Borte stared at Nesryn, blinking once.
Then she tipped back her head and howled.
Sartaq threw an approving yet beleaguered glance in Nesryn’s direction before saying, “Meet my hearth-sister, Borte. Granddaughter and heir of my hearth-mother, Houlun.” He reached between them to tug one of Borte’s braids. She batted his hand away. “Borte, meet Captain Nesryn Faliq.” He paused for a breath, then added, “Of the Royal Guard of Adarlan.”
Silence. Borte’s arched dark brows rose.
An aging man in rukhin leathers pressed forward. “But what is more unusual: that a Balruhni woman is their captain, or that a captain of Adarlan has ventured so far?”
Borte waved the man off. “Always the idle chatter and questions with you,” she scolded him. And to Nesryn’s shock, the man winced and shut his mouth. “The real question is …” A sly grin at Sartaq. “Does she come as emissary or bride?”
Any attempt at a steady, cool, calm appearance vanished as Nesryn gaped at the girl. Right as Sartaq snapped, “Borte.”
Borte gave a downright wicked grin. “Sartaq never brings such pretty ladies home—from Adarlan or Antica. Be careful walking around the cliff edges, Captain Faliq, or some of the girls here might give you a shove.”
“Will you be one of them?” Nesryn’s voice remained unruffled, even if her face had heated.
Borte scowled. “I should think not.” Some of the others laughed again.
“As my hearth-sister,” Sartaq explained, leading Nesryn toward the cluster of low-backed chairs near the lip of the fire pit, “I consider Borte a blood relative. Like my own sister.”
Borte’s devilish grin faded as she fell into step alongside Sartaq. “How fares your family?”
Sartaq’s face was unreadable, save for the faint flicker in those dark eyes. “Busy,” was all he said. A nonanswer.
But Borte nodded, as if she knew his moods and inclinations well, and kept quiet while Sartaq escorted Nesryn into a carved and painted wooden chair. The heat from the blazing fire was delicious, and she nearly groaned as she stretched out her frozen feet toward it.
Borte hissed. “You couldn’t get your sweetheart a proper pair of boots, Sartaq?”
Sartaq growled in warning, but Nesryn frowned at her supple leather boots. They’d been more expensive than any she’d ever dared purchase for herself, but Dorian Havilliard had insisted. Part of the uniform, he’d told her with a wink.
She wondered if he still smiled so freely, or spent as generously, wherever he was.
But she glanced toward Borte, whose boots were leather, yet thicker—lined with what seemed to be thickest sheepskin. Definitely better-equipped for the chilly altitudes.
“I’m sure you can dig up a pair somewhere,” Sartaq said to his hearth-sister, and Nesryn twisted in her chair while the two of them drifted back toward where Kadara waited.
The people pressed in around Sartaq, murmuring too softly for Nesryn to hear from across the hall. But the prince spoke with easy smiles, talking while he unloaded their packs, handing them off to whoever was closest, and then unsaddled Kadara.
He gave the golden ruk a stroke down her neck, then a solid thump on her side—and then Kadara was gone, flapping into the open air beyond the cave mouth.
Nesryn debated going over to them, offering to help with the packs that were now being hauled through the chamber and into the hallway beyond, but the heat creeping up her body had sapped the strength from her legs.
Sartaq and Borte appeared, the others dispersing, just as Nesryn noticed the man sitting near a brazier across the hall. A cup curling with steam sat on the small, wooden table beside his chair, and though there seemed to be an open scroll in his lap, his eyes remained fixed on her.
She didn’t know what to remark upon: that while his skin was tan, it was clear that he did not hail from the southern continent; that his short brown hair was far from the long, silken braids of the ruk riders; or that his clothes seemed more akin to Adarlan’s jackets and pants.
Only a dagger hung at his side, and while he was broad-shouldered and fit, he didn’t possess the self-assured swagger, the pitiless surety of a warrior. He was perhaps in his late forties, pale white lines etched at the corner of his eyes, where he’d squinted in the sun or wind.
