Tower of Dawn
Page 151
“Yes.” And though her voice was soft, she meant it with every inch of her soul.
The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “Then it is a good thing, Yrene Towers, that I love you as well.”
Her chest tightened; she became too full for her body, for what coursed through her.
“From the moment you walked into the sitting room that first day,” Chaol said. “I think I knew, even then.”
“I was a stranger.”
“You looked at me without an ounce of pity. You saw me. Not the chair or the injury. You saw me. It was the first time I’d felt … seen. Felt awake, in a long time.”
She kissed his chest, right over his heart. “How could I resist these muscles?”
His laugh rumbled into her mouth, her bones. “The consummate professional.”
Yrene smiled onto his skin. “The healers will never let me hear the end of this. Hafiza is already beside herself with glee.”
But she stiffened, considering the road ahead. The choices.
Chaol said after a moment, “When Nesryn returns, I plan to make it clear. Though I think she knew before I did.”
Yrene nodded, trying to fight off the shakiness that crept over her.
“And beyond that … The choice is yours, Yrene. When you leave. How you leave. If you truly want to leave at all.”
She braced herself.
“But if you’ll have me … there will be a place for you on my ship. At my side.”
She let out a dainty hum and traced a circle around his nipple. “What sort of place?”
Chaol stretched out like a cat, tucking his arms behind his head as he drawled, “The usual options: scullery maid, cook, dishwasher—”
She poked his ribs, and he laughed. It was a beautiful sound, rich and deep.
But his brown eyes softened as he cupped her face. “What place would you like, Yrene?”
Her heart thundered at the question, the timbre of his voice. But she smirked and said, “Whichever one gives me the right to yell at you if you push yourself too hard.” She drew her hand along his legs, his back. Careful—he’d have to be so, so careful for a while.
A corner of Chaol’s mouth kicked up, and he hauled her over him. “I think I know of just the position.”
57
The Eridun aerie was madness when they returned.
Falkan was alive—barely—and had caused such panic upon the ruks’ arrival at Altun that Houlun had to leap in front of the limp spider to keep the other ruks from shredding him apart.
Sartaq had managed to stand long enough to embrace Kadara, order a healer to come for her immediately, then wrap his arms around Borte, who was spattered in black blood and grinning from ear to ear. Then Sartaq clasped arms with Yeran, whom Borte pointedly ignored, which Nesryn supposed was an improvement from outright hostility.
“How?” Sartaq asked Borte while Nesryn hovered near the unconscious form of Falkan, still not trusting the ruks to control themselves.
Yeran, his company of Berlad ruks having returned to their own aerie, stepped away from his awaiting mount and answered instead, “Borte came to get me. Said she was going on a stupidly dangerous mission and I could either let her die alone or come along.”
Sartaq rasped a laugh. “You were forbidden,” he told Borte, glancing toward where Houlun knelt at Falkan’s side, the hearth-mother indeed looking torn between relief and outright rage.
Borte sniffed. “By my hearth-mother here. As I am currently betrothed to a captain of the Berlad”—emphasis on currently, to Yeran’s chagrin, it seemed—“I also can claim partial loyalty to the hearth-mother there. Who had no qualms about letting me spend some quality time with my betrothed.”
“We will have words, she and I,” Houlun seethed as she rose to her feet and strode past, ordering several people to bring Falkan farther into the hall. Wincing at the spider’s weight, they gingerly obeyed.
Borte shrugged, turning to follow Houlun to where the shifter would be patched up as best they could manage in that spider’s body. “At least his hearth-mother’s sense of quality time is in line with my own,” she said, and walked off.
Yet as she left, Nesryn could have sworn Borte gave Yeran a secret, small smile.
Yeran stared after her for a long moment, then turned to them. Gave them a crooked grin. “She promised to set a date. That’s how she got my hearth-mother to approve.” He winked at Sartaq. “Too bad I didn’t tell her that I don’t approve of the date at all.”
And with that, he strode after Borte, jogging a few steps to catch up. She whirled on him, sharp words already snapping from her lips, but allowed him to follow her into the hall.
When Nesryn faced Sartaq, it was in time to see him sway.
She lunged, her aching body protesting as she caught the prince around the middle. Someone shouted for a healer, but Sartaq got his legs beneath him, even as he kept his arms about her.
Nesryn found herself disinclined to remove her own arms from his waist.
Sartaq stared down at her, that soft, sweet smile on his mouth again. “You saved me.”
“It seemed a sorry end for the tales of the Winged Prince,” she replied, frowning at the gash in his leg. “You should be sitting—”
Across the hall, light flashed, people cried out … and then the spider was gone. Replaced by a man, covered in slashing cuts and blood.
When Nesryn looked back, Sartaq’s gaze was on her face.
Her throat closed up, her mouth pressing into a trembling line as she realized that they were here. They were here, and alive, and she had never known such true terror and despair as she had in those moments when he had been hauled away.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his mouth over the tears that escaped. He said against her skin, “Whatever would they say about Neith’s Arrow then?”
Nesryn laughed despite herself, despite what had happened, and wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she dared, resting her head against his chest.
Sartaq just wordlessly stroked her hair and held her right back.
The Council of Clans met two days later at dawn.
Hearth-mothers and their captains from every aerie gathered in the hall, so many that the space was filled.
Nesryn had slept the entirety of the day before.
