Aelin had indeed changed—grown into a queen. Was still growing into one.
But he knew that there were no restraints, no inner ones, on how far Aelin would go to protect those she loved. Protect her kingdom. And if someone stood in her way, barred her from protecting them … No lines existed to cross within Aelin in regard to that. No lines at all.
So he had not been able to swear it, on Yrene’s life, that he believed Aelin might be above those sorts of methods. With her fraught history with Rolfe, she likely had used the might of her magic to intimidate him into joining their cause.
But with Eyllwe … Had they given some sign of resistance, to prompt her to terrorize them? He couldn’t imagine it, that Aelin would consider hurting innocent people, let alone the people of her beloved friend. And yet she knew the risks that Perrington—Erawan posed. What he’d do to them all, if she did not band them together. By whatever means necessary.
Chaol rubbed his face. If Aelin had kept herself in check, if she’d played the part of distressed queen … It would have made his task far easier.
Perhaps Aelin had cost them this war. This one shot at a future.
At least Dorian was accounted for—undoubtedly as safe as could be expected with Aelin’s court for companions.
Chaol sent a silent prayer of thanks into the night for that small mercy.
A soft knock had him shooting up. Not from the foyer, but the glass doors to the garden.
His legs twitched, bending slightly at the knee—more reaction than controlled movement. He and Yrene had been going through the grueling leg routines twice a day, the various therapies buying him movement inch by inch. Along with the magic she poured into his body while he endured the darkness’s horde of memories. He never told her what he saw, what left him screaming.
There was no point. And telling Yrene how badly he’d failed, how wrongly he’d judged, it made him just as nauseated. But what stood in the night-veiled garden … Not a memory.
Chaol squinted into the dark at the tall male figure standing there, a hand raised in quiet greeting—Chaol’s own hand drifting to the knife beneath his pillow. But the figure stepped closer to the lantern light, and Chaol blew out a breath and waved the prince in.
With a flick of a small knife, Kashin unlocked the garden door and slipped in.
“Lock-picking isn’t a skill I’d expect a prince to possess,” Chaol said by way of greeting.
Kashin lingered just inside the doorway, the lantern from outside illuminating enough of his face for Chaol to make out a half smile. “Learned more for sneaking in and out of ladies’ bedrooms than stealing, I’m afraid.”
“I thought your court was a bit more open in regard to that sort of thing than my own.”
That smile grew. “Perhaps, but cranky old husbands remain the same on either continent.”
Chaol chuckled, shaking his head. “What can I do for you, Prince?”
Kashin studied the door to the suite, Chaol doing the same—searching for any flickering shadows on the other side. When they both found none, Kashin said, “I assume you have discovered nothing within my court about who might be tormenting Yrene.”
“I wish I could say otherwise.” But with Nesryn gone, he’d had little chance to hunt through Antica for any signs of a would-be Valg agent. And things had indeed been quiet enough these three weeks that part of him had hoped they’d just … left. A considerably calmer atmosphere had settled over the palace and Torre since then, as if the shadows were indeed behind them all.
Kashin nodded. “I know Sartaq departed with your captain to seek answers regarding this threat.”
Chaol didn’t dare confirm or deny. He wasn’t entirely certain where Sartaq had left things with his family, if he’d received his father’s blessing to go.
Kashin went on, “That might just be why my siblings mounted such a unified front against you tonight. If Sartaq himself takes this threat seriously, they know they might have a limited window to convince our father not to join this cause.”
“But if the threat is real,” Chaol said, “if it might spill into these lands, why not fight? Why not stop it before it can reach these shores?”
“Because it is war,” Kashin said, and the way he spoke, the way he stood, it somehow made Chaol feel young indeed. “And though the manner in which my siblings presented their argument was unpleasant, I suspect Arghun and Hasar are aware of the costs that joining your cause requires. Never before has the entire might of the khaganate’s armies been sent to a foreign land. Oh, some legions, whether it be the rukhin or the armada or my own horse-lords. Sometimes united, but never all, never what you require. The cost of life, the sheer drain on our coffers … it will be great. Don’t make the mistake of believing my siblings don’t understand that very, very well.”
“And their fear of Aelin?”
Kashin snorted. “I cannot speak to that. Perhaps it is well founded. Perhaps it is not.”
“So you snuck into my room to tell me?” He should speak with more respect, but—
“I came to tell you one more piece of information, which Arghun chose not to mention.”
Chaol waited, wishing he weren’t sitting in bed, bare from the waist up.
Kashin said, “We received a report from our vizier of foreign trade that a large, lucrative order had been placed for a relatively new weapon.”
Chaol’s breathing snagged. If Morath had found some way—
“It is called a firelance,” Kashin said. “Our finest engineers made it by combining various weapons from across our continent.”
Oh, gods. If Morath had it in its arsenal—
“Captain Rolfe ordered them for his fleet. Months ago.”
Rolfe—“And when news arrived of Skull’s Bay falling to Aelin Galathynius, it also came with an order for even more firelances to be shipped northward.”
Chaol sorted through the information. “Why wouldn’t Arghun say this at dinner?”
“Because the firelances are very, very expensive.”