Borte led Sartaq around the fire pit, past the various pillars, and right to the man, who got to his feet and bowed. He stood roughly at Sartaq’s height, and even from across the hall, with the crackling fire and groaning wind, Nesryn could make out his shoddy Halha: “It is an honor, Prince.”
Borte snorted.
Sartaq just gave a curt nod and replied in the northern language, “I’m told you have been a guest of our hearth-mother for the past few weeks.”
“She was gracious enough to welcome me here, yes.” The man sounded slightly relieved to be using his native tongue. A glance toward Nesryn. She didn’t bother to pretend she wasn’t listening. “I couldn’t help but overhear what I thought was mention of a captain from Adarlan.”
“Captain Faliq oversees the royal guard.”
The man didn’t take his eyes off Nesryn as he murmured, “Does she, now.”
Nesryn only held his stare from across the room. Go ahead. Gawk all you like.
Sartaq asked sharply, “And your name?”
The man dragged his gaze back to the prince. “Falkan Ennar.”
Borte said to Sartaq in Halha, “He is a merchant.”
And if he’d come from the northern continent … Nesryn slid to her feet, her steps near-silent as she approached. She made sure they were, as Falkan watched her the entire way, running an eye over her from foot to head. Made sure he noted that the grace with which she moved was not some feminine gift, but from training that had taught her how to creep up on others undetected.
Falkan stiffened as if he finally realized it. And understood that the dagger at his side would be of little use against her, if he was stupid enough to pull something.
Good. It made him smarter than a great number of men in Rifthold. Stopping a casual distance away, Nesryn asked the merchant, “Have you any news?”
Up close, the eyes she’d mistaken for dark were a midnight sapphire. He’d likely been moderately handsome in his youth. “News of what?”
“Of Adarlan. Of … anything.”
Falkan stood with remarkable stillness—a man perhaps used to holding his ground in a bargain. “I wish that I could offer you any, Captain, but I have been in the southern continent for over two years now. You probably have more news than I do.” A subtle request.
And one that would go unanswered. She was not about to blab her kingdom’s business for all to hear. So Nesryn just shrugged and turned back toward the fire pit across the hall.
“Before I left the northern continent,” Falkan said as she strode away, “a young man named Westfall was the Captain of the Royal Guard. Are you his replacement?”
Careful. She indeed had to be so, so careful not to reveal too much. To him, to anyone. “Lord Westfall is now Hand to King Dorian Havilliard.”
Shock slackened the merchant’s face. She marked it—every tick and flicker. No joy or relief, but no anger, either. Just … surprise. Honest, bald surprise. “Dorian Havilliard is king?”
At Nesryn’s raised brows, Falkan explained, “I have been in the deep wilds for months now. News does not come swiftly. Or often.”
“An odd place to be selling your goods,” Sartaq murmured. Nesryn was inclined to agree.
Falkan merely gave the prince a tight smile. A man with secrets of his own, then.
“It has been a long journey,” Borte cut in, looping her arm through Nesryn’s and turning her toward the dim hallway beyond. “Captain Faliq needs refreshment. And a bath.”
Nesryn wasn’t certain whether to thank the young woman or begrudge her for interrupting, but … Her stomach was indeed an aching pit. And it had been a long while since she’d bathed.
Neither Sartaq nor Falkan stopped them, though th
eir murmuring resumed as Borte escorted her into the hallway that shot straight into the mountain itself. Wooden doors lined it, some open to reveal small bedchambers—even a little library.
“He is a strange man,” Borte said in Halha. “My grandmother refuses to speak of why he came here—what he seeks.”
Nesryn lifted a brow. “Trade, perhaps?”
Borte shook her head, opening a door halfway down the hall. The room was small, a narrow bed tucked against one wall, the other occupied by a trunk and a wooden chair. The far wall held a washbasin and ewer, along with a pile of soft-looking cloths. “We have no goods to sell. We are usually the merchants—ferrying goods across the continent. Our clan here, not so much, but some of the others … Their aeries are full of treasures from every territory.” She toed the rickety bed and frowned. “Not this old junk.”
Nesryn chuckled. “Perhaps he wishes to assist you in expanding, then.”
