Tower of Dawn
Page 49
“Lean forward,” he instructed her. “Balance your weight.” He did the same—as much as the brace allowed.
Their horses slowly plowed up the streets, heads bobbing as they worked.
Yrene gave him a sharp glare. “I do know those things.”
He lifted his brows in a look that said, Could have fooled me.
She scowled, but faced ahead. Leaned forward, as he’d instructed her.
He’d been sleeping like the dead when Nesryn returned late last night—but she’d roused him long enough to say she hadn’t discovered anything in regard to potential Valg in the city. No sewers connected to the Torre, and with the heavy guard at the walls, no one was getting in that way. He’d managed to hold on to consciousness long enough to thank her, and hear her promise to keep hunting today.
But this cloudless, bright day … definitely not the Valg’s preferred darkness. Aelin had told him how the Valg princes could summon darkness for themselves—darkness that struck down any living creature in its path, draining them dry. But even one Valg in this city, regardless of whether they were a prince or an ordinary grunt …
Chaol pushed the thought from his mind, frowning up at the mammoth structure that grew more imposing with each street they crossed.
“Towers,” he mused, glancing toward Yrene. “Is it coincidence you bear that name, or did your ancestors once hail from the Torre?”
Her knuckles were white as she gripped the pommel, as if turning to look at him would send her toppling off. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “My—it was knowledge that I never learned.”
He considered the words, the way she squinted at the bright pillar of the tower ahead rather than meet his stare. A child of Fenharrow. He didn’t dare ask why she might not know the answer. Where her family was.
Instead, he jerked his chin to the ring on her finger. “Does the fake wedding band really work?”
She examined the ancient, scuffed ring. “I wish I could say otherwise, but it does.”
“You encounter that behavior here?” In this wondrous city?
“Very, very rarely.” She wriggled her fingers before settling them around the saddle’s pommel again. “But it’s an old habit from home.”
For a heartbeat, he recalled an assassin in a bloody white gown, collapsing at the entrance to the barracks. Recalled the poisoned blade the man had sliced her with—and had used with countless others.
“I’m glad,” he said after a moment. “That you don’t need to fear such things here.” Even the guards, for all their ogling, had been respectful. She’d even addressed one by name—and his returned warmth had been genuine.
Yrene clenched the saddle horn again. “The khagan holds all people accountable to the rule of the law, whether they’re servants or princes.”
It shouldn’t have been such a novel concept, yet … Chaol blinked. “Truly?”
Yrene shrugged. “As far as I have heard and observed. Lords cannot buy their way out of crimes committed, nor rely on their family names to bail them out. And would-be criminals in the streets see the exacting hand of justice and rarely dare to tempt it.” A pause. “Did you …”
He knew what she’d balked at asking. “I was ordered to release or look the other way for nobility who had committed crimes. At least, the ones who were of value in court and in the king’s armies.”
She studied the pommel before her. “And your new king?”
“He is different.”
If he was alive. If he had made it out of Rifthold. Chaol forced himself to add, “Dorian has long studied and admired the khaganate. Perhaps he’ll put some of its policies into effect.”
A long, assessing glance now. “Do you think the khagan will ally with you?”
He hadn’t told her that, but it was fairly obvious why he’d come, he supposed. “I can only hope.”
“Would his forces make that much of a difference against … the powers you mentioned?”
Chaol repeated, “I can only hope.” He couldn’t bring himself to voice the truth—that their armies were few and scattered, if they existed at all. Compared to the gathering might of Morath …
“What happened these months?” A quiet, careful question.
“Trying to trick me into talking?”
“I want to know.”
“It’s nothing worth telling.” His story wasn’t worth telling at all. Not a single part of it.
She fell silent, the clopping of their horses’ hooves the only sound for a block. Then, “You will need to talk about it. At some point. I … beheld glimpses of it within you yesterday.”
“Isn’t that enough?” The question was sharp as the knife at his side.
“Not if it is what the thing inside you feeds on. Not if claiming ownership of it might help.”
“And you’re so certain of this?” He should mind his tongue, he knew that, but—
Yrene straightened in her saddle. “The trauma of any injury requires some internal reflection during the healing and aftermath.”
“I don’t want it. Need it. I just want to stand—to walk again.”
She shook her head.
He charged on, “And what about you, then? How about we make a deal: you tell me all your deep, dark secrets, Yrene Towers, and I’ll tell you mine.”
Indignation lit those remarkable eyes as she glared at him. He glared right back.
Finally, Yrene snorted, smiling faintly. “You’re as stubborn as an ass.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he countered, the beginnings of a smile tugging on his mouth.
“I’m not surprised.”
Chaol chuckled, catching the makings of a grin on her face before she ducked her head to hide it. As if sharing one with a son of Adarlan were such a crime.
Still, he eyed her for a long moment—the humor lingering on her face, the heavy, softly curling hair that was occasionally caught in the morning breeze off the sea. And found himself still smiling as something coiled tight in his chest began to loosen.
They rode the rest of the way to the Torre in silence, and Chaol tipped his head back as they neared, walking down a broad, sunny avenue that sloped upward to the hilltop complex.
The Torre was even more dominating up close.
It was broad, more of a keep than anything, but still rounded. Buildings flanked its sides, connected on lower levels. All enclosed by towering white walls, the iron gates—fashioned to look like an owl spreading its wings—thrown wide to reveal lavender bushes and flower beds lining the sand-colored gravel walkways. Not flower beds. Herb beds.
