Glyphbinder by T. Eric Bakutis Page B

I’m much older, and I don’t like you as much.”
    “At some point, honey, you have to accept that I’m not getting any better.”
    Kara bit her lip. She longed to tell Ona how a Transference glyph could save her, how it could end her pain and let her live life again. Yet she did not dare. If Ona had any idea what she intended, her mother would certainly stop her.
    “I’m graduating tomorrow.” Kara pushed that gravestone from her mind. “I haven’t seen you in half a year. We’re not talking about inheritances. We’re talking about what we’re going to do when we get to Tarna, and all the nice men you’ll meet.”
    “I’m not apologizing for Edwyn.”
    “I don’t want an apology. I want vengeance!”
    Ona laughed as they set aside all talk of inheritances and missing fathers. A good place to be. Kara did not ever want to leave.
     
     
     
    THE NEXT DAY, just before noon, Trell strode from the infirmary wearing a comfortable linen shirt, loose riding pants, and well-fitted boots provided by Solyr. He ran a hand over his thin, closely shaved beard and drew comfort from the familiar feeling of bristly hair on skin. He surveyed a mess of poplars and a long stretch of grass filled with milling initiates. All wore their oddly cut shirts and brown pants as they enjoyed their break in the middle of the day.
    The bandages on his chest and head were gone. He had tied his long black hair into a ponytail behind his head, and the motions had felt as instinctive as breathing. Landra had told him that was a common style for Tellvan soldiers, but Trell just knew it felt right. One more memory reclaimed from the void.
    Landra had planned out his whole morning. First, he would watch Kara graduate with Solyr’s other apprentices. Next they would have lunch. This afternoon, they would begin their journey to Tarna.
    “Trell!” someone yelled. “Hey, Trell!”
    Trell found the speaker in a moment. A large brown-haired man in the shirt and pants of an initiate strode toward him. His shirt was more ornate than Kara’s, adding shoulderpads and a collar, and his thick legs ate up the grass at a respectable pace.
    The big man stopped and grinned. “You’re Trell, right?”
    “I am. Have we met?”
    “Have we … right. Your memory.” The man eyed Trell up and down. “We haven’t met, but Kara told me about you. I’m Byn. Byn Meris.”
    He offered his hand and Trell shook it. Byn didn’t try to crush his hand or test its strength — he just had a grip. He was a strong man who was cautious with his strength.
    “I’m sorry,” Trell said. “She didn’t mention you.”
    “Well, that’s reasonable. She was probably too busy gazing into your eyes. That woman is smitten with you, you know.”
    “What?” They barely knew each other!
    Byn watched him for a moment, straight-faced, then burst into a fit of laughter. Trell stared as Byn slapped his thigh and tried to breathe. Nothing about this situation was funny.
    “Five take me, that look is priceless. Like a fish on a hook. I’m kidding. Trust me. I don’t want to get punched in the face.”
    “You misjudge me.”
    “Punched by Kara,” Byn said. “Not you. She punches hard. Anyway, I’ve wasted enough of your time. Let’s go.”
    “Where?”
    “Selection Day.” Byn hurried off. “Kara would have come herself, but she’s going to be the speaker supreme, and she couldn’t get away for you. It’s a very complex ceremony.”
    Trell followed Byn under a gazebo as his flush faded. The idea of Kara being in love with him did make his heart beat faster, but not in a good way. It felt wrong, like being unfaithful. What if he had a lover in the life he couldn’t remember? What if he had a wife?
    He and Byn kept to stone paths amidst the low cut grass, and Trell didn’t miss the curious glances that all they passed directed his way. He was an oddity here, and that made him sweat. He focused on Byn and what he had said earlier. “What’s a speaker