THEY REACHED THE Royal City of Rithmar on a brisk spring afternoon.
The first of the daffodils had appeared upon the lower slopes of the Highlands of Rithmar, and newborn lambs tottered after their mothers in the fields either side of the road. There were plenty of cottars’ huts here and a patchwork of tilled fields where men and women labored. Beyond, lush, green hills rose up to the feet of mountains clad in dark pine forest. The Eastern Road had led them here from Rithmar’s west coast, east into the mountains where the kingdom’s capital city nestled.
Asher sat astride a bay gelding, a stocky beast with a bristling mane, while Ninia rode a lively grey that had pranced the whole way from Idriss. Above them, Grim circled, letting out the occasional ear-splitting screech.
“Any moment now,” Asher said to Ninia with a tired smile. “You’ll see it.”
They rounded a bend in the vale, and there rose The Royal City of Rithmar. A white city, gleaming in the sun, perched at the far end of the wooded valley, between two peaks that thrust skyward like fangs. Waterfalls rushed down the sheer mountainsides, and the wide, swiftly flowing River Rith cut its way down the northern side of the vale.
He heard Ninia’s breathing catch. “Veldoras pales in comparison to this city.”
The Rithmar capital rose up in tiers to a golden turreted palace at its crown.
“That’s the Tower of the North Wind.” Asher pointed to the palace.
“It’s incredible,” she gasped.
Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Asher found himself grinning. “Aye, although I warn you, the House of Light and Darkness is much less grand.”
His words didn’t appear to put Ninia off in the slightest. She urged her mare into a brisk canter and surged ahead, heading toward the walls to the lower city—a high barrier of wood and iron that barred their way.
Asher set off after her, and they rode together through the gates into the lower town. Asher kept his hood up to conceal his identity. Irana couldn’t know he was here until they were ready to face her.
A tightly packed town of grey stone rose around them, a stark contrast to the magnificent white citadel that towered above. The streets here heaved with life. Crowds thronged the main thoroughfare leading up to the citadel gates. The roar of voices echoing off stone was deafening. After days traveling through the wilderness, the sound was almost overwhelming. Buildings overhung the street, their ground floors dedicated to shops, workshops, and forges. A number of alleyways branched off the street, some leading down the banks of the river, others into the heart of the lower town.
The Black Boar Inn sat tucked into a backstreet. The haunt of traders and hunters, the inn was the perfect place to hide.
A woman was waiting for them in the common room.
Tall and statuesque with a mane of golden hair, and wearing a belted charcoal-grey robe, she watched them from a table near the fireplace.
Asher met her gaze and grinned, relief flooding through him. “Ryana!”
She rose from her seat and crossed to him. They embraced—a hard, brief hug that made a lump rise in Asher’s throat. He’d missed her.
She pulled back, her piercing blue eyes searching his face. “Why all the secrecy?” Her gaze slid past him to where Ninia had entered. “Who’s this?”
The girl wasn’t paying either of them any attention. She’d pushed back her hood and was gazing around with interest. A low ceiling of heavy beams festooned with bunches of dried herbs hung low overhead. The innkeeper was clearly a superstitious man, for hag stones of varying shapes and sizes—said to keep shadow creatures and evil spirits at bay—hung from the wood-paneled walls.
Shadowy booths lined the edges of the large common room, where cloaked men sat smoking pipes and dicing. A fug of pungent smoke filled the air, and the rumble of rough conversation surrounded them. A fiddler was setting up on a raised platform in one corner, readying himself to play a tune.
Asher shook his head. “One question at a time … get us both a drink, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Ryana raised an eyebrow before motioning to the table behind her. “Take a seat then.”
It took two tankards of ale for Asher to finish his tale.
Ryana’s gaze then swiveled to Ninia. The princess sat quietly, enjoying a hearty dish of roast lamb, braised onion, and fresh bread. Chewing vigorously, the girl glanced up, meeting Ryana’s eye.
“It’s all true,” she said, swallowing her mouthful, reaching for her tankard, and taking a sip. “I don’t think he left anything out.”
Ryana huffed a breath, before dragging a hand through her hair. Asher had never seen her lost for words before. She’d barely spoken while he’d recounted his tale.
“Shadows,” she whispered. “And we thought you’d gone off to gather new apprentices.”
Asher snorted. “You thought I’d disappear without a word … without even saying goodbye?”
“I did think it strange, but Irana came up with a plausible excuse.”
Asher lifted the tankard to his lips once more and drained it. “And how is our leader?”
“She’s away at the moment … she went off to Errad to check on your progress with gathering apprentices. She said you’d sent a goshawk to ask her to meet you there.”
Asher’s mouth quirked. “And you believed her?”
Ryana shrugged. “I had no reason not to. I was just pleased you’d finally made contact.”
“When is she due back?”
“In five days or so, I think.” Ryana’s gaze narrowed as she glanced back at Ninia. “Please tell me you’re not going to confront her?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Ninia spoke up. “I want to train to be an enchanter. I can’t do that if she won’t let me into the order.”
