Chapter 66 Seraphina
Chapter sixty-six
Seraphina
The wind whipped through the dark forests and rolling hills of Arlund, a living thing, biting and bitter. But for the first time in months, Seraphina did not feel the cold.
She stood at the edge of the forested ridge overlooking the valley far below, grass bleeding into sandy beaches, rocky coves, and two more hills in the distance. The predawn gray of the sky barely revealed glimpses of tents peeking out from the mouth of one of those coves. The Arathian encampment.
At first glance, it appeared to be a foolish place to make camp—trapping oneself between an enemy charging forth in a direct assault and the choppy waters of the Straight beyond.
But that was only if one did not account for the narrow pass leading out of the cove, which sliced straight between those two towering hills just to the north, creating a perfect chokepoint for anyone foolish enough to pursue retreating Arathians into the ravine.
Around her throat, Alyx shifted and let out a soft, trilling hiss, fully healed wings unfurling to bat at the chill air, as if she sensed it, too.
The proximity to danger.
The proximity to him.
The golden cord binding her to Aldric was no longer a faint glimmer tugging at her heart; it was a roaring conflagration in her chest, threatening to wrench her straight off the ridge and pull her toward the valley below. He was there, just beyond the lip of the cove.
Hold on, my Crow, she whispered in the silence of her mind, her hand drifting to rest atop the golden sun pendant tucked beneath her breastplate. I am coming.
The ancient plate armor she had discovered gathering dust in the deepest vaults of the Dawnspire should have felt like a crushing weight. Never before had she worn anything beyond the occasional chainmail shirt when Olivia was feeling particularly paranoid.
This armor was truly heavy—crafted from thick steel for that mysterious warrior woman of a bygone age. Yet Seraphina barely felt it at all. It rested upon her torso as lightly as silk.
The mere thought of Olivia was enough to constrict her chest, making her next breath that much harder to draw. Soon, she promised herself. She would rescue her best friend soon.
But not today.
“Your Majesty!” Cyneric’s voice softly sliced through the early morning air.
She turned to face the orderly rows of tents comprising her war camp, scattered through the sparse treeline behind her. She caught sight of her cousin standing in the entrance of the command tent, waiting for her to join the rest of the war council there.
It had been a hard march from the Spire—seven days of biting frost and forced marches.
But she had left the fortress in the capable hands of Reyla and Dame Florence—acting co-stewards—bypassing Master Finch entirely.
The hermit would have prioritized his own comfort over the many refugees now filling the Dawnspire’s halls; Reyla would prioritize their lives.
But that felt like a world away now.
Yet one more life she had lived in the span of a single month.
Fallen leaves crunched underfoot as she slipped through the trees, passing through the camp. Life stirred in the gloom. Soldiers making ready. Horses snorting white plumes of breath into the frozen air. Varhounds silently padding between the tents like ghosts.
Cyneric held open the flap of the command tent for her as she stepped inside. The space was already crowded, smelling of wet dog, oiled steel, and cold earth.
Duke Percival and Duchess Edith stood near a table housing the crude map Knox and Slade had drawn of the terrain. Flanking them were her cousins, restless to a man, but none more so than Wulfston, his eyes bright with anticipation behind his leather varhound mask.
On the other side of the tent stood the remnants of the Sons, save for Kyn, who was busy ensuring the infirmary tent was sorted—just in case they needed it afterward.
Calix, his bronzed face unreadable, stood beside Rakon’s towering bulk. Leif kept himself busy doting over Soot, looking entirely too relaxed for a man about to sneak into a viper’s nest.
And then there was Sir Tristan. Quiet Sir Tristan, who stood with his arms folded, his jaw set, avoiding her gaze.
Seraphina forced her attention away from the knight and back to Cyneric. “Report, commander.”
Her auburn-haired cousin leaned over their crude map, his finger tracing the jagged contours of the valley.
“Our scouts have confirmed the numbers, Your Majesty. We have the advantage, but the terrain certainly favors Arath should they manage to lure us into the ravine here.” He pointed to the narrow pass.
“They will surely try to move the king into that ravine, using him as the lure. Perhaps they have a secondary force hidden somewhere, waiting to flank us should we bite.”
