Tower of Dawn
Page 81
Nesryn’s face and ears were numb with cold by the time Kadara alighted on a rocky outcropping high atop a small mountain range of gray stone. Her limbs were hardly better, despite the leathers, and were sore enough that she winced as Sartaq helped her down.
The prince grimaced. “I forgot that you aren’t used to riding for so long.”
It wasn’t the stiffness that really brutalized her, but her bladder—
Clenching her legs together, Nesryn surveyed the campsite the ruk had deemed suitable for her master. It was protected on three sides by boulders and pillars of gray rock, with a broad overhang against the elements, but no possibility of concealment. And asking a prince where to see to her needs—
Sartaq merely pointed to a cluster of boulders. “There’s privacy that way, if you need it.”
Face heating, Nesryn nodded, not quite able to meet him in the eye as she hurried to where he’d indicated, slipping between two boulders to find another little outcropping that opened onto a sheer drop to the unforgiving rocks and streams far, far below. She picked a small boulder that faced away from the wind and didn’t waste any time unbuckling her pants.
When she emerged again, still wincing, Sartaq had removed most of the packs from Kadara, but had left her saddle. Nesryn approached the mighty bird, who eyed her closely, lifting a hand toward the first buckle—
“Don’t,” Sartaq said calmly from where he’d set the last of the packs under the overhang, his sulde tucked against the wall behind them. “We leave the saddles on while we travel.”
Nesryn lowered her hand, examining the mighty bird. “Why?”
Sartaq removed two bedrolls and laid them out against the rocky wall, claiming one for himself. “If we’re ambushed, if there is some danger, we need to be able to get into the skies.”
Nesryn scanned the surrounding mountain range, the sky stained pink and orange as the sun set. The Asimil Mountains—a small, lonely range, if her memory of the land served her correctly. Still far, far north from the Tavan Mountains of the rukhin. They hadn’t passed a village or sign of civilization in over an hour, and up amongst these desolate peaks: landslides, flash floods … She supposed there were dangers aplenty.
Supposed that the only ones who could reach them up here were other ruks. Or wyverns.
Sartaq pulled out tins of cured meats and fruit, along with two small loaves of bread. “Have you seen them—the mounts of Morath?” His question was nearly ripped away by the howl of the wind beyond the wall of rocks. How he’d known where her mind had drifted, she couldn’t guess.
Kadara settled herself near one of the three faces, folding in her wings tightly. They’d stopped once earlier—to let Kadara feed and for them to see to their needs—so the ruk wouldn’t have to seek out dinner in these barren mountains. Belly still full, Kadara now seemed content to doze.
“Yes,” Nesryn admitted, tugging free the leather strap around the base of her short braid and finger-combing her hair. Tangles snared on her still-freezing fingers as she coaxed them away, grateful that the task kept her from shuddering at the memory of the witches and their mounts. “Kadara is probably two-thirds to half the size of a wyvern. Maybe. Is she large or small, for a ruk?”
“I thought you’d heard all the stories about me.”
Nesryn snorted, shaking out her hair a final time as she approached the bedroll and food he’d laid out for her. “Do you know they call you the Winged Prince?”
A ghost of a smile. “Yes.”
“Do you like the title?” She settled on the roll, crossing her legs beneath her.
Sartaq passed her the tin of fruits, beckoning her to eat. She didn’t bother to wait for him before she dug in, the grapes cool thanks to the hours in the crisp air.
“Do I like the title?” he mused, tearing off a piece of bread and passing it to her. She took it with a nod of thanks. “It’s strange, I suppose. To become a story while you are still alive.” A sidelong glance at her while he ripped into his bread. “You yourself are surrounded by some living tales. How do they feel about it?”
“Aelin certainly enjoys it.” She’d never met another person with so many names and titles—and who enjoyed bandying them about so much. “The others … I don’t suppose I know them well enough to guess. Though Aedion Ashryver … he takes after Aelin.” She popped another grape into her mouth, her hair swaying as she leaned forward to pluck a few more into her palm. “They’re cousins, but act more like siblings.”
A considering look. “The Wolf of the North.”
“You’ve heard of him?”
Sartaq passed the tin of cured meats, letting her pick through which slices she wanted. “I told you, Captain Faliq, my spies do their jobs well.”
A careful line—nudging him toward a potential alliance was a careful line to walk. Look too eager, praise her companions too much and she’d be transparent, but to do nothing … It went against her very nature. Even as a city guard, her day off had usually sent her looking for something to do, whether it was a walk through Rifthold or helping her father and sister prepare the next day’s goods.
Wind-seeker, her mother had once called her. Unable to keep still, always wandering where the wind calls you. Where shall it beckon you to journey one day, my rose?
How far the wind had now called her.
Nesryn said, “Then I hope your spies have told you that Aedion’s Bane is a skilled legion.”
A vague nod, and she knew Sartaq saw right through all her plans. But he finished off his part of the bread and asked, “And what are the tales they tell about you, Nesryn Faliq?”
She chewed on the salted pork. “No one has any stories about me.”
It didn’t bother her. Fame, notoriety … She valued other things more, she supposed.
“Not even the story about the arrow that saved a shape-shifter’s life? The impossible shot fired from a rooftop?”
She snapped her head toward him. Sartaq only swigged from his water with a look that said, I told you my spies were good.
“I thought Arghun was the one who dealt in covert information,” Nesryn said carefully.
