to be to wrest control from Serrick and reroute the Royal Army before it was too late. This would be done right, or not at all.
There.
In the center ranks, a group of cavalry surrounded a man in gilded armor, his head bare but for the golden circlet on his brow. Serrick. And next to him rode … Lydia?
But where the hell was Bercola?
He looked backward, seeking her large form among the trees and chaos, only to be forced to pull up his mount as archers trained their weapons on him. “I’m Lord Killian Calorian,” he shouted. “I need to see the King.”
Several of them lowered their weapons as they recognized him, but before he could proceed, motion in the tree line caught his attention. Turning his head, he saw a figure standing in the shadows of the trees, face obscured by a hood, a spear held in one hand.
“No!” he shouted, but Bercola either didn’t hear him or chose not to listen.
Killian dug his heels into the sides of his horse and plunged forward.
65
LYDIA
The cavalry massed around Lydia shifted uneasily, the harsh tang of unwashed bodies rising to fill her nostrils as they pushed steadily toward the ravine containing both the river Tarn and most of the Derin forces.
Without her spectacles and through the falling snow, she could make out little detail, only that on the far side of the ravine the sheer cliff was broken in one spot with a steep incline that led up to a wall made of wood and rocks. Beneath it, the slope churned with motion, and though she knew it was the Derin army trying to break through the wall, it looked for all the world to her like a swarm of insects climbing only to be knocked back.
She rode at the King of Mudamora’s left, under strict orders from the moment she’d told him Malahi’s plans that she wasn’t to leave his side. Sweat drenched her skin and the horse beneath her pranced sideways, picking up on her anxiety.
All her life, she’d been exposed to war. To strategies of deployment, the discussion of battles past and battles to come. Her ears had been filled with the costs of victories, the numbers of soldiers lost to death or injury tossed about as though they were nothing more than toys misplaced through careless play. The distance had made it palatable, but now she was about to see the reality.
She was terrified.
Horns sounded through the air from the opposite bank—signals, she guessed, though what they meant Lydia couldn’t begin to guess.
High Lord Damashere wove through the lines toward her and the King, horse foaming at the bit as the man reined it in hard. “They’re signaling again for us to back down, Your Grace. Their wall and lines are at risk of breach.”
“I’m not deaf, Damashere; I can hear the horns,” the King snapped, his breath forming clouds of mist in the cold air. “Ignore them. They are lies. All lies. Get back to your position.”
Unease filled Lydia’s chest. Malahi might be a liar, but it would be Killian and his soldiers who were sending those signals. She opened her mouth to say as much, but before she could, the King’s healer, Cyntha, leaned in close.
“Her Highness wants this victory for herself. She’ll risk the lives of everyone to ensure it. You must not let her have her way.”
“But it’s not the Princess who is giving orders,” Lydia argued. “It’s Lord Calorian.”
“Who well you know has failed this kingdom in the past.” Despite her words being directed at the King, Cyntha’s eyes were latched on Lydia, her gaze searing. “Tremon turned his back on Lord Calorian. We’ve seen proof of it. Never mind that he’s Malahi’s tool. He cannot be trusted.”
Lydia’s skin was crawling. Bringing the Royal Army here was supposed to be delivering Killian from certain death, but now it felt like she’d damned him. “He’s not a tool. He knows nothing about the Princess’s intentions.”
“That seems unlikely given that he’s planning to marry her,” Serrick growled. “He stands to gain as much as she does.”
“He didn’t ask for any of this.” Terror was clawing at Lydia’s insides now. “It was forced upon him.”
“You are the true protector of Mudamora, Your Grace,” Cyntha said. “Chosen by the gods to lead us. But part of that means bringing the Marked who go astray back to heel.”
“Some are beyond redemption.”
“Even so, Your Grace.”
Lydia stared at the woman, expecting to see fanaticism burning in the woman’s eyes, but