Aelin had indeed changed—grown into a queen. Was still growing into one.
But he knew that there were no restraints, no inner ones, on how far Aelin would go to protect those she loved. Protect her kingdom. And if someone stood in her way, barred her from protecting them … No lines existed to cross within Aelin in regard to that. No lines at all.
So he had not been able to swear it, on Yrene’s life, that he believed Aelin might be above those sorts of methods. With her fraught history with Rolfe, she likely had used the might of her magic to intimidate him into joining their cause.
But with Eyllwe … Had they given some sign of resistance, to prompt her to terrorize them? He couldn’t imagine it, that Aelin would consider hurting innocent people, let alone the people of her beloved friend. And yet she knew the risks that Perrington—Erawan posed. What he’d do to them all, if she did not band them together. By whatever means necessary.
Chaol rubbed his face. If Aelin had kept herself in check, if she’d played the part of distressed queen … It would have made his task far easier.
Perhaps Aelin had cost them this war. This one shot at a future.
At least Dorian was accounted for—undoubtedly as safe as could be expected with Aelin’s court for companions.
Chaol sent a silent prayer of thanks into the night for that small mercy.
A soft knock had him shooting up. Not from the foyer, but the glass doors to the garden.
His legs twitched, bending slightly at the knee—more reaction than controlled movement. He and Yrene had been going through the grueling leg routines twice a day, the various therapies buying him movement inch by inch. Along with the magic she poured into his body while he endured the darkness’s horde of memories. He never told her what he saw, what left him screaming.
There was no point. And telling Yrene how badly he’d failed, how wrongly he’d judged, it made him just as nauseated. But what stood in the night-veiled garden … Not a memory.
Chaol squinted into the dark at the tall male figure standing there, a hand raised in quiet greeting—Chaol’s own hand drifting to the knife beneath his pillow. But the figure stepped closer to the lantern light, and Chaol blew out a breath and waved the prince in.
With a flick of a small knife, Kashin unlocked the garden door and slipped in.
“Lock-picking isn’t a skill I’d expect a prince to possess,” Chaol said by way of greeting.
Kashin lingered just inside the doorway, the lantern from outside illuminating enough of his face for Chaol to make out a half smile. “Learned more for sneaking in and out of ladies’ bedrooms than stealing, I’m afraid.”
“I thought your court was a bit more open in regard to that sort of thing than my own.”
That smile grew. “Perhaps, but cranky old husbands remain the same on either continent.”
Chaol chuckled, shaking his head. “What can I do for you, Prince?”
Kashin studied the door to the suite, Chaol doing the same—searching for any flickering shadows on the other side. When they both found none, Kashin said, “I assume you have discovered nothing within my court about who might be tormenting Yrene.”
“I wish I could say otherwise.” But with Nesryn gone, he’d had little chance to hunt through Antica for any signs of a would-be Valg agent. And things had indeed been quiet enough these three weeks that part of him had hoped they’d just … left. A considerably calmer atmosphere had settled over the palace and Torre since then, as if the shadows were indeed behind them all.
Kashin nodded. “I know Sartaq departed with your captain to seek answers regarding this threat.”
Chaol didn’t dare confirm or deny. He wasn’t entirely certain where Sartaq had left things with his family, if he’d received his father’s blessing to go.
Kashin went on, “That might just be why my siblings mounted such a unified front against you tonight. If Sartaq himself takes this threat seriously, they know they might have a limited window to convince our father not to join this cause.”
“But if the threat is real,” Chaol said, “if it might spill into these lands, why not fight? Why not stop it before it can reach these shores?”
“Because it is war,” Kashin said, and the way he spoke, the way he stood, it somehow made Chaol feel young indeed. “And though the manner in which my siblings presented their argument was unpleasant, I suspect Arghun and Hasar are aware of the costs that joining your cause requires. Never before has the entire might of the khaganate’s armies been sent to a foreign land. Oh, some legions, whether it be the rukhin or the armada or my own horse-lords. Sometimes united, but never all, never what you require. The cost of life, the sheer drain on our coffers … it will be great. Don’t make the mistake of believing my siblings don’t understand that very, very well.”
