"May I?"
The Archduke's fingers closed briefly around the vessel. The hesitation lasted only a heartbeat, but it was the first time since the conversation had begun that the ancient creature had revealed anything resembling vulnerability. His Mirethiel's last gift. His penance and his purpose, both.
Then he opened his palm.
The vessel sat there, exposed.
Quinlan called the wind.
A current rose through the chamber, warm and aimed, and the vessel lifted from the Archduke's palm, drifted out over the black marble, and settled into Quinlan's waiting gauntlet.
He turned the artifact between his fingers.
His mother's tears. Each one shed at the death of one of her children. He could feel them, each one warm against his palm, and the warmth pulsing against the glass carried what he remembered from her embrace.
