Sibba turned back, her eyes on the chief and her daughter. Isgerd the Younger was drawing her swords. Jary was right. She would kill them as they climbed. There was no way around it. Sibba wasn't done fighting yet.
“Give me my ax,” Sibba demanded, but Jary wasn't listening to her. He was hobbling away from her, toward the edge where the two women stood while their city burned around them. “Jary!” she called after him, but his one good eye was unwaveringly fixed on Isgerd the Younger. She raced behind him, going for the Crowheart sword that lay discarded not far away on the ground. But before she could even reach it, the ax left his hand, hurtling end over end, slicing a clean, straight path through the air, as if the storm winds parted to let it through undisturbed.
It buried itself deep in Chief Isgerd's chest. The woman's mouth dropped open and her hands went to the ax handle, jerking it out. Blood poured from the wound, and the scar in Sibba’s abdomen ached sympathetically. She cannot live. Of course he hadn't meant the daughter. He meant the puppet master, the one who had called all the shots. The one who had snapped the manacles around his wrist, not the one who had unchained him.
“Jary, come on.” Sibba wrapped her brother's arm around her shoulders as icy rain began to fall. Between the sheets of rain and the gray smoke from the raging fires, Isgerd and her mother were barely visible, but she saw when the chief fell to her knees, and she heard Isgerd's wail even over the cacophony of sounds around the pit.
“You're tall,” was all Jary said. She almost laughed, maybe would have laughed if the rain weren't blinding her and freezing her at the same time. She pushed Jary onto the ladder but his progress was painfully slow.
“Faster, faster,” she urged. When he was nearly at the top, hauling himself over the edge, she finally began to climb after throwing the Crowheart sword up beside him. The rain clung to the wooden rungs and made them slick with ice. She was weak, the aftermath of the battle fury leaving her drained and sick, but still she climbed, forcing one hand over the other, her feet quaking on the rungs. What would happen if someone came to their senses and saw Jary lying helpless there? How long before someone drove a sword through his heart?
She tried to climb faster but her limbs felt frozen. As she clung to the ladder, rain streamed down her face and into her mouth, and smoke stung her eyes as it wafted over the mouth of the pit. She couldn't move another muscle. She would die here, frozen on the ladder.
A long-fingered hand reached out of the oblivion and wrapped around one of hers, hauling her up the rest of the way. Sibba groped for the edge of the pit and helped pull herself over with her free hand, landing on her stomach beside Jary. Hands rolled her over and she looked up into green eyes, so out of place in this gray world.
“Tola?”
“Do you believe in me now?”
Sibba nodded her head and wrapped the girl in a hug that was over too soon when Tola pulled away.
“We have to go,” Tola said. “Quick.”
Tola helped Sibba stand, and then they both pulled Jary to his feet, each of them ducking beneath an arm as they hauled him forward. Tola held her staff in her other hand, using it to keep her balance beneath Jary’s weight. Above the pit, it was mayhem. The air crackled and sparked, and when a guard stepped in front of them to stop them, a gust of wind hit her with such force that it blew her off of her feet and across the ground until she disappeared into one of the fighting pits.
“Is this you?” Sibba asked Tola behind Jary's back, rolling her eyes to the sky.
Tola opened her mouth to respond when someone called her name. “Tola!” The sound cut through the roiling storm, the pounding rain, the crackling fire, and they all turned. Tola's mother, Audra, stood in the middle of the madness, somehow protecting herself from the rain and the smoke, looking as serene as if she were calling her daughter to come in for dinner. Shadows swirled around her feet, seeming to feed on the confusion and panic, reaching small tendrils out and brushing them against passersby.
“No,” Tola said, her only reply. Against all her better instincts, the three of them turned their back on the vala and hobbled away.
“She could kill us, couldn't she?” Sibba asked.
“Yes,” Tola confirmed. “But she's my mother. She won't. Not today.”
