The Sentinels burned away to ash

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Szymon faced the wave of bitterness impassively, one tattered ear fanning out and away before pressing forward upon his skull in tandem with its mate at the dark witch’s next words. “Emaleth Claudette Mayfair,” he repeated, treating the unfamiliar syllables with the same care he’d treated Deirdre’s. “I am Szymon Cairn.” He hesitated, no longer certain that he could believe what his mind swore he’d seen: the lissome, beloved silhouette, limned by fire, leaping headlong from the cliff and disappearing from sight. “Your sister was — ” His throat grew tight as he thought of Deirdre, seeing the viridian-eyed dryad not only through his own eyes but through Skellige’s — through Doe’s. “Loved,” he said finally, licking his lips uneasily at the usage of the word he normally only used in relation to his wife. “By many. My wife and I have been searching every day for her — and for my brother.” He blew out a heavy breath.

Tact was normally beyond the black-banded Leviathan’s reach, but he found himself in thick supply of it as he questioned, “Where can I find you again? My mate and I will keep our eyes turned to Donnelaith — sometimes the Sea provides — ” A few beats too late, he followed Levi’s gaze toward the shore, and his lean, angular shoulders shifted in a shrug as he made a snap decision: “The bay is always open to you, Emaleth. The Mayfairs — the Mayfairs loyal to Deirdre — are allies of Blackrock Depths.” He was sure that Doe would support him in this. Then, abruptly, without fanfare or farewell, he turned and loped back to the bay.

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