She had to do it now. Drive this blade in. End it.
End it, and perhaps she could save him. Stop that lethal internal bleeding. But his spine, his spine—
A life. She had sworn an oath never to take a life.
And with this woman before her, the second life in her womb …
The dagger lowered. She’d do it. She’d do it, and—
“Yrene,” Chaol breathed, and the word was so full of pain, so quiet …
It was too late.
Her magic could feel it, his death. She had never told him of that terrible gift—that healers knew when death sat near. Silba, lady of gentle deaths.
The death she would give Duva and her child would not be that sort of death.
Chaol’s death would not be that sort of death.
But she …
But she …
The princess looked so young, even as she stirred. And the life in her womb …
The life before her …
Yrene dropped the knife to the floor.
Its clattering echoed over gold and stone and bones.
Chaol closed his eyes in what she could have sworn was relief.
A light hand touched her shoulder.
She knew that touch. Hafiza.
But as Yrene looked, as she turned and sobbed—
Two others stood behind the Healer on High, holding her upright. Letting Hafiza lean down beside Duva and blow a breath onto the princess’s face, sending her into undisturbed slumber.
Nesryn. Her hair was windblown, her cheeks rosy and chapped—
And Sartaq, his own hair far shorter. The prince’s face was taut, his eyes wide as he beheld his unconscious, bloody sister. As Nesryn breathed, “We were too late—”
Yrene lunged across the stones to Chaol. Her knees tore on the rock, but she barely felt it, barely felt the blood sliding down her temple as she took his head in her lap and closed her eyes, rallying her power.
White flared, but there was red and black everywhere.
Too much. Too many broken and torn and ravaged things—
His chest was barely rising. He did not open his eyes.
“Wake up,” she ordered him, her voice breaking. She plunged into her power, but the damage … It was like trying to patch up holes in a sinking ship.
Too much. Too much and—
Shouting and steps all around them.
His life began to thin and turn to mist around her magic. Death circled, an eagle with an eye upon them.
“Fight it,” Yrene sobbed, shaking him. “You stubborn bastard, fight it.”
What was the point of it, the point of any of it, if now, when it mattered—
“Please,” she whispered.
Chaol’s chest rose, a high note before the last plunge—
She could not endure it. Would not endure it—
A light flickered. Inside that failing mass of red and black.
A candle ignited. A bloom of white.
Then another.
Another.
Blooming lights, along that broken interior. And where they shone …
Flesh knitted. Bone smoothed.
Light after light after light.
His chest continued to rise and fall. Rise and fall.
But in the hurt and the dark and the light …
A woman’s voice that was both familiar and foreign. A voice that was both Hafiza’s and … another. Someone who was not human, never had been. Speaking through Hafiza herself, their voices blending into the blackness.
The damage is too great. There must be a cost if it is to be repaired.
All those lights seemed to hesitate at that otherworldly voice.
Yrene brushed herself along them, waded through them like a field of white flowers, the lights bobbing and swaying in this quiet place of pain.
Not lights … but healers.
She knew their lights, their essences. Eretia—that was Eretia closest to her.
The voice that was both Hafiza and Other said again, There must be a cost.
For what the princess had done to him … There was no returning from it.
I will pay it. Yrene said into the pain and dark and light.
A daughter of Fenharrow will pay the debt of a son of Adarlan?
Yes.
She could have sworn a gentle, warm hand brushed her face.
And Yrene knew it did not belong to Hafiza or the Other. Did not belong to any healer alive.
But to one who had never left her, even when she had been turned into ash on the wind.
The Other said, You offer this of your own free will?
Yes. With my entire heart.
It had been his from the start, anyway.
Those loving, phantom hands brushed her cheek again and faded away.
The Other said, I chose well. You shall pay the debt, Yrene Towers. And I hope you shall see it for what it truly is.
Yrene tried to speak. But light flared, soft and soothing.
It blinded her, within and without. Left her cringing over Chaol’s head, her fingers grappled into his shirt. Feeling his heartbeats thunder into her palms. The scrape of his breath against her ear.