The town gates hung open and unguarded, and the trio passed through without notice. Beyond the gates, the storm died down and Sibba heard the call of a hawk. Aeris was bearing down on them, something clutched in her talons. She landed just off the road in the tall grass. Sibba left Jary with Tola and went to investigate. Aeris hopped away, taking her place on Sibba's shoulder, and Sibba picked up the object.
It was her ax, the one that had saved her life so many times, the one that had almost killed her. She had thought it lost to Isgerd Grimsson. Its blade was coated with congealed blood that she wiped on the dry, brown grass. She tucked it into her belt just as a rider emerged from the nearby woods, leading two other horses. The rider was slim but tall, and when her hood fell back, Sibba saw that it was Estrid.
They had both come for her. They had both risked everything. Without them—and Evenon—she would be dead on the dirty floor of the fighting pit.
Estrid dropped down from the horse and flung herself at Sibba, wrapping her arms around her neck. Sibba buried her face in the girl's loose hair and was surprised to feel only affectionate friendship. She wanted nothing more than for Estrid and her baby to be safe and happy, and Sibba knew that she wasn't the one to provide that life for her. She never had been.
Together, they helped Jary into the saddle of one of the horses, and Sibba mounted the other, reaching a hand down for Tola, ready to help her onto the back.
Tola wagged a finger at her. “I don't think so.” The words stung until Tola smiled. “I'm taking the reins.” In spite of everything—the chill that had seeped into her bones and the ache in her muscles and the weariness of the fight—Sibba smiled and scooted back, helping Tola situate herself in front, flush against her from knee to knee.
Sibba wrapped her arms around the vala's tiny waist and put her chin on her shoulder, blowing strands of wet, red hair out of the way. “Let's go.”
They turned the horses and walked back down the road, away from Ydurgat. Behind them, the town burned. Ahead of them, the skies were clear and blue. They followed Estrid down the dirt path, the only ones going in their direction. It was weird for Sibba not to be in control, not to be in the lead, but she found that she trusted these girls. Enough to close her eyes and let the gentle sway of the horse and the rise and fall of Tola's back lure her into sleep, surrounded by friends, feeling like even here, on the road in a strange place, she was finally home.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Rayne
When the noblewoman dipped into a low curtsy, all Rayne could see was the brightly colored plumage on the woman's hat, so large it nearly brushed Rayne's chin. The period of mourning had just ended, and these nobles acted like they had been starved for color, pulling out all the stops for the gathering. Rayne leaned away to avoid a feather in the face, but her father's hand on her back kept her in place.
“Congratulations to you, Highness,” the woman said.
“Thank you, Lady Saurtail,” Rayne said. Her father had made her learn the names of all the Hail noble houses. These were the people who would support her against the rebels, who would send men to fight and supplies to see them through the war. He couldn't tell her the name of a single slave or servant in the castle, but he could name every noble by looks alone and tell her how large their holdings were.
Lady Saurtail moved away and was replaced by an older man in a jewel-toned tunic. The fox brooch pinning his cape identified him as Lord Corentin. The lord bowed low, showing the shiny bald spot on the top of his head, and then thrust a boy forward. He was Rayne's age or younger, with a stubby half-beard and ears too large for his head. His stringy hair was tied back in a knot with a bright blue ribbon.
“May I present my son and heir, Arnaud.” Rayne knew from her father's t
eachings that the Corentin family held the largest portion of land of any of the noble families and that their fighting force numbered in the thousands, compared to the hundreds that other families provided. Many of Danyll's bound wielders had fled to Shade, and with their loss, Hail needed all the help it could get. Her father had not made any mention of arranging a marriage. He seemed still surprised by Danyll's death and the loss of the Ashsky ally. But she knew he would soon be back to his plotting, and no eligible boy would be safe. But what did that mean to Lord Corentin? Would he hold his troops hostage while his son courted her?
Rayne swallowed her disgust—not at the boy but at the idea in general—and nodded her head. “Thank you for coming, Lords Corentin. Please.” She gestured to the dining hall to her right. The men bowed again and were hustled away by the steward.
