Chapter 59
Chapter fifty-nine
Seraphina
Aweek.
It had been a week of biting winds and stone-gray skies. A week of waking up in a bed that was not her own, in a fortress that felt more like a prison carved from the living rock of the mountain than a home.
Seraphina walked the drafty corridors of the Dawnspire, dressed in heavy wools and furs that still smelled of dust and times long past. Around her neck, Alyx draped in her familiar perch, her injured wing wrapped in clean bandages and tucked tightly against her collarbone.
“The grain stores in the lower vaults are fuller than we anticipated,” Duke Percival announced, consulting the ledger in his hands as he matched her stride.
His cane clicked rhythmically against the stone floor—a sound that seemed to echo too loudly in the vast emptiness of their current wing.
“Whatever faults Morris Finch may have as a steward, he is at least a hoarder. Coupled with the shipments the river lifts brought up yesterday, we have enough to feed the refugees for perhaps three months. Four, if we ration strictly.”
Seraphina nodded, though her gaze drifted to the narrow arrow slits that served as windows. Outside, there was only the white void of clouds and the jagged, black teeth of the neighboring peaks.
“And Master Finch?” she asked, trying to hide her note of disdain. She failed utterly. “Has he deigned to leave his chambers yet?”
“The man is mourning his solitude,” her godfather muttered, a dry edge to his tone.
“He viewed the Dawnspire as his private hermitage. To have it suddenly turned into a city of refugees has offended his delicate sensibilities.” He huffed.
“The refugees are lucky you are here, Your Majesty. He surely would have starved them out simply to establish his peace once more if left to his own devices.”
Lucky. She did not feel lucky. Her capital had fallen. Her throne was in the hands of her enemies. The fate of both her best friend and her husband was unknown to her.
“Let Master Finch hide,” Seraphina murmured, pushing aside her own woes. She had business to attend to. “So long as the lifts keep running and the people are fed, I care not.”
They turned a corner, and the quiet gloom gave way to the hum of life.
The great hall—once a place of dusty banners and empty echoes—was now a sea of makeshift pallets and huddled families, mostly composed of women, children, and the elderly. The refugees from Mysai.
Her people.
They had lost their homes. They had fled across the Straight on overcrowded ships, only to be hauled up thousands of feet into the freezing air by the great winch-and-pulley lifts that served as the fortress’s only mouth. They were cold. They were frightened.
And they were looking at her.
As she passed, the hum of conversation died. Men bowed their heads. Women curtsied low, clutching their shawls tighter against the chill.
Seraphina forced her spine straight and a smile to her lips. It should have brought her joy to see them, to know that not all of her well-laid plans had failed her in the end. The evacuation of Mysai had succeeded.
But her heart struggled to celebrate even the smallest victory while her mind still kept tally of every defeat. She had no army to protect these people—no one beyond the Skyguard and the Watchers holding the outposts along the pass.
She had no treasury to help them build new lives here in Elmoria.
She had nothing but this cold rock and a prayer that the Lord would not abandon them to freeze and starve once their firewood and rations ran out—
A small body slammed into her legs, childish laughter cutting off with the impact.
Seraphina stumbled back and gazed down at the young boy—no older than six—who scrambled out of her path. His dark eyes widened with mingled terror and awe.
“Khalid!” A woman who looked about her age rushed forward from the crowd, her face lined with exhaustion. Grabbing the boy’s shoulder, she pulled him into a deep bow before dropping into a curtsy herself. “Please forgive him, Your Majesty,” she pleaded, “he has too much energy for these halls.”
Your Majesty. She was no queen. Not any longer.
But none of the refugees could be convinced to call her “my lady.”
Seraphina’s smile softened. “There is nothing to forgive. It is good to see the children play.” Her gaze skimmed across the hall, her heart constricting at the sight of so many youths. Her ancestors had been concerned with one thing and one alone—conquest. Power.
The Dawnspire’s stark halls were ill-suited for raising children.
Her smile turned rueful. “I only wish we had more things for them to play with.”
The woman chanced a glance upward, her eyes meeting hers for just a moment before she lowered her gaze once more.