There were hands on her shoulders. Two sets. They tightened, a silent command to lift her head. Yrene did.
Hafiza stood behind her, Eretia at her side. Each with a hand on her shoulder.
Behind them stood two healers each. Hands on their shoulders.
Behind them, two more. And more. And more.
A living chain of power.
All the healers in the Torre, young and old, stood in that room of gold and bone.
All connected. All channeling to Yrene, to the grip she still held on Chaol.
Nesryn and Sartaq stood a few feet away, the former with a hand over her mouth. Because Chaol—
The healers of the Torre lowered their hands, severing that bridge of contact, as Chaol’s feet moved. Then his knees.
And then his eyes cracked open, and he was staring up at Yrene, her tears plopping onto his blood-crusted face. He lifted a hand to brush her lips. “Dead?”
“Alive,” she breathed, and lowered her face to his. “Very much alive.”
Chaol smiled against her mouth, sighing deep as he said, “Good.”
Yrene raised her head, and he smiled up at her again, cracked blood sliding away from his face with the motion.
And where that scar had once sliced down his cheek … only unmarred skin remained.
CHAPTER
64
Chaol’s body ached, but it was the ache of newness. Of sore muscles, not broken ones.
And the air in his lungs … it did not burn to breathe.
Yrene helped him sit up, his head spinning.
He blinked, finding Nesryn and Sartaq before them as the healers began to file away, their faces grim. The prince’s long braid had been cut in favor of loose, shoulder-length hair, and Nesryn … it was ruk leathers she wore, her dark eyes brighter than he’d ever seen—even with the graveness of her expression.
Chaol rasped, “What—”
“You sent a note to come back,” Nesryn said, her face deathly pale. “We flew as fast as we could. We were told you’d come to the Torre earlier this evening. The guards were right behind us, until we outran them. We got a bit lost down here, but then … cats led the way.”
A bemused, puzzled glance over her shoulder, to where half a dozen beryl-eyed cats sat on the tunnel steps, cleaning themselves. They noticed the human attention and scattered, tails high.
Sartaq added, smiling faintly, “We also thought healers might be necessary, and asked some to follow. But apparently, a great number more wanted to come.”
Considering the number of women filing out after the vanished cats … All of them. All of them had come.
Behind Chaol and Yrene, Eretia was tending to Hafiza. Alive, clear-eyed, but … frail.
Eretia clucked over the elderly woman, chiding her for such heroics. But even as she did, the woman’s eyes were bright with tea
rs. Perhaps more, as Hafiza brushed a thumb over Eretia’s cheek.
“Is she—” Sartaq began, jerking his chin toward Duva, sprawled on the floor.
“Unconscious,” Hafiza rasped. “She will sleep until roused.”
“Even with a Valg ring on her?” Nesryn asked as Sartaq made to pick up his sister from the stone floor. She blocked him with an arm across his middle, earning an incredulous look from the prince. There were cuts and scabs on both of them, Chaol realized. And the way the prince had moved—with a limp. Something had happened—
“Even with the ring, she will remain asleep,” Hafiza said.
Yrene was just staring at the princess, the dagger on the floor nearby.
Sartaq saw it, too. And said quietly to Yrene, “Thank you—for sparing her.”
Yrene just pressed her face against Chaol’s chest. He stroked a hand down her hair, finding it wet—
“You’re bleeding—”
“I’m fine,” she said onto his shirt.
Chaol pulled back, scanning her face. The bloody temple. “That is anything but fine,” he said, whipping his head toward Eretia. “She’s hurt—”
Eretia rolled her eyes. “Good to see none of this put you out of your usual spirits.”
Chaol gave the woman a flat stare.
Hafiza peered over Eretia’s shoulder and wryly asked Yrene, “Are you certain this pushy man was worth the cost?”
Before Yrene could answer, Chaol demanded, “What cost?”
