Yrene didn’t care if someone came to murder her in her sleep.
By the time the solemn, candlelit vigil in the Torre courtyard had finished, by the time Yrene crawled to her room near the top of the Torre, two acolytes propping her between them after she’d collapsed at the base of the stairs, she didn’t care about anything.
Cook brought her dinner in bed. Yrene managed a bite before she passed out.
She awoke past midnight with her fork on her chest and spiced, slow-cooked chicken staining her favorite blue gown.
She groaned, but felt slightly more alive. Enough so that she sat up in the near-darkness of her tower room, and rose only to see to her needs and haul her tiny desk in front of the door. She stacked books and any spare objects she could find atop it, checked the locks twice, and stumbled back into bed, still fully clothed.
She awoke at sunrise.
Precisely when she said she’d meet Lord Chaol.
Cursing, Yrene hauled away the desk, the books, undid the locks, and flung herself down the tower stairs.
She’d ordered the brace for his horse to be brought directly to the castle courtyard, and she’d left her supplies at his room yesterday, so there was nothing for her to take beyond her own frantic self as she hurtled down the endless spiral of the Torre, scowling at the carved owls passing silent judgment while she flew by doors now beginning to open to reveal sleepy-faced healers and acolytes blinking blearily at her.
Yrene thanked Silba for the restorative powers of deep, dreamless sleep as she sprinted across the complex grounds, past the lavender-lined pathways, through the just-opened gates.
Antica was stirring, the streets mercifully quiet as she raced for the palace perched on its other side. She arrived in the courtyard thirty minutes late, gasping for breath, sweat pooling in every possible crevice of her body.
Lord Westfall had started without her.
Gulping down air, Yrene lingered by the towering bronze gates, the shadows still lying thick with the sun so low on the horizon, and watched the unfolding mounting.
As she’d specified, the patient-looking roan mare was on the shorter side—the perfect height for him to reach the saddle horn with an upraised hand. Which he was currently doing, Yrene noted with no small degree of satisfaction. But the rest …
Well, it seemed he’d decided not to use the wooden ramp that she’d also ordered crafted in lieu of a stepped mounting block. The mounting ramp now sat by the still-shadowed horse pens against the eastern wall of the courtyard—as if he’d outright refused to even go near it, and instead had them bring over the horse. To mount the mare on his own.
It didn’t surprise her one bit.
Chaol did not look at any of the guards clustered around him—at least, more than was necessary. With their backs to her, she could only identify one or two by name, but—
One stepped in silently to let Chaol brace his other hand on his armor-clad shoulder as the lord pushed himself upright in a mighty heave. The mare stood patiently while his right hand gripped the saddle horn to balance himself—
She stepped forward just as Lord Westfall pushed off the guard’s shoulder and into the saddle, the guard stepping in close as he did it. It left him sitting sidesaddle, but Chaol still did not give the guard much thanks beyond a tight nod.
Instead, he silently studied the saddle before him, assessing how he was to get one leg over the other side of the horse. Color stained his cheeks, his jaw a tight line. The guards lingered, and he stiffened, tighter and tighter—
But then he moved again, leaning back in the saddle and hauling his right leg over the horn. The guard who’d helped him lunged to support his back, another darting from the other side to keep him from tumbling off, but Chaol’s torso remained solid. Unwavering.
His muscle control was extraordinary. A man who had trained that body to obey him no matter what, even now.
And—he was in the saddle.
Chaol murmured something to the guards that had them backing off as he leaned to either side to buckle the straps of the brace around his legs. It had been set into the saddle—the fit perfect based on the estimations she’d given the woman in the workshop—designed to stabilize his legs, replacing where his thighs would have clamped to keep him steady. Just until he became used to riding. He might very well not need them at all, but … it was better to be safe for this first ride.
Yrene wiped her sweaty forehead and approached, offering a word of thanks to the guards, who now filtered back to their posts. The one who’d directly helped Lord Westfall turned in her direction, and Yrene gave him a broad smile as she said in Halha, “Good morning, Shen.”
