The winter winds off the rough waves had chilled Chaol Westfall from the moment he’d emerged from his quarters belowdecks. Even with his thick blue cloak, the damp cold seeped into his bones, and now, as he scanned the water, it seemed the heavy cloud cover wasn’t likely to break anytime soon. Winter was creeping over the continent, as surely as Morath’s legions.
The brisk dawn had revealed nothing, only the roiling seas and the stoic sailors and soldiers who had kept this ship traveling swiftly northward. Behind them, flanking them, half of the khagan’s fleet followed. The other half still lingered in the southern continent as the rest of the mighty empire’s armada rallied. They’d only be a few weeks behind if the weather held.
Chaol sent a prayer on the briny, icy wind that it would. For despite the size of the fleet gathered behind him, and despite the thousand ruk riders who were just taking to the skies from their roosts on the ships for morning hunts over the waves, it might still not be enough against Morath.
And they might not arrive fast enough for that army to make a difference anyway.
Three weeks of sailing had brought them little news of the host his friends had assembled and supposedly brought to Terrasen, and they’d kept far enough from the coast to avoid any enemy ships—or wyverns. But that would change today.
A delicate, warm arm looped through his, and a head of brown-gold hair leaned against his shoulder. “It’s freezing out here,” Yrene murmured, scowling at the wind-whipped waves.
Chaol pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “The cold builds character.”
She huffed a laugh, the steam of her breath torn away by the wind. “Spoken like a man from the North.”
Chaol slid his arm around her shoulders, tucking her into his side. “Am I not keeping you warm enough these days, wife?”
Yrene blushed, and elbowed him in the ribs. “Cad.”
Over a month later, and he was still marveling at the word: wife. At the woman by his side, who had healed his fractured and weary soul.
His spine was secondary to that. He’d spent these long days on the ship practicing how he might fight—whether by horseback or with a cane or from his wheeled chair—during the times when Yrene’s power became drained enough that the life-bond between them stretched thin and the injury took over once more.
His spine hadn’t healed, not truly. It never would. It had been the cost of saving his life after a Valg princess had taken him to death’s threshold. Yet it did not feel like a cost too steeply paid.
It had never been a burden—the chair, the injury. It would not be now.
But the other part of that bargain with the goddess who had guided Yrene her entire life, who had brought her to Antica’s shores and now back to their own continent … that part scared the hell out of him.
If he died, Yrene went as well.
To funnel her healing power into him so he might walk when her magic was not too drained, their very lives had been entwined.
So if he fell in battle against Morath’s legions … It would not be just his own life lost.
“You’re thinking too hard.” Yrene frowned up at him. “What is it?”
Chaol jerked his chin toward the ship sailing nearest their own. On its stern, two ruks, one golden and one reddish brown, stood at attention. Both were already saddled, though there was no sign of Kadara’s or Salkhi’s riders.
“I can’t tell if you’re motioning to the ruks or the fact that Nesryn and Sartaq are smart enough to remain in bed on a morning like this.” As we should be, her golden-brown eyes added tartly.
It was Chaol’s turn to nudge her with an elbow. “You’re the one who woke me up this morning, you know.” He brushed a kiss to the column of her neck, a precise reminder of how, exactly, Yrene had awoken him. And what they’d spent a good hour around dawn doing.
Just the warmed silk of her skin against his lips was enough to heat his chilled bones. “We can go back to bed, if you want,” he murmured.
Yrene let out a soft, breathless sound that had his hands aching to roam along her bundled-up body. Even with time pressing upon them, hurrying them northward, he’d loved learning all her sounds—loved coaxing them from her.
But Chaol drew his head away from the crook of her neck to gesture again to the ruks. “They’re heading on a scouting mission soon.” He’d bet that Nesryn and the khagan’s newly crowned Heir were currently buckling on weapons and layers. “We’ve sailed far enough north that we need information on where to moor.” So they could decide where, exactly, to dock the armada and march inland as quickly as possible.
If Rifthold was still held by Erawan and the Ironteeth legions, then sailing the armada up the Avery and marching northward into Terrasen would be unwise. But the Valg king might very well have forces lying in wait at any point ahead. Not to mention Queen Maeve’s fleet, which had vanished after her battle with Aelin and mercifully remained unaccounted for.
By their captain’s calculations, they were just nearing the border Fenharrow shared with Adarlan. So they needed to decide where, exactly, they were sailing to. As swiftly as possible.
They’d already lost precious time skirting the Dead Islands, despite the news that they once more belonged to Captain Rolfe. Word had likely already reached Morath about their journey, but there was no need to proclaim their exact location.
But their secrecy had cost them: he’d had no news on Dorian’s location. Not a whisper as to whether he had gone north with Aelin and the fleet she’d gathered from several kingdoms. Chaol could only pray that Dorian had, and that his king remained safe.
Yrene studied the two ruks on the nearby ship. “How many scouts are going?”
“Just them.”
Yrene’s eyes flared with warning.
“Easier for smaller numbers to stay hidden.” Chaol pointed to the sky. “The cloud cover today makes it ideal for scouting, too.” When the worry in her face didn’t abate, he added, “We will have to fight in this war at some point, Yrene.” How many lives did Erawan claim for every day that they delayed?
