Chaol shot up from the couch, and Yrene watched him pace. “There was a tapestry. In Aelin’s old room. A tapestry that showed a stag, and hid the entrance that led down to the tomb where the Wyrdkey had been hidden by Brannon. It was Aelin’s first clue that set her down this path.”
“And?” The word was a push of air.
“And there was an owl on it amongst the forest animals. It was Athril’s form. Not Brannon’s. All of that was coded—the tapestry, the tomb. Symbols upon symbols. But the owl … We never thought. Never considered.”
“Considered what?”
Chaol halted in the middle of the room. “That the owl might not just be Athril’s animal form, but his sigil because of his loyalty to someone else.”
And despite the warm day, Yrene’s blood chilled as she said, “Silba.”
Chaol nodded slowly. “Goddess of Healing.”
Yrene whispered, “Mala did not make that ring of immunity.”
“No. She didn’t.”
Silba did.
“We need to go to Hafiza,” Yrene said softly. “Even if she won’t let us take the books, we should ask her to look at them—see for ourselves what might have survived all this time. What those Fae healers might have learned in that war.”
He motioned her to rise. “We’ll go now.”
But the suite doors opened, and Hasar breezed in, her gold-and-green dress flowing.
“Well,” she said, smirking at their lack of clothes, their disheveled hair. “At least you two are comfortable.”
Yrene had the sense the world was about to be knocked from beneath her as the princess smiled at Chaol. “We’ve had some news. From your lands.”
“What is it.” The words were ground out.
Hasar picked at her nails. “Oh, just that Queen Maeve’s armada managed to find the host Aelin Galathynius has been so sneakily patching together. There was quite the battle.”
59
Chaol debated strangling the smirking princess. But he managed to keep his hands at his sides, managed to keep his chin high despite the fact that he was only wearing his pants, and said, “What. Happened.”
A naval battle. Aelin against Maeve. He waited for the dangling sword to drop. If he had been too late—
Hasar looked up from her nails. “It was a spectacle, apparently. A Fae armada versus a cobbled-together human force—”
“Hasar, please,” Yrene murmured.
The princess sighed at the ceiling. “Fine. Maeve was trounced.”
Chaol sank onto the sofa.
Aelin—thank the gods Aelin had managed to find a way—
“Though there were some interesting details.” Then the princess rattled off the facts. The numbers. A third of Maeve’s armada, bearing Whitethorn flags, had turned on their own and joined Terrasen’s fleet. Dorian had fought—held the front lines with Rowan. Then a pack of wyverns had soared in from nowhere—to fight for Aelin.
Manon Blackbeak. Chaol would be willing to bet his life that somehow, either through Aelin or Dorian, that witch had done them a favor, and possibly altered the course of this war.
“The magic, they say, was impressive,” Hasar went on. “Ice and wind and water.” Dorian and Rowan. “Even rumor of a shape-shifter.” Lysandra. “But no darkness. Or whatever Maeve fights with. And no flame.”
Chaol braced his forearms on his knees.
“Though some reports claim they spotted flame and shadow on shore—far away. Flickers of both. There and gone. And no one spotted Aelin or the Dark Queen in the fleet.”
It would have been like Aelin, to shift the battle between her and Maeve to the shore. To minimize casualties, so she could unleash her full power without hesitation.
“As I said,” Hasar continued, fluffing the skirts of her dress, “They were victorious. Aelin was spotted returning to her armada hours later. They’ve set sail—north, apparently.”
He muttered a prayer of thanks to Mala. And a prayer of thanks to whatever god watched over Dorian, too. “Any major casualties?”
“To their men, yes, but not to any of the interesting players,” Hasar said, and Chaol hated her. “But Maeve … there and gone, not a whisper of her left.” She frowned at the windows. “Maybe she’ll sail here to lick her wounds.”
Chaol prayed that wouldn’t be the case. Yet if Maeve’s armada still sat in the Narrow Sea when they took the crossing … “But the others sail north now—to where?” Where can I find my king, my brother?
“I’d assume Terrasen, now that Aelin has her armada. Oh, and another one.”
Hasar smiled at him. Waiting for the question—the plea.
“What other armada,” Chaol forced himself to ask.
Hasar shrugged, walking from the room. “Turns out, Aelin called in a debt. To the Silent Assassins of the Red Desert.”
Chaol’s eyes burned.
“And to Wendlyn.”
His hands began shaking.
“How many ships,” he breathed.
“All of them,” Hasar said, hand on the door. “All of Wendlyn’s armada came, commanded by Crown Prince Galan himself.”
Aelin … Chaol’s blood sparked, and he looked to Yrene. Her eyes were wide, bright. Bright with hope—burning, precious hope.
