Uther’s steady gray eyes flash inside my mind, a painful bolt of memory. “Her husband. He was a member of the Ember Guild. A good man.”
“Oh.”
We round the corner of High Street and cross onto the wider avenue that leads toward the infirmary. Every building—the few that are still occupied—is shuttered against the night.
“Anyway. That’s why it’s so important to keep up your visits.” I force a brighter tone. “Come autumn, we’ll have a whole stock of medicinal herbs to treat our patients. We’re running low on just about everything and Osain isn’t one to share his personal stores.”
“Grumpy old bugger,” Lestyn mutters.
That is the truth.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. He is long legged for a lad, easily matching my strides. All too soon, he’ll be taller than me.
The barracks are abuzz with activity despite the hour. Foot soldiers in brown uniforms are streaming from their sleeping quarters, forming lines in front of the sparring pits. Their shields gleam in the torchlight, each bearing the sigil of Dyved—the flaming mountain. A dozen elite Ember Guild members are leading saddled horses from the stables, their deep maroon uniforms blending in with the darkness, their expressions solemn amid the chaos. I catch sight of a familiar face in their ranks and rush toward him.
“Farley!”
His head whips around at the sound of my voice. “Ace, what are you doing here?”
“That’s what I was about to ask you. Is there damage from the quake?”
“Minimal. It seems we were spared this time.”
“Then why the ruckus? It’s two hours till first light.”
“We’re headed out. Cadogan has called for reinforcements by the North Sea. Apparently the Frostlanders have been even more aggressive than usual.”
Behind me, Lestyn lets out a soft gasp. I grimace at the mention of Dyved’s eastern neighbor—an ice-capped, inhospitable wasteland inhabited by marauding pirates, whose lack of fertile land leaves them more inclined toward raiding unsuspecting enemies than growing crops of their own. Usually they turn their opportunistic gaze to lands across the sea. Judging by the armed brigade gathering before me, they are taking a look at plunder closer to home.
“Their longships have been spotted not far off the coast,” Farley continues. “They circle like vultures, thinking to strike when we are weak. We plan to remind them there is nothing weak about Dyvedi forces, even after Fyremas.” He pauses, voice dropping with intent. “Especiallyafter Fyremas.”
“Will they truly attack us?” Lestyn interjects, sounding scared.
Farley’s light green eyes flicker briefly to the boy. “Hard to say.”
“Surely they do not court a full-scale war,” I murmur.
“In the past, they have never been so foolish as to try. But we once thought the same about the Reavers. These are strange times. Our enemies seem just as unpredictable as the weather of late.”
I glance up at the dark sky. Even now, in the wee hours, the clouds are thick enough to obscure the stars. “Who will protect the city with all of you gone?”
“Why,youof course.” His expression turns playful. “For who would dare attack Caeldera with the mighty light bringer here to fry them where they stand?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I! Between you and Pendefyre, no one would dare attack the capital again. Fire and air, together? Only a fool would court such an incendiary end.”
Fire and air.
Together.
I very nearly snort, so absurd is the assumption. I have seen neither hide nor hair of the man in question since he returned from his most recent mission. He may now be back inside the crater, but if not for the bond, I would not know he was here at all.
“Even so,” Farley hurries to add, no doubt seeing my dubious expression, “Mabon will remain behind with his unit to secure the perimeters and patrol the surrounding lands until we return.”
“And when will that be? How long will you be away?”
“I don’t know. Could be a fortnight, could be a year.” Hislips tug up at one side. “Don’t look so forlorn, Ace. You’re damn near immortal, remember? Even if I hobble back home in a hundred years with gray in my hair and wrinkles at my temples, you’ll still be the picture of youth. If anyone should be sad, it’s me. I’m the one who’ll be sleeping on a moth-eaten bedroll for the foreseeable future. Nothing but cook-pot porridge and saddle rash await on the road.”