Slade was quick to point out, “Our scouts have found no evidence of a secondary force, though.” Knox nodded his agreement.
But Wulfston shook his head. “Doesn’t matter if you found it or not,” he rumbled. “A trap needs two jaws in order to snap shut.”
Seraphina drew in a deep breath, weighing their words. Her thoughts once again whirred with all the possibilities. But in the end, it did not matter which cards her enemies intended to play today.
She already had the winning hand.
“I will stand here,” she murmured, placing her finger atop the ridge forming the western wall of that deadly ravine.
“I will be the bait.” She looked up, meeting the eyes of her cousins.
“You all know your marks. Cyneric, your prong waits at the far end of the pass to catch them when I lead them through. Knox, Slade—you flush them into the ravine.”
“And we flank whatever force they try to bring out against you,” Wulfston finished.
“Precisely,” Seraphina said. She tapped the ridge again. “And the archers hold the high ground here. Rain death on them the moment they break cover.”
Duchess Edith frowned, worry etching itself between her eyebrows.
But Duke Percival had no trouble protesting, “Absolutely not.”
“All of this is for me,” Seraphina reasoned, meeting the gaze of each of her allies in turn.
“They want to manipulate me into acting out of desperation so that I can be captured. They could have chosen a better fortified position. They could have fallen back to the Viscount of Arlund’s keep.
They could have journeyed on to Goldreach and hidden behind those great walls.
But they chose here because they think they can outmaneuver me. ”
Lifting her chin, she promised, “But I will beat them at their own game.”
She still didn’t understand why the witches were going through all this trouble to lay this trap for her in the first place. All for Coreto? For some other purpose? For the connection she and her Crow shared?
Of course. The truth pulsed through her, as present as her heartbeat, as the bond now tethering her to her husband. Her connection to Aldric was strange. Unlike anything she had ever heard of before. All of this was utterly strange.
But the fact that the witch who had taken her Crow hostage had never bothered to reveal his location to her told her something important—that witch had understood she would simply know where to find him.
That witch had somehow known about their connection before she did.
Cyneric rubbed the back of his neck. “It is a bold plan, Your Majesty. But if we commit the archers to the western ridge to cover your retreat, we leave the eastern hill open. If the witches seize that high ground, you will be running a gauntlet of fire in that ravine.”
She had already thought about that, too. She nodded at Cyneric and announced to those gathered, “That is a risk I am willing to take.”
Her godfather pursed his lips, obviously on the verge of protesting yet again. But there was no time for further debate, not with the sun threatening to breach the horizon already.
Seraphina leveled her gaze on the Sons once more and hastily gave them the rest of their instructions.
“Calix, Rakon, Leif—once you have my husband, fall back to the meeting place due west of here. As soon as I finish leading the witches through the pass, I will come to you.” She knew Aldric well enough to know he would never linger in a place of safety while she remained in harm’s way.
But she also refused to keep him too close to the harm himself after he had already endured so much in her name.
As the council dispersed, everyone hurried off to their units to make ready to advance down into the valley. The energy in the tent shifted from planning to action, all save for one man who remained behind.
Sir Tristan.
He stood near the tent entrance, his face a mask carved from stone, but his eyes remained firmly fixed on her, as if waiting for the opportunity to speak with her alone.
Seraphina moved toward him, her sabatons clanking softly against the frozen earth. “Tristan? Are you all right?”
The question seemed to snap something inside him.
“All right?” he echoed, the words rasping from his throat. “How could I possibly be all right?” He took a step toward her, ignoring the way Alyx hissed at his approach. “We are here,” he hissed right back, gesturing wildly toward the map, “while Olivia rots in a cell in Goldreach. Or worse.”
Seraphina’s heart twisted once more. “Tristan, I know this is difficult—”
“Do you?” he snapped. “Because it looks to me like this isn’t difficult for you at all. You clearly have no qualms abandoning her to die. You chose the husband you barely know over the friend who has always sacrificed everything for you.”
His words were like a slap across the face.
She stood there, stunned into silence, until her godmother slipped back through the flap of the tent and paused at her side, a stare leveled at the heartbroken knight before her. Duchess Edith did not speak, but she did not need to.
Her presence was more than enough.