Whether Yrene noticed, he had no clue. She was too busy lunging for the saddle horn at any unexpected movements of the horse, too busy wincing as the mare increased her pace up a particularly steep street, causing her to sway and slide back in her saddle.
“Lean forward,” he instructed her. “Balance your weight.” He did the same—as much as the brace allowed.
Their horses slowly plowed up the streets, heads bobbing as they worked.
Yrene gave him a sharp glare. “I do know those things.”
He lifted his brows in a look that said, Could have fooled me.
She scowled, but faced ahead. Leaned forward, as he’d instructed her.
He’d been sleeping like the dead when Nesryn returned late last night—but she’d roused him long enough to say she hadn’t discovered anything in regard to potential Valg in the city. No sewers connected to the Torre, and with the heavy guard at the walls, no one was getting in that way. He’d managed to hold on to consciousness long enough to thank her, and hear her promise to keep hunting today.
But this cloudless, bright day … definitely not the Valg’s preferred darkness. Aelin had told him how the Valg princes could summon darkness for themselves—darkness that struck down any living creature in its path, draining them dry. But even one Valg in this city, regardless of whether they were a prince or an ordinary grunt …
Chaol pushed the thought from his mind, frowning up at the mammoth structure that grew more imposing with each street they crossed.
“Towers,” he mused, glancing toward Yrene. “Is it coincidence you bear that name, or did your ancestors once hail from the Torre?”
Her knuckles were white as she gripped the pommel, as if turning to look at him would send her toppling off. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “My—it was knowledge that I never learned.”
He considered the words, the way she squinted at the bright pillar of the tower ahead rather than meet his stare. A child of Fenharrow. He didn’t dare ask why she might not know the answer. Where her family was.
Instead, he jerked his chin to the ring on her finger. “Does the fake wedding band really work?”
She examined the ancient, scuffed ring. “I wish I could say otherwise, but it does.”
“You encounter that behavior here?” In this wondrous city?
“Very, very rarely.” She wriggled her fingers before settling them around the saddle’s pommel again. “But it’s an old habit from home.”
For a heartbeat, he recalled an assassin in a bloody white gown, collapsing at the entrance to the barracks. Recalled the poisoned blade the man had sliced her with—and had used with countless others.
“I’m glad,” he said after a moment. “That you don’t need to fear such things here.” Even the guards, for all their ogling, had been respectful. She’d even addressed one by name—and his returned warmth had been genuine.
Yrene clenched the saddle horn again. “The khagan holds all people accountable to the rule of the law, whether they’re servants or princes.”
It shouldn’t have been such a novel concept, yet … Chaol blinked. “Truly?”
Yrene shrugged. “As far as I have heard and observed. Lords cannot buy their way out of crimes committed, nor rely on their family names to bail them out. And would-be criminals in the streets see the exacting hand of justice and rarely dare to tempt it.” A pause. “Did you …”
He knew what she’d balked at asking. “I was ordered to release or look the other way for nobility who had committed crimes. At least, the ones who were of value in court and in the king’s armies.”
She studied the pommel before her. “And your new king?”
“He is different.”
If he was alive. If he had made it out of Rifthold. Chaol forced himself to add, “Dorian has long studied and admired the khaganate. Perhaps he’ll put some of its policies into effect.”
A long, assessing glance now. “Do you think the khagan will ally with you?”
He hadn’t told her that, but it was fairly obvious why he’d come, he supposed. “I can only hope.”
“Would his forces make that much of a difference against … the powers you mentioned?”
Chaol repeated, “I can only hope.” He couldn’t bring himself to voice the truth—that their armies were few and scattered, if they existed at all. Compared to the gathering might of Morath …
“What happened these months?” A quiet, careful question.
“Trying to trick me into talking?”
“I want to know.”
“It’s nothing worth telling.” His story wasn’t worth telling at all. Not a single part of it.
She fell silent, the clopping of their horses’ hooves the only sound for a block. Then, “You will need to talk about it. At some point. I … beheld glimpses of it within you yesterday.”
“Isn’t that enough?” The question was sharp as the knife at his side.
“Not if it is what the thing inside you feeds on. Not if claiming ownership of it might help.”
“And you’re so certain of this?” He should mind his tongue, he knew that, but—
Yrene straightened in her saddle. “The trauma of any injury requires some internal reflection during the healing and aftermath.”
“I don’t want it. Need it. I just want to stand—to walk again.”
She shook her head.
