Chapter Four #2
“Surely they do not court a full-scale war,” I murmur.
“In the past, they have never been so foolish as to try. But we once thought the same about the Reavers. These are strange times. Our enemies seem just as unpredictable as the weather of late.”
I glance up at the dark sky. Even now, in the wee hours, the clouds are thick enough to obscure the stars. “Who will protect the city with all of you gone?”
“Why, you of course.” His expression turns playful. “For who would dare attack Caeldera with the mighty light bringer here to fry them where they stand?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I! Between you and Pendefyre, no one would dare attack the capital again. Fire and air, together? Only a fool would court such an incendiary end.”
Fire and air.
Together.
I very nearly snort, so absurd is the assumption. I have seen neither hide nor hair of the man in question since he returned from his most recent mission. He may now be back inside the crater, but if not for the bond, I would not know he was here at all.
“Even so,” Farley hurries to add, no doubt seeing my dubious expression, “Mabon will remain behind with his unit to secure the perimeters and patrol the surrounding lands until we return.”
“And when will that be? How long will you be away?”
“I don’t know. Could be a fortnight, could be a year.
” His lips tug up at one side. “Don’t look so forlorn, Ace.
You’re damn near immortal, remember? Even if I hobble back home in a hundred years with gray in my hair and wrinkles at my temples, you’ll still be the picture of youth.
If anyone should be sad, it’s me. I’m the one who’ll be sleeping on a moth-eaten bedroll for the foreseeable future.
Nothing but cook-pot porridge and saddle rash await on the road. ”
If his words are meant to cheer me up, they have the opposite effect. A horrifying flood of emotion gathers behind my eyes. I cannot help it—the thought of losing my last friend in this broken city is enough to rattle my precarious composure.
Farley gapes at me in horror, his expression somewhat blurry through my tears. “Gods, woman, stop that at once!”
“I’m sorry!” I cry, equally horrified.
“Don’t be sorry, just don’t cry!”
“I’m not crying!”
“Could’ve fooled me. Honestly, if I’d known you’d be so heartbroken I was leaving, I would’ve avoided you along with all my suitors. Clingy, the lot of them. I swear, nothing kills my affection quite so fast as someone expressing an overabundance of their own.”
Despite my sadness, I can’t help laughing. “You’re awful.”
“In demand, that’s what I am. You may be the bringer of light, but I’m the breaker of hearts.”
“Dropper of breeches might be more accurate.”
Lestyn suppresses a giggle.
“Oh, good, she’s back to insulting me.” Farley grins. “She must be over her devastation.”
I suck in an unsteady breath, desperately holding back the sob that’s building in my throat. “I know the true reason you’re leaving.”
“Oh?”
“Now that I’ve mastered twyllo, you’re afraid to play any more hands against me. You won’t risk emptying your coin purse.”
“Ah yes. That’s it exactly.” He reaches out and ruffles my hair playfully, mussing the plaited platinum strands. “How could I be so woefully transparent?”
Behind us, the foot soldiers are beginning to depart, streaming out of the barracks and down King’s Avenue in orderly rows. I know the Ember Guild will be quick to follow suit. Already, half of them have mounted their horses. The night is full of jangling tackle and muffled whinnies.
Farley casts a quick glance over his shoulder, regret staining his expression. “Ace—”
Before he can say his goodbyes, I move forward and wrap my arms around him, squeezing so hard he lets out an audible whoosh of air.
“Be safe,” I order gruffly.
He doesn’t say anything. Merely hugs me hard before turning to haul himself up onto the back of a glossy speckled mare with a wavy black mane.
Lestyn steps closer to me, as if lending me all the strength his slight form has to offer.
Together, we watch Farley steer his mount to the front of the line.
But the soft clop of his mare’s hooves is quickly overshadowed by the piercing clangor of another horse charging down King’s Avenue.
We turn to watch as the approaching rider, cloak billowing behind him in the darkness, jerks back his reins and clatters to a halt several paces away.
His stallion’s flanks are coated with lather—wherever he rode from, he did so at great speed.
The beast swings its head back and forth in clear distress at the sudden stop, nostrils flaring, teeth bared against its bit.
The rider makes no move to soothe his mount.
His attention is reserved for the gathered company of Ember Guild.
His scarred face contorts as he takes their measure.
General Yale, high commander of Dyved’s armies, has arrived. And he does not look happy.