“I know.” She clasped the silver locket at her neck. He’d given it to her, had a master engraver carve the mountains and seas onto the surface. Inside, it still bore the note Aelin Galathynius had left her years ago, when his wife worked as a barmaid in a backwater port, and the queen lived as an assassin under another name. “I just … I know it’s foolish, but I somehow didn’t think it would come upon us this quickly.”
He’d hardly call these weeks at sea quick, but he understood what she meant. “These last days will be the longest yet.”
Yrene nestled into his side, her arm going around his waist. “I need to check on the supplies. I’ll get Borte to fly me over to Hasar’s ship.”
Arcas, the fierce ruk rider’s mount, was still dozing where he slept on the stern. “You might have to wait awhile for that.”
Indeed, they’d both learned these weeks not to disturb either ruk or rider while they were sleeping. Gods help them if Borte and Aelin ever met.
Yrene smiled, and lifted her hands to cup his face. Her clear eyes scanned his. “I love you,” she said softly.
Chaol lowered his brow until it rested against hers. “Tell me that when we’re knee-deep in freezing mud, will you?”
She snorted, but made no move to pull away. Neither did he.
So brow to brow and soul to soul, they stood there amid the bitter wind and lashing waves, and waited to see what the ruks might discover.
She’d forgotten how damn cold it was in the North.
Even while living amongst the ruk riders in the Tavan Mountains, Nesryn Faliq had never been this frozen through.
And winter had not fully descended.
Yet Salkhi showed no hint that the cold affected him as they rushed over cloud and sea. But that might also be because Kadara flew beside him, the golden ruk unfaltering in the bitter wind.
A soft spot—her ruk had developed a soft spot and an undimming admiration for Sartaq’s mount. Though Nesryn supposed the same could be said about her and the ruk’s rider.
Nesryn tore her eyes from the swirling gray clouds and glanced to the rider at her left.
His shorn hair had grown out—barely. Just enough to be braided back against the wind.
Sensing her attention, the Heir to the khaganate signaled, All is well?
Nesryn blushed despite the cold, but signaled back, her numbed fingers clumsy over the symbols. All clear.
A blushing schoolgirl. That’s what she became around the prince, no matter the fact that they’d been sharing a bed these weeks, or what he’d promised for their future.
To rule beside him. As the future empress of the khaganate.
It was absurd, of course. The idea of her dressed like his mother, in those sweeping, beautiful robes and grand headdresses … No, she was better suited to the rukhin leathers, to the weight of steel, not jewels. She’d said as much to Sartaq. Many times.
He’d laughed her off. Had said she might walk around the palace naked if she wished. What she wore or didn’t wear wouldn’t bother him in the least.
But it was still a ridiculous notion. One the prince seemed to think was the only course for their future. He’d staked his crown on it, had told his father that if being prince meant not being with her, then he’d walk away from the throne. The khagan had offered him the title of Heir instead.
Before they’d left, his siblings had not seemed angered by it, though they’d spent their entire lives vying to be crowned their father’s Heir. Even Hasar, who sailed with them, had refrained from her usual, sharp-tongued comments. Whether Kashin, Arghun, or Duva—all still in Antica, with Kashin promised to sail with the rest of his father’s forces—had changed their minds about Sartaq’s appointment, Nesryn didn’t know.
A flutter of activity to her right had her steering Salkhi after it.
Falkan Ennar, shape-shifter and merchant-turned-rukhin-spy, had taken a falcon’s form this morning, and wielded the creature’s remarkable speed to fly ahead. He must have seen something, for he now banked and swept past them, then soared inland again. Follow, he seemed to say.
Sailing to Terrasen was still an option, depending on what they found today along the coast. Whether Lysandra might be there, if she might still be alive, was another matter entirely.
Falkan had sworn that his fortune, his properties, would be her inheritance well before he knew that she’d survived childhood, or received his family’s gifts. A strange family from the Wastes, who’d spread across the continent, his brother ending up in Adarlan long enough to sire Lysandra and abandon her mother.
But Falkan had not spoken of those desires since they’d left the Tavan Mountains, and had instead dedicated himself to helping in whatever manner he could: scouting, mostly. But a time would soon come when they’d need his further assistance, as they had against the kharankui in the Dagul Fells.
Perhaps as vital as the army they’d brought with them was the information they’d gleaned there. That Maeve was not a Fae Queen at all, but a Valg imposter. An ancient Valg queen, who had infiltrated Doranelle at the dawn of time, ripping into the two sister-queens’ minds and convincing them that they had an elder sister.
Perhaps the knowledge would bring about nothing in this war. But it might shift it in some way. To know that another enemy lurked at their backs. And that Maeve had fled to Erilea to escape the Valg king she’d wed, brother to two others—who in turn had sundered the Wyrdkeys from the gate, and ripped through worlds to find her.
That the three Valg kings had broken into this world only to be halted here, unaware that their prey now lurked on a throne in Doranelle, had been a strange twist of fate. Only Erawan remained here of those three kings, brother to Orcus, Maeve’s husband. What would he pay to know who she truly was?
