Tower of Dawn

Alone with the shifter, Nesryn strode to the fire and warmed her hands. “How are you feeling?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder to where Falkan eased into a low-backed wooden chair.

“Everything hurts.” Falkan grimaced, rubbing at his leg. “Remind me never to do anything heroic again.”

She chuckled over the crackle of the fire. “Thank you—for doing that.”

“I have no one in my life who would miss me anyway.”

Her throat tightened. But she asked, “If we fly north—to Antica, and finally to the northern continent …” She could no longer bring herself to say the word. Home. “Will you come?”

The shifter was silent for a long moment. “Would you want me there? Any of you?”

Nesryn turned from the fire at last, eyes burning. “I have something to tell you.”

Falkan wept.

Put his head in his hands and wept when Nesryn told him what she suspected. She did not know much of Lysandra’s personal history, but the ages, the location matched. Only the description did not. The mother had described a plain, brown-haired girl. Not a black-haired, green-eyed beauty.

But yes—yes, he would come. To war, and to find her. His niece. His last shred of family in the world, for whom he had never stopped looking.

Sartaq returned with food, and thirty minutes later, word came from the hall.

The clans had decided.

Hands shaking, Nesryn strode to the door, to where Sartaq held out a hand.

Their fingers interlaced, and he led her toward the now-silent hall. Falkan rose painfully from his chair, groaning as he brushed away his tears, and limped after them.

They made it a handful of steps before a messenger came barreling down the hall.

Nesryn pulled away from Sartaq to let him deal with the panting, wild-eyed girl. But it was to Nesryn the messenger extended the letter.

Nesryn’s hands shook as she recognized the handwriting on it.

She felt Sartaq stiffen as he, too, realized that the writing was Chaol’s. He stepped back, eyes shuttered, to let her read it.

She read the message twice. Had to take a steady breath to keep from vomiting.

“He—he requests my presence in Antica. Needs it,” she said, the note fluttering in her shaking hand. “He begs us to return immediately. As fast as the winds can carry us.”

Sartaq took the letter to read for himself. Falkan remained quiet and watchful as the prince read it. Swore.

“Something is wrong,” Sartaq said, and Nesryn nodded.

If Chaol, who never asked for help, never wanted help, had told them to hurry … She glanced toward the council, still waiting to announce their decision.

But Nesryn only asked the prince, “How soon can we be airborne?”

58

Morning came and went, and Yrene was in no rush to rise from bed. Neither was Chaol. They ate a leisurely lunch in the sitting room, not bothering with proper clothes.

Hafiza would decide in her own time whether to give them those books. So they’d just have to wait. And then wait to encounter Aelin Galathynius again, or anyone else who might be able to decipher them. Chaol said as much, after Yrene told him what Hafiza had confirmed.

“There must be considerable information inside those books,” Chaol mused as he chewed on pomegranate seeds, the fruit like small rubies he popped into his mouth.

“If they date back as far as we think,” Yrene said, “if many of those texts came from the necropolis or similar sites, it could be a trove. About the Valg. Our connection to them.”

“Aelin lucked out in Rifthold, when she stumbled across those few books.”

He’d told her last night—of the assassin named Celaena, who had turned out to be a queen named Aelin. The entire history of it, laid bare. A long one, and a sad one. His voice had grown hoarse when he’d talked of Dorian. Of the collar and the Valg prince. Of those they had lost. Of his own role, the sacrifices he’d made, the promises he’d broken. All of it.

And if Yrene had not loved him already, she would have loved him then, learning that truth. Seeing the man he was becoming, turning into, after all of it.

“The king somehow missed them during his initial research and purging.”

“Or perhaps some god made sure he did,” Yrene mused. She lifted a brow. “I don’t suppose there are any Baast Cats at that library.”

Chaol shook his head and set down the looted corpse of the pomegranate. “Aelin has always had a god or two perched on her shoulder. Nothing would surprise me at this point.”

Yrene considered. “Whatever did happen with the king? If he had that Valg demon.”

Chaol’s face darkened as he leaned back on the not-nearly-as-comfortable replacement for the shredded gold sofa. “Aelin healed him.”

Yrene sat up straighter. “How?”

“She burned it out of him. Well, she and Dorian did.”

“And the man—the true king—survived it?”

“No. Initially, yes. But neither Aelin nor Dorian wanted to talk much about what happened on that bridge. He survived long enough to explain what had been done, but I think he was fading fast. Then Aelin destroyed the castle. And him with it.”

“But fire rid the Valg demon within him?”

“Yes. And I think it helped save Dorian, too. Or at least bought him enough freedom to fight back on his own.” He angled his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Because that theory I had …” Yrene’s knee bounced. She scanned the room, the doors. No one nearby. “I think …” She leaned closer, gripping his knee. “I think the Valg are parasites. Infections.”

He opened his mouth, but Yrene plowed ahead. “Hafiza and I pulled a tapeworm from Hasar when I first came here. They feed off their host, much in the same way the Valg do. Take over basic needs—like hunger. And eventually kill their hosts, when all those resources have been used up.”

Chaol went utterly still. “But these are no mindless grubs.”

“Yes, and that was what I wanted to see with you yesterday. How much awareness that darkness had. The extent of their power. If it had left some sort of parasite in your bloodstream. It didn’t, but … There was the other parasite—feeding off you, giving it control.”

He was silent.

Yrene cleared her throat, caressing her thumb over his wrist. “I realized the night before. That I had one of my own. My hatred, my anger and fear and pain.” She brushed away a stray curl. “They were all parasites, feeding on me these years. Sustaining me, but also feeding on me.”

And once she had understood that—that the place she most feared to tread was inside herself, where she might have to acknowledge what, exactly, dwelled within her …

“When I realized what I was doing, I understood that’s what the Valg truly is, deep down. What your own shadows are. Parasites. And enduring it these weeks was not the same as facing it. So I attacked it as I would any other parasite; swarmed around it. Made it come to you—attack you as hard as it could to get away from me. So that you might face it, defeat it. So you might go where you feared most to tread, and decide whether, at last, you were ready to fight back.”

His eyes were clear, bright. “That’s a big realization.”

“It certainly was.” She considered what he’d related—about Aelin and the demon inside the dead king. “Fire is cleansing. Purifying. But amongst the healing arts, it’s not often used. Too unwieldy. Water is better-tuned to the healing. But then there are raw healing gifts. Like mine.”

“Light,” Chaol said. “It looked like swarming lights, against their darkness.”

She nodded. “Aelin managed to get Dorian and his father free. Roughly, crudely, and one did not survive. But what if a healer with my sort of gifts was to treat someone possessed—infected by the Valg? The ring, the collar, they’re implantation devices. Like a bad bit of water, or tainted food. Merely a carrier for something small, the kernel of those demons, who then grow within their hosts. Removing it is the first step, but you said the demon can remain even afterward.”

His chest began to heave in an uneven rhythm as he nodded.

Yrene whispered, “I think I can heal them. I think the Valg … I think they are parasites, and I can treat the people they infect.”