“We do not kill.”
“No,” Chaol said, his blood going cold. “But you and all the healers here … There is only one other such place in the world. Guarded as heavily, protected by a power just as mighty.”
“Doranelle—the Fae healers in Doranelle.”
Guarded by Maeve. Fiercely.
Who had fought in that first war. Who had fought against the Valg.
“What does it mean?” she breathed.
Chaol had the sense of the ground slipping from beneath him. “I was sent here to retrieve an army. But I wonder … I wonder if some other force brought me to retrieve something else.”
She slid her hand into his, a silent promise. One he’d think of later.
“Perhaps that is why whoever it is that’s been stalking the Torre, was hunting me,” Yrene whispered. “If they are indeed sent from Morath … They don’t want us realizing any of this. Through healing you.”
He squeezed her fingers. “And those scrolls in the library … either they were taken or brought from here, forgotten save for legend about where they came from. Where the healers of this land might have originated from.”
Not the necropolis—but the Fae people who had built it.
“The scrolls,” she blurted. “If we return and find someone to—to translate them …”
“They might explain this. What the healers could do against the Valg.”
She swallowed. “Hafiza. I wonder if she knows what those scrolls are, somehow. The Healer on High is not just a position of power, but of learning. She’s a walking library herself, taught things by her predecessor that no one else at the Torre knows.” She twisted a curl around a finger. “It’s worth showing her some of the texts. To see if she might know what they are.”
A gamble to share the information with anyone else, but one worth taking. Chaol nodded.
Someone’s laughter pierced through even the heavy silence of the oasis.
Yrene released his hand. “We’ll need to smile, enjoy ourselves amongst them. And then leave at first light.”
“I’ll send word to Nesryn to return. As soon as we’re back. I’m not sure we can afford any longer to wait for the khagan’s aid.”
“We’ll try to convince him again anyway,” she promised. He angled his head. “You will still have to win this war, Chaol,” she said quietly. “Regardless of what role we might play.”
He brushed a thumb over her cheek. “I have no intention of losing it.”
It was no easy task to pretend they had not stumbled across something enormous. That something had not rattled them down to their bones.
Hasar grew bored of bathing and called for music and dancing and lunch. Which turned into hours of lounging in the shade, listening to the musicians, eating an array of delicacies that Yrene had no idea how they’d managed to bring all the way out here.
But as the sun set, they all dispersed into their tents to change for dinner. After what she’d learned with Chaol, even being alone for a moment had her jumpy, but Yrene washed and changed into the purple gauzy gown Hasar had provided.
Chaol was waiting outside the tent.
Hasar had brought him clothes, too. Beautiful deep blue that brought out the gold in his brown eyes, the summer-kissed tan of his skin.
Yrene blushed as his gaze slid along her neckline, to the swaths of skin the flowing folds of the dress revealed along her waist. Her thighs. Silver and clear beads had been sewn onto the entire thing, making the gown shimmer like the stars now flickering to life in the night sky above them.
Torches and lanterns had been lit around the oasis pool, tables and couches and cushions brought out. Music was playing, people were already loosing themselves upon the feast laid across the various tables, with Hasar holding court, regal as any queen from her spot at the centermost table alongside the fire-gilded pool.
She spotted Yrene and signaled her over. Chaol, too.
Two seats had been left open to the princess’s right. Yrene could have sworn Chaol sized them up with each step, as if scanning the chairs, those around them, the oasis itself for any pitfalls or threats. His hand brushed the sliver of skin exposed down the column of her spine—as if in confirmation that all was clear.
“You did not think I forgot my honored guest, did you?” Hasar said, kissing her cheeks. Chaol bowed to the princess as much as he could manage, and claimed his seat on Yrene’s other side, leaning his cane against the table.
“Today has been wonderful,” Yrene said, and wasn’t lying. “Thank you.”
