Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I step into the copse of trees just before the path that leads toward the galehold, my boots crunching softly over the frost-stiffened grass. These trees are slim and silver-barked, their limbs swaying gently in the wind.
It’s quiet here, and even better, I’m alone. I’m never alone anymore.
There’s always someone. Ryot, training me. Leif or Kiernan, watching out for me in the barracks. Thalric monitoring me in training, Nyrica following me around when Leif is on watchtower duty. In the infirmary, there’s Elowen. In the Reckoning Hall, there’s the Elder.
I can’t breathe without someone waiting to see if I’ll explode into something divine or dangerous, or guarding my back against the vague threats and outright animosity that still simmers from some of the men. But here, tucked out of sight of the Synod, I get a single breath of peace.
I close my eyes. Inhale. The sea wind carries salt and cold and something faintly foreign, the winds blowing in a strange scent from the islands located to the west—some fruit or flower. It smells nothing like home, but it’s still better than the smell of unwashed boys from the barracks.
I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.
I honestly thought I would never kiss again, not since we received the news that Alden died in the mines.
And Alden’s kisses … they’d been something altogether different.
We were little more than children, Alden and I, and our kisses had been sweet, soft, and innocent.
Sweet like the boy who used to sit on the banks of the river with me when I was too scared to swim.
Soft like the boy who would hold my hand as we traipsed from my house to his house and back.
Innocent like the boy who would bring me wildflowers to braid into my hair and then blush when he said I looked like a princess.
Kissing Ryot was none of those things, because he is none of those things. There was no gentleness; no whispers, hesitant touches, or sharing of smiles. Kissing Ryot was hard, rough, and fast.
And, worst of all, I liked it. I’ve spent the last two days wavering between anticipation of it happening again and guilt that it happened at all.
Ryot’s avoiding me. Again. Maybe that should make it easier, but all it does is leave me with questions I don’t know how to ask.
There’s a hollow space beneath my ribs that only he fills.
A branch snaps behind me.
I stiffen and turn—expecting to find Ryot, expecting him to scold me for slipping away without a word. Ready to snap back at him for his distance.
But it’s not him.
Tyrston steps into view. “I’ve been wondering when I’d find you alone,” he says.
“I won’t be for long,” I lie. “My cast is meeting me here.”
He grins, malicious and dark, the same way Maxim smiled down at me in the sand. “What a pretty little liar you are.” His fingers tighten around the haft of the hammer, and he lifts it off the ground.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” I tell him, but I still reach for my scythe, unsheathing it in a smooth motion.
“That’s not what I hear,” Tyrston says. “In fact, I hear you’ve made some powerful enemies in Faraengard.”
“Enemies? You must be mistaken.” I’m only ever with my cast, training, or with the Elder, studying.
Tyrston tilts his head. “No?” His eyes gleam. “Thrones are built on graves. And the last thing a king wants is one of the dead knocking at his door.”
My blood runs cold. My body reacts before my mind catches up. My stance tightens. My pulse thrums hard in my throat.
“What did you say?” I whisper.
Tyrston smiles, a cruel thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. We both hear the crunch of boots on gravel as someone runs toward us.
“I’d keep that scythe close,” Tyrston says. Tyrston lifts the hammer, slinging it over his shoulder with a lazy ease.
“Leina!” Ryot storms into the clearing, his expression thunderous. For one breath—just one—there’s real fear in Tyrston’s eyes before he masks it behind a smirk.
“Well,” Tyrston drawls, stepping back. He winks at me. “Looks like your leash is here, pet.”
Ryot doesn’t speak. He stalks forward, putting himself directly between us—his body a wall of fury. One hand rests on the hilt of his sword, and the other is clenched in a fist so tight his knuckles are white.
“Leave,” he demands, his voice low and lethal.
Tyrston’s gaze lands on me, standing behind Ryot, before he smiles and turns away. Ryot waits until long after Tyrston has vanished into the trees, until we can’t hear his steps at all anymore.
He turns to me, and gods, he’s furious.
“I told you not to be alone!” he shouts at me, gripping my shoulders in a way that hurts.
“I just needed a minute to breathe!” I shoot back, but I don’t wrench free from his hold. Even with the sting, I want his hands on me.
“Sweet Serephelle,” he mutters, releasing me. He paces a step away, then spins on me again, eyes blazing.
“This isn’t a fucking game, Leina! You think you don’t have enemies here?
You think people are thrilled to see a Selencian woman—the first —training as an Altor?
” He practically spits the words. The words, which land harder than his grip.
I open my mouth—then close it again, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.
