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  The musician’s face turned stoic. “Finish eating and come with me.”

  Garrett nodded and shoveled in the last few bites as the older man drained the ale. He rose with his contact, who snatched the instrument from the table and moved through the crowd toward a staircase that led upward. Once upstairs, Garrett followed him into one of the rooms meant for travelers, lit only by a single candle and a low-burning fire. His friend shut the door behind him.

  “We can talk here. The owner is one of mine.” He tossed the violin on the bed and then turned back to Garrett. “I don’t know whether to hug you or hit you, lad. You know I need you with the guard, with Elysia.”

  Garrett pushed back the hood of his cloak and ran his fingers through his ragged hair. “That’s not what this is about, Oren,” Garrett barked. Lords, he wanted out of the queen’s service, but his position as master of the Elite Guard offered access to information vital to Oren’s resistance group. Garrett had grown increasingly cynical on the value of the information he provided when it did not seem to do a lick of good in saving anyone.

  Oren placed a hand on Garrett’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “What’s going on in Turris, then?”

  Garrett took a deep breath. “Malcolm’s positioning himself to challenge me.”

  “Does Elysia still trust you?”

  Garrett shook his head and sat down on the bed, avoiding Oren’s instrument; the frame squawked under his weight. “I don’t know, and if she didn’t, I wouldn’t know until I was lying on the floor at her feet bleeding out. I can’t always read her intentions.”

  Oren grabbed the stool from the small desk in the corner and set it down in the middle of the room. He straddled it. “I don’t think she’d kill you.”

  Garrett closed his eyes and let out a breath. Elysia could find far worse things to do to him if he angered her, and her affections for his dead father would not save him. But Oren was right. Elysia would not outright kill him, and knowing that, at least allowed him to push his advantage. “We are not through with this conversation, Oren, but I didn’t spend the last week on horseback to discuss the latest inclinations of Elysia Ashen. I would have used the parchment for that.”

  His former master chuckled. “Fair enough.”

  Garrett took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. When you grew up in the barracks of the royal palace, it was natural to overhear or see things that should not be repeated. It had taught Garrett the importance of secret-keeping, and he had more than his fair share. Oren knew of two: his bond with Lyulf, and what happened the night Oasisian burned.

  “I found her,” he finally said.

  “You found her?” Oren echoed, his age-lined face twisted in confusion, and then his eyes widened as if realizing whom Garrett meant. The slight hunch of his shoulders smoothed into a straight line. “You found her? Are you sure?”

  “Certain enough.” How could he explain to Oren all the reasons he believed he had found her? And then, all the reasons he could be wrong. He had to trust Lyulf with this one.

  “Where?”

  “Nordlin.”

  Oren shook his head. “Yes, that makes sense. The wards have kept everyone out. Do you have a plan to get through?”

  “I think so, but … I’m not sure what bait would tempt Lord Edgar into lowering the wards again.” Garrett crossed his arms. “It would have to be something worthwhile.”

  Oren hummed. “I think I might know.” He rose from the stool and went to the small desk where the candle sat. He grabbed a scrap of paper and the ink quill and then jotted something down before handing it over to Garrett.

  Garrett scanned the words scrawled on the piece, and then met his friend’s eyes. “Are you certain of this?”

  “I’ve confirmed it with several sources. I’m not even sure Edgar knows yet, but it might be your key to Nordlin City. Edgar is also big on diplomacy and tradition.”

  Garrett frowned. It might be his key, but it also meant he would have to bring snakes with him to make the plan work, and if he wasn’t careful, the vipers would swallow Nordlin whole.

  “Thank you, Oren.”

  “Of course. Stay here tonight?”

  Garrett stole a glance at the window. Already water dotted the small squares of glass, and the shutter thumped against the side of the building. Ideally, he would leave and find shelter at another town a few miles up the coast to avoid being seen with Oren, but he had spent too much time fighting off the cold and the wet of late. A fire and a dry bed appealed to him.

