“I was at their house, eating dinner. I lost track of time. They begged me to stay with them.”
“You know better than to not send word. Not after the shit we’ve been through.”
“I have nothing to fear in this city—this place.”
She said it with enough bite that he knew she meant that in Rifthold … in Rifthold she did.
He hated that she felt that way. Hated it and yet: “Isn’t that what we are fighting for? So that our own lands might be so safe one day?”
Her face shuttered. “Yes.”
She finished unbuttoning her jacket, peeling it off to reveal the shirt beneath, and slung it over a shoulder. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She didn’t wait for his farewell before she strode into her room and shut the door.
Chaol sat for long minutes in the sitting room, waiting for her to emerge. And when he finally let Kadja bring him into his room and help change him into his bedclothes, after she blew out the candles and left on silent feet, he waited for his door to open.
But Nesryn did not come in. And he could not go to her—not without dragging poor Kadja from wherever she slept, listening for any sound that she might be needed.
He was still waiting for Nesryn when sleep claimed him.
CHAPTER
8
Yrene made sure to be on time the next morning. She hadn’t sent word ahead, but she was willing to gamble that Lord Westfall and the new captain would be waiting at ten. Though from the glares he threw her way last night, she wondered if he doubted she’d return at all.
Let him think what he wanted.
She debated waiting until eleven, since Hasar and Renia had dragged her out drinking—or rather, Yrene had watched them drink, sipping at her own glass of wine—and she hadn’t crawled into her room in the Torre until nearly two. Hasar had offered her a suite at the palace for the night, but given the fact that they’d narrowly escaped Kashin joining them at the quiet, elegant taproom in the bustling Rose Quarter, Yrene was not inclined to risk running into him again.
Honestly, whenever the khagan ordered his children back to their various outposts, it would not be soon enough. They’d lingered after Tumelun’s death—which Hasar had still refused to even mention. Yrene had barely known the youngest princess, the girl having spent most of her time with Kashin among the Darghan on the steppes and the walled cities scattered around them. But in those initial days after Tumelun’s body had been found, after Hafiza herself had confirmed that the girl had jumped from the balcony, Yrene had the urge to seek out Kashin. To offer her sympathies, yes, but also to just see how he was doing.
Yrene knew him well enough to understand that despite the easy, unruffled manner he presented to the world, the disciplined soldier who obeyed his father’s every order and fearlessly commanded his terrestrial armies … beneath that smiling face lay a churning sea of grief. Wondering what he could have done differently.
Things had indeed turned awkward and awful between Yrene and Kashin, but … she still cared. Yet she had not reached out to him. Had not wanted to open that door she’d spent months trying to shut.
She’d hated herself for it, thought about it at least once a day. Especially when she spied the white banners flapping throughout the city, the palace. At dinner last night, she’d done her best not to crumple up with shame as she ignored him, suffered through his praise, the pride still in his words when he spoke of her.
Fool, Eretia had called her more than once, after Yrene had confessed during a particularly grueling healing what had occurred on the steppes last winter. Yrene knew it was true—but she … well, she had other plans for herself. Dreams she would not, could not, defer or yield entirely. So once Kashin, once the other royals, returned to their ruling posts … it would be easier again. Better.
She only wished Lord Westfall’s own return to his hateful kingdom didn’t rely so heavily upon her assistance.
Biting back a scowl, Yrene squared her shoulders and knocked on the suite doors, the lovely-faced servant answering before the sound had even finished echoing in the hall.
There were so many of them in the palace that Yrene had learned the names of just a few, but she’d seen this one before, had marked her beauty. Enough that Yrene nodded in recognition and strode in.
Servants were paid handsomely, and treated well enough that competition was fierce to land a spot in the palace—especially when positions tended to remain within families, and any openings went to those within them. The khagan and his court treated their servants as people, with rights and laws to protect them.
Unlike Adarlan, where so many lived and died in shackles. Unlike the enslaved in Calaculla and Endovier, never allowed to see the sun or breathe fresh air, entire families torn asunder.
She had heard of the massacres in the mines this spring. The butchering. It was enough that any neutral expression vanished from her face by the time she reached the lavish sitting room. She didn’t know what their business was with the khagan, but he certainly looked after his guests.
Lord Westfall and the young captain were sitting precisely where they’d been the previous morning. Neither looked happy.
Indeed, neither was really glancing at the other.
Well, at least none of them would bother to pretend to be pleasant today.
The lord was already sizing Yrene up, no doubt marking the blue dress she’d worn yesterday, the same shoes.
Yrene owned four dresses, the purple one she’d worn to dinner last night being the finest. Hasar had always promised to procure finer clothes for her to wear, but the princess never remembered the next day. Not that Yrene particularly cared. If she received the clothes, she’d feel obligated to visit the palace more than she already did, and … Yes, there were some lonely nights when she wondered what the hell she was thinking by pushing away Kashin, when she reminded herself that most girls in the world would kill and claw their way to an open palace invitation, but she would not stay here for much longer. There was no point.