Beneath all that fury, there’s fear. And beneath that …
something else. Something I don’t think he knows how to name.
And he’s right. I’ve been protected by the raw might of Ryot, by the loyalty of our own cast, and sheltered by Stormriven after that.
This was a reminder that not everyone welcomes me here.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Truly. And I won’t go off on my own again.”
Ryot comes back to me, pressing his forehead to mine. He cups my face in his cold hands and then just breathes, as if trying to calm his heartbeat through sheer force of will. Or maybe, by assuring himself that I’m alright.
I cover his hands with mine, and he relaxes.
“Ryot!” A voice calls out from down the hill, behind the trees that block us from view of the Synod.
Ryot drops his hands from my face and falls back.
“Ryot,” the voice calls out urgently. I manage to rip my eyes from Ryot’s and turn to the trees before Nyrica comes into view.
He’s running up the hill. “A larkling arrived from Carrisfal. There’s been an attack,” he says, as he jogs over to us.
“They’re holding them back, but you’re to ride out now with a contingent to provide reinforcements. ”
Carrisfal, Carrisfal … I work to recall the maps I’ve been studying, maps of places I didn’t even know existed a few months ago.
Carrisfal is an island to the south of us.
It’s the only inhabited island in the Ebonmere Sea since the outbreak of the Eternal Wars.
The Synod maintains a presence on Carrisfal and some of the other islands to make sure the Kher’zenn can’t establish a physical presence that much closer to Faraengard.
Ryot’s face shutters, his walls go up. “How bad?”
Nyrica’s own face is grim. “I don’t know. Bad enough that they’re sending a full contingent.”
Sweet Serephelle. A full contingent is 100 Altor warriors, 25 from each vanguard. Ryot starts for the Synod, his long stride eating up the ground. I’m nearly running to keep up with him, Nyrica keeping pace with me.
Ryot spins on Nyrica before we break through the tree line. “I can’t abandon Leina’s training now.”
I open my mouth to ask why they’re sending Ryot, if they’re not sending the rest of our cast, but Nyrica gets to it first. “You know they won’t let you stay behind to train a ward, not with something like this.”
“Fuck!” Ryot shouts, shoving his hand into his friend’s chest. “You keep Leina with you at all times. You watch over her like she’s …”
Ryot trails off, his sharp words coming to a grinding halt.
Nyrica quirks an eyebrow, a hint of humor sneaking through, despite the palpable tension.
“Like she’s what?” I ask.
“Yes, Ryot. Watch over her like she’s what?” Nyrica eggs him on.
“Like she’s blessed by the gods,” Ryot finishes, his tone weirdly flat, as he turns away from us and marches down the hill.
“Ryot!” I call out. He stops, but he doesn’t reply; he doesn’t even turn around.
I’m at a loss for words. What do you tell your enemy-turned-ally-turned-something-else-entirely before he runs off to a dangerous battle?
He doesn’t give me much time to figure it out before he restarts his aggressive stalking toward the Synod.
“Silent skies upon you, Ryot of Stormriven,” I finally get out the standard Faraengardian benediction. His stride falters, the only indication that he heard me, before he continues down the hill.
Nyrica flashes me a grin and slaps me on the shoulder before slinging his arm around me, pulling me into his side. The two of us continue back to the towering fortress at a much more relaxed pace.
I twine my arm around Nyrica’s back, relieved at the simple comfort in his touch. It’s so different from the push-and-pull tension when I’m with Ryot.
“Well, Miss Blessed-by-the-Gods, now that your tyrant is gone, do you have time in your busy training schedule for a drink?”
I watch Ryot until he disappears from view, my mind already filling with unwanted worry.
Fuck it. Maybe a drink—or ten—is exactly what I need right now.
“Mmm,” I answer, clearly distracted. “Only if we can get very, very drunk.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “I’ll get you drunk, love, if that’s what you’re after. But I don’t drink.”
I raise a brow at him. Godsdamn, I’ve been very distracted by Ryot to have never noticed this. I thought all the men here drank. “Oh? Why not?”
He offers me a sad smile. “I gave it up years ago. We’ll say alcohol doesn’t encourage me to be the person I want to be and leave it at that.”
I twine my arm into his. “Alright, then. You can get me very drunk.”
“Deal, love.”
I smile at the easy affection in Nyrica’s voice. It’s incredibly good to have a friend again, but even that isn’t enough to distract me from thinking about Ryot riding off into battle to fight with demons created by an evil goddess.
I sigh.
Nyrica offers me a quick smile and a side hug.
“Let’s get you that drink,” he says.