“And their fear of Aelin?”
Kashin snorted. “I cannot speak to that. Perhaps it is well founded. Perhaps it is not.”
“So you snuck into my room to tell me?” He should speak with more respect, but—
“I came to tell you one more piece of information, which Arghun chose not to mention.”
Chaol waited, wishing he weren’t sitting in bed, bare from the waist up.
Kashin said, “We received a report from our vizier of foreign trade that a large, lucrative order had been placed for a relatively new weapon.”
Chaol’s breathing snagged. If Morath had found some way—
“It is called a firelance,” Kashin said. “Our finest engineers made it by combining various weapons from across our continent.”
Oh, gods. If Morath had it in its arsenal—
“Captain Rolfe ordered them for his fleet. Months ago.”
Rolfe—“And when news arrived of Skull’s Bay falling to Aelin Galathynius, it also came with an order for even more firelances to be shipped northward.”
Chaol sorted through the information. “Why wouldn’t Arghun say this at dinner?”
“Because the firelances are very, very expensive.”
“Surely that’s good for your economy.”
“It is.” And not good for Arghun’s attempt to avoid this war.
Chaol fell silent for a heartbeat. “And you, Prince? Do you wish to join this war?”
Kashin didn’t answer immediately. He scanned the room, the ceiling, the bed, and finally Chaol himself. “This will be the great war of our time,” Kashin said quietly. “When we are dead, when even our grandchildren’s grandchildren are dead, they will still be talking about this war. They will whisper of it around fires, sing of it in the great halls. Who lived and died, who fought and who cowered.” His throat bobbed. “My sulde blows northward—day and night, the horsehairs blow north. So perhaps I will find my destiny on the plains of Fenharrow. Or before the white walls of Orynth. But it is northward that I shall go—if my father will order me.”
Chaol mulled it over. Looked to the trunks against the wall near the bathing chamber.
Kashin had turned to leave when Chaol asked, “When does your father next meet with his foreign trade vizier?”
CHAPTER
37
Nesryn had run out of time.
Falkan required ten days to recover, which had left her and Sartaq with too little time to visit the other watchtower ruins to the south. She’d tried to convince the prince to go without the shape-shifter, but he’d refused. Even with Borte now intent on joining them, he was taking no risks.
But Sartaq found other ways to fill their time. He’d taken Nesryn to other aeries to the north and west, where he met with the reigning hearth-mothers and the captains, both male and female, who led their forces.
Some were welcoming, greeting Sartaq with feasts and revels that lasted long into the night.
Some, like the Berlad, were aloof, their hearth-mothers and other various leaders not inviting them to stay for longer than necessary. Certainly not bringing out jugs of the fermented goat’s milk that they drank—and that was strong enough to put hair on Nesryn’
s chest, face, and teeth. She’d nearly choked to death the first time she’d tried it, earning hearty claps on the back and a toast in her honor.
It was the warm welcome that still surprised her. The smiles of the rukhin who asked, some shyly, some boldly, for demonstrations with her bow and arrow. But for all she showed them, she, too, learned. Went soaring with Sartaq through the mountain passes, the prince calling out targets and Nesryn striking them, learning how to fire into the wind, as the wind.
He even let her ride Kadara alone—just once, and enough for her to again wonder how they let four-year-olds do it, but … she’d never felt so unleashed.
So unburdened and unbridled and yet settled in herself.
So they went, clan to clan, hearth to hearth. Sartaq checking up on the riders and their training, stopping to visit new babes and ailing old folk. Nesryn remained his shadow—or tried to.
Anytime she lingered a step back, Sartaq nudged her forward. Anytime there was a task to be done with the others, he asked her to do it. The washing-up after a meal, the returning of arrows from target practice, the cleaning-out of the ruk droppings from halls and nests.
The last task, at least, the prince joined her in. No matter his rank, no matter his status as captain, he did every chore without a word of complaint. No one was above work, he told her when she’d asked one night.
And whether she was scraping crusted droppings from the ground or teaching young warriors how to string a bow, something restless in her had settled.