If she turned her back on him and left, she didn’t think that rift would be repaired.
So she motioned him to move to the center of the bed and turn onto his stomach while she took up a seat on the edge.
Yrene hovered a hand over his spine, the muscled groove cutting deep through it.
She hadn’t considered—his feelings. That he might have them. The things haunting him …
His breathing was shallow, quick. Then he said, “Just to be clear: is your grudge against me, or Adarlan in general?”
He stared at the distant wall, the entrance to the bathing room blocked by that carved wood screen. Yrene held her hand steady, poised over his back, even as shame sluiced through her.
No, she had not been in her best form these past few days. Not even close.
That scar atop his spine was stark in the midmorning light, the shadow of her hand upon his skin like some sister-mark.
The thing that waited within that scar … Her magic again recoiled at its proximity. She’d been too tired last night and too busy this morning to even think about facing it again. To contemplate what she might see, might battle—what he might endure, too.
But he’d been good to his word, had instructed the girls despite her foolish, callous missteps. She supposed that she could only return the favor by doing as she’d promised as well.
Yrene took a steadying breath. There was no preparing for it, she knew. There was no bracing breath steeling enough to make this any less harrowing. For either of them.
Yrene silently offered Chaol the leather bit.
He slid it through his teeth and clamped down lightly.
She stared at him, his body braced for pain, face unreadable as he angled it toward the door.
Yrene said quietly, “Soldiers from Adarlan burned my mother alive when I was eleven.”
And before Chaol could answer, she laid her hand on the mark atop his spine.
16
There was only darkness, and pain.
He roared against it, distantly aware of the bit in his mouth, the rawness of his throat.
Burned alive burned alive burned alive
The void showed him fire. A woman with golden-brown hair and matching skin screaming in agony toward the heavens.
It showed him a broken body on a bloody bed. A head rolling across a marble floor.
You did this you did this you did this
It showed a woman with eyes of blue flame and hair of pure gold poised above him, dagger raised and angling to plunge into his heart.
He wished. He sometimes wished that she hadn’t been stopped.
The scar on his face—from the nails she’d gouged into it when she first struck him … It was that hateful wish he thought of when he looked in the mirror. The body on the bed and that cold room and that scream. The collar on a tan throat and a smile that did not belong to a beloved face. The heart he’d offered and had been left to drop on the wooden planks of the river docks. An assassin who had sailed away and a queen who had returned. A row of fine men hanging from the castle gates.
All held within that slim scar. What he could not forgive or forget.
The void showed it to him, again and again.
It lashed his body with red-hot, pronged whips. And showed him those things, over and over.
It showed him his mother. And his brother. And his father.
Everything he had left. What he’d failed. What he’d hated and what he’d become.
The lines between the last two had blurred.
And he had tried. He had tried these weeks, these months.
The void did not want to hear of that.
Black fire raced down his blood, his veins, trying to drown out those thoughts.
The burning rose left on a nightstand. The final embrace of his king.
He had tried. Tried to hope, and yet—
Women little more than children hauling him off a horse. Poking and prodding at him.
Pain struck, low and deep in his spine, and he couldn’t breathe around it, couldn’t out-scream it—
White light flared.
A flutter. Far in the distance.
Not the gold or red or blue of flame. But white like sunlight, clear and clean.
A flicker through the dark, arcing like lightning riding through the night …
And then the pain converged again.
His father’s eyes—his father’s raging eyes when he announced he was leaving to join the guard. The fists. His mother’s pleading. The anguish on her face the last time he’d seen her, as he’d ridden away from Anielle. The last time he’d seen his city, his home. His brother, small and cowering in their father’s long shadow.
A brother he had traded for another. A brother he had left behind.
The darkness squeezed, crushing his bones to dust.
It would kill him.
It would kill him, this pain, this … this endless, churning pit of nothing.
Perhaps it would be a mercy. He wasn’t entirely certain his presence—his presence beyond made any sort of difference. Not enough to warrant trying. Coming back at all.
The darkness liked that. Seemed to thrive on that.
Even as it tightened the vise around his bones. Even as it boiled the blood in his veins and he bellowed and bellowed—
White light slammed into him. Blinding him.
Filling that void.
The darkness shrieked, surging back, then rising like a tidal wave around him—
Only to bounce off a shell of that white light, wrapped around him, a rock against which the blackness broke.
A light in the abyss.
It was warm, and quiet, and kind. It did not balk at the dark.
As if it had dwelled in such darkness for a long, long time—and understood how it worked.
Chaol opened his eyes.
Yrene’s hand had slipped from his spine.
She was already twisting away from him, lunging for his discarded shirt on the bedroom carpet.
He saw the blood before she could hide it.
Spitting out the bit, he gripped her wrist, his panting loud to his ears. “You’re hurt.”
Yrene wiped at her nose, her mouth, and her chin before she faced him.
It didn’t hide the stains down her chest, soaking into the neckline of her dress.
Chaol surged upright. “Holy gods, Yrene—”
“I’m fine.”
The words were stuffy, warped with the blood still sliding from her nose.
“Is—is that common?” He filled his lungs with air to call for someone to fetch another healer—
“Yes.”
“Liar.” He heard the falsehood in her pause. Saw it in her refusal to meet his stare. Chaol opened his mouth, but she laid her hand on his arm, lowering the bloodied shirt.
“I’m fine. I just need—rest.”
She appeared anything but, with blood staining and crusting her chin and mouth.
Yrene pressed his shirt again to her nose as a new trickle slid out. “At least,” she said around the fabric and blood, “the stain from earlier now matches my dress.”
A sorry attempt at humor, but he offered her a grim smile. “I thought it was part of the design.”
She gave him an exhausted but bemused glance. “Give me five minutes and I can go back in and—”
“Lie down. Right now.” He slid away a few feet on the mattress for emphasis.
Yrene surveyed the pillows, the bed large enough for four to sleep undisturbed beside one another. With a groan, she pressed the shirt to her face and slumped on the pillows, kicking off her slippers and curling her legs up. She tipped her head upward to stop the bleeding.
“What can I get you,” he said, watching her stare blankly at the ceiling. She’d done this—done this while helping him, likely because of whatever shitty mood he’d been in before—
Yrene only shook her head.
In silence, he watched her press the shirt to her nose. Watched blood bloom across it again and again. Until it slowed at last. Until it stopped.
Her nose, mouth, and chin were ruddy with the remnants, her eyes fogged with either pain or exhaustion. Perhaps both.
So he found himself asking, “How?”
She knew what he meant. Yrene dabbed at the blood on her chest. “I went in there, to the site of the scar, and it was the same as before. A wall that no strike of my magic could crumble. I think it showed me …” Her fingers tightened on the shirt as she pressed it against the blood soaking her front.