A stillness crept over them, and even Yrene looked to Hafiza as the woman extracted herself from Eretia’s care. The Healer on High said quietly, “The damage was too great. Even with all of us … Death held you by the hand.”
He turned to Yrene, dread curling in his stomach. “What did you do,” he breathed. She didn’t meet his stare.
“She likely made a fool’s bargain, that’s what,” Eretia snapped. “Offered to pay the price without even being told what it was. To save your neck. We all heard.”
Eretia was close to not having a functioning neck herself, but Chaol said as calmly as he could, “Pay the price to whom?”
“Not a payment,” Hafiza corrected, setting a hand on Eretia’s shoulder to quiet her, “but a restoration of balance. To the one who likes to see it intact. Who spoke through me as we all gathered within you.”
“What was the cost,” Chaol rasped. If she’d given up anything, he’d find a way to retrieve it. He didn’t care what he had to pay, he’d—
“To keep your life tethered in this world, we had to bind it to another. To hers. Two lives,” Hafiza clarified, “now sharing one thread. But even with that …” She gestured to his legs, the foot he slid up to brace on the floor. “The demon broke many, many parts of you. Too many. And in order to save most of you, there was a cost, too.”
Yrene went still. “What do you mean?”
Hafiza again looked between them. “There remains some damage to the spine—impacting the lower portions of the legs. That even we could not repair.”
Chaol glanced between the Healer on High and his legs, currently moving. He went so far as to put some weight on them. They held.
Hafiza went on, “With the life-bond between you, Yrene’s power flowing into you … It will act as a brace. Stabilizing the area, granting you ability to use your legs whenever Yrene’s magic is at its fullest.” He steeled himself for the but. Hafiza smiled grimly. “But when Yrene’s power flags, when she is drained or tired, your injury will regain control, and your ability to walk will again be impaired. It will require you to use a cane at the very least—on hard days, perhaps many days, the chair. But the injury to your spine will remain.”
The words settled in him. Floated through and settled.
Yrene was wholly silent. So still that he faced her.
“Can’t I just heal him again?” She leaned toward him, as if she’d do just that.
Hafiza shook her head. “It is part of the balance—the cost. Do not tempt the compassion of the force that granted this to you.”
But Chaol touched Yrene’s hand. “It is no burden, Yrene,” he said softly. “To be given this. It is no burden at all.”
Yet agony filled her face. “But I—”
“Using the chair is not a punishment. It is not a prison,” he said. “It never was. And I am as much of a man in that chair, or with that cane, as I am standing on my feet.” He brushed away the tear that slipped down her cheek.
“I wanted to heal you,” she breathed.
“You did,” he said, smiling. “Yrene, in every way that truly matters … You did.”
Chaol wiped away the other tears that fell, brushing a kiss to her hot cheek.
“There is another piece to the life-bond, to this bargain,” Hafiza added gently. They turned to her. “When it is time, whether the death is kind or cruel … It will claim you both.”
Yrene’s golden eyes were still lined with silver. But there was no fear in her face, no lingering sorrow—none.
“Together,” Chaol said quietly, and interlaced their hands.
Her strength would be his strength. And when Yrene went, he would go. But if he went before her—
Dread curled in his gut.
“The true price of all this,” Hafiza said, reading the panic. “Not fear for your own life, but what losing your life will do to the other.”
“I suggest you not go to war,” Eretia grumbled.
But Yrene shook her head, shoulders straightening as she declared, “We shall go to war.” Pointing to Duva, she looked at Sartaq. As if she had not just offered up her very life to save his—“That is what Erawan will do. To all of you. If we do not go.”
“I know,” Sartaq said quietly. The prince turned to Nesryn, and as she held his stare … Chaol saw it. The glimmer between them. A bond, new and trembling. But there it was, right along with the cuts and wounds they both bore. “I know,” Sartaq said again, his fingers brushing Nesryn’s.
Nesryn met Chaol’s eyes then.