It was a question, perhaps, for others to ponder. To consider how to wield.
Falkan dropped into a swooping dive through the cloud cover, and Nesryn followed.
Cold, misty air ripped at her, but Nesryn leaned into the descent, Salkhi trailing Falkan without command. For a minute, only clouds flowed past, and then—
White cliffs rose from the gray waves, and beyond them dried grasses spread in the last of Fenharrow’s northernmost plains.
Falkan soared toward the shore, checking his speed so he didn’t lose them.
Kadara kept pace with them easily, and they flew in silence as the coast grew clearer.
The grasses on the plains weren’t winter-dried. They’d been burned. And the trees, barren of leaves, were little more than husks.
On the horizon, plumes of smoke stained the winter sky. Too many and too great to be farmers scorching the last of the crops to fertilize the soil.
Nesryn signaled to Sartaq, I’m taking a closer look.
The prince signaled back, Skim the clouds, but don’t get below them.
Nesryn nodded, and she and her ruk disappeared into the thin bottom layer of the clouds. Through occasional gaps, glimpses of the charred land flashed below.
Villages and farmsteads: gone. As if a force had swept in from the sea and razed everything in its path.
But there had been no armada camped by the shore. No, this army had been on foot.
Keeping just within the veil of clouds, Nesryn and Sartaq crossed the land.
Her heart pounded, faster and faster, with every league of seared, barren landscape they covered. No signs of an opposing army or ongoing battles.
They’d burned it for their own sick enjoyment.
Nesryn marked the land, the features she could make out. They’d indeed barely crossed over Fenharrow’s borders, Adarlan a sprawl to the north.
But inland, growing closer with each league, an army marched. It stretched for miles and miles, black and writhing.
The might of Morath. Or some terrible fraction of it, sent to instill terror and destruction before the final wave.
Sartaq signaled, A band of soldiers below.
Nesryn peered over Salkhi’s wing, the drop merciless, and beheld a small group of soldiers in dark armor wending through the trees—an offshoot of the teeming mass far ahead. As if they had been sent to hunt down any survivors.
Nesryn’s jaw clenched, and she signaled back to the prince, Let’s go.
Not back to the ships. But to the six soldiers, beginning the long return trek to their host.
Nesryn and Salkhi plummeted through the sky, Sartaq a blur on her left.
The band of soldiers didn’t have the chance to shout before Nesryn and Sartaq were upon them.
Lady Yrene Westfall, formerly Yrene Towers, had counted the supplies about six times now. Every boat was full of them, yet Princess Hasar’s ship, the personal escort to the Healer on High, held the most vital mix of tonics and salves. Many had been crafted prior to sailing from Antica, but Yrene and the other healers who had accompanied the army had spent long hours concocting them as best they could on board.
In the dim hold, Yrene steadied her feet against the rocking of the waves and closed the lid on the crate of salve tins, jotting down the number on the piece of paper she’d brought with her.
“The same number as two days ago,” an old voice clucked from the stairs. Hafiza, the Healer on High, sat on the wooden steps, hands resting atop the heavy wool skirt covering her skinny knees. “What do you worry will happen to them, Yrene?”
Yrene flicked her braid over a shoulder. “I wanted to make sure I’d counted right.”
“Again.”
Yrene pocketed the piece of parchment and swept up her fur-lined cloak from where she’d tossed it over a crate. “When we’re on the battlefields, keeping stock of our supplies—”
“Will be vital, yes, but also impossible. When we’re on the battlefields, girl, you’ll be lucky if you can even find one of these tins amid the chaos.”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”
The Healer on High offered her a sympathetic sigh. “People will die, Yrene. In horrible, painful ways, they will die, and even you and I will not be able to save them.”
Yrene swallowed. “I know that.” If they did not hurry, did not make landfall soon and discover where the khagan’s army would march, how many more would perish?
The ancient woman’s knowing look didn’t fade. Always, from the first moment Yrene had laid eyes on Hafiza, she had emanated this calm, this reassurance. The thought of the Healer on High on those bloody battlefields made Yrene’s stomach churn. Even if this sort of thing was precisely why they had come, why they trained in the first place.
But that was without the matter of the Valg, squatting in human hosts like parasites. Valg who would kill them immediately if they knew what the healers planned to do.
What Yrene planned to do to any Valg who crossed her path.
“The salves are made, Yrene.” Hafiza groaned as she rose from her perch on the steps and adjusted the lapels of her thick woolen jacket—cut and embroidered in the style of the Darghan riders. A gift from the last visit the Healer on High had made to the steppes, when she’d taken Yrene along with her. “They are counted. There are no more supplies with which to make them, not until we reach land and can see what might be used there.”
Yrene clutched her cloak to her chest. “I need to be doing something.”
The Healer on High patted the railing. “You will, Yrene. Soon enough, you will.”
Hafiza ascended the stairs with that, leaving Yrene in the hold amid the stacks of crates.
She didn’t tell the Healer on High that she wasn’t entirely sure how much longer she’d be a help—not yet. Hadn’t whispered a word of that doubt to anyone, even Chaol.
Yrene’s hand drifted across her abdomen and lingered.