Kadara dove, a sharp, swift motion that had Sartaq tightening his arms around her, bracing her thighs with his own.
She let him guide her, keeping them upright in the saddle as Kadara dipped into the water, thrashed, and sent something hurling onto the riverbank. A heartbeat later, she was upon it, talons and beak spearing and slashing. The thing beneath her fought, twisting and whipping—
A crunch. Then silence.
The ruk calmed, feathers puffing, then smoothing against the blood now splattered along her breast and neck. Some had splashed onto Nesryn’s boots as well.
“Be careful, Captain Faliq,” Sartaq said as Nesryn got a good look at the creature the ruk now feasted upon.
It was enormous, nearly fifteen feet, covered in scales thick as armor. Like the marsh beasts of Eyllwe, but bulkier—fatter from the cattle it no doubt dragged into the water along these rivers.
“There is beauty in my father’s lands,” the prince went on while Kadara ripped into that monstrous carcass, “but there is much lurking beneath the surface, too.”
CHAPTER
13
Yrene panted, her legs sprawled before her on the rug, her back resting against the couch on which Lord Chaol now gasped for breath as well.
Her mouth was dry as sand, her limbs trembling so violently that she could barely keep her hands limp in her lap.
A spitting sound and a little thump told her he’d removed the bit.
He’d roared around it. His bellowing had been almost as bad as the magic itself.
It was a void. It was a new, dark hell.
Her magic had been a pulsing star that flared against the wall that the darkness had crafted between the top of his spine and the rest of it. She knew—knew without testing—that if she bypassed it, jumped right to the base of his spine … it would find her there, too.
But she had pushed. Pushed and pushed, until she was sobbing for breath.
Still, that wall did not move.
It only seemed to laugh, quietly and sibilantly, the sound laced with ancient ice and malice.
She’d hurled her magic against the wall, letting its swarm of burning white lights attack in wave after wave, but—nothing.
And only at the end, when her magic could find no crack, no crevice to slide into … Only when she made to pull back did that dark wall seem to transform.
To morph into something … Other.
Yrene’s magic had turned brittle before it. Any spark of defiance in the wake of that healer’s death had cooled. And she could not see, did not dare to look at what she felt gathering there, what filled the dark with voices, as if they were echoing down a long hall.
But it had loomed, and she had slid a glance over her shoulder.
The dark wall was alive. Swimming with images, one after another. As if she were looking through someone’s eyes. She knew on instinct they did not belong to Lord Chaol.
A fortress of dark stone jutted up amid ash-colored, barren mountains, its towers sharp as lances, its edges and parapets hard and slicing. Beyond it, coating the vales and plains amid the mountains, an army rippled away into the distance, more campfires than she could count.
And she knew the name for this place, the assembled host. Heard the name thunder through her mind as if it were the beat of a hammer on anvil.
Morath.
She’d pulled out. Had yanked herself back to the light and heavy heat.
Morath—whether it was some true memory, left by whatever power had struck him; whether it was something the darkness conjured from her own darkest terrors …
Not real. At least not in this room, with its streaming sunlight and chattering fountain in the garden beyond. But if it was indeed a true portrayal of the armies that Lord Chaol had mentioned yesterday …
That was what she would face. The victims of that host, possibly even the soldiers within it, should things go very wrong.
That was what awaited her back home.
Not now—she would not think about this now, with him here. Fretting about it, reminding him of what he must face, what might be sweeping down upon his friends as they sat here … Not helpful. To either of them.
So Yrene sat there on the rug, forcing her trembling to abate with each deep breath she inhaled through her nose and out her mouth, letting her magic settle and refill within her as she calmed her mind. Letting Lord Chaol pant on the couch behind her, neither of them saying a word.
No, this would not be a usual healing.
But perhaps delaying her return, remaining here to heal him for however long it took … There might be others like him on those battlefields—suffering from similar injuries. Learning to face this now, however harrowing … Yes, this delay might turn fruitful. If she could stomach, if she could endure, that darkness again. Find some way to shatter it.
Go where you fear to tread.
Indeed.
Her eyes drifted closed. At some point, the servant girl had come back with the ingredients Yrene had invented. Had taken one look at them and vanished.
It had been hours ago. Days ago.
Hunger was a tight knot in her belly—a strangely mortal feeling compared to the hours spent attacking that blackness, only half aware of the hand she’d placed on his back, of the screaming that came from him every time her magic shoved against that wall.
He had not once asked her to stop. Had not begged for reprieve.
Shaking fingers brushed her shoulder. “Are … you …” Each of his words was a burnt rasp. She’d have to get him peppermint tea with honey. She should call to the servant—if she could remember to speak. Muster the voice herself. “… all right?”
Yrene cracked her eyelids open as his hand settled on her shoulder. Not from any affection or concern, but because she had a feeling that the exhaustion lay so heavily upon him that he couldn’t move it again.
And she was drained enough that she couldn’t muster the strength to brush off that touch, as she’d done earlier. “I should ask you if you’re all right,” she managed to say, voice raw. “Anything?”
“No.” The sheer lack of emotion behind the word told her enough of his thoughts, his disappointment. He paused for a few heartbeats before he repeated, “No.”
She closed her eyes again. This could take weeks. Months. Especially if she did not find some way to shove back that wall of darkness.
She tried and failed to move her legs. “I should get you—”
“Rest.”
The hand tightened on her shoulder.
“Rest,” he said again.
“You’re done for the day,” she said. “No additional exercise—”
“I mean—you. Rest.” Each word was labored.
Yrene dragged her stare toward the large clock in the corner. Blinked once. Twice.
Five.
They had been here for five hours—
He had endured it all that time. Five hours of this agony—
The thought alone had her drawing up her legs. Groaning as she braced a hand on the low-lying table and rallied her strength, pushing up, up, until she was standing. Weaving on her feet, but—standing.
His arms slid beneath him, the muscles of his bare back rippling as he tried to push himself up. “Don’t,” she said.
He did so anyway. The considerable muscles in his arms and chest did not fail him as he shoved upward, until he was sitting. Staring at her, glassy-eyed.
Yrene rasped, “You need—tea.”
“Kadja.”
The name was little more than a push of breath.
The servant immediately appeared. Too quickly.
Yrene studied her closely as the girl slipped in. She’d been listening. Waiting.
Yrene did not bother to smile as she said, “Peppermint tea. Lots of honey.”
Chaol added, “Two of them.”
Yrene gave him a look, but sank onto the couch beside him. The cushions were slightly damp—with his sweat, she realized as she saw it gleaming on the contours of his bronzed chest.
; She shut her eyes—just for a moment.
She didn’t realize it was far longer than that until Kadja was setting two delicate teacups before them, a small iron kettle steaming in the center of the table. The woman poured generous amounts of honey into both, and Yrene’s mouth was too dry, tongue too heavy, to bother telling her to stop or she’d make them ill from the sweetness.
The servant stirred both in silence, then handed the first cup to Chaol.
He merely passed it to Yrene.
She was too tired to object as she wrapped her hands around it, trying to rally the strength to raise it to her lips.
He seemed to sense it.
He told Kadja to leave his cup on the table. Told her to go.
Yrene watched as through a distant window while Chaol took her cup and lifted it to her lips.
She debated shoving his hand out of her face.
Yes, she’d work with him; no, he was not the monster she’d initially suspected he’d be, not in the way she’d seen men be; but letting him this close, letting him tend to her like this …
“You can either drink it,” he said, his voice a low growl, “or we can sit like this for the next few hours.”