Tower of Dawn
Page 143
And there was Kadara, sailing hard for them, two other ruks in her wake.
Sartaq let out what might have been a sob as one of the other ruks broke away, diving to where Borte swept and lunged and shattered through the kharankui ranks.
A ruk of darkest brown feathers … and a young man atop it.
Yeran.
Nesryn did not recognize the other rider who sailed in behind Kadara. Blood stained Kadara’s golden feathers, but she flew steady, hovering overhead as the other ruk closed in.
“Hold still, and don’t fear the drop,” Sartaq breathed, brushing a hand over Nesryn’s cheek. In the moonlight, his face was caked in dirt and blood, his eyes full of pain, and yet—
Then there was a wall of wings, and mighty talons spread wide.
They wrapped around her waist and beneath her upper thighs, hauling her sitting upright into the air, Sartaq clutched in the other, and then the great bird shot into the night.
The wind roared, but the ruk lifted them higher. Kadara fell into rank behind—guarding their rear. Through her whipping hair, Nesryn looked back toward the fire-limned pass.
To where Borte and Yeran now soared upward, a dark form clutched in the claws of Yeran’s ruk. Utterly limp.
Borte was not done.
A light sparked atop her ruk. A flaming arrow.
Borte fired it high into the sky.
A signal, Nesryn realized as countless wings filled the air around them. And as Borte’s arrow landed atop a web, flame erupting, hundreds of lights kindled in the sky.
Ruk riders. Each bearing a flaming arrow. Each now pointing downward.
Like a rain of shooting stars, the arrows fell upon the darkness of Dagul. Landed on web and tree. And caught fire. One after another after another.
Until the night was lit up, until smoke streamed, mingling with the rising screams from the peaks and wood.
The ruks veered northward, Nesryn shaking as she clung to the talons holding her. Across the way, Sartaq met her gaze, his now-shoulder-length hair rippling in the wind.
With the flames below, it made the wounds to his face, his hands, his neck all the more gruesome. His skin was wan, his lips pale, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and relief. And yet …
Sartaq smiled, barely a curve of his mouth. The words the prince had confessed drifted on the wind between them.
She could not take her eyes from him. Could not look away.
So Nesryn smiled back.
And below and behind them, long into the night, the Dagul Fells burned.
52
Chaol and Yrene galloped back to Antica at dawn.
They left a note for Hasar, claiming that Yrene had a gravely ill patient who needed to be checked on, and raced across the dunes under the rising sun.
Neither of them had slept much, but if what they’d guessed about the healers was true, they did not risk lingering.
Chaol’s back ached thanks to yesterday’s ride and last night’s … other ride. Multiple rides. And by the time the minarets and white walls of Antica appeared, he was hissing through his teeth.
Yrene frowned at him the entire painful trek through the packed streets to the palace. They hadn’t discussed sleeping arrangements, but he didn’t care if he had to walk up every single one of the stairs of the Torre. Either her bed or his. The thought of leaving her, even for a heartbeat—
Chaol winced as he climbed off Farasha, the black mare suspiciously well behaved, and accepted the cane the nearest stable hand had retrieved from Yrene’s mare.
He managed a few steps toward her, his limp deep and splintering, but Yrene held out a warning hand. “Do not think about attempting to lift me off this horse, or carry me, or anything.”
He gave her a wry look, but obeyed. “Anything?”
She turned a beautiful shade of scarlet as she slid off the mare, passing the reins to the waiting stable hand. The man sagged with relief, utterly grateful to not have the task of handling the impetuous Farasha, who was currently sizing up the poor man attempting to drag her toward the stables as if she’d have him for lunch. Hellas’s horse indeed.
“Yes, anything,” Yrene said, fluffing out her wrinkled clothes. “It’s likely because of anything that you’re limping worse than before.”
Chaol let her fall into step beside him, and balanced on his cane long enough to press a kiss to her temple. He didn’t care who saw. Who reported on it. They could all go to hell. But behind them, he could have sworn Shen and the other guards were grinning from ear to ear.
Chaol winked at her. “Then you’d better heal me, Yrene Towers, because I plan to do a great deal of anything with you tonight.”
She flushed even deeper, but angled her chin upward, prim and proper. “Let’s focus on these scrolls first, you rogue.”
Chaol grinned, broad and unrestrained, and felt it in every inch of his aching body as they strode back inside the palace.
Any joy was short-lived.
Chaol picked up on the humming threads of something amiss the moment they entered their quiet wing. The moment he saw the guards murmuring, the servants scurrying about. Yrene only shared a glance with him, and they hurried along as fast as he could manage. Strands of fire shot along his back, down his thighs, but if something had happened—
The doors to his suite were ajar, with two guards posted outside, who gave him looks full of pity and dread. His stomach turned.
Nesryn. If she had come back, if something had happened with that Valg hunting them—
He stormed into the suite, his protesting body going distant, his head full of roaring silence.
Nesryn’s door was open.
But no body lay sprawled on the bed. No blood stained the carpet, or splattered the walls.
His room was the same. But both bedrooms … Trashed.
Shredded, as if some great wind had shattered the windows and torn through the space.
The sitting room was worse. Their usual gold couch—gutted. The pictures, the art overturned or cracked or slashed.
The desk had been looted, the carpets flipped over—
Kadja was kneeling in the corner, gathering pieces of a broken vase.
“Be careful,” Yrene hissed, striding to the girl as she plucked up pieces with her bare hands. “Get a broom and dustpan rather than use your own hands.”
“Who did this,” Chaol asked quietly.
Fear glimmered in Kadja’s eyes as she rose. “It was like this when I came in this morning.”
