““When he came into the courtyard,” she told him, lying on her side, facing him, “I thought he was my father come back to life.” Shock broke across his face, and then understanding. He brushed her hair with his fingers. “Oh, Fire. No wonder. But Nash is nothing like Cansrel.” “Not Nash. Brigan.” “Brigan even less.” “It was the light,” she said. “And the hatred in his eyes.” He touched her face and her shoulder gently, careful always of her bandaged arm. He kissed her. “Cansrel is dead. He can’t hurt you.” She choked on the words; she couldn’t say them out loud. She said them into his mind. He was my own father.””
