birdsong, the undergrowth rustling with rabbits and squirrels, but the only sound was the whistle of the wind and, in the distance, the gurgle of water.
Killian’s skin prickled and he extracted a knife, following Lydia’s trail until he reached the banks of the stream, where he paused. The mud was marked with footprints and handprints from her clambering up the slight incline, but there were no similar markings on the opposite bank. Frowning, he followed the water upstream to the rocky outcropping where it originated. Circling the hill, he searched for her trail, for any clue as to where she’d come from, but there was nothing. It was as though she’d sprung from the water itself.
Perched on top of the outcropping, Killian stared at the turbulent flow of water, knowing he needed to get back to Malahi, but something kept his feet frozen in place. Then he caught sight of the glitter of metal beneath the surface of the water.
One jump had him back down on the bank, and there he pulled off his boots and coat, along with his shirt, and waded out into the water. He had been vaguely aware that this stream was warm, but this close to the source it was the temperature of bathwater, with a surprisingly intense current. Picking his way out to where he’d seen the glint of metal, Killian stuck his knife between his teeth, squinting against the spray as he reached down between two rocks.
And extracted a pair of spectacles.
The lenses were miraculously intact, albeit slightly scratched, the frames delicate but well made. Turning them over in his hands, he remembered how the girl had squinted at anything distant, clearly nearsighted. These were hers.
The spectacles placed safely on a rock, Killian eyed the opening in the hill from which the water flowed.
Taking a deep breath, Killian grabbed the edge of the rock and pulled himself against the current. The pressure was incredible; his body shook with effort as he searched for handholds in the cave wall, his bare feet slipping on the slick stones of the stream bed.
He was considering allowing the water to push him back out when his grasping fingers found a pocket of air. Pulling himself into it, he took several deep breaths, then braced himself against the cave wall and turned.
It was a small cavern, but despite being entirely enclosed, Killian found that he could see. Glimmering faintly was the source of the flow. Not an underground stream, but a black stem of xenthier crystal.
The girl had been telling the truth.
22
LYDIA
Lydia walked through the streets, a shawl she’d found in the gutter wrapped around her head to obscure her face. The city—Mudaire—was laid out like a pinwheel, curved streets bisected by broad boulevards that ran between the towers at the center and the four main gates, all of which she was able to blearily make out with her flawed vision.
Not having her spectacles made her edgy and uneasy. Up close, she was fine, but the faces of anyone more than a dozen paces away were foggy and unrecognizable, meaning she wouldn’t see a threat until it was far too late. There was no helping it, though. Even if she’d been able to find a lens maker, she couldn’t spare the coin to purchase them. She’d have to make do without.
The city was overfull, and Lydia hardly took two steps without being jostled by women with their children in tow or having to step over soldiers who’d lost arms or legs in battle, the limbs apparently irreplaceable even with a healer’s touch. The situation was made worse by the fact that everyone was dragging all their worldly possessions with them, on their backs or in rickety carts. The smell of unwashed bodies rivaled the stench of rot in the air, and far too many appeared to be walking aimlessly, uprooted and with no place to go. It was impossible that they could all find shelter by nightfall.
And if she had been blind to all the sights and numb to the smells, she would’ve needed to be deaf as well not to realize that this was a kingdom at war. Talk of battles past and battles to come was on everyone’s lips, names of commanders and places where skirmishes had been won or lost. Whispers of an enemy that seemed barely human and of creatures so terrible, they defied description. But one name was whispered more than all the rest.
Rufina.
They called her the Queen of Derin. The High Priestess