Right. Right.
Yrene hurried from the sitting room into his bedroom, wincing at the askew bed linens, at what she’d so stupidly assumed and seemed like such an enormous fool about—
She strode into the small dressing room, spotted his boots, and slid the parchment down the neck of one. Then took the pair and shoved it in a drawer, covering it with a stack of linen towels.
She reentered the sitting room a moment later. “I couldn’t find them. Perhaps Kadja sent them out for cleaning.”
“Too bad,” he said casually, his own boots now removed. Along with his shirt.
Her heart still raged as he eased onto the gold sofa but did not lie down.
“Do you know how to read?” she asked, kneeling before him and taking his bare foot in her hands. The Wyrdmarks?
“No.” His toes shifted as she began careful rotations of his ankle. “But I know someone who does it for me when it’s important.” Careful, veiled words for anyone listening.
Yrene went about exercising his legs, stretching and bending, the motions repeated over and over while he moved his toes as much as he could. “I should show you the library sometime,” she offered. “You might find something that strikes your fancy—for your reader to narrate to you.”
“Do you have many similarly interesting texts?”
She lowered his left leg and started on the other. “I could ask—Nousha knows everything.”
“When we’re done. After you rest. It’s been a while since I had a book to … intrigue me.”
“It’d be my honor to escort you, my lord.” He grimaced at the formal title, but Yrene worked his right leg, going through the same motions, before she bade him to lie down on the couch. They worked in silence while she rotated his hips, urging him to try to move them on his own, while bending and stretching as much of his leg as she could.
She said after a moment, her voice barely audible, “You only talk of Erawan.” His eyes flashed in warning at the name. “But what of Orcus and Mantyx?”
“Who?”
Yrene began another set of the exercises on his legs and hips and lower back. “The other two kings. They are named in that book.”
Chaol stopped wriggling his toes; she flicked them in reminder. The air whooshed from him as he resumed. “They were defeated in the first war. Sent back to their realm or slain, I can’t recall.”
Yrene considered as she lowered his leg to the couch, nudging him to flip onto his stomach. “I’m sure you and your companions are adept at this whole saving-the-world thing,” she mused, earning a snort from him, “but I would make sure you know for certain. Which one it is.”
She took up a perch on the thin lip of golden sofa cushion that his body did not cover.
Chaol twisted his head toward her, the muscles in his back bunching. “Why?”
“Because if they were merely banished to their realm, who is to say they aren’t still waiting to be let back into our world?”
23
Chaol’s eyes went vacant as Yrene’s question hung between them, the color again draining from his face. “Shit,” he murmured. “Shit.”
“You can’t remember what happened to the other two kings?”
“No—no, I’d assumed they were destroyed, but … why is there mention of them here, of all places?”
She shook her head. “We could see—look into it more.”
A muscle feathered in his jaw, and he blew out a long breath. “Then we will.”
He reached a hand toward her in silent demand. For the bit, she realized.
Yrene studied his jaw and cheek again, the brimming anger and fear. Not a good state to begin a healing session. So she tried, “Who gave you that scar?”
Wrong question.
His back stiffened, his fingers digging into the throw pillow beneath his chin. “Someone who deserved to give it to me.”
Not an answer. “What happened?”
He just extended his hand again for the bit.
“I’m not giving it to you,” she said, her face an immovable mask as he turned baleful eyes on her. “And I’m not starting this session with you in a rage.”
“When I’m in a rage, Yrene, you’ll know.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong is that I’m barely able to move my toes and I might not have one Valg king to face, but three. If we fail, if we can’t—” He caught himself before he could voice the rest. The plan that Yrene had no doubt was so secret he barely dared think about it.
“They destroy everything—everyone—they encounter,” Chaol finished, staring at the arm of the couch.
“Did they give you that scar?” She clenched her fingers into a fist to keep from touching it.
“No.”
But she leaned forward, instead brushing a finger down a tiny scar just barely hidden by the hair at his temple. “And this? Who gave you that one?”
His face went hard and distant. But the rage, the impatient, frantic energy … it calmed. Went cold and aloof, but it centered him. Whatever that old anger was, it steadied him again.
“My father gave that scar to me,” Chaol said quietly. “When I was a boy.”
Horror sluiced through her, but it was an answer. It was an admission.
She didn’t press further. Didn’t demand more. No, Yrene just said, “When I go into the wound …” Her throat bobbed as she studied his back. “I will try to find you again. If it’s waiting for me, I might have to find some other way to reach you.” She considered. “And might have to find some other plan of attack than an ambush. But we shall see, I suppose.” And even though the corner of her mouth tugged up in what he knew was meant to be a reassuring, healer’s smile, she knew he noted the quickening of her breathing.
“Be careful,” was all he said.
Yrene just offered him that bit at last, bringing it to his lips.
His mouth brushed her fingers as she slid it between his teeth.
For a few heartbeats, he scanned her face.
“Are you ready?” she breathed as the prospect of facing that insidious darkness again loomed.
He lifted his hand to squeeze her fingers in silent answer.
But Yrene removed her fingers from his, leaving his own to drop back to the cushions.
He was still studying her, the way she took a bracing breath, as she laid her hand over the mark on his back.
It had snowed the day he told his father he was to leave Anielle. That he was abdicating his title as heir and joining the castle guard in Rifthold.
His father had thrown him out.
Thrown him right down the front stairs of the keep.
He’d cracked his temple on the gray stone, his teeth going through his lip. His mother’s pleading screams had echoed off the rock as he slid along the ice at the landing. He didn’t feel the pain in his head. Only the razor-sharp slice of the ice against his bare palms, cutting through his pants and ripping his knees raw.
There was only her pleading with his father, and the shriek of the wind that never stopped, even in summer, around the mountaintop keep that overlooked the Silver Lake.
That wind now tore at him, tugging at his hair—longer than he had kept it since. It hurled stray snowflakes into his face from the gray sky above. Hurled them to the grim city below that flowed to the banks of the sprawling lake and curved around its shores. To the west, to the mighty falls. Or the ghost of them. The dam had long since silenced them, along with the river flowing right from the White Fangs, which ended at their doorstep.
It was always cold in Anielle. Even in summer.
Always cold in this keep built into the curving mountainside.
“Pathetic,” his father had spat, none of the stone-faced guards daring to help him rise.
His head spun and spun, throbbing. Warm blood leaked and froze down his face.
“Find your own way to Rifthold, then.”
“Please,” his mother whispered. “Please.”
The last Chaol saw of her was his father’s arm gripping her above the elbow and dragging her into the keep of painted wood and stone. Her face pale and anguished, her eyes—his eyes—lined with silver as bright as the lake far below.