myself, but … there are people who need my help. It feels selfish to take time for myself, even now.”
“You shouldn’t feel that way.”
“And you’re any better?”
Chaol chuckled, leaning back as the servant came, bearing a pitcher of chilled mint tea. He waited until the man left before saying, “Maybe you and I will have to learn how to live—if we survive this war.”
It was a sharp, cold knife between them. But Yrene straightened her shoulders, her smile small and yet defiant as she lifted her pewter glass of tea. “To living, Lord Chaol.”
He clinked his glass against hers. “To being Chaol and Yrene—even just for a night.”
Chaol ate until he could barely move, the spices like small revelations with every bite.
They talked as they dined, Yrene explaining her initial months at the Torre, and how demanding her training had been. Then she’d asked about his training as captain, and he’d balked—balked at talking of Brullo and the others, and yet … He couldn’t refuse her joy, her curiosity.
And somehow, talking about Brullo, the man who had been a better father to him than his own … It did not hurt, not as much. A lower, quieter ache, but one he could withstand.
One he was glad to weather, if it meant honoring a good man’s legacy by telling his story.
So they talked, and ate, and when they finished, he escorted her to the glowing white walls of the Torre. Yrene herself seemed glowing as she smiled when they stopped within the gates while his horse was readied.
“Thank you,” she said, her cheeks flushed and gleaming. “For the meal—and company.”
“It was my pleasure,” Chaol said, and meant it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning—at the palace?”
An unnecessary question, but he nodded.
Yrene shifted from one foot to another, still smiling, still shining. As if she were the last, vibrant ray of the sun, staining the sky long after it had vanished over the horizon.
“What?” she asked, and he realized he’d been staring.
“Thank you for tonight,” Chaol said, stifling what tried to leap off his tongue: I can’t take my eyes off you.
She bit her lip again, the crunch of hooves on gravel approaching. “Good night,” she murmured, and took a step away.
Chaol reached out. Just to brush his fingers over hers.
Yrene paused, her fingers curling, as if they were the petals of some shy flower.
“Good night,” he merely said.
And as Chaol rode back to the illuminated palace across the city, he could have sworn that some weight in his chest, on his shoulders, had vanished. As if he’d lived with it his entire life, unaware, and now, even with all that gathered around him, around Adarlan and those he cared for … How strange it felt.
That lightness.
33
The Watchtower of Eidolon jutted up from the mist-shrouded pines like the shard of a broken sword. It had been situated atop a low-lying peak that overlooked a solid wall of gargantuan mountains, and as Nesryn and Sartaq swept near the tower, sailing along the tree-crusted hills, she had the sense of racing toward a tidal wave of hard stone.
For a heartbeat, a wave of lethal glass swept for her instead. She blinked, and it was gone.
“There,” Sartaq whispered, as if fearful that any might hear while he pointed toward the enormous mountains lurking beyond. “Over that lip, that is the start of kharankui territory, the Dagul Fells. Those in the watchtower would have been able to see anyone coming down from those mountains, especially with their Fae sight.”
Fae sight or not, Nesryn scanned the barren slopes of the Fells—a wall of boulders and shards of rock. No trees, no streams. As if life had fled. “Houlun flew over that?”
“Believe me,” Sartaq grumbled, “I am not pleased. Borte got an earful about it this morning.”
“I’m surprised your kneecaps still function.”
“Didn’t you notice my limp earlier?”
Despite the nearing watchtower, despite the wall of mountain that rose up beyond it, Nesryn chuckled. She could have sworn Sartaq leaned closer, his broad chest pushing into the quiver and bow she had strapped across her back, along with the twin long knives courtesy of Borte.
They hadn’t told anyone where they were going or what they sought, which had earned no shortage of glares from Borte over breakfast, and curious glances from Falkan across the round table. But they had agreed last night, when Sartaq left Nesryn at her bedroom door, that secrecy was vital—for now.
So they’d departed an hour after dawn, armed and bearing a few packs of supplies. Even though they