Hasar was quiet for a beat, looking Yrene over with unusual softness. “I know I am not an easy person to care for, or an easy friend to have,” she said, her dark eyes meeting Yrene’s at last. “But you have never once made me feel that way.”
Yrene’s throat tightened at the bald words. Hasar inclined her head, waving to the party around them. “This is the least I can do to honor my friend.” Renia gently patted Hasar’s arm, as if in approval and understanding.
So Yrene bowed her head and said to the princess, “I have no interest in easy friends—easy people. I think I trust them less than the difficult ones, and find them far less compelling, too.”
That brought a grin to Hasar’s face. She leaned down the table to survey Chaol and drawl, “You look quite handsome, Lord Westfall.”
“And you are looking beautiful, Princess.”
Hasar, while well dressed, would never be called such. But she accepted the compliment with that cat’s smile that somehow reminded Yrene of that stranger in Innish—that knowledge that beauty was fleeting, yet power … power was a far more valuable currency.
The feast unfolded, and Yrene suffered through a not-so-unguarded toast from Hasar to her dear, loyal, clever friend. But she drank with them. Chaol, too. Wine and honey ale, their glasses refilled before Yrene could even notice the near-silent reach of the servants pouring.
It took all of thirty minutes before talk of the war started.
Arghun began it first. A mocking toast, to safety and serenity in such tumultuous times.
Yrene drank but tried to hide her surprise as she found Chaol doing so as well, a vague smile plastered on his face.
Then Hasar began musing on whether the Western Wastes, with everyone so focused upon the eastern half of the continent, was fair game to interested parties.
Chaol only shrugged. As if he’d reached some conclusion this afternoon. Some realization about this war, and the role of these royals in it.
Hasar seemed to notice, too. And for all that this was meant to be a birthday party, the princess pondered aloud to no one in particular, “Perhaps Aelin Galathynius should drag her esteemed self down here and select one of my brothers to marry. Perhaps then we would consider assisting her. If such influence remained in the family.”
Meaning all that flame, all that brute power … tied to this continent, bred into the bloodline, never to be a threat.
“My brothers would have to stomach being with someone like that, of course,” Hasar went on, “but they are not such weak-blooded men as you might believe.” A glance at Kashin, who seemed to pretend not to hear, even as Arghun snorted. Yrene wondered if the others knew how adept Kashin was at drowning out their taunting—that he never fell for their baiting simply because he couldn’t be bothered to care.
Chaol answered Hasar with equal mildness, “As interesting as it would be to see Aelin Galathynius deal with all of you …” A secret, knowing smile, as if Chaol might very well enjoy seeing that sight. As if Aelin might very well make blood sport out of them all. “Marriage is not an option for her.”
Hasar’s brows lifted. “To a man?”
Renia gave her a sharp look that Hasar ignored.
Chaol chuckled. “To anyone. Beyond her beloved.”
“King Dorian,” Arghun said, swirling his wine. “I’m surprised she can stomach him.”
Chaol stiffened, but shook his head. “No. Another prince—foreign-born and powerful.”
All t
he royals stilled. Even Kashin looked their way.
“Who, pray tell, is that?” Hasar sipped her wine, those keen eyes darkening.
“Prince Rowan Whitethorn, of Doranelle. Former commander to Queen Maeve, and a member of her royal household.”
Yrene could have sworn the blood drained wholly from Arghun’s face. “Aelin Galathynius is to wed Rowan Whitethorn?”
From the way the prince said the name … he’d indeed heard of this Rowan.
Chaol had mentioned Rowan more than once in passing—Rowan, who had managed to heal much of the damage in his spine. A Fae Prince. And Aelin’s beloved.
Chaol shrugged. “They are carranam, and he swore the blood oath to her.”
“He swore that oath to Maeve,” Arghun countered.
Chaol leaned back in his seat. “He did. And Aelin got Maeve to free him from it so he could swear it to her. Right in Maeve’s face.”