  “Yes,” he said softly, the word a wisp of sound. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept a full night.

  Oren clapped his shoulder and smiled. “You take the bed. The evening’s still young, and I have a few more songs in me.” The older man picked up the violin. “Sleep well, Garrett.”

  ~THIRTEEN~

  Myah sat on the window seat in her bedroom, watching the lights of the city below and the tent city outside the city walls. She had been finding it difficult to sleep for the last few weeks. Her conversation with her uncle kept playing through her mind. She imagined him telling her something else, anything else, then what he had said about her father, but it fit with her mother’s reluctance to speak of him.

  It fit why Caitlyn had never married or even considered courtship when it was offered. Her mother had several suitors, who Myah could remember, when she had been a child, but Caitlyn had always kept her distance. It also explained her reticent acceptance when Myah first started going hunting with Cal and Skye. Myah had always thought Caitlyn could see through her lies and kept it to herself. But, her mother had never been one to accept an untruth as fact and not call a person out on it. No, her mother’s motivations were born of wounds engraved upon her soul, and she didn’t need her uncle to give her specifics to understand that.

  Myah leaned her head against the windowpane. The cool glass soothed the ache in her head, but it could not numb the pain in her heart.

  Her mother had been hurt deeply.

  She stood, shaking her head as if to toss away her thoughts. The endless cycle of analyzation did nothing but leave her sleepless and agitated.

  She threw herself on her bed and winced. Bruises lingered on her body. Although most had faded to sickly yellow marks, a few from when she landed hard in the creek bed still smarted.

  Myah closed her eyes, and immediately regretted it—her mind transporting her to that day in the woods.

  The boy with the golden eyes.

  His aim with a knife, almost piercing her where she had fallen.

  His hands on her as she struggled to free herself from him.

  Fear. Panic. Pain. Regret.

  Myah’s breaths came short and fast. Her chest felt tight, and her body too hot, too confined. She needed air, to get out of her stuffy room. To …

  In a swirl of robes and bedclothes, she rose from her bed and went straight for her window, throwing open the pane to let in the chill of the night. She gasped in the cold air, finally feeling as if she could get a breath. She sucked in the air greedily and dropped heavily upon the window seat.

  What was wrong with her? Maybe she needed to see Master Griffith for another round of healing, but she wasn’t sure healing magic could take away the memories plaguing her, at least not that her teacher had ever indicated.

  Healing magic could work wonders, but it couldn’t save a man mortally wounded without it, in turn, killing the spellweaver, and it couldn’t raise the dead. It could enhance natural healing within a patient; it could help the spellweaver root out the source of an illness in the cases of infections or cancers and even stop or retreat their growth. And even then, she was a beginner, barely able to dabble in a basic level of magic since she didn’t have a weaver stone.

  It also could not kill the strangling fear that she now struggled to overcome.

  The fear Master Griffith had tried to explain.

  She now understood Lord Lamar’s reaction that day at the council meeting.

  T
he memories overwhelmed and crippled her.

  “My,” Skye’s voice whispered from her doorway. His body was nothing more than pigments of black in the dark room.

  “I’m awake,” she replied, keeping her voice soft. “What’s wrong?”

  She crossed to him. She could walk her room blindfolded.

  When they touched in the dark, she could feel the cold dampness of his clothes, the moisture on his cloak. He leaned down, brushing her lips with his, and she could feel the chill on his skin. He had been out in the snowfall.

  “I’ve just come from the caves.” He brushed back her hair from her face, toying with the loose tendrils. “I didn’t want to wait until morning to tell you.”

  “Allen?” she breathed.

  “He’s gone, My.”

  A wave of sadness rolled through her, choking her throat and stinging her eyes. She leaned into him, pressing her head to his shoulder. He smelled like pine trees and fresh snow and the crisp air on a winter’s night. The smell reminded her of all the nights they’d camped out, sometimes the three of them. Others, with Allen joining them. His laughter, his smiles, his warm presence.

