Chapter Four #3
The words have no sooner left my mouth than the hoofbeats become apparent to all within earshot.
They ring out in the night, a violent bellwether.
A shiver of awareness races down my spine as I, along with everyone else on the street, turn to watch the King of Dyved steer his stallion out of the shadows, surely as if I have conjured him.
And perhaps in a way I have. The bond between us is a precarious thing when emotions spill over unbidden.
Penn seems incapable of feeling my distress without seeking out the cause and, whenever possible, mitigating it.
I had sensed his imminent approach, but still find myself affected by the sight of him.
He cuts a foreboding figure against the harsh backdrop of night.
Clad in all black, from the hilt of the broadsword sheathed across his back to the tips of his worn leather boots, it is difficult to see where his form ends and that of Onyx, his huge ebony stallion, begins.
“Soldiers,” he bellows at the waiting battalion as he rides past. “On your way!”
The unit responds instantly, resuming their march down King’s Avenue without another moment of hesitation.
The Ember Guild is quick to follow, spurring their mounts into motion, taking up the rear of the procession toward the tunnel that leads out of the crater.
Farley winks at me, a half smile playing at his lips, as his speckled mare passes by.
Penn pulls Onyx sharply to a halt beside me. The bond between us thrums like a lute string.
“General,” he greets curtly.
Yale, who has finally ceased his slow circling, bows his head in a mockery of respect. “King Pendefyre.”
“What an unexpected surprise. I thought you were busy securing our borders. Yet here you are.”
“The surprise was all mine, I assure you. I was already on my way here bearing important news from the southern front.” Yale’s lips curl with distaste, as though he’s swallowed something foul. “When word reached me last night regarding this deployment, I made extra haste.”
“An unnecessary exercise.”
“On that, we disagree.” Yale’s grip on his reins tightens. “Though we disagree on many things, it seems, if you’ve sanctioned more northbound soldiers without my input.”
“Oh? Do you have a problem with my orders?”
Yale bares his teeth in a bitter smile. “I’m merely surprised that you did not seek my counsel on the matter. Our forces are already stretched thin. We lost so many at Fyremas.”
“You do not need to remind me of those we lost, Yale. I fought alongside them as they fell. I watched the light leave their eyes, while others”—Penn pauses artfully—“sheltered inside the keep.”
“I was defending our queen.”
Penn scoffs. “You were defending yourself.”
I suck in a breath at the vengeance that furrows the general’s scarred features.
The air between the men grows so thick and heavy, I think it will crystallize, then plummet to the cobblestones and shatter to pieces.
My eyes move back and forth between them as they glare at each other from their mounts.
A dozen paces divide them on the now empty street.
“Don’t you two have more important things to do than bicker over old battles?” I interject when I can no longer stand the silence. “Fyremas is behind us. We should focus on the future of Dyved, not the past.”
Yale’s eyes move to me. “What I discuss and who I discuss it with is no concern of yours, child.”
“You may outrank me in years, General, but if anyone here is acting like a child, it is you.”
“How quickly you bite back! Rather like the rabid bitch that took up residence in the stables of my boyhood home one summer. It looked innocent enough from afar, but as soon as your fingers were within range…” Yale shakes his head mockingly.
“Ferocious little thing. Far better for everyone at the manor when it found itself another place to live, where it could no longer distract our purebred hunting hounds from their duties.”
Penn does not seem to enjoy the general’s personal anecdote, nor the thinly veiled implications behind it. A pulse of anger shoots through the bond, nearly strong enough to knock me sideways. In my peripheral, his fingers tense against his strong thigh as he leans slightly forward in his saddle.
“A warning, Jareth,” Penn says, the casual use of the general’s given name somewhat at odds with his biting tone. “You have long held the reins that steer our armies. But those reins can be passed to another at a single word from me. It would be unwise to forget that.”
“Just as it would be unwise to unseat the leader every soldier in Dyved has spent two decades looking to with trust and loyalty. You may now be their king, but it is me they answer to. It is me who ruled when your sister was otherwise occupied with the less bloody parts of sovereignty.”
“Do not mistake me for my sister. Queen Vanora may have been more concerned with her garden parties and grand balls than the oversight of our armies, but I have no plans to continue that neglectful strategy. It has not served us well.”
Yale reels back as though Penn has punched him, his expression stunned. “Are you implying that I am somehow responsible for the Reavers’ invasion? That I somehow failed in my task as commanding general?”
“I’m saying that perhaps if Vanora had shown more interest in the security of our borders, such a breach would never have occurred.”
“I did everything possible—”
“And yet.” Penn cuts him off. “Posts were attacked, our guards replaced in the dark of night by Efnysien’s red army, without you ever sensing something was amiss.”
I thought the air tense before, but it reaches new heights of animosity. Yale’s scar is stark white against the deepening flush of rage blooming over his expression.