Arghun and Hasar swapped glances. “How,” the former demanded.
Chaol’s mouth turned up at the corner. “Through the same way Aelin achieves all her ends.” He flicked his brows up. “She encircled Maeve’s city in fire. And when Maeve told her that Doranelle was made of stone, Aelin simply replied that her people were not.”
A chill snaked down Yrene’s spine.
“So she is a brute and a madwoman,” Hasar sniffed.
“Is she? Who else has taken on Maeve and walked away, let alone gotten what they want out of it?”
“She would have destroyed an entire city for one man,” Hasar snapped.
“The most powerful pure-blooded Fae male in the world,” Chaol said simply. “A worthy asset for any court. Especially when they had fallen in love with each other.”
Though his eyes danced as he spoke, a tremor of tension ran beneath the last words.
But Arghun seized on the words. “If it is a love match, then they risk knowing their enemies will go after him to punish her.” Arghun smiled as if to say he was already thinking of doing so.
Chaol snorted, and the prince straightened. “Good luck to anyone who tries to go after Rowan Whitethorn.”
“Because Aelin will burn them to ash?” Hasar asked with poisoned sweetness.
But it was Kashin who answered softly, “Because Rowan Whitethorn will always be the person who walks away from that encounter. Not the assailant.”
A pause of silence.
Then Hasar said, “Well, if Aelin cannot represent her continent, perhaps we shall look elsewhere.” She smirked at Kashin. “Perhaps Yrene Towers might be offered in the queen’s stead.”
“I am not noble-born,” Yrene blurted. “Or royal.” Hasar had lost her mind.
Hasar shrugged. “I’m sure Lord Westfall, as Hand, can find you a title. Make you a countess or duchess or whatever terms you call them. Of course, we’d know you were little more than a milkmaid dressed in jewels, but if it stayed amongst us … I’m sure there are some here who would not mind your humble beginnings.” She’d done as much with Renia—for Renia.
The amusement faded from Chaol’s face. “You sound as if you now want to be a part of this war, Princess.”
Hasar waved a hand. “I am merely musing on the possibilities.” She surveyed Yrene and Kashin, and the food in Yrene’s stomach turned leaden. “I’ve always said you would make such beautiful children.”
“If they were allowed to live by your future khagan.”
“A small consideration—to be later dealt with.”
Kashin leaned forward, his jaw tight. “The wine goes to your head, sister.”
Hasar rolled her eyes. “Why not? Yrene is the unspoken heir of the Torre. It is a position of power—and if Lord Westfall were to bestow upon her a royal title … say, spin a little story that her royal lineage was newly discovered, she might very well wed you, Ka—”
“She will not.”
Chaol’s words were flat. Hard.
Color stained Kashin’s face as he asked softly, “And why is that, Lord Westfall?”
Chaol held the man’s gaze. “She will not marry you.”
Hasar smiled. “I think the lady may speak for herself.”
Yrene wanted to flip her chair back into the pool and sink to the bottom. And live there, under the surface, forever. Rather than face the prince waiting for an answer, the princess who was smirking like a demon, and the lord whose face was hard with rage.
But if it was a serious offer, if doing something like that could lead to the full might of the southern continent’s armies coming to help them, save them …
“Don’t you even consider it,” Chaol said too quietly. “She’s full of shit.”
People gasped. Hasar barked a laugh.
Arghun snapped, “You will speak with respect to my sister, or you will find yourself with legs that don’t work again.”
Chaol ignored them. Yrene’s hands shook badly enough that she slid them beneath the table.
Had the princess brought her out here to corner her into agreeing to this preposterous idea, or had it merely been a whim, an idle thought to taunt and gnaw at Lord Westfall?
Chaol seemed to be on the verge of opening his mouth to say more, to push this ridiculous idea out of her head, but he hesitated.
Not because he agreed, Yrene realized, but because he wanted to give her the space to choose for herself. A man used to giving orders, to being obeyed. And yet Yrene had the sense that this, too, was new to him. The patience; the trust.
