"Rude."
He touched the seam one more time, then stepped back and pinched the projection down until it hovered small and mean over his palm. The cold light rippled once and settled in lines he could carry in his head. He checked his belt without looking—vials, strips, the coil of silk he had braided himself during a long night beside an even longer woman.
"What are the odds," he asked softly, "that this is a vault rather than a prison?"
"Mm. So like most politics." Elowen's face rose again—her fine mouth when she thought, the way her hands stilled completely when listening. Don't make a promise you can't keep to her, he told himself. Bring her proof, not excuses.
The air tasted different right here. Cleaner, despite the dust. He realized he had stopped smelling rot entirely, and that made his shoulders remember how to loosen.