He passed the waterskin. “Arghun’s the one who boasts about it. I’d hardly call it covert.”
Nesryn drank a few mouthfuls of water and lifted a brow. “But this is?”
The prince grimaced. “I forgot that you aren’t used to riding for so long.”
It wasn’t the stiffness that really brutalized her, but her bladder—
Clenching her legs together, Nesryn surveyed the campsite the ruk had deemed suitable for her master. It was protected on three sides by boulders and pillars of gray rock, with a broad overhang against the elements, but no possibility of concealment. And asking a prince where to see to her needs—
Sartaq merely pointed to a cluster of boulders. “There’s privacy that way, if you need it.”
Face heating, Nesryn nodded, not quite able to meet him in the eye as she hurried to where he’d indicated, slipping between two boulders to find another little outcropping that opened onto a sheer drop to the unforgiving rocks and streams far, far below. She picked a small boulder that faced away from the wind and didn’t waste any time unbuckling her pants.
When she emerged again, still wincing, Sartaq had removed most of the packs from Kadara, but had left her saddle. Nesryn approached the mighty bird, who eyed her closely, lifting a hand toward the first buckle—
“Don’t,” Sartaq said calmly from where he’d set the last of the packs under the overhang, his sulde tucked against the wall behind them. “We leave the saddles on while we travel.”
Nesryn lowered her hand, examining the mighty bird. “Why?”
Sartaq removed two bedrolls and laid them out against the rocky wall, claiming one for himself. “If we’re ambushed, if there is some danger, we need to be able to get into the skies.”
Nesryn scanned the surrounding mountain range, the sky stained pink and orange as the sun set. The Asimil Mountains—a small, lonely range, if her memory of the land served her correctly. Still far, far north from the Tavan Mountains of the rukhin. They hadn’t passed a village or sign of civilization in over an hour, and up amongst these desolate peaks: landslides, flash floods … She supposed there were dangers aplenty.
Supposed that the only ones who could reach them up here were other ruks. Or wyverns.
Sartaq pulled out tins of cured meats and fruit, along with two small loaves of bread. “Have you seen them—the mounts of Morath?” His question was nearly ripped away by the howl of the wind beyond the wall of rocks. How he’d known where her mind had drifted, she couldn’t guess.
Kadara settled herself near one of the three faces, folding in her wings tightly. They’d stopped once earlier—to let Kadara feed and for them to see to their needs—so the ruk wouldn’t have to seek out dinner in these barren mountains. Belly still full, Kadara now seemed content to doze.
“Yes,” Nesryn admitted, tugging free the leather strap around the base of her short braid and finger-combing her hair. Tangles snared on her still-freezing fingers as she coaxed them away, grateful that the task kept her from shuddering at the memory of the witches and their mounts. “Kadara is probably two-thirds to half the size of a wyvern. Maybe. Is she large or small, for a ruk?”
“I thought you’d heard all the stories about me.”
Nesryn snorted, shaking out her hair a final time as she approached the bedroll and food he’d laid out for her. “Do you know they call you the Winged Prince?”
A ghost of a smile. “Yes.”
“Do you like the title?” She settled on the roll, crossing her legs beneath her.
Sartaq passed her the tin of fruits, beckoning her to eat. She didn’t bother to wait for him before she dug in, the grapes cool thanks to the hours in the crisp air.
“Do I like the title?” he mused, tearing off a piece of bread and passing it to her. She took it with a nod of thanks. “It’s strange, I suppose. To become a story while you are still alive.” A sidelong glance at her while he ripped into his bread. “You yourself are surrounded by some living tales. How do they feel about it?”
“Aelin certainly enjoys it.” She’d never met another person with so many names and titles—and who enjoyed bandying them about so much. “The others … I don’t suppose I know them well enough to guess. Though Aedion Ashryver … he takes after Aelin.” She popped another grape into her mouth, her hair swaying as she leaned forward to pluck a few more into her palm. “They’re cousins, but act more like siblings.”
A considering look. “The Wolf of the North.”
“You’ve heard of him?”
Sartaq passed the tin of cured meats, letting her pick through which slices she wanted. “I told you, Captain Faliq, my spies do their jobs well.”
A careful line—nudging him toward a potential alliance was a careful line to walk. Look too eager, praise her companions too much and she’d be transparent, but to do nothing … It went against her very nature. Even as a city guard, her day off had usually sent her looking for something to do, whether it was a walk through Rifthold or helping her father and sister prepare the next day’s goods.
Wind-seeker, her mother had once called her. Unable to keep still, always wandering where the wind calls you. Where shall it beckon you to journey one day, my rose?
How far the wind had now called her.
Nesryn said, “Then I hope your spies have told you that Aedion’s Bane is a skilled legion.”
A vague nod, and she knew Sartaq saw right through all her plans. But he finished off his part of the bread and asked, “And what are the tales they tell about you, Nesryn Faliq?”
She chewed on the salted pork. “No one has any stories about me.”
It didn’t bother her. Fame, notoriety … She valued other things more, she supposed.
“Not even the story about the arrow that saved a shape-shifter’s life? The impossible shot fired from a rooftop?”
She snapped her head toward him. Sartaq only swigged from his water with a look that said, I told you my spies were good.
“I thought Arghun was the one who dealt in covert information,” Nesryn said carefully.
He passed the waterskin. “Arghun’s the one who boasts about it. I’d hardly call it covert.”
Nesryn drank a few mouthfuls of water and lifted a brow. “But this is?”