Their horses slowly plowed up the streets, heads bobbing as they worked.
Yrene gave him a sharp glare. “I do know those things.”
He lifted his brows in a look that said, Could have fooled me.
She scowled, but faced ahead. Leaned forward, as he’d instructed her.
He’d been sleeping like the dead when Nesryn returned late last night—but she’d roused him long enough to say she hadn’t discovered anything in regard to potential Valg in the city. No sewers connected to the Torre, and with the heavy guard at the walls, no one was getting in that way. He’d managed to hold on to consciousness long enough to thank her, and hear her promise to keep hunting today.
But this cloudless, bright day … definitely not the Valg’s preferred darkness. Aelin had told him how the Valg princes could summon darkness for themselves—darkness that struck down any living creature in its path, draining them dry. But even one Valg in this city, regardless of whether they were a prince or an ordinary grunt …
Chaol pushed the thought from his mind, frowning up at the mammoth structure that grew more imposing with each street they crossed.
“Towers,” he mused, glancing toward Yrene. “Is it coincidence you bear that name, or did your ancestors once hail from the Torre?”
Her knuckles were white as she gripped the pommel, as if turning to look at him would send her toppling off. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “My—it was knowledge that I never learned.”
He considered the words, the way she squinted at the bright pillar of the tower ahead rather than meet his stare. A child of Fenharrow. He didn’t dare ask why she might not know the answer. Where her family was.
Instead, he jerked his chin to the ring on her finger. “Does the fake wedding band really work?”
She examined the ancient, scuffed ring. “I wish I could say otherwise, but it does.”
“You encounter that behavior here?” In this wondrous city?
“Very, very rarely.” She wriggled her fingers before settling them around the saddle’s pommel again. “But it’s an old habit from home.”
For a heartbeat, he recalled an assassin in a bloody white gown, collapsing at the entrance to the barracks. Recalled the poisoned blade the man had sliced her with—and had used with countless others.
“I’m glad,” he said after a moment. “That you don’t need to fear such things here.” Even the guards, for all their ogling, had been respectful. She’d even addressed one by name—and his returned warmth had been genuine.
Yrene clenched the saddle horn again. “The khagan holds all people accountable to the rule of the law, whether they’re servants or princes.”
It shouldn’t have been such a novel concept, yet … Chaol blinked. “Truly?”
Yrene shrugged. “As far as I have heard and observed. Lords cannot buy their way out of crimes committed, nor rely on their family names to bail them out. And would-be criminals in the streets see the exacting hand of justice and rarely dare to tempt it.” A pause. “Did you …”
He knew what she’d balked at asking. “I was ordered to release or look the other way for nobility who had committed crimes. At least, the ones who were of value in court and in the king’s armies.”
She studied the pommel before her. “And your new king?”
“He is different.”
If he was alive. If he had made it out of Rifthold. Chaol forced himself to add, “Dorian has long studied and admired the khaganate. Perhaps he’ll put some of its policies into effect.”
A long, assessing glance now. “Do you think the khagan will ally with you?”
He hadn’t told her that, but it was fairly obvious why he’d come, he supposed. “I can only hope.”
“Would his forces make that much of a difference against … the powers you mentioned?”
Chaol repeated, “I can only hope.” He couldn’t bring himself to voice the truth—that their armies were few and scattered, if they existed at all. Compared to the gathering might of Morath …
“What happened these months?” A quiet, careful question.
“Trying to trick me into talking?”
“I want to know.”
“It’s nothing worth telling.” His story wasn’t worth telling at all. Not a single part of it.
She fell silent, the clopping of their horses’ hooves the only sound for a block. Then, “You will need to talk about it. At some point. I … beheld glimpses of it within you yesterday.”
“Isn’t that enough?” The question was sharp as the knife at his side.
“Not if it is what the thing inside you feeds on. Not if claiming ownership of it might help.”
“And you’re so certain of this?” He should mind his tongue, he knew that, but—
Yrene straightened in her saddle. “The trauma of any injury requires some internal reflection during the healing and aftermath.”
“I don’t want it. Need it. I just want to stand—to walk again.”
She shook her head.
He charged on, “And what about you, then? How about we make a deal: you tell me all your deep, dark secrets, Yrene Towers, and I’ll tell you mine.”
Indignation lit those remarkable eyes as she glared at him. He glared right back.
Finally, Yrene snorted, smiling faintly. “You’re as stubborn as an ass.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he countered, the beginnings of a smile tugging on his mouth.
“I’m not surprised.”
Chaol chuckled, catching the makings of a grin on her face before she ducked her head to hide it. As if sharing one with a son of Adarlan were such a crime.
Still, he eyed her for a long moment—the humor lingering on her face, the heavy, softly curling hair that was occasionally caught in the morning breeze off the sea. And found himself still smiling as something coiled tight in his chest began to loosen.
They rode the rest of the way to the Torre in silence, and Chaol tipped his head back as they neared, walking down a broad, sunny avenue that sloped upward to the hilltop complex.
The Torre was even more dominating up close.
It was broad, more of a keep than anything, but still rounded. Buildings flanked its sides, connected on lower levels. All enclosed by towering white walls, the iron gates—fashioned to look like an owl spreading its wings—thrown wide to reveal lavender bushes and flower beds lining the sand-colored gravel walkways. Not flower beds. Herb beds.