She smiled softly at him, glancing to where Yrene now asked Hafiza about whether she could stand. He’d never seen Nesryn appear so … settled. So quietly happy.
Chaol swallowed. I’m sorry, he said silently.
Nesryn shook her head as Sartaq scooped his sister into his arms with a grunt, the prince balancing his weight on his good leg. I think I did just fine.
Chaol smiled. Then I am happy for you.
Nesryn’s eyes widened as Chaol at last got to his feet, taking Yrene with him. His movements were as smooth as any maneuver he might have made without the invisible brace of Yrene’s magic flowing between them.
Nesryn wiped away her tears as Chaol closed the distance between them and embraced her tightly. “Thank you,” he said in Nesryn’s ear.
She squeezed him back. “Thank you—for bringing me here. To all of this.”
To the prince who now looked at Nesryn with a quiet, burning sort of emotion.
She added, “We have many things to tell you.”
Chaol nodded. “And we you.”
They pulled apart, and Yrene approached—throwing her arms around Nesryn as well.
“What are we going to do with all this gold?” Eretia demanded, leading Hafiza away as the guards formed a living path for them out of the tomb. “Such tacky junk,” she spat, frowning at a towering statue of a Fae soldier.
Chaol laughed, and Yrene joined him, sliding her arm around his middle as they trailed behind the healers.
Alive, Yrene had said to him. As they walked out of the dark, Chaol at last felt it was true.
Sartaq took Duva to the khagan. Called in his brothers and sister.
Because Yrene insisted they be there. Chaol and Hafiza insisted they be there.
The khagan, in the first hint of emotion Yrene had ever seen from the man, lunged for the unconscious, bloody Duva as Sartaq limped into the hall where they’d been waiting. Viziers pressed in. Hasar let out a gasp of what Yrene could have sworn was true pain.
&nbs
p; Sartaq did not let his father touch her. Did not let anyone but Nesryn come close as he laid Duva on a low couch.
Yrene kept a few steps back, silent and watching, Chaol at her side.
This bond between them … She could feel it, almost. Like a living band of cool, silken light flowing from her—into him.
And he truly did not seem to mind that a piece of his spine, his nerves, would retain permanent damage for as long as they lived.
Yes, he’d now be able to move his legs with limited motion, even when her magic was drained. But standing—never a possibility during those times. She supposed they’d soon learn how and when the level of her power correlated with whether he required cane or chair or neither.
But Chaol was right. Whether he stood or limped or sat … it did not change him. Who he was. She had fallen in love with him well before he’d ever stood. She would love him no matter how he moved through the world.
What if we fight? Yrene had asked him on the trek over here. What then?
Chaol had only kissed her temple. We fight all the time already. It’ll be nothing new. He’d added, Do you think I’d want to be with anyone who didn’t hand my ass to me on a regular basis?
But she’d frowned. He’d continued, And this bond between us, Yrene … it changes nothing. With you and me. You’ll need your own space; I’ll need mine. So if you think for one moment that you’re going to get away with flimsy excuses for never leaving my side—
She’d poked him in the ribs. As if I’ll want to hang around you all day like some lovesick girl!
Chaol had laughed, tucking her in tighter. But Yrene had only patted his arm and said, And I think you can take care of yourself just fine.
He’d just kissed her brow again. And that had been that.
Yrene now brushed her fingers against his, Chaol’s hand curling around her own, as Sartaq cleared his throat and held up Duva’s limp hand. To display the wedding band there. “Our sister has been enslaved by a demon sent by Perrington in the form of this ring.”
Murmurs and shifting about. Arghun spat, “Nonsense.”
“Perrington is no man. He is Erawan,” Sartaq declared, ignoring his elder brother, and Yrene realized Nesryn must have told him everything. “The Valg king.”
Still holding Yrene’s hand, Chaol added for all to hear, “Erawan sent this ring as a wedding gift, knowing Duva would put it on—knowing the demon would entrap her. On her wedding day.” They’d left the second ring at the Torre, locked within one of the ancient chests, to be disposed of later.
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