Borte turned, braids swaying. “No. He doesn’t meet with anyone, or seem interested in that.” A shrug. “It matters little. Only that he is here.”
Nesryn folded away the tidbits of information. He didn’t seem like one of Morath’s agents, but who knew how far the arm of Erawan now stretched? If it had reached Antica, then it was possible it had delved into the continent. She’d be on her guard—had no doubt Sartaq already was.
Borte twirled the end of a braid around a finger. “I saw the way you sized him up. You don’t think he’s here for business, either.”
Nesryn weighed the merits of admitting the truth, and opted for, “These are strange days for all of us—I have learned not to take men on their word. Or appearance.”
Borte dropped her braid. “No wonder Sartaq brought you home. You sound just like him.”
Nesryn hid her smile, not bothering to say that she found such a thing to be a compliment.
Borte sniffed, waving to the room. “Not as fine as the khagan’s palace, but better than sleeping on one of Sartaq’s shitty bedrolls.”
Nesryn smiled. “Any bed is better than that, I suppose.”
Borte smirked. “I meant what I said. You need a bath. And a comb.”
Nesryn at last raised a hand to her hair and winced. Tangles and knots and more tangles. Just getting it out of the braid would be a nightmare.
“Even Sartaq braids better than that,” Borte teased.
Nesryn sighed. “Despite my sister’s best efforts to teach me, I’m useless when it comes to such things.” She offered the girl a wink. “Why do you think I keep my hair so short?”
Indeed, her sister had practically fainted when Nesryn had come home one afternoon at age fifteen with hair cut to her collarbone. She’d kept the hair that length ever since—in part to piss off Delara, who still pouted about it, and partially because it was far easier to deal with. Wielding blades and arrows was one thing, but styling hair … She was hopeless. And showing up at the guards’ barracks with a pretty hairstyle would not have been well received.
Borte only gave Nesryn a curt nod—as if she seemed to realize that. “Before you fly the next time, I’ll braid it properly for you.” Then she pointed down the hall, to a set of narrow stairs that led into the gloom. “Baths are this way.”
Nesryn sniffed herself and cringed. “Oh, that’s awful.”
Borte snickered as Nesryn entered the hall. “I’m surprised Sartaq’s eyes weren’t watering.”
Nesryn chuckled as she followed her toward what she prayed was a boiling-hot bath. She again felt Borte’s sharp, assessing gaze and asked, “What?”
“You grew up in Adarlan, didn’t you?”
Nesryn considered the question, why it might be asked. “Yes. I was born and raised in Rifthold, though my father’s family comes from Antica.”
Borte was quiet for a few steps. But as they reached the narrow stairwell and stepped into the dim interior, Borte smiled over a shoulder at Nesryn. “Then welcome home.”
Nesryn wondered if those words might be the most beautiful she’d ever heard.
The baths were ancient copper tubs that had to be filled kettle by kettle, but Nesryn didn’t object as she finally slid into one.
An hour later, hair finally detangled and brushed out, she found herself seated at the massive round table in the great hall, shoveling roast rabbit into her mouth, nestled in thick, warm clothes that had been donated by Borte herself. The flashes of embroidered cobalt and daffodil on the sleeves snared Nesryn’s attention as much as the platters of roast meats before her. Beautiful clothes—layered and toasty against the chill that permeated the hall, even with the fires. And her toes … Borte had indeed found a pair of those fleece-lined boots for her.
Sartaq sat beside Nesryn at the empty table, equally silent and eating with as much enthusiasm. He had yet to bathe, though his windblown hair had been rebraided, the long plait falling down the center of his muscled back.
As her belly began to fill and her fingers slowed their picking, Nesryn glanced toward the prince. She found him smiling faintly. “Better than grapes and salted pork?”
She jerked her chin toward the bones littering her plate in silent answer, then to the grease on her fingers. Would it be uncouth to lick it off? The seasonings had been exquisite.
“My hearth-mother,” he said, that smile fading, “is not here.”
Nesryn paused her eating. They’d come here to seek the counsel of this woman—
“According to Borte, she will be returning tomorrow or the day after.”
She waited for more. Silence could be just as effective as spoken questions.