“Turns out,” Hasar mused, as if it were a passing thought, “there are quite a few people who think highly of her. And who believe in what she’s selling.”
“Which is what?” Yrene whispered.
Hasar shrugged. “I assume it’s what she tried to sell to me, when she wrote me a message weeks ago, asking for my aid. From one princess to another.”
Chaol took a shuddering breath. “What did Aelin promise you?”
Hasar smiled to herself. “A better world.”
60
Chaol was bristling beside Yrene as they hurried through Antica’s narrow streets, crammed with people going home for the night. Not with rage, she realized, but purpose.
Aelin had mustered an army, and if they could join with them, bring some force from the khaganate … Yrene beheld the hope in his eyes. The focus.
A fool’s shot at this war. But only if they could convince the royals.
One last push, he declared to her as they entered the cool interior of the Torre and hurried up the stairs. He didn’t care if he had to crawl in front of the khagan. He would make one last attempt at convincing him.
But first: Hafiza. And the books that might contain a far more valuable weapon than swords or arrows: knowledge.
His steps did not falter as they wound up the endless interior of the Torre. Even with all that weighed on them, Chaol still murmured in her ear, “No wonder those legs of yours are so pretty.”
Yrene batted him off, her face heating. “Cad.”
At this hour, most of the acolytes were already heading down to dinner. Several beamed at Chaol as they passed him on the stairs, some younger ones giggling. He gave them all warm, indulgent smiles that sent them into further fits.
Hers. He was hers, Yrene wanted to crow at them. This beautiful, brave, selfless man—he was hers.
And she was going home with him.
It was that thought that sobered her slightly. The sense that these endless hikes up the interior of the Torre might now be limited. That she might not smell the lavender and baked bread for a long time. Not hear those giggles.
Chaol’s hand brushed hers as if to say he understood. Yrene only gripped his fingers tightly. Yes, she would leave a part of herself here. But what she took with her upon leaving … Yrene was smiling when they at last reached the top of the Torre.
Chaol panted, bracing a hand on the wall of the landing. Hafiza’s office door was cracked open, letting in the last of the sunset. “Whoever built this thing was a sadist.”
Yrene laughed, knocking on Hafiza’s office door and pushing it open. “That would be Kamala. And rumor says she—” Yrene halted, finding the Healer on High’s office empty.
She edged around him on the landing, striding for the workroom—the door ajar. “Hafiza?”
No answer, but she pushed open the door anyway.
Empty. That bookcase, mercifully, still locked.
Likely making rounds, or at dinner, then. Though they’d seen everyone coming down after the dinner bell’s summons, and Hafiza hadn’t been among them.
“Wait here,” Yrene said, and bounded down the stairs to the next landing, a level above Yrene’s own room.
“Eretia,” she said, stepping into the small room.
The healer grunted in answer. “Saw a nice backside walk past here a moment ago.”
Chaol’s cough sounded from above.
Yrene snorted, but said, “Do you know where Hafiza is?”
“In her workroom.” The woman didn’t so much as turn. “She’s been in there all day.”
“You’re … certain?”
“Yes. Saw her go in, shut the door, and she hasn’t come out.”
“The door was open just now.”
“Then she likely slipped past me.”
Without saying a word? That wasn’t Hafiza’s nature.
Yrene scratched her head, scanning the landing behind her. The few doors on it. She didn’t bother saying good-bye to Eretia before knocking on them. One was empty; the other healer told her the same: Hafiza was in her workroom.
Chaol was waiting atop the stairs when Yrene climbed back up. “No luck?”
Yrene tapped her foot on the ground. Perhaps she was paranoid, but …
“Let’s check the mess hall,” was all she said.
She caught the gleam in Chaol’s eyes. The worry—and warning.
They went down two levels until Yrene halted on her own landing.
Her door was shut—but there was something wedged beneath it. As if a passing foot had kicked it under. “What is that?”
Chaol drew his sword so fast she didn’t even see him move, every movement of his body, his blade, a dance. She bent and pulled the object out. Metal scraped on stone.
And there, dangling from its chain … Hafiza’s iron key.
Chaol studied the door, the stairs, as Yrene pulled the necklace over her head with shaking fingers. “She didn’t slide it there by accident,” he said.
And if she had thought to hide the key here … “She knew something was coming for her.”
“There was no sign of forced entry or attack upstairs,” he countered.
“She could have just been spooked, but … Hafiza does nothing without thought.”
Chaol put a hand on the small of her back, ushering her toward the stairs. “We need to notify the guard—start a search party.”
She was going to be ill. She was going to vomit right down the steps.
If she had brought this upon Hafiza—
Panic helped no one. Nothing.