Shen said nothing, though Chaol knew every guard in this palace spoke an assortment of languages beyond Halha, only offering a nod of greeting. Which Chaol found himself returning before he silently mounted, his arms straining with the effort to haul himself upward. But he made it, perhaps easier than yesterday, earning what he could have sworn was a wink of approval from Shen before the guard sauntered back to his post.
Shutting out what that did to his chest, Chaol buckled the straps on his brace and surveyed the chaotic courtyard and open gates beyond. The guards inspected every wagon, every piece of paper that confirmed a royal order had been placed for the goods they bore.
Good. Regardless of whether he’d spoken to the khagan personally, at least someone had warned the guard to be careful—perhaps Kashin.
The sun drifted higher, raising the heat with it. Still Yrene did not come.
A clock chimed deep in the palace. An hour late.
The mare turned skittish, impatient beneath him, and he patted her thick, sweaty neck, murmuring.
Another fifteen minutes passed. Chaol studied the gates, the street beyond.
No word of alarm had come from the Torre, but staying still, just waiting here …
He found himself snapping the reins, tapping the horse’s flank to launch it into a walk.
He’d marked the path Yrene had taken yesterday. Perhaps he’d run into her on her way over here.
Antica was crawling with vendors and people setting up for tomorrow’s holiday. And those already toasting to the Lady of the Great Deep, filling the taverns and eating rooms lining the streets, musicians playing at each one.
It took him nearly twice as long to get to the Torre’s owl-adorned gates, though part of that slowness was due to his scanning for Yrene on every crammed street and passing alley. But he found no sign of the healer.
He and his horse were sweating when they rode through the Torre gates, the guards smiling at him—faces he’d marked from yesterday’s lesson.
How many times had he seen such a greeting in Adarlan? Taken it for granted?
He’d always ridden through the black iron gates to the glass palace without hesitation, without really doing more than noting who was stationed there and who wasn’t looking up to snuff. He’d trained with those men, learned about their families and lives.
His men. They had been his men.
So Chaol’s own answering smile was tight, and he couldn’t stand to meet their bright eyes for more than a passing glance as he rode into the Torre courtyard, the scent of lavender wrapping around him.
But he paused a few feet in, wheeled his mare around, and asked the guard closest, “Has Yrene Towers left today?”
Like those at the khagan’s palace, each of the Torre’s guards was fluent in at least three languages: Halha, the tongue of the northern continent, and the language of the lands to the east. With visitors from all over Erilea, those at the Torre gates had to be fluent in the three common tongues.
The guard before him shook his head, sweat sliding down his dark skin in the rippling heat. “Not yet, Lord Westfall.”
Perhaps it was rude to seek her out when she was likely too busy with other things to immediately tend to him. She’d mentioned other patients, after all.
With a nod of thanks, he again turned the roan mare toward the Torre, and was about to aim for the courtyard to its left when an ancient voice said from below, “Lord Westfall. Good to see you out and about.”
Hafiza. The Healer on High stood a few feet away, a basket draped over her thin arm and two middle-aged healers flanking her. The guards bowed, and Chaol inclined his head.
“I was looking for Yrene,” he said by way of greeting.
Hafiza’s white brows rose. “Did she not come to you this morning?”
Unease tightened his gut. “No, though perhaps I missed her—”
One of the healers at Hafiza’s side stepped forward and murmured to the Healer on High, “She is abed, my lady.”
Hafiza now raised her brows at the woman. “Still?”
A shake of the head. “Drained. Eretia checked on her an hour ago—she was asleep.”
Hafiza’s mouth tightened, though Chaol had a feeling he knew what she was about to say. Felt guilty enough before the crone spoke. “Our powers can do great things, Lord Westfall, but they also demand a great cost. Yrene was …” She sought the words, either from not using her native tongue or to spare him from further guilt. “She was asleep in the carriage when she arrived last night. She had to be carried to her room.”
He cringed.
Hafiza patted his boot, and he could have sworn he felt it in his toes. “It is of no concern, my lord. A day of sleep, and she will be back at the palace tomorrow morning.”
“If tomorrow is a holiday,” he volunteered, “she can have the day off.”
Hafiza chuckled. “You do not know Yrene very well at all if you think she considers these holidays to be days off. ” She pointed at him. “Though if you want the day off, you should certainly tell her, because she’ll likely be knocking at your door come sunrise.”
Chaol smiled, even as he gazed at the tower looming overhead.
“It is a restorative sleep,” Hafiza supplied. “Utterly natural. Do not let it burden you.”
With a final look at the pale tower high above, he nodded and wheeled his horse back to the gates. “May I escort you anywhere?”
Hafiza’s smile was bright as the midday sun. “You certainly may, Lord Westfall.”
The Healer on High was stopped every block by those wishing to merely touch her hand, or have her touch them.
Sacred. Holy. Beloved.
It took them thirty minutes to get even half a dozen blocks from the Torre. And though he offered to wait while Hafiza and her companions entered the modest home on a quiet street, they waved him off.
The streets were clogged enough to deter him from exploring, so Chaol soon headed back toward the palace.
But even as he steered his horse through the crowds, he found himself glancing to that pale tower—a behemoth on the horizon. To the healer sleeping within.
Yrene slept for a day and a half.
She hadn’t meant to. Had barely been able to rouse herself long enough to see to her needs and wave off Eretia when she’d come to prod her, to make sure she was still alive.
The healing yesterday—two days ago, she realized as she dressed in the gray light before dawn—had decimated her. That bit of progress, the nosebleed afterward, had taken its toll.
But his toes had moved. And the pathways she’d sent her magic floating along, dots of light darting through him … Damaged, yes, but if she could slowly start to replace those frayed, tiny communicators within him … It would be long, and hard, yet …
Yrene knew it was not guilt alone that had her rising so early on Tehome’s Day.
He was from Adarlan—she doubted he’d care if he got the day off.
Dawn had barely broken by the time Yrene slipped into the Torre courtyard and paused.
The sun had crept over the compound walls, spearing a few shafts of golden light into the purplish shadows.
And in one of those shafts of sunlight, the faint strands of gold in his brown hair gleaming …
“She wakes,” Lord Chaol said.
Yrene strode for him, gravel crunching loudly in the drowsy dawn. “You rode here?”
“All by myself.”
She only arched a brow at the white mare beside his. “And you brought the other horse?”
“A gentleman through and through.”
She crossed her arms, frowning up at where he sat mounted. “Any further movement?”
The morning sun lit his eyes, turning the brown into near-gold. “How are you feeling?”
“Answer my question, please.”
“Answer mine.”
She gaped at him a bit. Debated scowling. “I’m fine,” she said, waving a hand. “But have you felt any further—”
“Did you get the