“What is the meaning of this?” Yale barks.
“What does it look like, General?” Farley’s voice, only moments ago full of playfulness and good humor, is stripped bare. “We ride for the northern coast to lend aid to our fellow soldiers.”
At this news, Yale’s glare intensifies tenfold. I myself have been on the receiving end of that glare in the past—more times than I care to recount. I shy backward into the shadows, pulling Lestyn along with me.
“Go on ahead,” I whisper in the darkness. “Head to the infirmary. I will meet you there.”
“But—”
“Go.”
Lestyn, face set in a displeased pout, scurries off down the lane, his spindly arms holding the basket I shoved into them. I should follow him. If Yale sees me, it will only further blacken his mood. Yet my feet feel rooted to the street.
“I sanctioned no such deployment,” the general growls at Farley, hazel-gold eyes flashing. The long scar that splices the left side of his face only heightens his wrathful look.
“With all due respect, General,” Farley retorts, “last I checked, you did not command the Ember Guild.”
“But I do oversee the legion of foot soldiers who march with you. No doubt that is why you chose to depart in the middle of the night.” His gloved hands tighten on the reins. “So I ask again—on whose orders do you march north?”
“The king’s.”
A bitter scoff sounds in the night. “I see no king here.”
Farley’s mouth goes slack. A ripple of unease cuts through the gathered cavalry as Yale’s words are repeated in hushed whispers and low grunts, spreading down the row of mounted Ember Guild fighters, gaining momentum as they move through the lines of foot soldiers who now wait, solemn and still, for permission to walk on.
My own face pales. This is tantamount to open rebellion.
To question the orders of the king shows a blatant disregard for the sovereign himself, as well as a more sweeping disdain for anyone who seeks to supplant the general’s authority.
I wish, with a fervency that surprises me, that Yale had not been among the survivors pulled from the wreckage of the palace after the turrets came down.
If anyone deserved to perish beneath tons of rubble and stone, it was him.
He, who did not even fight with us in the streets, driving back the enemy with blade and bow.
He, who instead hid in the safety of the keep as his battalions bled and died at the end of Reaver axes.
This is the man who now feels entitled to question Pendefyre’s motivations? To sow seeds of doubt among his men?
No.
An uncontrollable surge of anger sweeps through me. I’ve taken several steps out of the shadows before I am even conscious of moving, my head craning backward to meet Yale’s eyes, my voice cracking out like a whip.
“Careful, General. For someone who clambers so desperately for power, you seem perilously close to forfeiting yours.”
His cutting gaze fixes on me immediately, gaining a vulturine edge. His mouth twists—half malice, half anticipation. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Champion of Caeldera. I assumed you’d abandoned the city, I’ve seen so little of you. One might think you were avoiding my presence.”
My teeth gnash. “For me to avoid you, I’d first need to consider your whereabouts. I don’t make a habit of wasting my energy on such inconsequential matters.”
Yale’s cold stare chills to a temperature that rivals the Cimmerian summit.
Digging his knees into his horse’s sides to spur it into motion, he begins to circle slowly around me.
I keep still, refusing to pivot with him, my gaze locked straight ahead.
Farley and the rest of the soldiers look on, increasingly nervous.
Their muffled shuffles are overshadowed by the steady clop of the stallion’s hoofbeats against the cobblestones.
“None of this concerns you, wind weaver,” Yale booms, loud enough for all to hear. “You may have wormed your way into Pendefyre’s close counsel, but you have no authority here.”
“Nor do you,” I counter.
“Perhaps not over the Ember Guild, but the army is mine. And my foot soldiers will not be marching anywhere tonight—or any night—without my categorical permission.”
I curl my hands into fists, trying to contain my anger. At my chest, my Remnant coils with serpentine menace, promising to put a lethal end to this conversation whenever I see fit.
You could send him flying into the stone wall with one flick of your wrist, a sinuous voice inside me whispers.
You could toss him the length of the sparring pits in the span of a single heartbeat.
You could summon a power that would shatter his bones.
You could starve the air from his lungs until he mottles purple with death.
I shove down the voice and find my own. “Your orders are overridden, General. The king—”
“As I said, I see no king here.”
“Then I suggest you look harder.”
His brows shoot up, almost comically. “What did you say, girl?”
“Look,” I enunciate. “Harder.”