The young guard returned her smile as he continued toward the small stables in the far shadows of the courtyard, winking at her as he passed by. “Morning, Yrene.”
She found Chaol sitting upright in the saddle when she faced ahead once more—that stiff posture and clenched jaw gone as he watched her approach.
Yrene straightened her dress, realizing just as she reached him that she still wore yesterday’s clothes. Now with a giant red splotch on her chest.
Chaol took in the stain, then her hair—oh, gods, her hair—and only said, “Good morning.”
Yrene swallowed, still panting from her run. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Up close, the brace indeed blended in enough for most people not to notice. Especially with the way he carried himself.
He sat tall and proud on that horse, shoulders squared, hair still wet from his morning bath. Yrene swallowed again and inclined her head toward the unused mounting ramp across the courtyard. “That was also meant for your use, you know.”
He lifted his brows. “I doubt there will be one readily available on a battlefield,” he said, mouth twisting to the side. “So I might as well learn to mount on my own.”
Indeed. But even with the crisp golden dawn around them, what she’d glimpsed within his wound, the army they might both face, flashed before her, stretching the long shadows—
Motion caught her eye, snapping Yrene to alertness as Shen led a small white mare from those same shadows. Saddled and ready for her. She frowned at her dress.
“If I’m riding,” Chaol said simply, “so are you.” Perhaps that was what he’d muttered to the guards before they’d dispersed.
Yrene blurted, “I’m not—it’s been a while since I rode one.”
“If I can let four men help me onto this damned horse,” he said simply, the color still blooming in his cheeks, “then you can get on one, too.”
From the tone, she knew it must have been—embarrassing. She’d seen the expression on his face just now. But he’d done it. Gritted his teeth and done it.
And with the guards helping him … She knew there were multiple reasons why he could barely glance at them. That it was not just the lone reminder of what he’d once been that made him tense up in their presence, refuse to even consider training with them.
But that was not a conversation to be had now—not here, and not with the light starting to return to his eyes.
So Yrene hitched up her hem and let Shen help her onto the horse.
The skirts of her dress hiked up enough to reveal most of her legs, but she’d seen far more revealed here. In this very courtyard. Neither Shen nor any other guards so much as glanced her way. She turned to Chaol to order him to go ahead, but found his eyes on her.
On the leg exposed from ankle to midthigh, paler than most of her golden-brown skin. She darkened easily in the sun, but it had been months since she’d gone swimming and basked in any sunlight.
Chaol noticed her attention and snapped his eyes up to hers. “You have a good seat,” he told her, as clinically as she often remarked on the status of her patients’ bodies.
Yrene gave him an exasperated look before nodding her thanks to Shen and nudging her horse into a walk. Chaol snapped the reins and did the same.
She kept one eye on him as they rode toward the courtyard gates.
The brace held. The saddle held.
He was peering down at it—then at the gates, at the city awakening beyond them, the tower jutting high above it all as if it were a hand raised in bold welcome.
Sunlight broke through the open archway, gilding them both, but Yrene could have sworn it was far more than the dawn that shone in the captain’s brown eyes as they rode into the city.
It was not walking again, but it was better than the chair.
Better than better.
The brace was cumbersome, going against all his instincts as a rider, but … it held him firm. Allowed him to guide Yrene through the gates, the healer clutching at the pommel every now and then, forgetting the reins entirely.
Well, he’d found one thing she wasn’t so self-assured at.
The thought brought a small smile to his lips. Especially as she kept adjusting her skirts. For all she’d chided him about his modesty, flashing her legs had given her pause.
Men in the streets—workers and peddlers and city guards—looked twice. Looked their fill.
Until they noticed his stare and averted their eyes.
And Chaol made sure they did.
Just as he’d made sure the guards in the courtyard had kept their attention polite the moment she’d run in, huffing and puffing, sun-kissed and flushed. Even with the stain on her clothes, even wearing yesterday’s dress and coated in a faint sheen of sweat.
