It did not come.
Had they all gone, and simply left the door open? Or had one remained, suspicious, watching? Rennyn breathed. She would count to ten. Ten breaths.
Twenty breaths.
Thirty.
She pictured a thousand tiny roots sprouting, everywhere the vines touched her. Imagined something pressing into her back, below the shoulder blades. One or the other would paralyse her.
Was this exhaustion the weariness her casting had brought on her, or the sleep of the vines? The pain of her cut palm distracted her and she lost track of the number of breaths she had waited. Still there came no sound, no suggestion that anything had remained behind. It would be stupid to lose herself out of pure over-caution, and surely whatever these guards were they would not notice a stolen glance beneath barely-cracked lids.
Stone grated. Rennyn jerked involuntarily, but she was safe, had waited long enough—and was not inclined to waste a moment more, immediately wriggling free of her nest of vines and stinging threads, conscious of a need not to disturb anything more than necessary. And then she forced herself into a tottering shuffle, wasting no time in pulling her Wicked Uncle down a second time. And then, every inch of her groaning, she had to return to her own place against the wall, just in case the guards had been alerted.
After a stretched pause where the door remained firmly shut, Rennyn quivered and curled down. She had to rest, at least temporarily. The pain suppression on her feet was not fully hiding a dull throbbing, and her left knee had developed an odd tendency to give way. All of her was shaking, though she could not tell if that was the aftermath of urgency, or a sign that she had pushed herself beyond physical limits. Surely she had not done so very much. Tiny castings—and one big lump of Symbolic because she could not have allowed that knot to be anything less than firm.
Frustration welled. She had chosen this, had chosen not to kill him, to not take the best chance she would ever have of regaining her physical strength. But she pushed aside those thoughts. She was awake. Her magical strength was still there, and unless she misjudged entirely she could cast without blacking out as she had when she’d put too much into that light casting, back during the encounter with the Kentatsuki swarm.
A tiny thread attaching itself to one bare toe reminded Rennyn that remaining awake was not the only vital concern. She shifted several inches, then let out an aggrieved sigh and gazed at the enormous distance that lay between her and her Wicked Uncle, face down in the vines. If she had to move him every minute or two…
Would it be possible to clear a safe spot on the floor? She examined the possibilities as she crawled back, keeping her still-bleeding palm clenched in a fist because she did not have the time to attend to it yet. The dirt and leaf litter meant the thicker vines that covered the ground were not nearly so thoroughly attached, though firmly anchored every so often by roots more substantial than the white threads.
Reaching her Wicked Uncle, she rolled him over, and then did her best to shift vines about so that there was a gap for her feet and a gap for her behind: a place for her to sit for more than a few moments.
Her palm wasn’t too bad. The bleeding seemed to be stopping on its own, though the ragged skin didn’t look very pleasant. She daren’t cast anything to try to deal with it, and perhaps that was as well, since the pain helped with her struggle to stay awake. But she had learned too well the limits of her physical condition, these past few months: there was no winning against this dragging weariness. If she were going to risk more magic at this stage, she would not be using it on herself.
Lieutenant Meniar had not provided convenient lessons on waking the unconscious, but it was simple enough for Rennyn to follow her Wicked Uncle’s lead, for he must have gathered what little Efera that had not been drained from him and pushed it into a straightforward command of will.
"Wake up, monster."
His eyes opened. Even ten minutes ago Rennyn would have greeted that development with a mixture of relief and trepidation, unsure whether her Symbolic casting would keep him from tormenting her. But Rennyn had reached a point where she felt no more than a technical interest in the complex changes to his expression, the attempt to look in her direction, and then the slow—achingly slow—attempts to move.
She watched him as if he were at the end of a long tunnel. A monster she had set out to kill. A man? Perhaps. She had no illusions about the likelihood of him becoming someone worthy of trust. The chances of him helping her escape were slim to vanishing, but still marginally better than her hopes of breaking through a shield on her own. Had binding him been the right decision? She wished she’d been able to ask Illidian’s opinion, since there were large potential consequences for the Kellian.
Illidian…
"You’re becoming part of the furniture, little cousin."
She had—inevitably—dozed off, and the root tendrils had crept into the space she’d cleared. They tore, stinging, from her ankles and rump as she was lifted.
Too close. Too close! The de-fanging had not banished everything, did not prevent swooping distress as she found herself in a monster’s arms. She squirmed involuntarily, then tried to hold back further reaction.
"What a wonderful expression," her Wicked Uncle murmured. "As if you were covered in slime. Would you like me to put you down? I have my doubts on avoiding guards if we’re kept to the pace you walk."
He was casting, something intended to cloak their presence. Rennyn clenched her jaw, then forged a path through the situation with a tight focus on the practical.
"Any measure of their level of hearing?" she asked in a similarly low voice, turning her head toward the door and finding that he’d already opened it.
"Not so acute they responded to our discussion, or the noise that door makes," he said, his shrug bringing her momentarily even closer to his face. "But, yes, shut up now. I’m not minded to test the question."
A flat note to that last. She pictured him waking here a month ago. He had run, and fought, and woken again pinned to a wall in a sunlit room. Had the light burned him, those first days? There had been experiments, long ago, testing the reaction of Eferum-Get to sunlight. Some scorched, some crumbled, and some faded like shadows. The strongest and the weakest were the most sensitive, and her Wicked Uncle was very very strong. The vine must have kept him alive even as it held him in place.
How many days had it taken before he did not flinch at the dawn?
However much he had adapted, he still took pains to avoid the now sharply-slanting beams of the light as he crossed the room. Rennyn noted this, along with the thickness of door, storing information for when it might be needed and ignoring as much as she was able the part of her that kept muttering teeth, teeth, teeth.
Beyond the stone door was a courtyard with a dry fountain in the centre and archways leading in four different directions. Their prison was clearly not a small building. A crumbling, ivy-festooned…what? She would think it a temple or a palace, but all the ceilings she could see were stone grids allowing glimpses of the sky. No other more decorative carving, though she spotted more faint traces of paint. Sky blue and vivid green. She had never seen anything like the place. But her knowledge of architecture, like most non-essential matters, was minimal.
Her Wicked Uncle, balancing effortlessly, pushed the stone door of their room shut with one foot and then waited, back pressed against it. Of everything she could see, only the door was entirely clear of vine, but Rennyn could detect nothing that would prevent growth. Perhaps the guards kept them clear.