All she wanted was to sit, but the receiving line stretched all the way to the doors. Everyone wanted to get into the good graces of the soon-to-be queen. After the meal was the coronation, and her father had turned the gathering into the celebration of the century. It was his attempt to put the horrible events of the last several months behind them, and a way to show his supporters that he was still in control.
The first week after Edlyn’s death had been the hardest. They had expected her to act like a princess even while Edlyn's blood had still been on her hands. Her father had hauled her out of bed every morning and taken her to the great hall where they sat vigil over Edlyn's decaying body. Rayne was there behind her black veil, but her mind was not. She didn't hear a single prayer muttered by the ever-present almoner, or a single condolence said by well-wishers. It had been a gruesome version of this very same receiving line.
It wasn't until her mother and Rin arrived on the seventh day and Emory Evensoar had taken her daughter into her arms that Rayne had finally cried, the tension unwinding into streams of tears. Her mother, who looked as young and beautiful as she had five years ago, had held Rayne tight and spoken in soothing tones while they left the great hall.
Stone-faced Rin had taken over the vigil without a word, his own way of silently supporting her. She hadn't recognized him at first. The Crowheart children had looked so similar in their youth, but his face had hardened. His nose was still too big, and his ears too small, but he had full lips that Rayne heard some of the servants tittering about, and an ever-present worry line between his eyebrows. He was changed in numerous ways, but when he had leaned over Edlyn and pressed his lips to their sister's forehead, Rayne had known him at once.
The rest of the mourning period had been easier for their presence, and the Crowheart family began to heal. Rayne had walked in on her parents in her father's solar, heads bent together, hands touching. Rin had fetched Rayne every morning and escorted her to vigil or to her father's solar where he forced her to learn everything that Edlyn had been learning all her life—the politics of Hail, its regions and families, the intricacies of its trade systems and financial situation. Numbers and names swam in her head, all the time pushed out by the memory of Edlyn's last moments, by the shame of what she had almost done and what she had let happen.
But the period of mourning was over, and custom dictated that she was no longer to fret over her sister's death. To do so would be to disrespect Enos and condemn Edlyn to a half-life between worlds. Rayne had to let her go, and so now, at the head of the receiving line, she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, graciously greeting her subjects. Her father was to her right, her mother beside him, while Rin mingled with the guests, playing the part of a foreign dignitary to the gushing nobles.
In spite of her determination to be the perfect princess, she was unprepared for the person who appeared next. A broad-shouldered woman from the southern region of Lueland moved aside to continue down the line, and Rayne found her gaze drawn to the back of the room, over the feathered heads of those still waiting to greet her. There, they fell upon a familiar figure.
Tierri had been woefully absent. She had told him to go, and he had obeyed. Now there he was, speaking in quiet conference with a guard at the back of the room, resplendent in a clean burgundy coat buckled up the front and a leather belt that held his sword at his hip. He wore traveling gloves, and his cloak was slung over his arm. His beard was fuller than she had seen it before, and he had cut his hair short enough that he could no longer tie it back and it fell instead in waves across his forehead and neck. Her fingers twitched with the desire to brush it away.
Rayne absently greeted yet another noble, only briefly glancing away from Tierri, but when she looked back, he was shaking the guard's hand in a way that looked strangely final. Then he turned and gave a small salute to the man before disappearing through the door. Her breath stuttered. Her father wasn't paying attention, and the next noblewoman, one of the last in line, was already dipping into a low curtsy, her eyes on the floor. Making a split second decision, Rayne jumped from the dais, landing beside the woman who pressed her hand to her chest in surprise as she hurriedly straightened.
“Highness—” the woman began to say, but Rayne was gone, gathering her skirt in her hands and running in long strides toward the back of the room.
“Rayne!” her father barked, but she was already at the door, slipping through the small opening Tierri had left. In the corridor she paused, breathing hard, her head swiveling to the right and then the left, catching a glimpse of someone disappearing around the corner. She ran again, her slippered feet making no noise on the stones. Around one corner, and then another, until finally, there he was, crossing through the foyer toward the looming wooden doors that marked the exit.