It had been mortifying to be helped into the saddle like unruly baggage after he’d refused the mounting ramp—mortifying to see those guards in their pristine uniforms, the armor on their shoulders and hilts of their swords glinting in the early morning sunlight, all watching him fumble about. But he’d dealt with it. And then he found himself forgetting that entirely at the appreciative glances the guards gave her. No lady, beautiful or plain, young or old, deserved to be gawked at. And Yrene …
Chaol kept his mare close beside hers. Met the stare of any man who glanced their way as they rode toward the towering spire of the Torre, the stones pale as cream in the morning light. Every single man swiftly found somewhere else to gape. Some even looked apologetic.
Whether Yrene noticed, he had no clue. She was too busy lunging for the saddle horn at any unexpected movements of the horse, too busy wincing as the mare increased her pace up a particularly steep street, causing her to sway and slide back in her saddle.
“Lean forward,” he instructed her. “Balance your weight.” He did the same—as much as the brace allowed.
Their horses slowly plowed up the streets, heads bobbing as they worked.
Yrene gave him a sharp glare. “I do know those things.”
He lifted his brows in a look that said, Could have fooled me.
She scowled, but faced ahead. Leaned forward, as he’d instructed her.
He’d been sleeping like the dead when Nesryn returned late last night—but she’d roused him long enough to say she hadn’t discovered anything in regard to potential Valg in the city. No sewers connected to the Torre, and with the heavy guard at the walls, no one was getting in that way. He’d managed to hold on to consciousness long enough to thank her, and hear her promise to keep hunting today.
But this cloudless, bright day … definitely not the Valg’s preferred darkness. Aelin had told him how the Valg princes could summon darkness for themselves—darkness that struck down any living creature in its path, draining them dry. But even one Valg in this city, regardless of whether they were a prince or an ordinary grunt …
Chaol pushed the thought from his mind, frowning up at the mammoth structure that grew more imposing with each street they crossed.
“Towers,” he mused, glancing toward Yrene. “Is it coincidence you bear that name, or did your ancestors once hail from the Torre?”
Her knuckles were white as she gripped the pommel, as if turning to look at him would send her toppling off. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “My—it was knowledge that I never learned.”
He considered the words, the way she squinted at the bright pillar of the tower ahead rather than meet his stare. A child of Fenharrow. He didn’t dare ask why she might not know the answer. Where her family was.
Instead, he jerked his chin to the ring on her finger. “Does the fake wedding band really work?”
She examined the ancient, scuffed ring. “I wish I could say otherwise, but it does.”
“You encounter that behavior here?” In this wondrous city?
“Very, very rarely.” She wriggled her fingers before settling them around the saddle’s pommel again. “But it’s an old habit from home.”
For a heartbeat, he recalled an assassin in a bloody white gown, collapsing at the entrance to the barracks. Recalled the poisoned blade the man had sliced her with—and had used with countless others.
“I’m glad,” he said after a moment. “That you don’t need to fear such things here.” Even the guards, for all their ogling, had been respectful. She’d even addressed one by name—and his returned warmth had been genuine.
Yrene clenched the saddle horn again. “The khagan holds all people accountable to the rule of the law, whether they’re servants or princes.”
It shouldn’t have been such a novel concept, yet … Chaol blinked. “Truly?”
Yrene shrugged. “As far as I have heard and observed. Lords cannot buy their way out of crimes committed, nor rely on their family names to bail them out. And would-be criminals in the streets see the exacting hand of justice and rarely dare to tempt it.” A pause. “Did you …”
He knew what she’d balked at asking. “I was ordered to release or look the other way for nobility who had committed crimes. At least, the ones who were of value in court and in the king’s armies.”
She studied the pommel before her. “And your new king?”
“He is different.”
If he was alive. If he had made it out of Rifthold. Chaol forced himself to add, “Dorian has long studied and admired the khaganate. Perhaps he’ll put some of its policies into effect.”
