And the same ruse wouldn’t work again. Maybe they could hold them a second time, and third, but each time they’d lose more soldiers, and the outcome would be inevitable.
You are buying time.
“I’m afraid,” Finn whispered.
Killian eyed the smoke still rising in the air, grey and stinking. “So am I.”
62
LYDIA
Lydia peered through falling sleet at the sprawling mass of men and horses trudging across the countryside and tried to muster the courage she needed to approach the Royal Army and complete the task she’d came for.
That she’d made it this far at all was nothing short of a miracle. At first, she’d tracked Killian’s army, wishing to the depths of her soul that she could ride up and find him. But she knew he’d stop her from completing the task Malahi had set her, and Lydia couldn’t allow that to happen. So instead, she’d bypassed them in the night, leading her horse so as to not accidentally fall afoul of a stream of blight.
Once past them, she’d galloped hard, crossing the bridge where Killian would make his stand and then riding around the terrifying horde of the Derin army. It seemed impossible that he’d have a chance against a host that large.
Which was why she couldn’t fail.
Letting her reins go slack, Lydia allowed her tired horse to nibble at the browning grass, tucking her frozen fingers under the armpits of her coat as she considered the plan Malahi had given her.
Lydia had returned to the palace soaking wet from her plunge, the guards at the palace gates allowing her back inside only by virtue of them believing her still Malahi’s bodyguard. Not caring about protocol, she’d entered through the main entrance, trudging upstairs and down the hallway until she found the door Gwen and Lena were guarding. They’d both gaped at the sight of her. “You did not,” Lena said. “That’s not even possible—”
“Find Malahi,” Lydia had interrupted, unlatching the door and reentering. “Tell her I said I’ll deliver her message. But before you go, I want both of you to hear the truth from me.”
A cough caught Lydia’s attention, and she twisted in her saddle to find two men on horseback with arrows leveled at her head.
She stared at them.
They stared at her.
And because there was nothing else to say, she said, “I have a message from Her Highness, Princess Malahi, for His Majesty.” Slowly, because it seemed prudent, she extracted the letter and held it up. One of the scouts lowered his bow and rode closer, eyeing the seal before nodding. “We’ll take you to him.”
Flanked by the pair, she rode down the slope and into the horde, which seemed to be setting down to camp for the night. Though why they were stopping when time was of the essence, she didn’t know. The soldiers all walked slowly, listlessly, as if they didn’t care, all of them dirty and malnourished. They looked like what they were: An army that was losing a war. An army without hope.
Lydia and her escort approached an enormous white tent resplendent with banners of crimson and gold. The guards standing outside leaned heavily on their spears.
“I’ll take your horse to the picket lines,” one scout said, and Lydia struggled to hide her dismay as her escape route, along with her sword, was led away.
One of the guards checked her for weapons, and then a livery-clad servant escorted her inside the tent, through a series of antechambers, and into a high-ceilinged room lavish with plush carpets, overstuffed furniture, and a heavy map-inlaid table that must have required four men to lift.
“A messenger from Mudaire, Your Majesty,” the servant said, bowing low. Lydia followed suit, then lifted her head to regard the man she’d been sent to murder.
King Serrick Rowenes was a small, delicate man, with the same light brown skin as Malahi, his long blond hair braided in a single plait down his back. He wore heavy red robes, the collar embroidered with golden scorpions. His watery amber eyes burned with an intensity that made Lydia want to run from the tent and never look back. He nodded at her. “You bring word from my daughter?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Lydia’s gaze skipped to the tall healer standing behind the King. Like Lydia, she had northern features, but the healer’s were marked by age, the wrinkles around her slanted eyes deep, her long braid laced with grey. She regarded Lydia with obvious interest but said nothing. There was one other man present. He was older but