And she trusted him. To do what he had to. To find a way to survive this war, whether with this army or another one. If it did not happen here, with these people, he’d sail elsewhere.
Yrene looked to Hasar, to Kashin and the others, some smirking, some swapping disgusted glances. Arghun most of all. Revolted at the thought of sullying his family’s bloodline.
She trusted Chaol.
She did not trust these royals.
Yrene smiled at Hasar, then Kashin. “This is very grave talk for my birthday. Why should I choose one man tonight when I have so many handsome ones in my company right now?”
She could have sworn a shudder of relief went through Chaol.
“Indeed,” Hasar crooned, her smile sharpening. Yrene tried not to balk at the invisible fangs revealed in that smile. “Betrothals are rather odious things. Look at poor Duva, stuck with that brooding, sad-eyed princeling.”
And so the conversation moved on. Yrene did not glance to Kashin or the others. She looked only at her constantly refilled goblet—and drank it. Or at Chaol, who appeared half inclined to lean across Yrene and flip Hasar’s chair right back into the pool.
But the meal passed, and Yrene kept drinking—enough so that when she stood after dessert, she had not realized precisely how much she’d imbibed. The world tipped and swayed, and Chaol steadied her with a hand on her elbow, even as he was none too steady on his feet.
“Seems like they can’t hold their liquor up north,” Arghun said with a snort.
Chaol chuckled. “I’d advise never to say that to someone from Terrasen.”
“I suppose there’s nothing else to do while living amongst all the snow and sheep beyond drink,” Arghun drawled, lounging in his chair.
“That may be,” Chaol said, putting an arm on Yrene’s back to guide her to the trees and tents, “but it won’t stop Aelin Galathynius or Aedion Ashryver from drinking you under the table.”
“Or under a chair?” Hasar crooned to Chaol.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the heat, or the hand on her back, or the fact that this man beside her had fought and fought and never once complained about it.
Yrene lunged for the princess.
And though Chaol might have decided against pushing Hasar into the pool behind her, Yrene had no such qualms about doing it herself. One heartbeat, Hasar was smirking up at her.
The next, her legs and skirts and jewels went sky-up, her shriek piercing across the dunes as Yrene shoved the princess, chair and all, into the water.
CHAPTER
45
Yrene knew she was a dead woman.
Knew it the moment Hasar hit the dark water and everyone leaped to their feet, shouting and drawing blades.
Chaol had Yrene behind him in an instant, a sword half out—a blade she hadn’t even seen him reach for before it was in his hand.
The pool was not deep, and Hasar swiftly stood, soaked and seething, teeth bared and hair utterly limp as she pointed at Yrene.
No one spoke.
She pointed and pointed, and Yrene braced for the death order.
They’d kill her, and then kill Chaol for trying to save her.
She felt him sizing up all the guards, the princes, the viziers. Every person who would get in the way to the horses, every person who might put up a fight.
But a low, fizzing sounded behind Yrene.
She looked to see Renia clutching her stomach, another hand over her mouth, as she looked at her lover and howled.
Hasar whirled on Renia, who just stuck out a finger, pointing and roaring with laughter. Tears leaked from the woman’s eyes.
Then Kashin tipped his head back and bellowed with amusement.
Yrene and Chaol did not dare move.
Not until Hasar shoved away a servant who’d flung himself into the pool to help her, crawled back onto the paved lip, and looked Yrene dead in the eye with the full wrath of all the mighty khagans before her.
Silence again.
But then the princess snorted. “I was wondering when you’d grow a backbone.”
She walked away, trailing water behind her, Renia howling again.
Yrene caught Chaol’s stare—watched him slowly release the hand on his sword. Watched his pupils shrink again. Watched him realize …
They were not going to die.
“With that,” Yrene said quietly, “I think it’s time for bed.”
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