“Surely that’s good for your economy.”
“It is.” And not good for Arghun’s attempt to avoid this war.
Chaol fell silent for a heartbeat. “And you, Prince? Do you wish to join this war?”
Kashin didn’t answer immediately. He scanned the room, the ceiling, the bed, and finally Chaol himself. “This will be the great war of our time,” Kashin said quietly. “When we are dead, when even our grandchildren’s grandchildren are dead, they will still be talking about this war. They will whisper of it around fires, sing of it in the great halls. Who lived and died, who fought and who cowered.” His throat bobbed. “My sulde blows northward—day and night, the horsehairs blow north. So perhaps I will find my destiny on the plains of Fenharrow. Or before the white walls of Orynth. But it is northward that I shall go—if my father will order me.”
Chaol mulled it over. Looked to the trunks against the wall near the bathing chamber.
Kashin had turned to leave when Chaol asked, “When does your father next meet with his foreign trade vizier?”
CHAPTER
37
Nesryn had run out of time.
Falkan required ten days to recover, which had left her and Sartaq with too little time to visit the other watchtower ruins to the south. She’d tried to convince the prince to go without the shape-shifter, but he’d refused. Even with Borte now intent on joining them, he was taking no risks.
But Sartaq found other ways to fill their time. He’d taken Nesryn to other aeries to the north and west, where he met with the reigning hearth-mothers and the captains, both male and female, who led their forces.
Some were welcoming, greeting Sartaq with feasts and revels that lasted long into the night.
Some, like the Berlad, were aloof, their hearth-mothers and other various leaders not inviting them to stay for longer than necessary. Certainly not bringing out jugs of the fermented goat’s milk that they drank—and that was strong enough to put hair on Nesryn’
s chest, face, and teeth. She’d nearly choked to death the first time she’d tried it, earning hearty claps on the back and a toast in her honor.
It was the warm welcome that still surprised her. The smiles of the rukhin who asked, some shyly, some boldly, for demonstrations with her bow and arrow. But for all she showed them, she, too, learned. Went soaring with Sartaq through the mountain passes, the prince calling out targets and Nesryn striking them, learning how to fire into the wind, as the wind.
He even let her ride Kadara alone—just once, and enough for her to again wonder how they let four-year-olds do it, but … she’d never felt so unleashed.
So unburdened and unbridled and yet settled in herself.
So they went, clan to clan, hearth to hearth. Sartaq checking up on the riders and their training, stopping to visit new babes and ailing old folk. Nesryn remained his shadow—or tried to.
Anytime she lingered a step back, Sartaq nudged her forward. Anytime there was a task to be done with the others, he asked her to do it. The washing-up after a meal, the returning of arrows from target practice, the cleaning-out of the ruk droppings from halls and nests.
The last task, at least, the prince joined her in. No matter his rank, no matter his status as captain, he did every chore without a word of complaint. No one was above work, he told her when she’d asked one night.
And whether she was scraping crusted droppings from the ground or teaching young warriors how to string a bow, something restless in her had settled.
She could no longer picture it—the quiet meetings at the palace in Rifthold where she had given solemn guards their orders and then parted ways amongst marble floors and finery. Could not remember the city barracks, where she’d lurked in the back of a crowded room, gotten her orders, and then stood on a street corner for hours, watching people buy and eat and argue and walk about.
Another lifetime, another world.
Here in the deep mountains, breathing in the crisp air, seated around the fire pit to hear Houlun narrate tales of rukhin and the horse-lords, tales of the first khagan and his beloved wife, whom Borte had been named after … She could not remember that life before.
And did not want to go back to it.
It was at one such fire, Nesryn combing out the tight braid that Borte had taught her to plait, that she surprised even herself.
Houlun had settled in, a whetstone in hand as she honed a dagger, preparing to work while she talked to the small gathering—Sartaq, Borte, a gray-faced and limping Falkan, and six others who Nesryn had learned were Borte’s cousins of sorts. The hearth-mother scanned their faces, golden and flickering with the flame, and asked, “What of a tale from Adarlan instead?”
All eyes had turned to Nesryn and Falkan.
The shape-shifter winced. “I’m afraid mine are rather dull.” He considered. “I did have an interesting visit to the Red Desert once, but …” He gestured as much as he could to Nesryn. “I should like to hear one of your stories first, Captain.”
Nesryn tried not to fidget under the weight of so many stares. “The stories I grew up with,” she admitted, “were mostly of you all, of these lands.” Broad smiles at that. Sartaq only winked. Nesryn ducked her head, face heating.
“Tell a story of the Fae, if you know them,” Borte suggested. “Of the Fae Prince you met.”
Nesryn shook her head. “I don’t have any of those—and I do not know him that well.” As Borte frowned, Nesryn added, “But I can sing for you.”
Silence.
Houlun set down her whetstone. “A song would be appreciated.” A scowl at Borte and Sartaq. “Since neither of my children can carry a tune to save their lives.” Borte rolled her eyes at her hearth-mother, but Sartaq bowed his head in apology, a crooked grin now on his mouth.