“Good morning,” said the new captain—Nesryn Faliq.
The woman seemed more focused. Settled. And yet this new tension between her and Lord Westfall …
Not her business. Only if it interfered with her healing.
“I spoke to my superior.” A lie, though she technically had spoken to Hafiza.
“And?”
Not one word from the lord so far. Shadows were smudged beneath his brown eyes, his tan skin paler than yesterday. If he was surprised she’d returned, he revealed nothing.
Yrene scooped the upper portions of her hair and tied it back with a small wooden comb, leaving the bottom half down. Her preferred style for working. “And I should like to get you walking again, Lord Westfall.”
No emotion flickered in the lord’s eyes. Nesryn, however, loosed a shuddering breath and leaned back against the deep cushions of the golden sofa. “How likely is it that you will succeed?”
“I have healed spinal injuries before. Though it was a rider who took a bad fall off his horse—not a wound in battle. Certainly not one from magic. I shall do my best, but I make no guarantees.”
Lord Westfall said nothing, didn’t so much as shift in his chair.
Say something, she demanded, meeting his cold and weary stare.
His eyes slid to her throat, to the scar she had not let Eretia heal when she’d offered last year.
“Will it be hours every day that you work on him?” Nesryn’s words were steady, almost flat, and yet … The woman was not a creature who took well to a cage. Even a gilded one such as this.
“I would recommend,” Yrene said to Nesryn over a shoulder, “that if you have other duties or tasks to attend to, Captain, these hours would be a good time for that. I shall send word if you are needed.”
“What about moving him around?”
The lord’s eyes flashed at that.
And though Yrene was predisposed to chuck them both to the ruks, she noted the lord
’s simmering outrage and self-loathing at the words and found herself saying, “I can handle most of it, but I believe Lord Westfall is more than capable of transporting himself.”
Something like wary gratitude shot across his face. But he just said to Nesryn, “And I can ask my own damn questions.”
Guilt flashed across Nesryn’s face, even as she stiffened. But she nodded, biting her lip, before she murmured to Chaol, “I had some invitations yesterday.” Understanding lit his eyes. “I plan to see about them.”
Smart—not to speak too clearly of her movements.
Chaol nodded gravely. “Send a message this time.”
Yrene had noted his worry at dinner last night when the captain had not appeared. A man unused to having the people he cared for out of his sight, and now limited in how he might look for them himself. She tucked away the information for later.
Nesryn bid her farewells, perhaps more tersely to the lord, and then was gone.
Yrene waited until she heard the door shut. “She was wise to not speak aloud of her plans.”
“Why.”
His first words to Yrene so far.
She jerked her chin toward the open doors to the foyer. “The walls have ears and mouths. And all the servants are paid by the khagan’s children. Or viziers.”
“I thought the khagan paid them all.”
“Oh, he does,” Yrene said, going to the small satchel she’d left by the door. “But his children and viziers buy the servants’ loyalty through other means. Favors and comforts and status in exchange for information. I’d be careful with whoever was assigned to you.”
Docile as the servant girl who’d let Yrene in might seem, she knew even the smallest snakes could contain the most lethal venom.
“Do you know who … owns them?” He said that word—owns—as if it tasted foul.
Yrene said simply, “No.” She rooted through the satchel, pulling out twin vials of amber liquid, a stub of white chalk, and some towels. He followed every movement. “Do you own any slaves in Adarlan?” She kept the question mild, uninterested. Idle chatter while she readied.
“No. Never.”
She set a black leather journal upon the table before lifting a brow. “Not one?”
“I believe in paying people for their work, as you do here. And I believe in a human being’s intrinsic right to freedom.”
“I’m surprised your king let you live if that is how you feel.”
“I kept such opinions to myself.”
“A wiser move. Better to save your hide through silence than speaking for the thousands enslaved.”
He went still at that. “The labor camps and slave trade have been shut down. It was one of the first decrees that my king made. I was there with him when he drafted the document.”
“New decrees for a new era, I suppose?” The words were sharper than the set of knives she carried with her—for surgery, for scraping away rotting flesh.
He held her gaze unflinchingly. “Dorian Havilliard is not his father. It was him I served these years.”
“And yet you were the former king’s honored Captain of the Guard. I’m surprised the khagan’s children aren’t clamoring to hear your secrets about how you played both so well.”
His hands clenched on the arms of the chair. “There are choices in my past,” he said tightly, “that I have come to regret. But I can only move on—and attempt to fix them. Fight to make sure they do not occur again.” He jerked his chin toward the supplies she’d set down. “Which I cannot do while in this chair.”
“You certainly could do such things from that chair,” she said tartly, and meant it. He didn’t respond. Fine. If he did not wish to talk about this … she certainly didn’t wish to, either. Yrene jerked her chin toward the long, deep golden sofa. “Get on that. Shirt off and facedown.”
“Why not the bed?”
“Captain Faliq was here yesterday. I would not enter your bedroom without her present.”
