So Yrene had, rambling about her lessons, occasionally mentioning the more disgusting moments of her year working at the White Pig. The princess particularly enjoyed her tales of the rather messier bar fights. Her favorite story to hear, which she’d ordered Yrene to narrate thrice during the days Hafiza had extracted the magically slaughtered tapeworm through her mouth—one orifice or the other, the Healer on High had told the princess—was of the young stranger who had saved Yrene’s life, taught her to defend herself, and left her a small fortune in gold and jewels.
Yrene had deemed it idle talk, not expecting the princess to remember her name once Hafiza had coaxed the last inches of the tapeworm from her body. But two days later, she’d been called to the princess’s rooms, where Hasar was busy stuffing her face with all manner of delicacies to make up for the weight she’d lost.
Too thin, she’d told Yrene by way of greeting. She needed a fatter ass for her lover to grip at night.
Yrene had burst out laughing—the first bit of true laughter she’d had in a long, long time.
Hasar had only smirked, offered Yrene some smoked fish from the river-rich lowlands, and that had been that. Perhaps not a friendship of equals, but Hasar seemed to enjoy her company, and Yrene was in no position to deny her.
So the princess made a point to summon Yrene whenever she was in Antica—and had eventually brought Renia to the palace, both to meet her father and to meet Yrene. Renia, if Yrene was being honest, was far preferable to the demanding and sharp-tongued princess, but Hasar was prone to jealousy and territorialism, and often made sure Renia was kept well away from the court and would-be contenders for her affections.
Not that Renia had ever given cause for such a thing. No, the woman—older than Yrene by a month—only had eyes for the princess. Loved her with unflinching devotion.
Hasar called her a lady, had granted Renia lands within her own territory. Yet Yrene had heard some of the other healers whisper that when Renia had first entered Hasar’s orbit, Hafiza had been discreetly asked to heal her of … unpleasantries from her former life. Former profession, apparently. Yrene had never asked Hasar for the details, but given how loyal Renia was to the princess, she often wondered if the reason why Hasar so loved to hear Yrene’s own story of her mysterious savior was because she, too, had once seen a woman suffering and reached out to help. And then to hold her.
“You’re smiling more today, too,” Hasar said, setting down her glass pen. “Despite those hideous clothes.”
“Mine were sacrificed to the cause of healing Lord Westfall,” Yrene said, rubbing at the dull throbbing in her temple that even the tea and carob cookies couldn’t chase away. “He was kind enough to lend me some of his own.”
Hasar smirked. “Some might see you and assume you lost your clothes for a far more pleasurable reason.”
Yrene’s face heated. “I’d hope they’d remember that I am a professional healer at the Torre.”
“It’d make it even more valuable gossip.”
“I’d think they’d have better things to do than whisper about a nobody healer.”
“You are Hafiza’s unofficial heir. That makes you slightly interesting.”
Yrene wasn’t insulted by the frank words. She didn’t explain to Hasar that she’d likely be leaving, and Hafiza would have to find someone else. She doubted the princess would approve—and wasn’t entirely certain that Hasar would let her leave. She’d been worried about Kashin for so long, yet Hasar …
“Well, regardless, I have no designs on Lord Westfall.”
“You should. He’s divertingly handsome. Even I’m tempted.”
“Really?”
Hasar laughed. “Not at all. But I could see why you might be.”
“He and Captain Faliq are involved.”
“And if they weren’t?”
Yrene took a long sip from her tea. “He is my patient, and I am his healer. There are plenty of other handsome men.”
“Like Kashin.”
Yrene frowned at the princess over the black-and-gold rim of her teacup. “You keep pushing your brother on me. Are you encouraging him?”
Hasar put a hand on her chest, her manicured nails gleaming in the late afternoon sun. “Kashin had no trouble with women until you came along. You two were once such close friends. Why shouldn’t I wish that my dear friend and brother form a deeper attachment?”
“Because if you are appointed khagan, you might kill us if he doesn’t submit.”
