His spine hadn’t healed, not truly. It never would. It had been the cost of saving his life after a Valg princess had taken him to death’s threshold. Yet it did not feel like a cost too steeply paid.
It had never been a burden—the chair, the injury. It would not be now.
But the other part of that bargain with the goddess who had guided Yrene her entire life, who had brought her to Antica’s shores and now back to their own continent … that part scared the hell out of him.
If he died, Yrene went as well.
To funnel her healing power into him so he might walk when her magic was not too drained, their very lives had been entwined.
So if he fell in battle against Morath’s legions … It would not be just his own life lost.
“You’re thinking too hard.” Yrene frowned up at him. “What is it?”
Chaol jerked his chin toward the ship sailing nearest their own. On its stern, two ruks, one golden and one reddish brown, stood at attention. Both were already saddled, though there was no sign of Kadara’s or Salkhi’s riders.
“I can’t tell if you’re motioning to the ruks or the fact that Nesryn and Sartaq are smart enough to remain in bed on a morning like this.” As we should be, her golden-brown eyes added tartly.
It was Chaol’s turn to nudge her with an elbow. “You’re the one who woke me up this morning, you know.” He brushed a kiss to the column of her neck, a precise reminder of how, exactly, Yrene had awoken him. And what they’d spent a good hour around dawn doing.
Just the warmed silk of her skin against his lips was enough to heat his chilled bones. “We can go back to bed, if you want,” he murmured.
Yrene let out a soft, breathless sound that had his hands aching to roam along her bundled-up body. Even with time pressing upon them, hurrying them northward, he’d loved learning all her sounds—loved coaxing them from her.
But Chaol drew his head away from the crook of her neck to gesture again to the ruks. “They’re heading on a scouting mission soon.” He’d bet that Nesryn and the khagan’s newly crowned Heir were currently buckling on weapons and layers. “We’ve sailed far enough north that we need information on where to moor.” So they could decide where, exactly, to dock the armada and march inland as quickly as possible.
If Rifthold was still held by Erawan and the Ironteeth legions, then sailing the armada up the Avery and marching northward into Terrasen would be unwise. But the Valg king might very well have forces lying in wait at any point ahead. Not to mention Queen Maeve’s fleet, which had vanished after her battle with Aelin and mercifully remained unaccounted for.
By their captain’s calculations, they were just nearing the border Fenharrow shared with Adarlan. So they needed to decide where, exactly, they were sailing to. As swiftly as possible.
They’d already lost precious time skirting the Dead Islands, despite the news that they once more belonged to Captain Rolfe. Word had likely already reached Morath about their journey, but there was no need to proclaim their exact location.
But their secrecy had cost them: he’d had no news on Dorian’s location. Not a whisper as to whether he had gone north with Aelin and the fleet she’d gathered from several kingdoms. Chaol could only pray that Dorian had, and that his king remained safe.
Yrene studied the two ruks on the nearby ship. “How many scouts are going?”
“Just them.”
Yrene’s eyes flared with warning.
“Easier for smaller numbers to stay hidden.” Chaol pointed to the sky. “The cloud cover today makes it ideal for scouting, too.” When the worry in her face didn’t abate, he added, “We will have to fight in this war at some point, Yrene.” How many lives did Erawan claim for every day that they delayed?
“I know.” She clasped the silver locket at her neck. He’d given it to her, had a master engraver carve the mountains and seas onto the surface. Inside, it still bore the note Aelin Galathynius had left her years ago, when his wife worked as a barmaid in a backwater port, and the queen lived as an assassin under another name. “I just … I know it’s foolish, but I somehow didn’t think it would come upon us this quickly.”
He’d hardly call these weeks at sea quick, but he understood what she meant. “These last days will be the longest yet.”
Yrene nestled into his side, her arm going around his waist. “I need to check on the supplies. I’ll get Borte to fly me over to Hasar’s ship.”
Arcas, the fierce ruk rider’s mount, was still dozing where he slept on the stern. “You might have to wait awhile for that.”
Indeed, they’d both learned these weeks not to disturb either ruk or rider while they were sleeping. Gods help them if Borte and Aelin ever met.
Yrene smiled, and lifted her hands to cup his face. Her clear eyes scanned his. “I love you,” she said softly.
Chaol lowered his brow until it rested against hers. “Tell me that when we’re knee-deep in freezing mud, will you?”
She snorted, but made no move to pull away. Neither did he.
So brow to brow and soul to soul, they stood there amid the bitter wind and lashing waves, and waited to see what the ruks might discover.
She’d forgotten how damn cold it was in the North.
Even while living amongst the ruk riders in the Tavan Mountains, Nesryn Faliq had never been this frozen through.
And winter had not fully descended.
Yet Salkhi showed no hint that the cold affected him as they rushed over cloud and sea. But that might also be because Kadara flew beside him, the golden ruk unfaltering in the bitter wind.
A soft spot—her ruk had developed a soft spot and an undimming admiration for Sartaq’s mount. Though Nesryn supposed the same could be said about her and the ruk’s rider.
Nesryn tore her eyes from the swirling gray clouds and glanced to the rider at her left.
His shorn hair had grown out—barely. Just enough to be braided back against the wind.
Sensing her attention, the Heir to the khaganate signaled, All is well?
Nesryn blushed despite the cold, but signaled back, her numbed fingers clumsy over the symbols. All clear.
A blushing schoolgirl. That’s what she became around the prince, no matter the fact that they’d been sharing a bed these weeks, or what he’d promised for their future.
To rule beside him. As the future empress of the khaganate.
It was absurd, of course. The idea of her dressed like his mother, in those sweeping, beautiful robes and grand headdresses … No, she was better suited to the rukhin leathers, to the weight of steel, not jewels. She’d said as much to Sartaq. Many times.
He’d laughed her off. Had said she might walk around the palace naked if she wished. What she wore or didn’t wear wouldn’t bother him in the least.
But it was still a ridiculous notion. One the prince seemed to think was the only course for their future. He’d staked his crown on it, had told his father that if being prince meant not being with her, then he’d walk away from the throne. The khagan had offered him the title of Heir instead.
Before they’d left, his siblings had not seemed angered by it, though they’d spent their entire lives vying to be crowned their father’s Heir. Even Hasar, who sailed with them, had refrained from her usual, sharp-tongued comments. Whether Kashin, Arghun, or Duva—all still in Antica, with Kashin promised to sail with the rest of his father’s forces—had changed their minds about Sartaq’s appointment, Nesryn didn’t know.
A flutter of activity to her right had her steering Salkhi after it.
Falkan Ennar, shape-shifter and merchant-turned-rukhin-spy, had taken a falcon’s form this morning, and wielded the creature’s remarkable speed to fly ahead. He must have seen something, for he now banked and swept past them, then soared inland again. Follow, he seemed to say.
Sailing to Terrasen was still an option, depending on what they found today along the coast. Whether Lysandra might be there, if she might still be alive, was another matter entirely.
Falkan had sworn that his fortune, his properties, would be her inheritance well before he knew that she’d survived childhood, or received his family’s gifts. A strange family from the Wastes, who’d spread across the continent, his brother ending up in Adarlan long enough to sire Lysandra and abandon her mother.