Tower of Dawn
Page 169
Even in the early morning, the tower was a beacon, a jutting lance of hope and calm.
She wondered if she would ever see it again. For what lay ahead of them …
Yrene braced her hands on the rail as another gust of wind rocked the ship. A wind from inland, as if all thirty-six gods of Antica blew a collective breath to send them skittering home.
Across the Narrow Sea—and to war.
The ship began to move at last, the world a riot of action and color and sound, but Yrene remained at the rail. Watching the city grow smaller and smaller.
And even when the coast was little more than a shadow, Yrene could have sworn she still saw the Torre standing above it, glinting white in the sun, as if it were an arm upraised in farewell.
68
Chaol Westfall took none of his steps for granted. Even the ones that had sent him rushing to a bucket to hurl up the contents of his stomach for the first few days at sea.
But one of the advantages of traveling with a healer was that Yrene easily soothed his stomach. And after two weeks at sea, dodging fierce storms that the captain only called Ship-Wreckers … his stomach had finally forgiven him.
He found Yrene at the prow railing, gazing toward land. Or where the land would be, if they dared sail close enough. They were keeping far out as they skirted up the coast of their continent, and from his meeting with the captain moments before, they were somewhere near northern Eyllwe. Close to the Fenharrow border.
No sign of Aelin or her armada, but that was to be expected, considering how long they’d been delayed in Antica before leaving.
But Chaol pushed that from his mind as he slid his arms around Yrene’s waist and pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck.
She didn’t so much as freeze at the touch from behind. As if she’d learned the cadence of his steps. As if she took none of them for granted, either.
Yrene leaned back into him, her body loosening with a sigh as she laid her hands atop where his rested over her stomach.
It had taken a full day after Duva’s healing before he’d been able to walk with the cane—albeit stiffly and unevenly. As it had been in those early days of recovery: his back strained to the point of aching, every step requiring his full attention. But he’d gritted his teeth, Yrene murmuring encouragement when he had to figure out various movements. A day after that, most of the limp had eased, though he’d kept the cane; and a day later, he’d walked with minimal discomfort.
But even now, after these two weeks at sea with little for Yrene to heal beyond queasy stomachs and sunburns, Chaol kept the cane in their stateroom, the chair stored belowdecks, for when they were next needed.
He peered over Yrene’s shoulder, down to their interlaced fingers. To the twin rings now gracing both of their hands.
“Watching the horizon won’t get us there any faster,” he murmured onto her neck.
“Neither will teasing your wife about it.”
Chaol smiled against her skin. “How else am I to amuse myself during the long hours than by teasing you, Lady Westfall?”
Yrene snorted, as she always did at the title. But Chaol had never heard anything finer—other than the vows they’d spoken in Silba’s temple at the Torre two and a half weeks ago. The ceremony had been small, but Hasar had insisted on a feast afterward that put to shame all the others they’d had in the palace. The princess might have been many things, but she certainly knew how to throw a party.
And how to lead an armada.
Gods help him when Hasar and Aedion met.
“For someone who hates being called Lord Westfall,” Yrene mused, “you certainly seem to enjoy using the title for me.”
“You’re suited to it,” he said, kissing her neck again.
“Yes, so suited to it that Eretia won’t stop mocking me with her curtsying and bowing.”
“Eretia is someone whom I could have gladly left behind in Antica.”
Yrene chuckled, but pinched his wrist, stepping out of his embrace. “You’ll be glad for her when we get to land.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Yrene pinched him again, but Chaol caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers.
Wife—his wife. He’d never seen the path ahead so clearly as he had that afternoon three weeks ago, when he’d spied her sitting in the garden and just … knew. He’d known what he wanted, and so he’d gone to her chair, knelt down before it, and simply asked.
Will you marry me, Yrene? Will you be my wife?
She’d flung her arms around his neck, knocking them both right into the fountain. Where they had remained, to the annoyance of the fish, kissing until a servant had pointedly coughed on their way past.
And looking at her now, the sea air curling tendrils of her hair, bringing out those freckles on her nose and cheeks … Chaol smiled.
Yrene’s answering smile was brighter than the sun on the sea around them.
He’d brought that damned gold couch with them, shredded cushions and all. It had earned him no shortage of comments from Hasar when it was hauled into the cargo hold, but he didn’t care. If they survived this war, he’d build a house for Yrene around the damn thing. Along with a stable for Farasha, currently terrorizing the poor soldiers tasked with mucking out her stall aboard the ship.
A wedding gift from Hasar, along with Yrene’s own Muniqi horse.
He’d almost told the princess that she could keep Hellas’s Horse, but there was something to be said about the prospect of charging down Morath foot soldiers atop a horse named Butterfly.
Still leaning against him, Yrene wrapped a hand around the locket she never took off, save to bathe. He wondered if he could have it changed to reflect her new initials.
No longer Yrene Towers—but Yrene Westfall.
She smiled down at the locket, the silver near-blinding in the midday sun. “I suppose I don’t need my little note any longer.”
“Why?”
“Because I am not alone,” she said, running her fingers over the metal. “And because I found my courage.”
He kissed her cheek, but said nothing as she opened the locket and carefully removed the browned scrap. The wind tried to rip it from her fingers, but Yrene held tight, unfolding the slender fragment.
She scanned the text she’d read a thousand times. “I wonder if she’ll return for this war. Whoever she was. She spoke of the empire like …” Yrene shook her head, more to herself, and folded it shut again. “Perhaps she will come home to fight, from wherever she sailed off to.” She offered him the piece of paper and turned away to the sea ahead.