“We are grateful to be here, Your Majesty. And grateful for what we have. Thank you. My name is Zahra. My husband was a physician in Mysai. I…I know a little myself. If there is any use for me…”
“There is,” Seraphina reassured her quickly, grateful for a problem that was easy to solve. “Lady Reyla and Dame Florence are still preparing the infirmary so we can better care for our elderly and sick. I know they would be glad for another set of hands. Tell them I sent you.”
Zahra bowed again, clutching Khalid to her side, and hurried off.
Seraphina watched them go, unable to stop herself from wondering if Zahra’s husband had died years ago or if he had been left behind during the evacuation. Because there weren’t enough ships. Because there had been no way for her to evacuate them all.
The ache in her chest returned unbidden—the ache that expanded until it made it hard to breathe. If only she had known about Edmund’s alliance with Arath sooner. If only Aldric had told her about the blasted witchblade…
“Sera?” Duke Percival asked, his hand catching her arm. “Is all well?”
“Yes,” she lied, the word but a breath on her lips. “I just need a moment.”
Without daring to glance her godfather’s way, she turned away from the crowded hall and hurried down a side passage toward a small alcove that housed a large, iron-latticed window overlooking the drop.
She pressed her forehead against the cool, frosted glass, trying to ground herself. Below, the world fell away into a dizzying abyss of mist and wind. Somewhere, far below, was the upper bailey, then the lower bailey, and then the river Frostrun connecting the Spire to the Stygian Sea to the west.
Somewhere, miles east, was Goldreach. Olivia. Tristan. Father Perero.
Treacherous Tiberius.
And somewhere, in the silence of her own heart, was the gaping hole where her Crow should be. She wanted to scream at him, to force him to look these widows in their faces and tell them why their husbands were not here.
But she also just wanted him. His advice. His stalwart presence at her side.
Did that…make her heartless? That she still wanted the man who had condemned Mysai?
Her hand fell to her left wrist, to where his dagger still lay, hidden beneath her sleeve. The metal was cold against her skin, a physical reminder of the man she had lost. Was that single blade all that was left of Aldric Hargrave?
Alyx shifted on her shoulders, letting out an excited chirp.
Seraphina sniffed once and glanced down at her usuru, studying the way the serpent stared at the frosted glass with bright eyes, as if tracking something through the mist. “What is it, girl?”
Then she heard it—a screech. High, piercing, and utterly familiar.
Her heart stopped.
She pressed her face to the glass, squinting against the glare of the sun off the snow-capped peaks. There. A speck of black against the white, growing larger by the moment. Black scales. Black wings. She would know that usuru anywhere.
“Soot,” she breathed.
Her gloved fingers fumbled at the latch of the window. The rusted iron groaned in protest before finally swinging open, letting in a blast of freezing air that whipped her loose hair back from her face.
“Soot!” she cried out, heedless of who might hear.
The black usuru folded his wings and shot through the opening, tumbling onto the stone floor in a flurry of scales and frantic chirps. Alyx unwound from her neck to drop down beside him.
Seraphina fell to her knees, her hands shaking. The serpent bore no harness, no scroll case. No message. “Soot,” she whispered, trying to scoop the usuru up into her arms. He must have been freezing. “Where is he? Where is he?”
Hope flared in her chest, tangled up with dread. What did this mean? That Aldric was truly dead? Or could it mean that he was…here?
“Sera, what in the Lord’s name—close that window!” Duke Percival groused, stamping into the alcove and slamming the window shut himself. But even through the glass and stone, she still heard the deep wail of a horn in the distance. Two short blasts, one long.
She and her godfather shared a look.
Someone was coming up the pass.
“Your Majesty! Sera!” The shout came from further down the corridor. Her godmother.
Seraphina scrambled to her feet and stepped into the hallway, abandoning the usuri to their reunion. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Duchess Edith was running toward her—actually running, her skirts held high, her face flushed.
“The lift!” her godmother panted. “A visitor is at the lower bailey, requesting to use the lift!”
She forgot how to breathe. The world narrowed to a pinprick. Soot was here. And now, a visitor was below, seeking permission to enter the Dawnspire.
It had to be him.
Seraphina didn’t wait. She didn’t think. She just ran.
