“Stop.”
“Stop what? I’m not doing anything.”
“You will not toy with her emotions like you did—” Penn breaks off, his voice strained. “For fuck’s sake, Soren. This isn’t a game. And she isn’t Enid.”
“I know she’s not,” Soren says carefully. “Do you?”
Penn’s hand tightens on mine so hard the bones grind together. I loose a tiny whimper of protest and he instantly eases his grip. Soren’s eyes cut toward me at the sound, so blue they make the sky look watered down. I try to glance away, but I can’t manage to—not until Penn physically turns me around and leads me down the front walk. Onyx, ever loyal, shadows our steps.
We make it more than halfway to the waiting company of soldiers before Soren calls after us.
“One last thing, little skylark,” he practically purrs in that voice that flows like water over a bed of smoothest stones. “Careful with the princeling. His temper burns hot. I’d hate to see your wings scorched before you ever get a chance to fly.”
I do notlook back as we leave the Acrine Hold behind.
We ride in silence, Penn forgoing his other mount to sit with me on Onyx. He presses close at my back, his arm so tight aroundmy middle it is difficult to draw breath. As though he thinks I might disappear again if he lets go for even an instant.
He had not said a word to me—except for a gruff “Are you hurt?” and a brief murmur of assent when I assured him I was perfectly unharmed—before he boosted me up into the saddle and spurred us away.
I allow myself to melt back into his chest, the heat from his body keeping me warm along with the thick blue velvet cloak. Deep exhaustion tugs at me relentlessly. The conversation with Soren, followed by the confrontation with Penn, is proving too much for my worn-out body and mind. I need to crawl into bed and sleep for a week if I am ever going to be able to properly sort through all I’ve learned today.
After a few moments, we come to a fork in the road, the single route splitting into three. The first leads up into the snowy peaks, an ice-encased incline that I send out a silent prayer we will not take. I’ve had my fill of mountains. The second diverges sharply southward, past several low-slung soldiers’ barracks, to what I discern must be the infamous Avian Strait—that narrow, bloody pass where so many hopeful armies have found themselves crushed beneath the weight of Soren’s bootheel. The third goes northwest, a flat, winding route that snakes along the sliver of neutral territory at the base of the range.
It’s the third that we take.
The midafternoon sun is already beginning to tilt toward the horizon. We chase it as it sinks across the sky, a handspan for each hour spent on the road. Our pace is achingly slow, a plodding clop set by the men on foot, who march in orderly rows behind us. Nothing like our frantic flight across the summit.
With the full Ember Guild at our backs, there is no possibility of discretion. There is also no need for it. If the spectacle offorce does not scare away any potential enemies, the swords sheathed over their shoulders surely will.
Jac keeps pace to our left, looking uncharacteristically solemn as he rides. Uther and Mabon flank our other side, riding a set of tan mounts. I wonder what happened to the feather-footed draft horses they rode into battle. I hope they made it through the wildfire.
I want to ask—about the horses, about the turn of events that led them to Soren’s doorstep—but swallow my curiosity. The tense atmosphere is not conducive to idle chitchat. None of the men seem up for conversation. They are far too busy scanning our surroundings for incoming threats.
It’s a shame, for I could use a distraction. The inside of my head is not a particularly comforting place to be at the moment. After weeks spent parched for even the smallest drop of information, I suddenly find myself drowning in it. My thoughts stray to Soren almost as often as they turn to the man pressed against my spine.
Two vastly different men, with vastly different temperaments. One a crackling ember of temper, the other a fathomless, mercurial undercurrent. No wonder they butt heads with such vehemence. The only thing on which they seem in total alignment is their utter dislike for each other.
There is history there—a scarred one, at that. Whatever happened between them, whatever has shredded their association into the combative rivalry they are so intent on perpetuating, seems to involve one of the previous wind weavers.
Enid.
The name echoes in the furthest recesses of my mind, prompting so many questions I have no choice but to bury them all deep; otherwise I risk losing my grip on reality. I keep my attention fixed on the minutiae of the road as we trudge onward. League after league, hour after hour.
Eventually, when my exhaustion proves itself too strong to overcome, I drift mercifully into unconsciousness. I do not dream—not of the dark sea, nor of anything else.
My eyes snapopen when we jolt to a stop.
Full night has fallen while I dozed. Light flickers from lampposts lining the courtyard of a town house on the main street of an unfamiliar town. All around me, men are dismounting and disassembling. Hooves clatter as horses are led away to the stables; boots crunch on snowy pavestones as the large company of soldiers breaks apart into smaller clusters of two or three. The men melt into the dusky night like shadows—some slipping through the front gates, following the boisterous sounds of music that leak from the center of town; others taking up guard posts on the perimeter of the courtyard and the property beyond. I do not see Mabon, Jac, or Uther anywhere.
“Are you awake?” Penn asks hoarsely. His arm is still tight around my middle.
“I’m awake.”
He slides from the saddle, then reaches up to help me down. His hands do not linger at my waist for longer than a breath. Still, I feel his touch through the gauzy layers of my gown, through every corner of my tired body. My muscles ache, stiff from the ride, but I swallow my protests as he laces his fingers with mine and pulls me up the walk.
The house is gray with black shutters, every one of which is bolted firmly—against the cold, against intruders, against curious eyes from the street, where townsfolk stroll beneath the lamplight, shopping and socializing despite the late hour.
“Where are we?”