She wondered if she would ever see it again. For what lay ahead of them …
Yrene braced her hands on the rail as another gust of wind rocked the ship. A wind from inland, as if all thirty-six gods of Antica blew a collective breath to send them skittering home.
Across the Narrow Sea—and to war.
The ship began to move at last, the world a riot of action and color and sound, but Yrene remained at the rail. Watching the city grow smaller and smaller.
And even when the coast was little more than a shadow, Yrene could have sworn she still saw the Torre standing above it, glinting white in the sun, as if it were an arm upraised in farewell.
68
Chaol Westfall took none of his steps for granted. Even the ones that had sent him rushing to a bucket to hurl up the contents of his stomach for the first few days at sea.
But one of the advantages of traveling with a healer was that Yrene easily soothed his stomach. And after two weeks at sea, dodging fierce storms that the captain only called Ship-Wreckers … his stomach had finally forgiven him.
He found Yrene at the prow railing, gazing toward land. Or where the land would be, if they dared sail close enough. They were keeping far out as they skirted up the coast of their continent, and from his meeting with the captain moments before, they were somewhere near northern Eyllwe. Close to the Fenharrow border.
No sign of Aelin or her armada, but that was to be expected, considering how long they’d been delayed in Antica before leaving.
But Chaol pushed that from his mind as he slid his arms around Yrene’s waist and pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck.
She didn’t so much as freeze at the touch from behind. As if she’d learned the cadence of his steps. As if she took none of them for granted, either.
Yrene leaned back into him, her body loosening with a sigh as she laid her hands atop where his rested over her stomach.
It had taken a full day after Duva’s healing before he’d been able to walk with the cane—albeit stiffly and unevenly. As it had been in those early days of recovery: his back strained to the point of aching, every step requiring his full attention. But he’d gritted his teeth, Yrene murmuring encouragement when he had to figure out various movements. A day after that, most of the limp had eased, though he’d kept the cane; and a day later, he’d walked with minimal discomfort.
But even now, after these two weeks at sea with little for Yrene to heal beyond queasy stomachs and sunburns, Chaol kept the cane in their stateroom, the chair stored belowdecks, for when they were next needed.
He peered over Yrene’s shoulder, down to their interlaced fingers. To the twin rings now gracing both of their hands.
“Watching the horizon won’t get us there any faster,” he murmured onto her neck.
“Neither will teasing your wife about it.”
Chaol smiled against her skin. “How else am I to amuse myself during the long hours than by teasing you, Lady Westfall?”
Yrene snorted, as she always did at the title. But Chaol had never heard anything finer—other than the vows they’d spoken in Silba’s temple at the Torre two and a half weeks ago. The ceremony had been small, but Hasar had insisted on a feast afterward that put to shame all the others they’d had in the palace. The princess might have been many things, but she certainly knew how to throw a party.
And how to lead an armada.
Gods help him when Hasar and Aedion met.
“For someone who hates being called Lord Westfall,” Yrene mused, “you certainly seem to enjoy using the title for me.”
“You’re suited to it,” he said, kissing her neck again.
“Yes, so suited to it that Eretia won’t stop mocking me with her curtsying and bowing.”
“Eretia is someone whom I could have gladly left behind in Antica.”
Yrene chuckled, but pinched his wrist, stepping out of his embrace. “You’ll be glad for her when we get to land.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Yrene pinched him again, but Chaol caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers.
Wife—his wife. He’d never seen the path ahead so clearly as he had that afternoon three weeks ago, when he’d spied her sitting in the garden and just … knew. He’d known what he wanted, and so he’d gone to her chair, knelt down before it, and simply asked.
Will you marry me, Yrene? Will you be my wife?
She’d flung her arms around his neck, knocking them both right into the fountain. Where they had remained, to the annoyance of the fish, kissing until a servant had pointedly coughed on their way past.
And looking at her now, the sea air curling tendrils of her hair, bringing out those freckles on her nose and cheeks … Chaol smiled.
Yrene’s answering smile was brighter than the sun on the sea around them.
He’d brought that damned gold couch with them, shredded cushions and all. It had earned him no shortage of comments from Hasar when it was hauled into the cargo hold, but he didn’t care. If they survived this war, he’d build a house for Yrene around the damn thing. Along with a stable for Farasha, currently terrorizing the poor soldiers tasked with mucking out her stall aboard the ship.
A wedding gift from Hasar, along with Yrene’s own Muniqi horse.
He’d almost told the princess that she could keep Hellas’s Horse, but there was something to be said about the prospect of charging down Morath foot soldiers atop a horse named Butterfly.
Still leaning against him, Yrene wrapped a hand around the locket she never took off, save to bathe. He wondered if he could have it changed to reflect her new initials.
No longer Yrene Towers—but Yrene Westfall.
She smiled down at the locket, the silver near-blinding in the midday sun. “I suppose I don’t need my little note any longer.”
“Why?”
“Because I am not alone,” she said, running her fingers over the metal. “And because I found my courage.”
He kissed her cheek, but said nothing as she opened the locket and carefully removed the browned scrap. The wind tried to rip it from her fingers, but Yrene held tight, unfolding the slender fragment.
She scanned the text she’d read a thousand times. “I wonder if she’ll return for this war. Whoever she was. She spoke of the empire like …” Yrene shook her head, more to herself, and folded it shut again. “Perhaps she will come home to fight, from wherever she sailed off to.” She offered him the piece of paper and turned away to the sea ahead.
