WHAT ARE YOU doing?
Both his female companions lay sleeping just a few yards away, but slumber would not come to Asher. He hadn’t lied to Mira earlier; he was exhausted to the marrow. A deep fatigue pulled at him in a dark undertow, clawing at the edges of his mind.
He had to rest—and yet he couldn’t.
The chill pressed close, penetrating through his heavy cloak and layers of leather and woolen clothing. Asher glanced up at the sky, watching the moon begin its lazy descent toward the horizon. Time had become his enemy.
You’re not supposed to be healing them. They should both be dead by now.
Asher looked down at his hands, pale in the moonlight. These were healing hands. If he did as Irana commanded, he’d become a murderer.
Bile stung the back of his throat.
I’ll never get a better opportunity than this. It was true. Both Mira and Ninia slept deeply after his healing. He was exhausted, but he would still be able to pull down the moonlight—the same light that had healed Ninia of her fever—shape it into a blade and slice her throat open. It would be a quiet death—she’d never feel a thing.
He glanced over at Mira. She lay on her side facing him. She breathed deeply and slowly, her full lips slightly parted, her dark hair pooling around her.
An ache formed deep within Asher’s chest. He wanted her. He longed to tangle his fingers in that wild dark hair, to kiss those soft lips. He ached to strip that lovely body naked and worship it with his own.
His breathing quickened. How could he end this woman’s life?
He shifted his attention to Ninia then. She looked so young lying there. Her confidence and cleverness had made him forget that she had only just left girlhood behind. She had so much strength in her, so much potential.
And yet he knew who she really was.
Asher tore his gaze away and ran a hand over his face.
What a mess.
This was his fault, him and his foolish blind loyalty. Irana had played him; she’d offered him up like a Winter Blood sacrifice. She’d known his sense of duty would make it impossible for him to deny her.
Irana had also known what carrying out her orders would do to him.
A chill settled over Asher, one that had nothing to do with the cold. Thrindul had been a hard man, but he would never have condoned this mission.
Asher clenched his hands, cursing himself for agreeing to this madness. Ryana had once teased him about his dogged loyalty to the order. It’ll wear you out, she’d warned him. One day you’ll wake up a husk and wonder where your life’s gone.
She was right, only it had taken this to make him see.
I can’t do it.
Asher glanced left at the sleeping women, resolve hardening within him. He forgot the cold, forgot his exhaustion. It was like drawing back a veil that had obscured his vision for many years. The order had colored everything, shaped his view of the world, and he’d never been able to look past it.
Asher clenched his jaw. Not anymore.
By helping Ninia and Mira, rather than ending their lives, he was delaying the inevitable. Taking them across the border and back to The Royal City might result in their deaths, but at least their blood wouldn’t be on his hands.
I should warn them about Irana.
Asher pushed the thought aside. He was getting ahead of himself, for they were still stuck in the middle of enemy territory, far from a safe haven.
Once we’re out of danger I’ll tell them, he promised himself. And then I’ll have to come up with a plan about how to deal with the High Enchanter.
Until then, he had all of their survival—his own included—to worry about.