She tore through the corridors, ignoring the startled looks of the refugees she passed on the way, ignoring everything until she arrived at the covered landing bay where the massive chains of the lift disappeared into the open air.
The wind howled through the stone archways, unimpeded, snowflakes spiraling past on every frigid gust.
Through the open door to the signal room next to the bay, she caught a glimpse of the Liftwarden on duty inside.
“Report!” she called to the man even as she hurried in, her eyes scanning the complicated array of levers lining the walls.
The Liftwarden pointed to the active signal as he translated for her, shouting over the rising howl of the wind. “Message from the lower bailey, Your Majesty. Single occupant requesting access to the Dawnspire. Male. Ally. No extra precautions advised.”
A male ally. Seraphina’s knees threatened to buckle as the words swept through her. Could it truly be him? Bracing her hand against the doorway, she whispered, “Raise the lift, Warden.”
The Liftwarden nodded once. “Aye, Your Majesty!”
He pulled the release lever, slamming it home.
In the distance, another horn blasted through the mountains, relaying the message from the lower bailey’s signal room: Raise the lift. Out in the bay, the chains snapped into motion. The great winch groaned, gears grinding together.
Seraphina staggered back out into the bay, joining her godparents where they stood, waiting. Her breath unfurled before her in puffs of frigid vapor, the cold almost unbearable this far up in the sky. But she endured it for now.
Her eyes fixed on the mist-threaded void below, watching the heavy iron chains slowly rise. Every thirty feet, another safety mechanism slammed into place, jolting through her with a harsh sound as the chains locked, just in case a gear should fail.
The lift was slow. Seconds ticked into minutes.
Please, she begged. Please.
The top of the iron cage finally crested the lip of the landing. The lift clattered into place, locking with a heavy thud. The gate swung open.
A man stepped out, shaking the frost from his cloak, brushing the snowflakes from his hair. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Auburn-haired. Wearing a dire bear cloak fastened with the silver varhound of House Umberly. Behind him, a snowy varhound even larger than Rogue padded out from the lift.
Disappointment slammed into her like a physical blow.
It was not Aldric.
The air left her lungs. The hope that had carried her through the corridors evaporated instantly, leaving her feeling hollow all over again.
With the next howl of the wind racing past, she could have almost sworn she heard someone laugh—a laugh so like the one from her now-silent vision, the vision that refused to come to her now, no matter what she tried.
As if even the mountains now delighted in her misery.
“Cyneric!” Duchess Edith gasped, stumbling forward as if suddenly rendered faint at the sight of her firstborn son.
Cyneric cracked a broad smile and swept the duchess up into his arms. “Mother.”
“Cyneric…” Duke Percival limped forward to join their family reunion. “My boy, we thought you were dead.”
“Dead? Come now, Father. I am like a cockroach. Incredibly annoying. Always where you least want me. Impossible to kill.”
Cyneric glanced at her over the tops of his parents’ heads. His hazel eyes, usually so warm, crinkled at the corners when they locked with hers. But then his smile faltered.
“Cousin,” he murmured, greeting her as he always had, even though they were not cousins in truth. “You do not look happy to see me.”
“I am,” she breathed, desperately lying, forcing a smile. “Of course I am. I am merely…surprised.”
Duchess Edith emerged from Cyneric’s arms, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Yes, what are you doing here? We expected you in Goldreach weeks ago.”
Cyneric ducked his head, pressing a kiss against his mother’s hair first and then his father’s. But all the while, his eyes remained on hers. Watching. Assessing.
“Well, I was on my way to Goldreach, of course, when I received a rather curious letter telling me to change course and march to the Dawnspire instead.”
“A letter?” Seraphina echoed, confusion lancing through the bitter tang of her disappointment. “From whom?”
She had sent no letter. She had not even known she would be retreating to the Dawnspire until the day of the coup.
“From Oracle Tsukiko,” her “cousin” answered.
The cold rush of the wind faded. The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
“But do not worry, cousin,” Cyneric whispered, stepping away from his parents. He withdrew a folded parchment from beneath his fur cloak, the seal unbroken.
“The Oracle sent one for you, too.”