Nesryn smiled, even as her heart pounded at her bold offer. She’d never really performed for anyone, but this … It was not performing, as much as it was sharing. She listened to the wind whispering outside the cave mouth for a long moment, the others falling quiet.
“This is a song of Adarlan,” she said at last. “From the foothills north of Rifthold, where my mother was born.” An old, familiar ache filled her chest. “She used to sing this to me—before she died.”
A glimmer of sympathy in Houlun’s steely gaze. But Nesryn glanced to Borte as she spoke, finding the young woman’s face unusually soft—staring at Nesryn as if she had not seen her before. Nesryn gave her a small, subtle nod. It is a weight we both bear.
Borte offered a small, quiet smile in return.
Nesryn listened to the wind again. Let herself drift back to her pretty little bedroom in Rifthold, let herself feel her mother’s silken hands stroking her face, her hair. She had been so taken with her father’s stories of his far-off homeland, of the ruks and horse-lords, that she had rarely asked for anything about Adarlan itself, despite being a child of both lands.
And this song of her mother’s … One of the few stories she had, in the form she loved best. Of her homeland in better days. And she wanted to share it with them—that glimpse into what her land might again become.
Nesryn cleared her throat. Took a bracing breath.
And then she opened her mouth and sang.
The crackle of the fire her only drum, Nesryn’s voice filled the Mountain-Hall of Altun, wending through the ancient pillars, bouncing off the carved rock.
She had the sense of Sartaq going very still, had the sense that there was nothing hard or laughing on his face.
But she focused on the song, on those long-ago words, that story of distant winters and speckles of blood on snow; that story of mothers and their daughters, how they loved and fought and tended to each other.
Her voice soared and fell, bold and graceful as a ruk, and Nesryn could have sworn that even the howling winds paused to listen.
And when she finished, a gilded, high note of the spring sun breaking across cold lands, when silence and the crackling fire filled the world once more …
Borte was crying. Silent tears streaming down her pretty face. Houlun’s hand was tightly wrapped around her granddaughter’s, the whetstone set aside. A wound still healing—for both of them.
And perhaps Sartaq, too—for grief limned his face. Grief, and awe, and perhaps something infinitely more tender as he said, “Another tale to spread of Neith’s Arrow.”
She ducked her head again, accepting the praise of the others with a smile. Falkan clapped as best he could manage and called for another song.
Nesryn, to her surprise, obliged them. A merry, bright mountain song her father had taught her, of rushing streams amid blooming fields of wildflowers.
But even as the night moved on, as Nesryn sang in that beautiful mountain-hall, she felt Sartaq’s stare. Different from any he’d given before.
And though she told herself she should, Nesryn did not look away.
A few days later, when Falkan had at last healed, they dared venture down to the three other watchtowers Houlun had discovered.
They found nothing at the first two, both far enough to require separate trips. Houlun had forbidden them from camping in the wilds—so rather than risk her wrath, they returned each night, then stayed a few days to let Kadara and Arcas, Borte’s sweet ruk, rest from being pushed so hard.
Sartaq warmed only a fraction to the shape-shifter. He watched Falkan as carefully as Kadara did, but at least attempted to make conversation now and then.
Borte, on the other hand, peppered Falkan with an endless stream of questions while they combed through ruins that were little more than rubble. What does it feel like to be a duck, paddling beneath water but gliding so smoothly over the surface?
When you eat as an animal, does the meat all fit in your human stomach?
Do you have to wait between eating as an animal and shifting back into a human because of it?
Do you defecate as an animal?
The last one earned a sharp laugh from Sartaq at least. Even if Falkan had gone red and avoided answe
ring the question.
But after visiting two watchtowers, they had found nothing on why they had been built and who those long-ago guardians had battled—or how they had defeated them.
And with one tower left … Nesryn had done a tally of the days and realized that the three weeks she had promised Chaol were over.
Sartaq had known, too. Had sought her out as she stood in one of the ruk nests, admiring the birds resting or preening or sailing out. She often came here during quieter afternoons, just to observe the birds: their sharp-eyed intelligence, their loving bonds.
She was leaning against the wall beside the door when he emerged. For several minutes, they stood watching a mated pair nuzzle each other before one hopped to the edge of the massive cave mouth and dropped into the void below.
“That one over there,” the prince said at last, pointing to a reddish-brown ruk sitting by the opposite wall. She’d seen the ruk often—mostly noting that he was alone, never visited by a rider, unlike some of the others. “His rider died a few months back. Clutched at his chest in a meal and died. The rider was old, but the ruk …” Sartaq smiled sadly at the bird. “He’s young—not yet four.”
“What happens to the ones whose riders die?”
“We offer them freedom. Some fly off to the wilds. Some remain.” Sartaq crossed his arms. “He remained.”
“Do they ever get new riders?”
“Some do. If they accept them. It is the ruk’s choice.”
Nesryn heard the invitation in his voice. Read it in the prince’s eyes.
Her throat tightened. “Our three weeks are up.”
“Indeed they are.”
She faced the prince fully, tilting her head back to see his face. “We need more time.”
“So what did you say?”
A simple question.
But she’d taken hours to figure out how to word her letter to Chaol, then given it to Sartaq’s fastest messenger. “I asked for another three weeks.”