Branches

Adelphos had heard the story, of course; of how the great Dilandau Albatou had gone onto the battlefield and emerged, after the ashes had settled, as Allen Schezar’s long lost little sister. And he’d thought, then, of the girl he’d seen in the Sorcerers’ gardens, and of the careful emptiness that was Dilandau’s past, and of the hushed rumors that whispered of the Sorcerers experimenting on children. And he’d shuddered.

Adelphos had known it was true—who could invent a story as insane as this one? But he hadn’t really believed it until he saw her with his own eyes in the gardens of Palas, during a recess in diplomatic negotiations.

He knew, instantly, that it was her, even with her back turned to him and only part of one side of her face in view. Her hair was longer and more blonde than silver, but it curled the same way that his had. Her shoulders were narrower, but she held herself with the same straight-backed arrogance. Her face was slightly longer, but she had the same nose, the same chin, the same jaw, the same porcelain beauty.

She should have the mind of a six-year old, he thought, as he watched her watch a butterfly flit between roses. Dilandau is gone, erased. Nine years of her life are missing. She’s just a child now.

But she stood so still, so straight and tall, and she did not chase the butterfly.

Dilandau is gone.

She noticed him staring at her, and she turned to stare back. Her eyes were not red; they were blue like the ocean. Blue and lucid and sharp and…and did she recognize him? Impossible.

Dilandau is gone. Dilandau is gone!

Celena smiled at him.

Adelphos had never felt so cold before in his life.