They moved through the gallery, past the dead kings, toward the great staircase that led down to the throne room. The guards fell in behind them—silent, synchronized, that horrible puppet rhythm that wasn't puppet rhythm because these men had chosen this.
"You're quiet," Dhaelon said.
"I'm always quiet."
"You're more quiet. There's a difference. I can feel it." He tapped his temple. "In here. You go very still when you're thinking about something you don't want me to see."
Because you see everything else. Because the bond lets you crawl into my skull and read me like a book and I can't stop you. I can only build walls and pray you don't notice the rooms I've hidden behind them.
"I'm thinking about the wedding," she said. "Wondering if Nyrielle picked her dress or if Vaeren picked it for her."
Dhaelon laughed. Soft. Musical. "Vaeren picked everything. The dress, the flowers, the vows. He even picked the expression she's supposed to wear."