Ryana muttered an oath under her breath. “That should be the least of your worries. She sent someone to kill you, remember?” She glanced back at Asher. “I hope you haven’t been encouraging her … Irana will hold you responsible. She may even cast you out.”
Asher held her gaze. “Coming from a woman who was exiled from the order herself for ten years.”
Ryana glared at him. “Aye … so I know what I’m saying.”
“This is Ninia’s idea,” Asher replied evenly. “I’m just here to protect her.”
“But you know what Irana’s like … she won’t be easy to convince.”
“What about you, Ryana?” Ninia spoke up once more. The princess’s face was serious, her gaze dark, as she stared at the enchanter. “Do you believe I’m dangerous … that I should die?”
Her directness appeared to unbalance Ryana. The enchanter glanced away and inhaled deeply. “No,” she murmured after an uncomfortable silence. “I don’t believe that.”
It was growing late. The inn had emptied out, leaving a group of hunters dicing at one of the tables, and a scattering of solitary drinkers hunched over their tankards. The fiddler had exhausted himself and was now propped up by the fire, feet up on a settle, tankard balanced on his belly.
Asher and Ryana sat in a booth at the back of the inn, out of sight of the doorway. Ninia had just retired for the evening, leaving the two friends to catch up properly.
Ryana leaned back against the back of the booth, viewing Asher with that cool stare he knew well. “I can’t believe you agreed to kill her,” she said, her voice low and accusing. “What were you thinking?”
Asher let out a long exhale. He’d been expecting this, bracing himself for it. “I wasn’t thinking,” he admitted, deciding that there wasn’t any point in trying to make excuses for himself. “I was never happy about it.” He paused here, before meeting her eye. “Irana gave a command, and I obeyed. My sense of duty was stronger than my good sense.”
Ryana’s lip curled. “I always said that would be your downfall.”
“You did.”
His friend folded her arms across her chest and gave him an arch look. “So how are you going to deal with Irana?”
“I thought I’d get your help with that.”
Her expression darkened. “That’s a bad idea. She can’t stand me.”
“I don’t want you to talk to her—I need you to watch my back when I do.”
Ryana tensed, realization dawning. “You don’t expect her to listen … you think she’ll try and kill Ninia?”
“Aye, that’s likely.”
His friend’s gaze widened. “You’d go against the order for Ninia? It’s been your life …”
Asher shook his head, surprised by his own vehemence. “Not anymore.”
“So what changed things?”
Silence stretched between them for a few moments before Asher finally replied. “I met Mira.”
Ryana went still. She watched him intently, her expression softening. “I don’t believe it,” she said softly. “You’re in love.”
Asher snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Yes, you are … I see it in your eyes.”
Asher exhaled sharply. This was ill news.
Ryana leaned forward. “So what are you going to do?”
“Nothing—it’s over.”
“You met a woman who’s changed your life, and that’s your answer?”
“Aye, it’s what Mira wanted.”
Ryana tapped her fingertips on the polished table between them. “I don’t think that’s what she wants,” she said quietly.
Asher frowned. “How would you know? You’ve never met her.”
Ryana’s answering smile was swift, although her eyes were shadowed. “I don’t need to. Women often say one thing and mean another, especially if they’re afraid.”
Asher climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor of The Black Boar Inn and let himself into his room. Ninia’s room was next door; he imagined the girl was fast asleep by now. The first couple of days out from Idriss they’d found inns to stay at overnight, although after they’d crossed into the Highlands, they slept rough. Tiredness pulled down at Asher as he shut the door behind him. However, he felt far from sleep.
Grim was waiting for him. The hawk perched upon the window sill. A chill breeze filtered in, ruffling the bird’s ivory feathers. A log burned in the hearth opposite a narrow sleeping pallet. The low flames guttered in a draft.
Asher crossed to the window and pulled the shutters closed. Grim hissed at him, eyes gleaming in the firelight.
“Leave it,” he muttered. “I’m not in the mood.”
Ever since leaving Idriss, the hawk had been in an ill temper in the evenings. Sometimes Asher wished he was able to share the bird’s thoughts, like Thrindul had been. Tonight though, he wasn’t interested in Grim’s opinion.
Asher’s head ached.
Stretching out on the sleeping pallet, he stared up at the shadowed ceiling. His conversation with Ryana still bothered him. He’d forgotten how sharp she was, how perceptive—and blunt.
She’d made him feel like a coward.
Five days had passed since he’d said goodbye to Mira on the docks of Idriss. The memory of her face, composed despite the storm in her eyes, haunted him every waking moment. He and Ninia had spoken little of Mira after their argument in Idriss, yet the Swallow was still there, shadowing every step east.
Asher missed her with an ache that made his chest feel hollowed out. It robbed him of appetite and made him feel sick.
He wished he could go back in time, could avoid ever having met Mira. Life had been black and white before; choices had been easy. He’d not exactly been happy, but he’d had a purpose then at least: to serve the order, to use his abilities to heal the sick and injured. It had been a good purpose, one he’d been proud of. Now he felt adrift—alone.
If this was love, he’d rather live without it.