Perhaps she shouldn’t have raced him. She hadn’t even remembered who’d reached the oasis border anyway. She’d been too busy laughing, feeling as if she were coming out of her body and would likely never feel that way again. Too busy looking at his face, filled with such light.
Chaol paused at his tent flaps, cane wobbling, as if he’d put far more weight on it than he let on. But it was the relief in his face as he asked, “Your tent or mine?” that made her worry—just a tad.
“Mine,” she said, aware of the servants and nobility who likely had no idea she was even the cause of this excursion, but who would happily report her comings and goings. He nodded, and she monitored each rise and placement of his legs, the shifting of his torso, the way he leaned on that cane.
As Chaol edged past her and into the tent, he murmured in her ear, “I won, by the way.”
Yrene glanced toward the sun now making its descent and felt her core tighten in answer.
He was sore but could thankfully still walk by the time Yrene finished her thorough examination. And set of soothing stretches for his legs and back. And massage.
Chaol had the distinct feeling she was toying with him, even as her hands remained chaste. Uninterested.
She even had the nerve to call for a servant to ask for a jug of water.
The tent was fit for the princess who usually occupied it. A large bed lay in the center upon a raised platform, the floors covered with ornate rugs. Sitting areas were scattered throughout, along with a curtained-off washing-up and privy, and there was gold everywhere.
Either the servants had brought it with them yesterday, or the people of this land so feared the wrath of the khaganate that they didn’t dare rob this place. Or were so well-cared for they didn’t need to.
The others were all in the oasis pool by the time he shrugged on his now-dry clothes and they emerged to seek out their quarry.
They’d whispered in the tent—neither of them had spotted anything of interest upon arrival. And in the oasis pool, definitely no indication of a cave or ruins near the bathing royals and their friends. Comfortable, relaxed. Free, in ways that Adarlan had never been, to its detriment. He wasn’t naive enough to think that no scheming or intrigue was now playing out in the cool waters, but he’d never heard of Adarlanian nobles going to a swimming hole and enjoying themselves.
Though he certainly wondered what the hell Hasar was thinking in throwing such a party for Yrene, manipulated into it or no, considering the princess was well aware Yrene barely knew most of those gathered.
Yrene hesitated at the edge of the clearing and glanced at him beneath lowered lashes—a look anyone might interpret as shy. A woman perhaps hesitant to strip down to the light clothes they wore in the waters. Letting any onlookers forget that she was a healer and wholly used to far more skin showing. “I find I’m not up to bathing,” Yrene murmured over the laughter and splashing of those within the oasis waters. “Care for a walk?”
Pleasant, polite words as she inclined her head through the few acres of untamed jungle sprawling to the left. She didn’t think herself a courtier, but she could certainly lie well enough. He supposed that as a healer, it was a skill that proved useful.
“It would be my pleasure,” Chaol said, offering his arm.
Yrene hesitated again, the portrait of modesty—peering over her shoulder at those in the pool. The royals watching. Kashin included.
He would let her choose when and how to make it clear to the prince—again—that she was not interested. Though he couldn’t avoid a faint tinge of guilt as she looped her arm through his and they stepped into the murkiness of the oasis jungle.
Kashin was a good man. Chaol doubted his words about being willing to go to war were lies. And to risk antagonizing the prince by perhaps flaunting what he had with Yrene … Chaol glanced sidelong at her, his cane digging into the roots and soft soil. She offered him a faint smile, cheeks still flushed with the sun.
To hell with worrying over antagonizing Kashin.
The oasis spring’s gurgling blended with the sighing palms overhead as they headed deeper between the fauna, picking their own way—no direction in mind. “In Anielle,” he said, “there are dozens of hot springs along the valley floor, near the Silver Lake. Kept warm by the vents in the earth. When I was a boy, we’d often soak in them after a day of training.”
She asked carefully, as if realizing that he’d indeed offered up this piece of him, “Was it that training that inspired you to join the guard?”
