“With all due respect, General,” Farley retorts, “last I checked, you did not command the Ember Guild.”
“But I do oversee the legion of foot soldiers who march with you. No doubt that is why you chose to depart in the middle of the night.” His gloved hands tighten on the reins. “So I ask again—on whose orders do you march north?”
“The king’s.”
A bitter scoff sounds in the night. “I see no king here.”
Farley’s mouth goes slack. A ripple of unease cuts through the gathered cavalry as Yale’s words are repeated in hushed whispers and low grunts, spreading down the row of mounted Ember Guild fighters, gaining momentum as they move through the lines of foot soldiers who now wait, solemn and still, for permission to walk on. My own face pales. This is tantamount to open rebellion. To question the orders of the king shows a blatant disregard for the sovereign himself, as well as a more sweeping disdain for anyone who seeks to supplant the general’s authority.
I wish, with a fervency that surprises me, that Yale had not been among the survivors pulled from the wreckage of the palace after the turrets came down. If anyone deserved to perish beneath tons of rubble and stone, it was him. He, who did not even fight with us in the streets, driving back the enemy with blade and bow. He, who instead hid in the safety of the keep as his battalions bled and died at the end of Reaver axes.
This is the man who now feels entitled to question Pendefyre’s motivations? To sow seeds of doubt among his men?
No.
An uncontrollable surge of anger sweeps through me. I’ve taken several steps out of the shadows before I am even conscious of moving, my head craning backward to meet Yale’s eyes, my voice cracking out like a whip.
“Careful, General. For someone who clambers so desperately for power, you seem perilously close to forfeiting yours.”
His cutting gaze fixes on me immediately, gaining a vulturine edge. His mouth twists—half malice, half anticipation. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Champion of Caeldera. I assumed you’d abandoned the city, I’ve seen so little of you. One might think you were avoiding my presence.”
My teeth gnash. “For me to avoid you, I’d first need to consider your whereabouts. I don’t make a habit of wasting my energy on such inconsequential matters.”
Yale’s cold stare chills to a temperature that rivals the Cimmerian summit. Digging his knees into his horse’s sides to spur it into motion, he begins to circle slowly around me. I keep still, refusing to pivot with him, my gaze locked straight ahead. Farley and the rest of the soldiers look on, increasingly nervous. Their muffled shuffles are overshadowed by the steady clop of the stallion’s hoofbeats against the cobblestones.
“None of this concerns you, wind weaver,” Yale booms, loud enough for all to hear. “You may have wormed your way into Pendefyre’s close counsel, but you have no authority here.”
“Nor do you,” I counter.
“Perhaps not over the Ember Guild, but the army is mine. And my foot soldiers will not be marching anywhere tonight—or any night—without my categorical permission.”
I curl my hands into fists, trying to contain my anger. At my chest, my Remnant coils with serpentine menace, promising to put a lethal end to this conversation whenever I see fit.
You could send him flying into the stone wall with one flick of your wrist,a sinuous voice inside me whispers.You could toss him the length of the sparring pits in the span of a single heartbeat. You could summon a power that would shatter his bones. You could starve the air from his lungs until he mottles purple with death.
I shove down the voice and find my own. “Your orders are overridden, General. The king—”
“As I said, I see no king here.”
“Then I suggest you look harder.”
His brows shoot up, almost comically. “What did you say, girl?”
“Look,”I enunciate.“Harder.”
The words have no sooner left my mouth than the hoofbeats become apparent to all within earshot. They ring out in the night, a violent bellwether. A shiver of awareness races down my spine as I, along with everyone else on the street, turn to watch the King of Dyved steer his stallion out of the shadows, surely as if I have conjured him. And perhaps in a way I have. The bond between us is a precarious thing when emotions spill over unbidden. Penn seems incapable of feeling my distress without seeking out the cause and, whenever possible, mitigating it.
I had sensed his imminent approach, but still find myself affected by the sight of him. He cuts a foreboding figure against the harsh backdrop of night. Clad in all black, from the hilt of the broadsword sheathed across his back to the tips of his worn leather boots, it is difficult to see where his form ends and that of Onyx, his huge ebony stallion, begins.
“Soldiers,” he bellows at the waiting battalion as he rides past. “On your way!”
The unit responds instantly, resuming their march down King’s Avenue without another moment of hesitation. The Ember Guild is quick to follow, spurring their mounts into motion, taking up the rear of the procession toward the tunnel that leads out of the crater. Farley winks at me, a half smile playing at his lips, as his speckled mare passes by.
Penn pulls Onyx sharply to a halt beside me. The bond between us thrums like a lute string.
“General,” he greets curtly.
Yale, who has finally ceased his slow circling, bows his head in a mockery of respect. “King Pendefyre.”