Eleven. Twelve. He told Kadja to go to sleep—that he’d care for himself and get himself in bed. She did not leave, only took up a place against the painted foyer wall to wait.
It was nearly one when the door opened.
Nesryn slipped in. He knew it, simply because he’d learned her sounds of moving.
She saw the candles in the sitting room and strode in.
Not a mark on her. Only—light. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brighter than they’d been this morning. “I’m sorry I missed dinner,” was all she said.
His reply was low, guttural. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
She halted, hair swaying with the movement. “I was not aware I had to send word of my comings and goings. You told me to go.”
“You went into a foreign city and did not come back when you said you would.” Every word was biting, slicing.
“It is not a foreign city—not to me.”
He slammed his palm onto the arm of the chair. “One of the princesses was murdered a few weeks ago. A princess. In her own palace—the seat of the most powerful empire in the world.”
She crossed her arms. “We don’t know if it was murder. Kashin seems to be the only one who thinks so.”
It was utterly beside the point. Even if he’d barely remembered to study his dinner companions tonight for any sign of the Valg’s presence. He said too quietly, “I couldn’t even go looking for you. I didn’t dare tell them that you were missing.”
She blinked, slow and long. “My family was glad to see me, in case you were wondering. And they received a brief letter from my father yesterday. They got out.” She began unbuttoning her jacket. “They could be anywhere.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Chaol said through his teeth. Though he knew that not knowing where her family was would eat at her as much as the terror of the past day of not knowing whether they lived. He said as calmly as he could, “This thing between us doesn’t work if you don’t tell me where you are, or if your plans change.”
“I was at their house, eating dinner. I lost track of time. They begged me to stay with them.”
“You know better than to not send word. Not after the shit we’ve been through.”
“I have nothing to fear in this city—this place.”
She said it with enough bite that he knew she meant that in Rifthold … in Rifthold she did.
He hated that she felt that way. Hated it and yet: “Isn’t that what we are fighting for? So that our own lands might be so safe one day?”
Her face shuttered. “Yes.”
She finished unbuttoning her jacket, peeling it off to reveal the shirt beneath, and slung it over a shoulder. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She didn’t wait for his farewell before she strode into her room and shut the door.
Chaol sat for long minutes in the sitting room, waiting for her to emerge. And when he finally let Kadja bring him into his room and help change him into his bedclothes, after she blew out the candles and left on silent feet, he waited for his door to open.
But Nesryn did not come in. And he could not go to her—not without dragging poor Kadja from wherever she slept, listening for any sound that she might be needed.
He was still waiting for Nesryn when sleep claimed him.
8
Yrene made sure to be on time the next morning. She hadn’t sent word ahead, but she was willing to gamble that Lord Westfall and the new captain would be waiting at ten. Though from the glares he threw her way last night, she wondered if he doubted she’d return at all.
Let him think what he wanted.
She debated waiting until eleven, since Hasar and Renia had dragged her out drinking—or rather, Yrene had watched them drink, sipping at her own glass of wine—and she hadn’t crawled into her room in the Torre until nearly two. Hasar had offered her a suite at the palace for the night, but given the fact that they’d narrowly escaped Kashin joining them at the quiet, elegant taproom in the bustling Rose Quarter, Yrene was not inclined to risk running into him again.
Honestly, whenever the khagan ordered his children back to their various outposts, it would not be soon enough. They’d lingered after Tumelun’s death—which Hasar had still refused to even mention. Yrene had barely known the youngest princess, the girl having spent most of her time with Kashin among the Darghan on the steppes and the walled cities scattered around them. But in those initial days after Tumelun’s body had been found, after Hafiza herself had confirmed that the girl had jumped from the balcony, Yrene had the urge to seek out Kashin. To offer her sympathies, yes, but also to just see how he was doing.
Yrene knew him well enough to understand that despite the easy, unruffled manner he presented to the world, the disciplined soldier who obeyed his father’s every order and fearlessly commanded his terrestrial armies … beneath that smiling face lay a churning sea of grief. Wondering what he could have done differently.
Things had indeed turned awkward and awful between Yrene and Kashin, but … she still cared. Yet she had not reached out to him. Had not wanted to open that door she’d spent months trying to shut.
She’d hated herself for it, thought about it at least once a day. Especially when she spied the white banners flapping throughout the city, the palace. At dinner last night, she’d done her best not to crumple up with shame as she ignored him, suffered through his praise, the pride still in his words when he spoke of her.
Fool, Eretia had called her more than once, after Yrene had confessed during a particularly grueling healing what had occurred on the steppes last winter. Yrene knew it was true—but she … well, she had other plans for herself. Dreams she would not, could not, defer or yield entirely. So once Kashin, once the other royals, returned to their ruling posts … it would be easier again. Better.
She only wished Lord Westfall’s own return to his hateful kingdom didn’t rely so heavily upon her assistance.
Biting back a scowl, Yrene squared her shoulders and knocked on the suite doors, the lovely-faced servant answering before the sound had even finished echoing in the hall.
There were so many of them in the palace that Yrene had learned the names of just a few, but she’d seen this one before, had marked her beauty. Enough that Yrene nodded in recognition and strode in.
Servants were paid handsomely, and treated well enough that competition was fierce to land a spot in the palace—especially when positions tended to remain within families, and any openings went to those within them. The khagan and his court treated their servants as people, with rights and laws to protect them.
Unlike Adarlan, where so many lived and died in shackles. Unlike the enslaved in Calaculla and Endovier, never allowed to see the sun or breathe fresh air, entire families torn asunder.
She had heard of the massacres in the mines this spring. The butchering. It was enough that any neutral expression vanished from her face by the time she reached the lavish sitting room. She didn’t know what their business was with the khagan, but he certainly looked after his guests.
Lord Westfall and the young captain were sitting precisely where they’d been the previous morning. Neither looked happy.
Indeed, neither was really glancing at the other.
Well, at least none of them would bother to pretend to be pleasant today.
The lord was already sizing Yrene up, no doubt marking the blue dress she’d worn yesterday, the same shoes.
Yrene owned four dresses, the purple one she’d worn to dinner last night being the finest. Hasar had always promised to procure finer clothes for her to wear, but the princess never remembered the next day. Not that Yrene particularly cared. If she received the clothes, she’d feel obligated to visit the palace more than she already did, and … Yes, there were some lonely nights when she wondered what the hell she was thinking by pushing away Kashin, when she reminded herself that most girls in the world would kill and claw their way to an open palace invitation, but she would not stay here for much longer. There was no point.
“Good morning,” said the new captain—Nesryn Faliq.
The woman seemed more focused. Settled. And yet this new tension between her and Lord Westfall …