Not in her room, but curled in bed beside the prince now standing with her before the assembled group.
The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “Then it is a good thing, Yrene Towers, that I love you as well.”
Her chest tightened; she became too full for her body, for what coursed through her.
“From the moment you walked into the sitting room that first day,” Chaol said. “I think I knew, even then.”
“I was a stranger.”
“You looked at me without an ounce of pity. You saw me. Not the chair or the injury. You saw me. It was the first time I’d felt … seen. Felt awake, in a long time.”
She kissed his chest, right over his heart. “How could I resist these muscles?”
His laugh rumbled into her mouth, her bones. “The consummate professional.”
Yrene smiled onto his skin. “The healers will never let me hear the end of this. Hafiza is already beside herself with glee.”
But she stiffened, considering the road ahead. The choices.
Chaol said after a moment, “When Nesryn returns, I plan to make it clear. Though I think she knew before I did.”
Yrene nodded, trying to fight off the shakiness that crept over her.
“And beyond that … The choice is yours, Yrene. When you leave. How you leave. If you truly want to leave at all.”
She braced herself.
“But if you’ll have me … there will be a place for you on my ship. At my side.”
She let out a dainty hum and traced a circle around his nipple. “What sort of place?”
Chaol stretched out like a cat, tucking his arms behind his head as he drawled, “The usual options: scullery maid, cook, dishwasher—”
She poked his ribs, and he laughed. It was a beautiful sound, rich and deep.
But his brown eyes softened as he cupped her face. “What place would you like, Yrene?”
Her heart thundered at the question, the timbre of his voice. But she smirked and said, “Whichever one gives me the right to yell at you if you push yourself too hard.” She drew her hand along his legs, his back. Careful—he’d have to be so, so careful for a while.
A corner of Chaol’s mouth kicked up, and he hauled her over him. “I think I know of just the position.”
57
The Eridun aerie was madness when they returned.
Falkan was alive—barely—and had caused such panic upon the ruks’ arrival at Altun that Houlun had to leap in front of the limp spider to keep the other ruks from shredding him apart.
Sartaq had managed to stand long enough to embrace Kadara, order a healer to come for her immediately, then wrap his arms around Borte, who was spattered in black blood and grinning from ear to ear. Then Sartaq clasped arms with Yeran, whom Borte pointedly ignored, which Nesryn supposed was an improvement from outright hostility.
“How?” Sartaq asked Borte while Nesryn hovered near the unconscious form of Falkan, still not trusting the ruks to control themselves.
Yeran, his company of Berlad ruks having returned to their own aerie, stepped away from his awaiting mount and answered instead, “Borte came to get me. Said she was going on a stupidly dangerous mission and I could either let her die alone or come along.”
Sartaq rasped a laugh. “You were forbidden,” he told Borte, glancing toward where Houlun knelt at Falkan’s side, the hearth-mother indeed looking torn between relief and outright rage.
Borte sniffed. “By my hearth-mother here. As I am currently betrothed to a captain of the Berlad”—emphasis on currently, to Yeran’s chagrin, it seemed—“I also can claim partial loyalty to the hearth-mother there. Who had no qualms about letting me spend some quality time with my betrothed.”
“We will have words, she and I,” Houlun seethed as she rose to her feet and strode past, ordering several people to bring Falkan farther into the hall. Wincing at the spider’s weight, they gingerly obeyed.
Borte shrugged, turning to follow Houlun to where the shifter would be patched up as best they could manage in that spider’s body. “At least his hearth-mother’s sense of quality time is in line with my own,” she said, and walked off.
Yet as she left, Nesryn could have sworn Borte gave Yeran a secret, small smile.
Yeran stared after her for a long moment, then turned to them. Gave them a crooked grin. “She promised to set a date. That’s how she got my hearth-mother to approve.” He winked at Sartaq. “Too bad I didn’t tell her that I don’t approve of the date at all.”
And with that, he strode after Borte, jogging a few steps to catch up. She whirled on him, sharp words already snapping from her lips, but allowed him to follow her into the hall.
When Nesryn faced Sartaq, it was in time to see him sway.
She lunged, her aching body protesting as she caught the prince around the middle. Someone shouted for a healer, but Sartaq got his legs beneath him, even as he kept his arms about her.
Nesryn found herself disinclined to remove her own arms from his waist.
Sartaq stared down at her, that soft, sweet smile on his mouth again. “You saved me.”
“It seemed a sorry end for the tales of the Winged Prince,” she replied, frowning at the gash in his leg. “You should be sitting—”
Across the hall, light flashed, people cried out … and then the spider was gone. Replaced by a man, covered in slashing cuts and blood.
When Nesryn looked back, Sartaq’s gaze was on her face.
Her throat closed up, her mouth pressing into a trembling line as she realized that they were here. They were here, and alive, and she had never known such true terror and despair as she had in those moments when he had been hauled away.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his mouth over the tears that escaped. He said against her skin, “Whatever would they say about Neith’s Arrow then?”
Nesryn laughed despite herself, despite what had happened, and wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she dared, resting her head against his chest.
Sartaq just wordlessly stroked her hair and held her right back.
The Council of Clans met two days later at dawn.
Hearth-mothers and their captains from every aerie gathered in the hall, so many that the space was filled.
Nesryn had slept the entirety of the day before.
Not in her room, but curled in bed beside the prince now standing with her before the assembled group.
