“Any idea when Alaric is due to arrive?”
“It could be anytime now.” Her face ripples with a shadow of concern. “Let us hope it is sooner rather than later. We could use his artillery at our backs.”
Soren stares at his sister for a long beat before his eyes shift again out to sea. The Frostlander longships are halfway across the bay, close enough that I can see the froth stirred up each time their oars dip into the swells, hear the rhythmic chants that carry across the water as hundreds of men grunt in concert.
Pull! Pull! Pull!
“We cannot count on timely arrivals to stave off this battle,” Soren says, voice low.
Arwen bristles. “I know that.”
“I never questioned otherwise.”
“They will strike here, at the anchorage, but I have deployed squadrons stretching all the way back to the beacons. The inner battlements are ready as well, though I doubt the longships willcome close enough to make use of the smaller cannons. The Frostlanders may be shit for brains, but even they are wise enough to stay beyond the spray.”
“And the Twins?” He jerks his chin toward the colossal cannons perched to either side of the sea gate.
“I leave their oversight in your capable hands, brother.” A smile creeps over her face. “I plan to greet these visitors personally.”
Soren shakes his head. “You cannot mount an aerial assault without another rider on your wing, covering your blind spots.”
Her shrug is unconcerned as she fixes her goggles over her eyes. “I can sure as hell try.”
“Arwen—”
“Atyr and I have faced worse odds, as you well know.”
His frown is severe. “Do not put your life at risk to prove some asinine point.”
She stills. “And what point would that be, brother?”
His voice lowers a shade, so none of the nearby soldiers can hear. “That this marriage will not change you. That being in love has not softened you.”
She glares at him, not dignifying his observation with a response.
“We could use you here, flying around the perimeter,” Soren reasons. “Ensuring no one makes landing at Vintners’ Cove or by the sea organ or at the Kettle.”
“The Hylian Guard is well trained. They will cover our weak spots well enough without me.” Her grin widens. “Besides, if things go my way, the Frostlanders will never get close enough to toss their spears.”
“Arwen—”
But she has already turned away from her brother. Bringing her hand to her lips, she lets out a sharp whistle. Then, in a movethat makes my heart seize inside my chest, she begins to run down the length of the balustrade, her feet nimble as they dance across the stone. With no railing to shield her, one wrong footfall will send her plummeting straight down into the sea below. A height so great no one—not even the strongest fae—seems likely to survive it.
“What is she doing?” I cry, horrified.
“Showing off,” Soren mutters. “As usual.”
There is a sudden gust of wind that makes every archer cover their eyes, such is its force. I think it will knock Arwen off-balance, but she does not fall. Instead, with a grin and a running start, sheleaps—straight off the balustrade’s edge, into thin air.
Chapter
sixteen
A scream gathers in my throat as Arwen plunges toward the water. It never makes it past my lips. For her descent is halted by a winged white horse, rising up to meet her.
Atyr.
Arwen lands in the saddle with a practiced maneuver, fingers delving deep into the flowing white mane, heels slamming home into the stirrups. She crows with pure delight as feathered wings pump her higher into the sky, sending gusts of air washing over everyone watching from the ramparts. A cheer goes up as the magnificent Paexyri steed coasts straight out to sea, into the direct path of the longships.