  The ache in her soul was almost too much. She choked back the tears.

  Skye rubbed her back through the fabric of her nightdress. “Cal and I are going to help Owl bury him tomorrow.” He kissed the side of her head and wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Do you want to come?”

  She nodded but didn’t speak as one by one hot tears tore down her cheeks. Her friend deserved a proper goodbye. Her friend hadn’t deserved to die.

  “Did the medicine from Master Griffith help?” she murmured.

  “It put him out completely the last two days. He didn’t suffer in the end.”

  A sob tore through her, and he held her while she cried.

  ~*~

  Skye tipped back his glass of ale and took a long draw. They had buried Allen in a glen near the river and said their final goodbyes, but the loss of his friend stung like needles, the pain lingering long after the wound was made. It settled into a dull ache now, numbed by the alcohol he drank. They were on their second round, but Skye didn’t doubt he would need several more rounds before he was dull-witted enough to forget the truth—he had failed Allen.

  “Go easy there, Skye,” Owl whispered. “The day is young.” The older man’s hood was pulled up over his head, and he hunkered down in the chair beside Skye.

  The tavern was oddly busy for the daytime, but it made it easier for Owl to blend in. Their leader had purposely avoided the city for years, preferring to keep to the outskirts of Nordlin and escape any notice of the guards. Allen had been his connection to the markets and people of the north, and even in the wake of his death, Skye and Cal had to practically drag Owl into the lower town for a drink in remembrance.

  It was odd, Skye realized, but then, Owl had always been an odd sort.

  Skye eyed Owl over the tankard as he drank, and then set down the cup.

  “What’s ale for if not to drink?” Cal asked. “Besides, you know Allen loved this place.” He made a gesture with his hand to the room around them. He, Allen, and Cal had spent many an evening in the Snow Blossom, drinking through the night and into the sunrise. Myah, too, would come—as much as she could. As the future high lady, she was well-known, and it did not take much to stir up gossip.

  The Snow Blossom wasn’t the finest establishment in Nordlin City. It reeked of pipe tobacco and woodsmoke emanating from the large hearth on the far wall, which heated the two-story establishment. Its open-timber crossbeams could be seen inside and out. It felt drafty in the winter and stuffy in the summer, and Skye was certain that the owner hosted a brothel discreetly upstairs, despite the laws banning such practices.

  Still, despite its reputation, the place was etched in Skye’s memories, and those brought a smile to his face.

  His favorites were when Allen would start up a bawdy drinking song, loud and thunderous, and Myah would carry it home—profanities and all. They had had the guard called on them a time or two, and it had been Myah’s sweet smile and gentle persuasions that had saved them all from spending the night in jail for public disturbance or from the guards telling her mother and Lord Edgar. After all, it was merely a bit of fun. No harm done.

  Skye smiled. “Do you remember the last time we were here?” he asked.

  Myah snorted with laughter and sprayed a bit of her ale through her nose. She wiped her mouth with her tunic sleeve. It was nice to see her smile after she had sobbed in his arms most of the night. Her face still bore the marks of her emotions—red rimmed eyes with blue-black crests beneath them. Exhaustion draped her like a blanket, and yet, she still had come with them.

  “Adorable, My,” Cal teased.

  He tossed her a gray handkerchief from an inside pocket of his cloak. Lords knew how long it had been in there, but Myah grabbed the swatch of fabric and finished drying her hands and mouth. When she finished, Myah fixed Cal with her most fearsome glare. The twitching of her lips belied her ire.

  “I remember Cal almost getting us arrested.”

  Skye pressed the tip of his finger into her ribs. Her body folded sideways as she giggled. She had gone past too much to drink when she finished the first cup of ale. “I remember you and Allen singing that awful song.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “I remember a certain lord’s son daring us to sing it.”