“Him, possibly, if he doesn’t bow. And if you prove to not be carrying his offspring, I might let you take the cleansing once my own line is established and keep your wealth.”
Such bald casual words. Of such horrible methods meant to keep this wondrous, sweeping empire from fracturing. She wished Kashin were here to listen, to understand.
Yrene asked, “And what would you do—for producing offspring?”
With Renia as the possible future Grand Empress, Hasar would need to find some way to produce a blood heir.
Hasar began pushing her figures around the map again. “I have already told my father, and it is no concern of yours.”
Right. For if she had selected some male to do the job … dangerous knowledge. Her siblings might very well try to destroy someone whom Hasar and Renia trusted enough to assist in that way. Or would pay handsomely to know that Hasar and Renia were even considering offspring at this point.
But Hasar then said, “I heard that killer in the library hunted you.” Unforgiving will filled her face. “Why did you not come to me first?”
Before Yrene could answer, Hasar mercifully went on, “They said it was some strange death—not a typical one at all.”
Yrene tried and failed to block out the memory of the gaunt, leathery face. “It was.”
Hasar sipped her tea. “I don’t care if the attack was a deliberate move on your life or whether it was just piss-poor coincidence.” She set down her cup with delicate precision. “When I find whoever it is, I’ll behead them myself.” The princess tapped a hand on the sheathed blade discarded along the edge of her oak desk.
Yrene didn’t doubt her. But she said, “I’ve been told the danger is … considerable.”
“I do not take lightly to my friends being hunted like beasts.” Not the voice of a princess—but a warrior-queen. “And I do not take lightly to Torre healers being killed and terrorized.”
Hasar was many things, but she was loyal. To her core. To the few, few people whom she favored. It had always warmed something in Yrene. To have someone who actually meant what they said. Hasar would behead the killer if they were unfortunate enough to encounter her. She would ask no questions, either.
Yrene considered all she knew about the potential murderer and struggled to refrain from telling the princess that beheading was, in fact, the proper way to deal with a Valg demon.
Unless you were facing the remnants of it within someone. In which case … As awful, as exhausting as today’s session with Lord Westfall had been, she’d already cataloged and tucked away the small scraps of information she’d gleaned. Not just for his healing, but if she should ever face it again—on those battlefields. Even if the prospect of seeing those Valg demons in the flesh …
Taking a steadying drink of her tea, Yrene asked, “Are you not concerned that perhaps it is no coincidence war is upon the northern continent, and now we have enemies in our midst?” She didn’t dare mention Tumelun’s death.
“Perhaps Lord Westfall and Captain Faliq brought in their own spies to track you.”
“That is not possible.”
“Are you so certain? They are desperate. And desperation breeds people who are willing to do anything to get what they need.”
“And what would they need from me beyond what I am already giving them?”
Hasar beckoned Yrene over with a flick of her fingers. Yrene set down her teacup and strode across the deep blue carpet to the desk before the windows. Hasar’s rooms commanded a view of the teal bay—the sh
ips and the gulls and the glittering sprawl of the Narrow Sea beyond.
Hasar gestured to the map in front of her. “What do you see here?”
Yrene’s throat tightened as she recognized the landmass. The northern continent—her own home. And all the figures on it, in red and green and black …
“Are those—armies?”
“This is Duke Perrington’s force,” Hasar said, pointing to the line of black figures stretching like a wall across the middle of the continent. Other clusters lay to the south.
And to the north: one small green cluster. And a lone red figure just beyond the shores of Rifthold.
“What are the others?”
Hasar said, “There is a small army in Terrasen.” She snickered at the green figures clustered around Orynth.
“And in Adarlan?”
Hasar picked up the red figurine, twirling it between two figures. “No army to speak of. Dorian Havilliard remains unaccounted for. Will he flee north or south? Or perhaps cut inland—though there is certainly nothing beyond the mountains save for half-feral tribes.”
“What is that figure?” Yrene asked, noting the gold pawn Hasar had set off the map entirely.
Hasar picked it up, too. “It is Aelin Galathynius. Also unaccounted for.”