“She is not my …” He trailed off. “It would not be an issue.”
“And yet you saw last night how it might present an issue for me.”
“With—”
“Yes.” She cut him off with a sharp look toward the door. “The couch will do.”
She had seen the look Kashin had given the captain at dinner. She’d wanted to slide off her chair and hide beneath the table.
“You have no interest where that is concerned?” he said, wheeling himself the few feet to the couch, then unbuttoning his jacket.
“I have no plans to seek such a life for myself.” Not when the risks were so high.
Execution of herself, her husband, and their children if Kashin should challenge the new khagan, if he should stake a claim on the throne. Being rendered infertile by Hafiza at best—once the new khagan had produced enough heirs to ensure the continuation of the bloodline.
Kashin had waved away those concerns that night on the steppes, had refused to understand the insurmountable wall they would always present.
But Chaol nodded, likely well aware of the costs of wedding into the bloodline if your spouse was not the Heir selected. As Kashin would never be—not with Sartaq, Arghun, or Hasar likely to be chosen.
Yrene added before Chaol could inquire further, “And it is none of your concern.”
He looked her over slowly. Not in the way that men sometimes did, that Kashin did, but … as if he was sizing up an opponent.
Yrene crossed her arms, distributing her weight evenly between her feet, just as she had been taught and now instructed others to do. A steady, defensive stance. Ready to take on anyone.
Even lords from Adarlan. He seemed to note that stance, and his jaw clenched.
“Shirt,” she repeated.
With a simmering glare, he reached over his head and shucked off his shirt, setting it neatly atop where he’d folded his jacket over the rolled arm of the sofa. Then he removed his boots and socks with swift, brutal tugs.
“Pants this time,” she told him. “Leave the undershorts.”
His hands went to his belt, and hesitated.
He could not remove the pants without some degree of help—at least in the chair.
She didn’t let a flicker of pity show in her face as she waved a hand toward the couch. “Get on, and I’ll unclothe you myself.”
He hesitated again. Yrene put her hands on her hips. “While I wish I could say you were my sole patient today,” she lied, “I do have other appointments to keep. The couch, if you will.”
A muscle beat in his jaw, but he braced one hand on the couch, another on the edge of the chair, and lifted himself.
The strength in the movement alone was worthy of some admiration.
So easily, the muscles in his arms and back and chest hoisted him upward and over. As if he’d been doing it his entire life.
“You’ve kept up your exercising since … how long has it been since the injury?”
“It happened on Midsummer.” His voice was flat—hollow as he lifted his legs up onto the couch with him, grunting at the weight. “And yes. I was not idle before it happened, and I don’t see the point of being so now.”
This man was stone—rock. The injury had cracked him a bit, but not sundered him. She wondered if he knew it.
“Good,” she simply said. “Exercising—both your upper body and your legs—will be a vital part of this.”
He peered at his legs as those faint spasms rocked them. “Exercising my legs?”
“I will explain in a moment,” she said, motioning him to turn over.
He obeyed with another reproachful glare, but set himself facedown.
Yrene took a few breaths to survey the length of him. He was large enough that he nearly took up the entire couch. Well over six feet. If he stood again, he’d tower over her.
She strode to his feet and tugged his pants down in short, perfunctory bursts. His undershorts hid enough, though she could certainly see the shape of his firm backside through the thin material. But
his thighs … She’d felt the muscle still in them yesterday, but studying them now …
They were starting to atrophy. They already lacked the healthy vitality of the rest of him, the rippling muscle beneath that tan skin seeming looser—thinner.
She laid a hand on the back of one thigh, feeling the muscle beneath the crisp hairs.
Her magic seeped from her skin into his, searching and sweeping through blood and bone.
Yes—the disuse was beginning to wear on him.
Yrene withdrew her hand and found him watching, hand angled on the throw pillow he’d dragged beneath his chin. “They’re breaking down, aren’t they?”
She kept her face set in a mask of stone. “Atrophied limbs may regain their full strength. But yes. We shall have to focus on ways to keep them as strong as we can, to exercise them throughout this process, so that when you stand”—she made sure he heard the slight emphasis on when—“you will have as much support as possible in your legs.”
“So it will not just be healing, but training as well.”
“You said you liked to be kept active. There are many exercises we can do with a spinal injury that will get blood and strength flowing to your legs, which will aid in the healing process. I will oversee you.”
She avoided the alternative words—help you.
Lord Chaol Westfall was not a man who desired help from people. From anyone.
She took a few steps up the length of his body, to peer at his spine. At that pale, strange mark just beneath his nape. At that first prominent knob of his spine.
Even now, the invisible power that swirled along her palms seemed to recoil into her.
“What manner of magic gave that to you?”
“Does it matter?”
Yrene hovered her hand over it, but did not let her magic brush it. She ground her teeth. “It would help me to know what havoc it might have wreaked upon your nerves and bones.”
He didn’t answer. Typical Adarlanian bullishness.
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