A long, assessing glance now. “Do you think the khagan will ally with you?”
He hadn’t told her that, but it was fairly obvious why he’d come, he supposed. “I can only hope.”
“Would his forces make that much of a difference against … the powers you mentioned?”
Chaol repeated, “I can only hope.” He couldn’t bring himself to voice the truth—that their armies were few and scattered, if they existed at all. Compared to the gathering might of Morath …
“What happened these months?” A quiet, careful question.
“Trying to trick me into talking?”
“I want to know.”
“It’s nothing worth telling.” His story wasn’t worth telling at all. Not a single part of it.
She fell silent, the clopping of their horses’ hooves the only sound for a block. Then, “You will need to talk about it. At some point. I … beheld glimpses of it within you yesterday.”
“Isn’t that enough?” The question was sharp as the knife at his side.
“Not if it is what the thing inside you feeds on. Not if claiming ownership of it might help.”
“And you’re so certain of this?” He should mind his tongue, he knew that, but—
Yrene straightened in her saddle. “The trauma of any injury requires some internal reflection during the healing and aftermath.”
“I don’t want it. Need it. I just want to stand—to walk again.”
She shook her head.
He charged on, “And what about you, then? How about we make a deal: you tell me all your deep, dark secrets, Yrene Towers, and I’ll tell you mine.”
Indignation lit those remarkable eyes as she glared at him. He glared right back.
Finally, Yrene snorted, smiling faintly. “You’re as stubborn as an ass.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he countered, the beginnings of a smile tugging on his mouth.
“I’m not surprised.”
Chaol chuckled, catching the makings of a grin on her face before she ducked her head to hide it. As if sharing one with a son of Adarlan were such a crime.
Still, he eyed her for a long moment—the humor lingering on her face, the heavy, softly curling hair that was occasionally caught in the morning breeze off the sea. And found himself still smiling as something coiled tight in his chest began to loosen.
They rode the rest of the way to the Torre in silence, and Chaol tipped his head back as they neared, walking down a broad, sunny avenue that sloped upward to the hilltop complex.
The Torre was even more dominating up close.
It was broad, more of a keep than anything, but still rounded. Buildings flanked its sides, connected on lower levels. All enclosed by towering white walls, the iron gates—fashioned to look like an owl spreading its wings—thrown wide to reveal lavender bushes and flower beds lining the sand-colored gravel walkways. Not flower beds. Herb beds.
The smells of them opening to the morning sun filled his nose: basil and mint and sage and more of that lavender. Even their horses, hooves crunching on the walkways, seemed to sigh as they approached.
Guards in what he assumed were Torre colors—cornflower blue and yellow—let them pass without question, and Yrene bowed her head in thanks. They did not look at her legs. Did not either dare or have the inclination to disrespect. Chaol glanced away from them before he could meet their questioning stares.
Yrene took the lead, guiding them through an archway and into the complex courtyard. Windows of the three-story building wrapped around the courtyard gleamed with the light of the rising sun, but inside the courtyard itself …
Beyond the murmur of awakening Antica outside the compound, beyond the hooves of their horses on the pale gravel, there was only the gurgle of twin fountains anchored against parallel walls of the courtyard—their spouts shaped like screeching owl beaks, spewing water into deep basins below. Pale pink and purple flowers lined the walls between lemon trees, the beds tidy but left to grow as the plants willed.
It was one of the more serene places he had ever laid eyes on. And watching them approach … Two dozen women in dresses of every color—though most of the simple make Yrene favored.
They stood in neat rows on the gravel, some barely more than children, some well into their prime. A few were elderly.
Including one woman, dark-skinned and white-haired, who strode from the front of the line and smiled broadly at Yrene. It was not a face that had ever held any beauty, but there was a light in the woman’s eyes—a kindness and serenity that made Chaol blink in wonder.