He charged on, “And what about you, then? How about we make a deal: you tell me all your deep, dark secrets, Yrene Towers, and I’ll tell you mine.”
Indignation lit those remarkable eyes as she glared at him. He glared right back.
Finally, Yrene snorted, smiling faintly. “You’re as stubborn as an ass.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he countered, the beginnings of a smile tugging on his mouth.
“I’m not surprised.”
Chaol chuckled, catching the makings of a grin on her face before she ducked her head to hide it. As if sharing one with a son of Adarlan were such a crime.
Still, he eyed her for a long moment—the humor lingering on her face, the heavy, softly curling hair that was occasionally caught in the morning breeze off the sea. And found himself still smiling as something coiled tight in his chest began to loosen.
They rode the rest of the way to the Torre in silence, and Chaol tipped his head back as they neared, walking down a broad, sunny avenue that sloped upward to the hilltop complex.
The Torre was even more dominating up close.
It was broad, more of a keep than anything, but still rounded. Buildings flanked its sides, connected on lower levels. All enclosed by towering white walls, the iron gates—fashioned to look like an owl spreading its wings—thrown wide to reveal lavender bushes and flower beds lining the sand-colored gravel walkways. Not flower beds. Herb beds.
The smells of them opening to the morning sun filled his nose: basil and mint and sage and more of that lavender. Even their horses, hooves crunching on the walkways, seemed to sigh as they approached.
Guards in what he assumed were Torre colors—cornflower blue and yellow—let them pass without question, and Yrene bowed her head in thanks. They did not look at her legs. Did not either dare or have the inclination to disrespect. Chaol glanced away from them before he could meet their questioning stares.
Yrene took the lead, guiding them through an archway and into the complex courtyard. Windows of the three-story building wrapped around the courtyard gleamed with the light of the rising sun, but inside the courtyard itself …
Beyond the murmur of awakening Antica outside the compound, beyond the hooves of their horses on the pale gravel, there was only the gurgle of twin fountains anchored against parallel walls of the courtyard—their spouts shaped like screeching owl beaks, spewing water into deep basins below. Pale pink and purple flowers lined the walls between lemon trees, the beds tidy but left to grow as the plants willed.
It was one of the more serene places he had ever laid eyes on. And watching them approach … Two dozen women in dresses of every color—though most of the simple make Yrene favored.
They stood in neat rows on the gravel, some barely more than children, some well into their prime. A few were elderly.
Including one woman, dark-skinned and white-haired, who strode from the front of the line and smiled broadly at Yrene. It was not a face that had ever held any beauty, but there was a light in the woman’s eyes—a kindness and serenity that made Chaol blink in wonder.
All the others watched her, as if she were the axis around which they were ordered. Even Yrene, who smiled at the woman as she dismounted, looking grateful to be off the mare. One of the guards who had trailed them in came to retrieve the horse, but hesitated as Chaol remained astride.
Chaol ignored the man as Yrene finger-combed her tangled hair and spoke to the ancient woman in his tongue. “I take it the good crowd this morning is thanks to you?” Light words—perhaps an attempt at normalcy, considering what had happened in the library.
The old woman smiled—such warmth. She was brighter than the sun peeking above the compound walls. “The girls heard a rumor of a handsome lord coming to teach. I was practically trampled in the stampede down the stairs.”
She cast a wry grin to three red-faced girls, no older than fifteen, who looked guiltily at their shoes. And then shot looks at him beneath their lashes that were anything but.
Chaol stifled a laugh.
Yrene turned to him, assessing the brace and the saddle as the crunch of approaching wheels on gravel filled the courtyard.
The amusement faded. Dismounting in front of these women …
Enough.
The word sounded through him.
If he could not endure it in front of a group of the world’s best healers, then he would deserve to suffer. He had offered his help. He would give it.
For indeed, there were some younger girls in the back who were pale. Shifting on their feet. Nervous.
This sanctuary, this lovely place … A shadow had crept over it.
He would do what he could to push it back.
“Lord Chaol Westfall,” Yrene said to him, gesturing to the ancient woman, “may I present Hafiza, Healer on High of the Torre Cesme.”
One of the blushing girls sighed at the sound of his name.
Yrene’s eyes danced. But Chaol inclined his head to the old woman as she extended her hands up to him. The skin was leathery—as warm as her smile. She squeezed his fingers tightly. “As handsome as Yrene said.”
“I said no such thing,” Yrene hissed.
One of the girls giggled.
Yrene cut her a warning look, and Chaol lifted his brows before saying to Hafiza, “It is an honor and a pleasure, my lady.”