His voice was thick as he finally said, “Part of it. I was just … good at it. Fighting and fencing and archery and all of it. I received the training that was befitting for the heir of a lord to a mountain people who had long fended off wild men from the Fangs. But my real training began when I arrived in Rifthold and joined the royal guard.”
She slowed while he navigated around a tricky nest of roots, letting him focus on where to place his feet and the cane.
“I suppose being stubborn and bullheaded made you a good pupil for the discipline aspect.”
Chaol chuckled, nudging her with his elbow. “It did. I was the first one on the training pitch and the last one off. Even though I was walloped every single day.” His chest tightened as he remembered their faces, those men who had trained him, who had pushed and pushed him, left him limping and bleeding, and then made sure he got patched up in the barracks that night. Usually with a hearty meal and a clap on the back.
And it was in honor of those men, his brothers, that he said hoarsely, “They weren’t all bad men, Yrene. The ones I … I grew up with, whom I commanded … They were good men.”
He saw Ress’s laughing face, the blush the young guard could never hide around Aelin. His eyes burned.
Yrene stopped, the oasis humming around them, and his back and legs were more than grateful for the reprieve as she removed her arm from his. Touched his cheek. “If they are partially responsible for you being … you,” she said, rising up to brush her mouth against his, “then I believe that they are.”
“Were,” he breathed.
And there it was. That one word, swallowed by the loam and shade of the oasis, that he could barely stand. Were.
He could still retreat—retreat from this invisible precipice now before them. Yrene remained standing close, a hand resting over his heart, waiting for him to decide whether to speak.
And maybe it was only because she held her hand over his heart that he whispered, “They were tortured for weeks this spring. Then butchered and left to hang from the castle gates.”
Grief and horror guttered in her eyes. He could hardly stomach it as he managed to go on, “Not one of them broke. When the king and—others …” He could not bring himself to finish. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, to face that suspicion and likely truth. “When they questioned the guards about me. Not a single one of them broke.”
He didn’t have the words for it—that courage, that sacrifice.
Yrene’s throat bobbed, and she cupped his cheek.
And Chaol finally breathed, “It was my fault. The king—he did it to punish me. For running, for helping the rebels in Rifthold. He … it was all because of me.”
“You can’t blame yourself.” Simple, honest words.
And utterly untrue.
They snapped him back into himself, more effectively than a thrown bucket of cold water.
Chaol pushed out of her touch.
He shouldn’t have told her, shouldn’t have brought it up. On her birthday, gods above. While they were supposed to focus on finding any sort of scrap of information that might help them.
He’d brought his sword and dagger, and as he limped into the palms and ferns, leaving Yrene to follow, he checked to ensure they were both still buckled at his waist. Checked them because he had to do something with his shaking hands, his raw insides.
He folded the words, the memories back into himself. Deeper. Sealed them away as he counted his weapons, one after another.
Yrene only trailed him, saying nothing while they picked their way deeper into the jungle. The entire site was larger than many villages, and yet little of the green had been tamed—certainly no path to be found, or indication of a city of the dead beneath them.
Until fallen pale pillars began to appear between the roots and bushes. A good sign, he supposed. If there were a cave, it might be nearby—perhaps as some ancient dwelling.
But the level of architecture they climbed over and walked around, forcing him to select his steps carefully …“These weren’t some cave-dwelling people who buried their dead in holes,” he observed, cane scraping over the ancient stone.
“Hasar said it was a city of the dead.” Yrene frowned at the ornate columns and slabs of carved stone, crusted with forest life. “A sprawling necropolis, right beneath our feet.”
He studied the jungle floor. “But I thought the khagan’s people left their dead under the open sky in the heart of their home territory.”
“They do.” Yrene ran her hands over a pillar carved with animals and strange creatures. “But … this site predates the khaganate. The Torre and Antica, too. To whoever was here before.” A set of crumbling steps led to a platform where the trees had grown through the stone itself, knocking over carved columns in their wake. “Hasar claimed the tunnels are all clever traps. Either designed to keep looters out—or keep the dead inside.”
Despite the heat, the hair on his arms rose. “You’re telling me this now?”