All the others watched her, as if she were the axis around which they were ordered. Even Yrene, who smiled at the woman as she dismounted, looking grateful to be off the mare. One of the guards who had trailed them in came to retrieve the horse, but hesitated as Chaol remained astride.
Chaol ignored the man as Yrene finger-combed her tangled hair and spoke to the ancient woman in his tongue. “I take it the good crowd this morning is thanks to you?” Light words—perhaps an attempt at normalcy, considering what had happened in the library.
The old woman smiled—such warmth. She was brighter than the sun peeking above the compound walls. “The girls heard a rumor of a handsome lord coming to teach. I was practically trampled in the stampede down the stairs.”
She cast a wry grin to three red-faced girls, no older than fifteen, who looked guiltily at their shoes. And then shot looks at him beneath their lashes that were anything but.
Chaol stifled a laugh.
Yrene turned to him, assessing the brace and the saddle as the crunch of approaching wheels on gravel filled the courtyard.
The amusement faded. Dismounting in front of these women …
Enough.
The word sounded through him.
If he could not endure it in front of a group of the world’s best healers, then he would deserve to suffer. He had offered his help. He would give it.
For indeed, there were some younger girls in the back who were pale. Shifting on their feet. Nervous.
This sanctuary, this lovely place … A shadow had crept over it.
He would do what he could to push it back.
“Lord Chaol Westfall,” Yrene said to him, gesturing to the ancient woman, “may I present Hafiza, Healer on High of the Torre Cesme.”
One of the blushing girls sighed at the sound of his name.
Yrene’s eyes danced. But Chaol inclined his head to the old woman as she extended her hands up to him. The skin was leathery—as warm as her smile. She squeezed his fingers tightly. “As handsome as Yrene said.”
“I said no such thing,” Yrene hissed.
One of the girls giggled.
Yrene cut her a warning look, and Chaol lifted his brows before saying to Hafiza, “It is an honor and a pleasure, my lady.”
“So dashing,” one of the girls murmured behind him.
Wait until you see my dismount, he almost said.
Hafiza squeezed his hands once more and dropped them. She faced Yrene. Waiting.
Yrene only clapped her hands together and said to the girls assembled, “Lord Westfall has suffered a severe injury to his lower spine and finds walking difficult. Yesterday, Sindra in the workshop crafted this brace for him, based upon the designs from the horse-tribes in the steppes, who have long dealt with such injuries for their riders.” She waved a hand to indicate his legs, the brace.
With every word, his shoulders stiffened. More and more.
“If you are faced with a patient in a similar situation,” Yrene went on, “the freedom of riding may be a pleasant alternative to a carriage or palanquin. Especially if they were used to a certain level of independence beforehand.” She added upon consideration, “Or even if they have faced mobility difficulties their entire lives—it may provide a positive option while you heal them.”
Little more than an experiment. Even the blushing girls had lost their smiles as they studied the brace. His legs.
Yrene asked them, “Who should like to assist Lord Westfall from his mount to his chair?”
A dozen hands shot up.
He tried to smile. Tried and failed.
Yrene pointed at a few, who rushed over. None looked up at him above the waist, or even bid him good morning.
Yrene lifted her voice as they crowded around her, making sure those assembled in the courtyard could also hear. “For patients completely immobilized, this may not be an option, but Lord Westfall retains the ability to move above his waist and can steer the horse with the reins. Balance and safety, of course, remain concerns, but another is that he retains use and sensation of his manhood—which also presents a few hiccups regarding the comfort of the brace itself.”
One of the younger girls let out a giggle at that, but most only nodded, looking directly at the area indicated, as if he had no clothes on whatsoever. Face heating, Chaol restrained the urge to cover himself.
Two young healers began unstrapping the brace, some examining the buckles and rods. Still they did not look him in the eye. As if he were some new toy—new lesson. Some oddity.
Yrene merely went on, “Mind you don’t jostle him too much when you—careful.”
He fought to keep his features distant, found himself missing the guards from the palace. Yrene gave the girls firm, solid directions as they tugged him down from the saddle.