“General!” she shouted. A maid who had been carrying a stack of blankets across the foyer glanced her way and then hurried past wide-eyed while Rayne barreled across the room.
Tierri stopped and turned, but made no move toward her. “Princess,” he said when she was close enough, dipping into an elegant, formal bow.
“What are you doing?” She let her skirts fall back around her ankles, feeling foolish. Hadn't she told him to go? Wasn't he just following orders?
“I'm leaving,” he said simply. “When the prince…died…there was a flare, and then…” He held his hands out, palms up as if to show their emptiness. “Nothing. I don’t have a purpose here anymore. Your father has agreed to let me go free on the condition that I leave Hail.”
Though the cause of Danyll's death remained a mystery, it was clear that it was Tierri who had rallied the scattered guards after their leader's death, and Tierri who had saved Hail from the Knights. His reward was his banishment, barely disguised as freedom. He was still a Malstrom, after all.
“And you made it clear that you wanted me to go.”
Rayne blanched, remembering her words to him and the pain of loss as she had knelt beside her sister's body. “Yes,” she said, her voice a whisper. “I did.” Out of sight, out of mind. For her, for her father, for the whole kingdom.
His hand went to his pocket. When it emerged, he offered its contents to her. There sat two golden semi-circles, their edges ragged where they had cracked when Danyll's magic had died. “Don't feel bad, Princess. I spent my childhood in hiding and my adolescence in slavery. I'm free,” he said, “for the first time in my whole life.” He handed her one of the halves and as she reached for it, their fingers brushed and she felt it. The coil of magic in her stomach, a gust of wind against her neck, and she knew.
He was lying.
She schooled her face and took the warm metal into her hand. “Where will you go?” she asked, studying the band. It seemed so insubstantial. How was it possible for a trinket like this to hold such tremendous power?
“Perhaps to find my sister. The slave master's records indicate she was transported to Flagend and sold to a brothel in Silverton. Seems like a good place to start.”
Rayne didn't say that it was probably a hopeless journey, a wild goose chase around Casuin that would likely end in tears. Instead, she said, “I hope you find her.”
He
gave a curt nod, touching his temple with two fingers in farewell, and turned to go, but hesitated. She watched his head bob and his shoulders heave with a huge breath. Then he was back in front of her, clearing the small distance in two steps. His nearness made her pulse quicken. She could still feel his hands in her hair, his breath on her neck. She lifted a hand without thinking and brushed her fingers over her lips, remembering. Wanting.
“Tell me to stay.” His voice was husky, his head dipped low so that only she could hear, his dark eyes hidden behind sweeping bangs.
The words stirred something deep inside of Rayne that she struggled to push down. She tried to remember how it felt to lose her sister, to lose Madlin, to watch her father betray them all. To remember the danger of love. But she wanted to let him in, against all her better judgment.
“I'm burning up,” he whispered when she didn't answer. When he slipped a hand under her hair and grasped the back of her neck, his skin was warm as if it had been dipped in a fire. She gasped. Enos help her, she wanted him. When she had been with Merek, it was because she had wanted somebody, anybody. She had wanted to belong and feel accepted. But with Tierri, it wasn't a general longing, but a specific desire, one that made her heart race when he looked at her like he was looking at her now. “With the wanting. With the not knowing. But I will stay if you tell me to.”
Rayne's heart stuttered. The yes inside of her threatened to bubble to the surface, but she bit her lip to keep it inside. It was selfish and stupid, and she was a princess, a future queen. She would not beg. She would do what was best for him. “I can't. You're not a slave. You're not mine to command. I understand the need to see your sister safe. I cannot take her from you, knowing that grief myself. Knowing how it feels.” Her voice quaked and she stopped. She was supposed to be done mourning, but when Tierri pulled her head forward to press his lips to hers, the barely-disguised grief welled up inside of her and spilled out of her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks so that their kiss tasted as salty as sea water.
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