  Skye shrugged. He had dared her, and she had risen to the challenge in the way she rose to everything in her life. With fire and determination and grace and ... lords, he loved her. “How did that go again?” he pushed, and then took a drink. He waggled his eyebrows.

  She lightly slapped his arm, but she chewed her lowered lip. She was thinking about singing it. He could tell.

  “Myah,” Cal practically sang.

  “Boys, perhaps that’s not the best idea,” Owl chimed in between sips. “We do not need to attract the attention of the guards.”

  Myah opened her mouth wide. Skye heard her intake a breath, and then she closed her mouth. “Just joking.” She lifted her ale and saluted Cal with the tankard before taking another drink. Her laughter rang like music.

  “Allen would have loved this,” Owl said. “He loved to hear you laugh. Said you reminded him of his daughter.”

  Allen’s daughter had died in Oasisian. She had been five when the Osten army and fire ripped through the former capital. Such were the wounds of the four kingdoms. No one was immune to the horrors inflicted by the house of Ashen.

  “He was a good man,” Myah whispered. “I’m sorry he is gone.”

  A pang of regret hit Skye in the chest. He was sorry as well because he could have done something differently. Something that would have saved Myah from her injuries, and spared their men’s lives and kept Allen alive in this world.

  But the Ostens had set their trap, and like fools, they had walked into it.

  And now Allen was but a memory, and in time, he too would be forgotten from this world as those who loved him faded away to ash. What was life but ember? One moment burning bright, the next ash in the wind.

  “I second that,” Skye added. He was going to get good and drunk today, and he didn’t care what his father thought about his debauchery.

  Cal rose and headed for the barkeep. He grabbed another ale and then came back to the table, setting the tankard in the center. Cal remained standing.

  “What are you doing?” Myah asked. Her blue eyes held a glitter of magic, and the red of her cheeks and the smile on her face made Skye feel as if all his troubles were far away. Her optimism would save the world … or get her killed. But he didn’t want to think about the second one.

  “This—” Cal returned, and then he lifted his glass. “To Allen.”

  Skye stood, trying to silence the barrage of thoughts pounding through his head, if only for a moment, and lifted his cup, followed by Myah and Owl. “To Allen,” they all said and then clanked their cups together. Ale sloshed on the tabletop in f
ine droplets, mixing with the drink on the table, the one meant for their friend.

  Ale Allen would never drink again.

  Lords, this hurt, Skye thought.

  He sucked in a breath as Myah started to sing.

  “For those who’ve fallen will arise in the land across the sea.”

  Cal hooted in response.

  “And we will sail, sail away, and sing with thee again,” Myah continued. “Arise, arise, arise and sing with us again, arise, arise, and sing with those you love.”

  “Now we’ve fallen on the crystal shores in the land across the sea,” Cal began, his deep voice blending with Myah’s soft soprano. “And we will dance, dance, dance, and dance with thee again. Arise, arise, arise and dance with us again, arise, arise and dance with those you love.”

  As the third verse started, the men in the tavern around them also stood and lifted their tankards, joining in on the ballad, and by the time the fourth verse started, even the tavern keeper had a glass raised as he sang.

  Allen would have loved this, Skye thought for the hundredth time, as they sang the chorus a final time. The people around them hollered and then downed their glasses. Skye tipped his glass to his lips and finished it off. He placed it on the tabletop as his friends did the same. The table rattled, unsteady on its base.

  Skye slid an arm around Myah’s shoulders and drew her into his side. He kissed the top of her head. “You know that wasn’t the song I meant,” he whispered.

  She tipped her chin up, her lips upturned in a soft, happy expression. “I know.”

  “No chance you’ll sing it next?” He lifted his brows, waggling them at her.

  “None.”

  “As you wish.” He kissed the side of her head before letting her go. She sank down in the seat next to him and settled back into her chair.

  “Third round?” Cal asked.

  They did not need a third round, but Skye was not going to say no. He pulled out a few coins and shoved them across the table to Cal. Cal palmed the money and went back to the barkeep.