He didn’t try to help the acolytes, or fight them, when they pulled at his arms, someone going to steady his waist, the world tilting as they hauled him downward. But the weight of his body was too great, and he felt himself slide farther from the saddle, the drop to the ground looming, the sun a brand on his skin.
The girls grunted, someone going to the other side to help move his leg up and over the horse—or he thought so. He only knew it because he saw her head of curls just peek over the horse’s side. She pushed, jutting his leg upward, and he hung there, three girls gritting their teeth while they tried to lower him, the others watching in observational silence—
One of the girls let out an oomph and lost her grip on his shoulder. The world plunged—
Strong, unfaltering hands caught him, his nose barely half a foot from the pale gravel as the other girls shuffled and grunted, trying to heft him up again. He’d come free of the horse, but his legs were now sprawled beneath him, as distant from him as the very top of the Torre, high above.
Roaring filled his head.
A sort of nakedness crept over him. Worse than sitting in his undershorts for hours. Worse than the bath with the servant.
Yrene, gripping his shoulder from where she’d just barely caught him in time, said to the healers, “That could have been better, girls. A great deal better, for many reasons.” A sigh. “We can discuss what went wrong later, but for now, move him to the chair.”
He could barely stand to hear her, listen to her, as he hung between those girls, most of whom were half his weight. Yrene stepped aside to let the girl who’d dropped him back into place, whistling sharply.
Wheels hissed on gravel from nearby. He didn’t bother to look at the wheeled chair that an acolyte pushed closer. Didn’t bother to speak as they settled him in it, the chair shuddering beneath his weight.
“Careful.” Yrene warned again.
The girls lingered, the rest of the courtyard still watching. Had it been seconds or minutes since this ordeal had begun? He clenched the arms of the chair as Yrene rattled off some directions and observations. Clenched the arms harder as one of the girls stooped to touch his booted feet, to arrange them for him.
Words rose up his throat, and he knew they’d burst from him, knew he could do little to stop his bellow to back off as that acolyte’s fingers neared the dusty black leather—
Withered brown hands landed on the girl’s wrist, halting her mere inches away.
Hafiza said calmly, “Let me.”
The girls peeled back as Hafiza stooped to help him instead.
“Get the ladies ready, Yrene,” Hafiza said over a slim shoulder, and Yrene obeyed, ushering them back into their lines.
The ancient woman’s hands lingered on his boots—his feet, currently pointing in opposite directions. “Shall I do it, lord, or would you like to?”
Words failed him, and he wasn’t certain he could use his hands without them shaking, so he gave the woman a nod of approval.
Hafiza straightened one foot, waiting until Yrene had walked a few steps away and begun giving stretching instructions to the ladies.
“This is a place for learning,” Hafiza murmured. “Older students teach the younger.” Even with her accent, he understood her perfectly. “It was Yrene’s instinct, Lord Westfall, to show the girls what she did with the brace—to let them learn for themselves what it is to have a patient with similar difficulties. To receive this training, Yrene herself had to venture out onto the steppes. Many of these girls might not have that opportunity. At least not for several years.”
Chaol met Hafiza’s eyes at last, finding the understanding in them more damning than being hauled off a horse by a group of girls half his weight.
“She means well, my Yrene.”
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he had words.
Hafiza straightened his other foot. “There are many other scars, my lord. Beyond the one on her neck.”
He wanted to tell the old woman that he knew that too damn well.
But he shoved down that bareness, that simmering roar in his head.
He had made these ladies a promise to teach them, to help them.
Hafiza seemed to read that—sense it. She only patted his shoulder before she rose to her full height, groaning a bit, and walked back to the place left for her in line.
Yrene had turned toward him, stretching done, and scanned him. As if Hafiza’s lingering presence had indicated something she’d missed.
Her eyes settled on his, brows narrowing. What’s wrong?
