Free Bloodheir by Brian Ruckley

slackened, her eyelids trembled minutely.
    She looked gentle in her repose, as she never quite did when awake.
    Orisian watched intently, aware that for all the apparent mundanity of the scene he was witnessing something remarkable. Yvane was right, of course, when she said he did not understand this. No human could. The Shared was the sole preserve of na’kyrim . He did not envy them that. Few of the mighty na’kyrim of legend, who wielded great powers drawn from the Shared, had profited by it in the end.
    While they lived, though, they had done enough harm to make those of his own time outcasts, feared and loathed as much for the mystery they embodied as for the mixed blood that ran in their veins. If the Shared was a gift, it came at a heavy price.
    Yvane made soft sounds. Hammarn was growing nervous, fidgeting. The muffled noise of laughter and cheering rose up from outside. Neither Orisian nor Anyara looked round. Yvane held their attention.
    Her head rolled slowly to one side. One of her hands opened, splaying itself out on the bed sheet.
    Hammarn stood up and edged closer to the window, though never taking his eyes off Yvane.
    “Not sure,” he whispered. “Not sure.”
    “Not sure of what?” Anyara asked.
    The old na’kyrim shook his head sharply. “Feels . . . Not sure.”
    There was a tremor in Yvane’s shoulders. Her breaths were coming faster and faster, turning into a faint panting.
    “Is something wrong?” Orisian asked, pushing himself away from the wall. “Hammarn, is something wrong?” If Yvane came to harm in this endeavour, he knew that much of the blame would be his to bear.
    Hammarn did not seem to have heard him.
    “No,” breathed Yvane. Her eyes were still closed, but her head was lifting now, coming away from the pillow. “That is not my name. I am not her.”
    “We should wake her,” said Anyara, stepping towards the bed.
    “No,” snapped Yvane, much louder this time. Orisian could see the muscles in her pale neck, strung taut as a bowstring. Her hands were bunching into fists. A shiver ran down Orisian’s spine.
    Hammarn was sinking down to the floor, shaking. A faint moan escaped his lips.
    Yvane pressed her head and shoulders back against the wall. Her eyes snapped open. Orisian saw alarm in them. He moved to go to her side, but before he had taken more than a couple of strides Hammarn was yelping and scrambling towards the corner of the room.
    “He’s here!” Hammarn cried. He twisted his head violently round and down, as if averting his eyes from some horrifying sight.
    “Go,” Yvane rasped. “Go.” She was staring fixedly towards the door. Orisian and Anyara, standing side by side, looked that way. There was nothing: the plain wood of the door, the grey stonework of the walls. Nothing.
    “I am not the one you seek,” Yvane said.
    Orisian’s skin was crawling. The air was suddenly thick in his throat, the light fading around the edges of his vision. He put a hand on Anyara’s arm, as much to stave off the dizzying sense of disorientation that beset him as anything. Shadows seemed to be . . . moving, shifting. He believed, in that moment, that there was something in the room with them. Something he could not see, or hear, but something that nevertheless had a weight, a presence.
    “Leave me. Leave us.” Yvane spat the words out. Fear and anger and insistence swelled her voice.
    Anyara swayed against Orisian. He glanced at her, and saw beads of sweat on her brow, her eyelids sagging. He put an arm around her. Something unseen, intangible, was constricting his chest.
    Then, without warning, it was gone. He breathed again, deeply. Anyara stiffened and straightened at his side. The tension ran out of Yvane’s frame. Her shoulders sagged and she put her good hand to the side of her head, pressing briefly against her skull as if fighting off an ache.
    “I will be listening to your suggestions with much less sympathy in future,” the na’kyrim murmured.
    “What