Sartaq pushed back his plate and braced his arms on the table. “I’m aware that you’re pressed for time. If I could, I’d go look for her myself, but even Borte wasn’t sure where she’d gone off to. Houlun is … adrift like that. Sees her sulde waving in the wind and takes her ruk out to chase it. And will whack us with it if we try to stop her.” A gesture toward the rack of spears near the cave mouth, Sartaq’s own sulde among them.
Nesryn smiled at that. “She sounds like an interesting woman.”
“She is. In some ways, I’m closer to her than …” The words trailed off, and he shook his head. Than his own mother. Indeed, Nesryn hadn’t witnessed him being nearly so open, so teasing with his own siblings, as he was with Borte.
“I can wait,” Nesryn said at last, trying not to wince. “Lord Westfall still needs time to heal, and I told him I’d be gone three weeks. I can wait a day or two more.” And please, gods, not another moment after it.
Sartaq nodded, tapping a finger on the ancient wood of the table. “Tonight, we will rest, but tomorrow …” A hint of a smile. “How would you like a tour tomorrow?”
“It would be an honor.”
Sartaq’s smile grew. “Perhaps we could also do a bit of archery practice.” He looked her over with a frankness that made her shift in her seat. “I’m certainly keen to match myself against Neith’s Arrow, and I’m sure the young warriors are, too.”
Nesryn pushed back her own plate, brows lifting. “They’ve heard of me?”
Sartaq grinned. “I might have told a story or two the last time I came here. Why do you think there were so many people gathered when we arrived? They certainly don’t usually bother to drag themselves here to see me.”
“But Borte seemed like she’d never—”
“Does Borte seem like a person who gives anyone an easy time?”
Something deeper in her warmed. “No. But how could they have known I was coming?”
His answering grin was the portrait of princely arrogance. “Because I sent word a day before that you were likely to join me.”
Nesryn gaped at him, unable to maintain that mask of calm.
Rising, Sartaq scooped up their plates. “I told you that I was praying you’d join me, Nesryn Faliq. If I’d shown up empty-handed, Borte would have never let me hear the end of it.”
CHAPTER
30
Within the interior chamber of the hall, Nesryn had no way
of telling how long she’d slept or what hour of the morning it was. She’d dozed fitfully, awakening to comb through the sounds beyond her door, to detect if anyone was astir. She doubted Sartaq was the type to scold her for sleeping in, but if the rukhin indeed teased the prince about his courtly life, then lazing about all morning was perhaps not the best way to win them over.
So she’d tossed and turned, catching a few minutes of sleep here and there, and gave up entirely when she noticed shadows interrupting the light cracking beneath the door. Someone, at least, was awake in the Hall of Altun.
She’d dressed, pausing only to wash her face. The room was warm enough that the water in the ewer wasn’t icy, though she certainly could have used a freezing splash on her gritty eyes.
Thirty minutes later, seated in the saddle before Sartaq, she regretted that wish.
He’d indeed been awake and saddling Kadara when she’d emerged into the still-quiet great hall. The fire pit burned brightly, as if someone tended to it all night, but save for the prince and his ruk, the pillar-filled hall was empty. It was still empty when he hauled her up into the saddle and Kadara leaped from the cave mouth.
Freezing air slammed into her face, whipping at her cheeks as they dove.
A few other ruks were aloft. Likely out for their breakfasts, Sartaq told her, his voice soft in the emerging dawn. And it was in pursuit of Kadara’s own meal that they went, sailing out of the three peaks of the Eridun’s aerie and deep into the fir-crusted mountains beyond.
It was only after Kadara had snatched half a dozen fat silver salmon from a rushing turquoise river, hurling them each in the air before swallowing them in a slicing bite, that Sartaq steered them toward a cluster of smaller peaks.
“The training run,” he said, pointing. The rocks were smoother, the drops between peaks less sharp—more like smooth, rounded gullies. “Where the novices learn to ride.”
Though less brutal than the three brother-peaks of the Dorgos, it didn’t seem any safer. “You said you raised Kadara from a hatchling. Is that how it is done for all riders?”
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