Yrene demanded, “You didn’t hear anything at all?”
Sartaq let out what might have been a sob as one of the other ruks broke away, diving to where Borte swept and lunged and shattered through the kharankui ranks.
A ruk of darkest brown feathers … and a young man atop it.
Yeran.
Nesryn did not recognize the other rider who sailed in behind Kadara. Blood stained Kadara’s golden feathers, but she flew steady, hovering overhead as the other ruk closed in.
“Hold still, and don’t fear the drop,” Sartaq breathed, brushing a hand over Nesryn’s cheek. In the moonlight, his face was caked in dirt and blood, his eyes full of pain, and yet—
Then there was a wall of wings, and mighty talons spread wide.
They wrapped around her waist and beneath her upper thighs, hauling her sitting upright into the air, Sartaq clutched in the other, and then the great bird shot into the night.
The wind roared, but the ruk lifted them higher. Kadara fell into rank behind—guarding their rear. Through her whipping hair, Nesryn looked back toward the fire-limned pass.
To where Borte and Yeran now soared upward, a dark form clutched in the claws of Yeran’s ruk. Utterly limp.
Borte was not done.
A light sparked atop her ruk. A flaming arrow.
Borte fired it high into the sky.
A signal, Nesryn realized as countless wings filled the air around them. And as Borte’s arrow landed atop a web, flame erupting, hundreds of lights kindled in the sky.
Ruk riders. Each bearing a flaming arrow. Each now pointing downward.
Like a rain of shooting stars, the arrows fell upon the darkness of Dagul. Landed on web and tree. And caught fire. One after another after another.
Until the night was lit up, until smoke streamed, mingling with the rising screams from the peaks and wood.
The ruks veered northward, Nesryn shaking as she clung to the talons holding her. Across the way, Sartaq met her gaze, his now-shoulder-length hair rippling in the wind.
With the flames below, it made the wounds to his face, his hands, his neck all the more gruesome. His skin was wan, his lips pale, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and relief. And yet …
Sartaq smiled, barely a curve of his mouth. The words the prince had confessed drifted on the wind between them.
She could not take her eyes from him. Could not look away.
So Nesryn smiled back.
And below and behind them, long into the night, the Dagul Fells burned.
52
Chaol and Yrene galloped back to Antica at dawn.
They left a note for Hasar, claiming that Yrene had a gravely ill patient who needed to be checked on, and raced across the dunes under the rising sun.
Neither of them had slept much, but if what they’d guessed about the healers was true, they did not risk lingering.
Chaol’s back ached thanks to yesterday’s ride and last night’s … other ride. Multiple rides. And by the time the minarets and white walls of Antica appeared, he was hissing through his teeth.
Yrene frowned at him the entire painful trek through the packed streets to the palace. They hadn’t discussed sleeping arrangements, but he didn’t care if he had to walk up every single one of the stairs of the Torre. Either her bed or his. The thought of leaving her, even for a heartbeat—
Chaol winced as he climbed off Farasha, the black mare suspiciously well behaved, and accepted the cane the nearest stable hand had retrieved from Yrene’s mare.
He managed a few steps toward her, his limp deep and splintering, but Yrene held out a warning hand. “Do not think about attempting to lift me off this horse, or carry me, or anything.”
He gave her a wry look, but obeyed. “Anything?”
She turned a beautiful shade of scarlet as she slid off the mare, passing the reins to the waiting stable hand. The man sagged with relief, utterly grateful to not have the task of handling the impetuous Farasha, who was currently sizing up the poor man attempting to drag her toward the stables as if she’d have him for lunch. Hellas’s horse indeed.
“Yes, anything,” Yrene said, fluffing out her wrinkled clothes. “It’s likely because of anything that you’re limping worse than before.”
Chaol let her fall into step beside him, and balanced on his cane long enough to press a kiss to her temple. He didn’t care who saw. Who reported on it. They could all go to hell. But behind them, he could have sworn Shen and the other guards were grinning from ear to ear.
Chaol winked at her. “Then you’d better heal me, Yrene Towers, because I plan to do a great deal of anything with you tonight.”
She flushed even deeper, but angled her chin upward, prim and proper. “Let’s focus on these scrolls first, you rogue.”
Chaol grinned, broad and unrestrained, and felt it in every inch of his aching body as they strode back inside the palace.
Any joy was short-lived.
Chaol picked up on the humming threads of something amiss the moment they entered their quiet wing. The moment he saw the guards murmuring, the servants scurrying about. Yrene only shared a glance with him, and they hurried along as fast as he could manage. Strands of fire shot along his back, down his thighs, but if something had happened—
The doors to his suite were ajar, with two guards posted outside, who gave him looks full of pity and dread. His stomach turned.
Nesryn. If she had come back, if something had happened with that Valg hunting them—
He stormed into the suite, his protesting body going distant, his head full of roaring silence.
Nesryn’s door was open.
But no body lay sprawled on the bed. No blood stained the carpet, or splattered the walls.
His room was the same. But both bedrooms … Trashed.
Shredded, as if some great wind had shattered the windows and torn through the space.
The sitting room was worse. Their usual gold couch—gutted. The pictures, the art overturned or cracked or slashed.
The desk had been looted, the carpets flipped over—
Kadja was kneeling in the corner, gathering pieces of a broken vase.
“Be careful,” Yrene hissed, striding to the girl as she plucked up pieces with her bare hands. “Get a broom and dustpan rather than use your own hands.”
“Who did this,” Chaol asked quietly.
Fear glimmered in Kadja’s eyes as she rose. “It was like this when I came in this morning.”
Yrene demanded, “You didn’t hear anything at all?”
