The Heir of Night by Helen Lowe

uncomfortable, and was close enough that she could feel his focus, intent on her. “So what is your name?” he asked. But she could imagine the unspoken questions, too: The
“Who are you?”;
and
“Why are they hunting you? “
    Malian frowned, and for a moment considered not telling him, but then she shrugged. “It’s Malian,” she said.
    “Malian,” he repeated, but not as though the name held any significance for him. Malian suppressed a wry grin, mocking herself.
    “We should go,” Kalan continued, sounding worried. “Before they come back.”
    Malian nodded and let him lead her away from the spyhole and the secret door, deeper into the maze that ran through the walls of the Old Keep. After a time, she whispered that they should keep bearing to the left, that doing so should bring them to a concealed safehold. “If,” she added, “this place works the same as in the New Keep.”
    “How—” Kalan began, then broke off, apparently thinking better of whatever question he had been going to ask.
    They went on in silence, following the secret way for what seemed like a very long time. In one part, the roof curved in so low that they had to crawl on hands and knees. Eventually, the passage opened up again and they were able to stand upright, only to find their way blocked by a steel door. “Is this your safehold?” Kalan asked, keeping his voice low, but Malian shook her head.
    “All the doors into the safeholds are wooden,” she murmured. “I’ve never encountered anything like this before.”
    Kalan put his ear to the door and appeared to be listening. Finally, he eased it open, just wide enough to peer through—then stopped. “The room’s not large,” he whisperedafter a moment; he must have remembered that she couldn’t see. “But it has twelve sides and twelve doors, one in the center of every wall. The walls look rounded, as though they’re curving into the roof.” Kalan took a step forward, into the room, drawing Malian after him. “And the roof’s arched.”
    “It’s very quiet,” Malian whispered back.
    “But peaceful. Not threatening at all. Not like the silence in so much of this place.” Kalan took another step forward. “I don’t think these walls are made of stone either. The surface looks very smooth.”
    “This bit feels like glass.” Malian snatched her hand back as light flared beneath her touch. The initial spark brightened to a soft glow and she blinked at Kalan in astonishment. Then she looked again, absorbing the detail of a square face beneath rough tawny hair, gold-flecked gray eyes, and the spattering of freckles across a straight nose. He was stockily built and slightly taller than herself, and the mouth below the freckles was wide—with a quirk, Malian thought, that might mean humor. She noted the gray-blue robes of a temple novice, robes that were patched and far too short at wrist and ankle. Her eyebrows went up when she realized that he was surveying her every bit as critically as she was studying him: A second later, as though reaching some unspoken consensus of approval, they looked into each other’s tired, grime-smudged faces and smiled.
    “I like the light,” Kalan said, “even though I don’t need it to see by.” He reached up and touched the glass panel, but the light didn’t change. “How did you do that?”
    Malian ran her hand over the glass and the light faded until they stood in darkness once more. When she touched it again, the light returned. She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked around at the white, gleaming walls and saw more glass panels spaced at even intervals. “What a strange place this is. It feels as though we’ve been drawn here, but to what end?” She slanted a look at Kalan. “And what brought you down here, out of the Temple quarter?”
    His eyes held hers, his expression curious, assessing. “I thought you’d know, since those were-hunters seemed to be after you. They’re not the first Swarm minions