“How easy it is for you, my king”—he spits the title like a curse—“to make judgments about my choices. To lay blame at my feet. But you have no right to judge me. You were not here. You were off in the Midlands, scouring the realm for signs of your precious wind weaver. And you found her—but at what cost?” His gold eyes cut to me for a brief moment, brimming with dislike.
“I hope she was worth it. For her, you forsook your kingdom. For her, you abandoned your people. For her—”
“Enough!”
I flinch at the brutality of Penn’s roar as well as the shower of sparks that shoots from the tips of his fingers and scatters to the cobblestones between the two horses.
Both stallions skitter nervously, widening the gap between the men as they shy away.
Yale finally falls silent, perhaps wise enough to recognize he is treading on dangerous ground.
“You said you had an urgent missive.” Penn’s jaw is clenched tight with leashed fury. “Deliver it.”
Yale’s spine is ramrod. His voice is equally stiff. “Word arrived from Coldcross; scouts spotted the Ll?rian army passing through the Avian Strait at nightfall.”
So Soren has returned.
My stomach flips.
“Do they have any prisoners with them?”
Yale shrugs at Penn’s question. “I do not know.”
“And the king?”
“If King Soren rode among them, my scouts did not see him. But if the Ll?rians have returned, it is safe to assume their business in the Southlands has reached a conclusion.”
A current of foreboding sluices through the air.
In the wake of Fyremas, Soren chased Efnysien south, intent on bringing him to justice for his crimes.
I’ve harbored stubborn optimism that he will succeed in catching the dark sorcerer before he disappears behind the impenetrable boundaries of Dymmeria, that shadowy desert realm he calls home.
Pendefyre has been decidedly less optimistic about the Ll?rian king’s odds.
If Soren’s soldiers have returned north after such a short time without any prisoners in tow…perhaps I should’ve shared in his pessimism.
“Anything else to report?” he prompts Yale.
“The Reavers at the southwestern border continue to encroach,” the general responds tersely.
“We have driven the clans back onto the ice shelf time and again, but they persist. A strong show of force is needed to obliterate them once and for all. Instead, you’ve sent our troops marching in the opposite direction. ”
“I trust my lieutenants. They say the Frostlanders pose an imminent threat to the northern shores. I will not leave us open to an attack on both borders, not on some whim of revenge.”
“Revenge?” Yale scoffs. “It would not be revenge to exterminate every last bit of Reaver scum from the face of this earth. It would be justice. Or have you forgotten they would have happily done the same to us? They will not stop until they have eradicated all fae. I merely suggest we return the favor in kind.”
“The clans are not only warriors. There are children there. Expectant mothers. Elderly.”
“Future and former monsters.” Yale spits on the cobblestones. “I would slaughter every newborn babe on the ice shelf myself, given the chance.”
My whole frame jolts.
Penn’s eyes flash to me for a brief moment. He’s sensed my sudden flush of horror through the bond. “Your appetite for vengeance is irrelevant, General.”
But Yale is not finished. “There was a time, not so very long ago, when you would have been in total agreement with me in this regard. Tell me, Pendefyre…when did you become so soft?” His eyes pin me in place. “Or would the better question be for whom?”
“Tread lightly,” Penn clips, his rage manifest.
“I see I’ve stumbled upon a sensitive topic.
” His golden eyes never leave my face, nor does his expression shift from the malicious sneer it has settled into.
“I did warn you, wind weaver. Did I not? Are you so blind you cannot see how your position here compromises everyone in this kingdom? Or merely so selfish you do not care about the lives you put at risk?”
I flinch as his words make impact.
“Yale—”
The general cuts off Penn’s attempt to interject.
His tone is savage as he continues, “I think it must be the latter. Only someone entirely self-serving would be able to stomach standing so proud in the rubble of the city she made a target; walking among the survivors of an attack aimed at her.” His lips flatten into a stern line.
“Why do you think so many have fled? No one can stand the sight of you, so supercilious, so smug. Masquerading as a hero. We all know the truth. You are the root cause of every evil that plagues this kingdom. You are—”
“ENOUGH!”
Pendefyre’s bellow is so loud, it pierces the sky. I flinch again as the sound of it rebounds off the walls of the barracks, echoes out over the lake.
Yale wisely stops talking.
“I will permit your insubordination toward me,” Penn growls, fisting his reins in a white-knuckled grip. “I will even tolerate your attempts to undermine my authority in front of my men. But one more word spoken against Rhya and you will find yourself out of a position.”
The general’s teeth grind together in an effort to contain his anger.
Even if he could not manage to remain silent, it scarcely matters.
Penn is done listening. Using his knees to steer Onyx, he bends at the middle, reaches down to hook me beneath the arms, and hauls me up before him in the saddle.
The move is so abrupt, I nearly cry out.
My ass is barely settled when Penn’s heels press to the stallion’s flanks, spurring him into a gallop.
Away from Yale. But I know, even as I am carried far out of earshot, his scathing words will follow me wherever I go.