He ignored the question within her look—ignored the bit of worry. Shoved whatever he felt down deep and rolled his chair toward her. Inch by inch. The gravel was not ideal, but he gritted his teeth. He’d given these ladies his word. He would not back down from it.
“Where did we leave off the last lesson?” Yrene asked a girl in the front.
“Eye gouge,” she said with a broad smile.
Chaol nearly choked.
“Right,” Yrene said, rubbing her hands together. “Someone demonstrate for me.”
He watched in silence as hands shot up, and Yrene selected one—a smaller-boned girl. Yrene took up the stance of attacker, grabbing the girl from the front with surprising intensity.
But the girl’s slim hands went right to Yrene’s face, thumbs to the corners of her eyes.
Chaol started from his chair—or would have, had the girl not pulled back.
“And next?” Yrene merely asked.
“Hook in my thumbs like this”—the girl made the motion in the air between them for all to see—“and pop.”
Some of the girls laughed quietly at the accompanying pop the girl made with her mouth.
Aelin would have been beside herself with glee.
“Good,” Yrene said, and the girl strode back to her place in line. Yrene turned to him, that worry again flashing as she beheld whatever was in his eyes, and said, “This is our third lesson of this quarter. We have covered front-based attacks only so far. I usually have the guards come in as willing victims”—some snickers at that—“but today I would like for you to tell us what you think ladies, young and old, strong and frail, could do against any sort of attack. Your list of top maneuvers and tips, if you’d be so kind.”
He’d trained young men ready to shed blood—not heal people.
But defense was the first lesson he’d been taught, and had taught those young guards.
Before they’d wound up hanging from the castle gates.
Ress’s battered, unseeing face flashed into his mind.
What good had it done any of them when it mattered?
Not one. Not one of that core group he’d trusted and trained, worked with for years … not one had survived. Brullo, his mentor and predecessor, had taught him all he knew—and what had it earned any of them? Anyone he’d encountered, he’d touched … they’d suffered. The lives he’d sworn to protect—
The sun turned bleaching, the gurgle of the twin fountains a distant melody.
What good had any of it done for his city, his people, when it was sacked?
He looked up to find the lines of women watching him, curiosity on their faces.
Waiting.
There had been a moment, when he had hurled his sword into the Avery. When he had been unable to bear its weight at his side, in his hand, and had chucked it and everything the Captain of the Guard had been, had meant, into the dark, eddying waters.
He’d been sinking and drowning since. Long before his spine.
He wasn’t certain if he’d even tried to swim. Not since that sword had gone into the river. Not since he’d left Dorian in that room with his father and told his friend—his brother—that he loved him, and knew it was good-bye. He’d … left. In every sense of the word.
Chaol forced himself to take a breath. To try.
Yrene stepped up to his side as his silence stretched on, again looking so puzzled and concerned. As if she could not figure out why—why he might have been the least bit … He shoved the thought down. And the others.
Shoved them down to the silt-thick bottom of the Avery, where that eagle-pommeled sword now lay, forgotten and rusting.
Chaol lifted his chin, looking each girl and woman and crone in the face. Healers and servants and librarians and cooks, Yrene had said.
“When an attacker comes at you,” he said at last, “they will likely try to move you somewhere else. Never let them do it. If you do, wherever they take you will be the last place you see.” He’d gone to enough murder sites in Rifthold, read and looked into enough cases, to know the truth in that. “If they try to move you from your current location, you make that your battleground.”
“We know that,” one of the blushing girls said. “That was Yrene’s first lesson.”
Yrene nodded gravely at him. He again did not let himself look at her neck.
“Stomping on the instep?” He could barely manage a word to Yrene.
“First lesson also,” the same girl replied instead of Yrene.
“What about how debilitating it is to receive a blow to the groin?”
Nods all around. Yrene certainly knew her fair share of maneuvers.
Chaol smiled grimly. “What about ways to get a man my size or larger flipped onto their backs in less than two moves?”
Some of the girls smiled as they shook their heads. It wasn’t reassuring.