“So dashing,” one of the girls murmured behind him.
Wait until you see my dismount, he almost said.
Hafiza squeezed his hands once more and dropped them. She faced Yrene. Waiting.
Yrene only clapped her hands together and said to the girls assembled, “Lord Westfall has suffered a severe injury to his lower spine and finds walking difficult. Yesterday, Sindra in the workshop crafted this brace for him, based upon the designs from the horse-tribes in the steppes, who have long dealt with such injuries for their riders.” She waved a hand to indicate his legs, the brace.
With every word, his shoulders stiffened. More and more.
“If you are faced with a patient in a similar situation,” Yrene went on, “the freedom of riding may be a pleasant alternative to a carriage or palanquin. Especially if they were used to a certain level of independence beforehand.” She added upon consideration, “Or even if they have faced mobility difficulties their entire lives—it may provide a positive option while you heal them.”
Little more than an experiment. Even the blushing girls had lost their smiles as they studied the brace. His legs.
Yrene asked them, “Who should like to assist Lord Westfall from his mount to his chair?”
A dozen hands shot up.
He tried to smile. Tried and failed.
Yrene pointed at a few, who rushed over. None looked up at him above the waist, or even bid him good morning.
Yrene lifted her voice as they crowded around her, making sure those assembled in the courtyard could also hear. “For patients completely immobilized, this may not be an option, but Lord Westfall retains the ability to move above his waist and can steer the horse with the reins. Balance and safety, of course, remain concerns, but another is that he retains use and sensation of his manhood—which also presents a few hiccups regarding the comfort of the brace itself.”
One of the younger girls let out a giggle at that, but most only nodded, looking directly at the area indicated, as if he had no clothes on whatsoever. Face heating, Chaol restrained the urge to cover himself.
Two young healers began unstrapping the brace, some examining the buckles and rods. Still they did not look him in the eye. As if he were some new toy—new lesson. Some oddity.
Yrene merely went on, “Mind you don’t jostle him too much when you—careful.”
He fought to keep his features distant, found himself missing the guards from the palace. Yrene gave the girls firm, solid directions as they tugged him down from the saddle.
He didn’t try to help the acolytes, or fight them, when they pulled at his arms, someone going to steady his waist, the world tilting as they hauled him downward. But the weight of his body was too great, and he felt himself slide farther from the saddle, the drop to the ground looming, the sun a brand on his skin.
The girls grunted, someone going to the other side to help move his leg up and over the horse—or he thought so. He only knew it because he saw her head of curls just peek over the horse’s side. She pushed, jutting his leg upward, and he hung there, three girls gritting their teeth while they tried to lower him, the others watching in observational silence—
One of the girls let out an oomph and lost her grip on his shoulder. The world plunged—
Strong, unfaltering hands caught him, his nose barely half a foot from the pale gravel as the other girls shuffled and grunted, trying to heft him up again. He’d come free of the horse, but his legs were now sprawled beneath him, as distant from him as the very top of the Torre, high above.
Roaring filled his head.
A sort of nakedness crept over him. Worse than sitting in his undershorts for hours. Worse than the bath with the servant.
Yrene, gripping his shoulder from where she’d just barely caught him in time, said to the healers, “That could have been better, girls. A great deal better, for many reasons.” A sigh. “We can discuss what went wrong later, but for now, move him to the chair.”
He could barely stand to hear her, listen to her, as he hung between those girls, most of whom were half his weight. Yrene stepped aside to let the girl who’d dropped him back into place, whistling sharply.
Wheels hissed on gravel from nearby. He didn’t bother to look at the wheeled chair that an acolyte pushed closer. Didn’t bother to speak as they settled him in it, the chair shuddering beneath his weight.
“Careful.” Yrene warned again.
The girls lingered, the rest of the courtyard still watching. Had it been seconds or minutes since this ordeal had begun? He clenched the arms of the chair as Yrene rattled off some directions and observations. Clenched the arms harder as one of the girls stooped to touch his booted feet, to arrange them for him.
Words rose up his throat, and he knew they’d burst from him, knew he could do little to stop his bellow to back off as that acolyte’s fingers neared the dusty black leather—
Withered brown hands landed on the girl’s wrist, halting her mere inches away.
Hafiza said calmly, “Let me.”
The girls peeled back as Hafiza stooped to help him instead.
“Get the ladies ready, Yrene,” Hafiza said over a slim shoulder, and Yrene obeyed, ushering them back into their lines.