had given it to Falin’s aunt, Thalien, who had been especially fond of her. And here it still lay, in pride of place by the bed, loved and cherished because Lothwyn had made it.
    Oh, Lothwyn, my little sister, he cried inwardly – and in a moment of pain so intense it seemed a dazzling light, he came to understand, as Falin had done, that the nightmare was real. Inescapable. To be lived through to the end – never to be woken from.
    Medrian saw the rigour of his body and the distraught lines of his face. Estarinel looked like a man who was being buffeted from every side by cruel winds and could find no refuge anywhere. And I am one of those winds, she thought. She hugged herself tighter, reminding herself of her decision. She could not afford to weaken. Let him think she didn’t care; it was better in the long run.
    She thought he was going to weep, but he did not. Instead he began to talk, as if beyond caring if she replied or even listened.
    ‘I was glad, in a way, to show Forluin to someone who’d never been here before,’ he began, his voice flat and tinged with bitterness. ‘Even as she is now, you saw that part of her is still beautiful. You mustn’t think we were unaware of her beauty and took our good fortune for granted. We gave thanks all the time – in every aspect of our lives. We cared for the land and the plants and animals, and especially for each other. We gave Forluin all the love and respect we had in us. She bestowed everything we needed to be happy, so we thanked her by being happy. Life was that simple.
    ‘But we must have gone wrong somewhere. We were unaware of the possibility that it could all be taken from us. We were complacent. We never thought,’ he hardly raised his voice, yet it rang with anguish, ‘we never thought that our happiness and good fortune were due but to the grace of the Serpent in refraining from