Tower of Dawn

  “Don’t cry,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his mouth over the tears that escaped. He said against her skin, “Whatever would they say about Neith’s Arrow then?”

  Nesryn laughed despite herself, despite what had happened, and wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she dared, resting her head against his chest.

  Sartaq just wordlessly stroked her hair and held her right back.

  The Council of Clans met two days later at dawn.

  Hearth-mothers and their captains from every aerie gathered in the hall, so many that the space was filled.

  Nesryn had slept the entirety of the day before.

  Not in her room, but curled in bed beside the prince now standing with her before the assembled group.

  They had both been patched up and bathed, and though Sartaq had not so much as kissed her … Nesryn had not objected when he led her by the hand and limped into his bedroom.

  So they had slept. And when they had awoken, when their wounds had been rebandaged, they’d emerged to find the hall full of riders.

  Falkan sat against the far wall, his arm in a sling, but eyes clear. Nesryn had smiled at him as she’d entered, but now was not the time for that reunion. Or the possible truths she bore.

  When Houlun had finished welcoming everyone, when silence fell on the hall, Nesryn stood shoulder to shoulder with Sartaq. It was strange to see him with the shorter hair—strange, but not awful. It would grow back, he said when she had frowned that morning.

  All eyes shifted between them, some warm and welcoming, some worried, some hard.

  Sartaq said to the group gathered, “The kharankui have stirred again.” Murmurs and shifting rustled through the hall. “And though the threat was dealt with bravely and fiercely by the Berlad clan, the spiders will likely return again. They have heard a dark call through the world. And they are poised to answer it.”

  Nesryn stepped forward. Lifted her chin. And though the words filled her with dread, speaking them here felt as natural as breathing. “We learned many things in the Pass of Dagul,” Nesryn said, voice ringing out across the pillars and stones of the hall. “Things that will change the war in the north. And change this world.”

  Every eye was on her now. Houlun nodded from her spot near Borte, who smiled in encouragement. Yeran sat nearby, half watching his betrothed.

  Sartaq’s fingers brushed hers. Once—in urging. And promise.

  “We do not face an army of men in the northern continent,” Nesryn went on. “But of demons. And if we do not rise to meet this threat, if we do not rise to meet it as one people, of all lands … Then we will find our doom instead.”

  So she told them. The full history. Of Erawan. And Maeve.

  She did not mention the quest for the keys, but by the time she was done, the hall was astir as clans whispered to one another.

  “I leave this choice to you,” Sartaq said, voice unfaltering. “The horrors in the Dagul Fells are only the start. I will pass no judgment, should you choose to remain. But all who fly with me, we soar under the khagan’s banner. We shall leave you to debate amongst yourselves.”

  And with that, taking Nesryn by the hand, Sartaq led her from the hall, Falkan falling into step behind them. Borte and Houlun remained, as heads of the Eridun clan. Nesryn knew how they would side, that they would fly north, but the others …

  Whispers had turned into full-on debate by the time they reached one of the private gathering spaces for the family. But Sartaq was only in the small room for a moment before he headed to the kitchens, leaving Nesryn and Falkan with a wink and a promise to bring back food.

  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?”

  CHAPTER

  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 li
brary.”

  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.”

  “Then everyone Erawan has captured, held with those rings and collars—”

  “We could potentially free them.”

  He squeezed her hand. “But you’d have to get close to them. And their power, Yrene—”

  “I would assume that is where Aelin and Dorian would come in. To hold them down.”

  “There’s no way to test this, though. Without considerable risk.” His jaw tightened. “It has to be why Erawan’s agent is hunting you. To erase the knowledge of that. To keep you from realizing it by healing me. And relaying it to other healers.”

  “If that is the case, though … Why now? Why wait this long?”

  “Perhaps Erawan did not even consider it. Until Aelin purged the Valg from Dorian and the king.” He rubbed at his chest. “But there is a ring. It belonged to Athril, friend to King Brannon and Maeve. It granted Athril immunity from the Valg. It was lost to history—the only one of its kind. Aelin found it. And Maeve wanted it badly enough that she traded Rowan for it. Legend said Mala herself forged it for Athril, but … Mala loved Brannon, not Athril.”

  Chaol shot up from the couch, and Yrene watched him pace. “There was a tapestry. In Aelin’s old room. A tapestry that showed a stag, and hid the entrance that led down to the tomb where the Wyrdkey had been hidden by Brannon. It was Aelin’s first clue that set her down this path.”

  “And?” The word was a push of air.

  “And there was an owl on it amongst the forest animals. It was Athril’s form. Not Brannon’s. All of that was coded—the tapestry, the tomb. Symbols upon symbols. But the owl … We never thought. Never considered.”

  “Considered what?”

  Chaol halted in the middle of the room. “That the owl might not just be Athril’s animal form, but his sigil because of his loyalty to someone else.”

  And despite the warm day, Yrene’s blood chilled as she said, “Silba.”

  Chaol nodded slowly. “Goddess of Healing.”

  Yrene whispered, “Mala did not make that ring of immunity.”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  Silba did.

  “We need to go to Hafiza,” Yrene said softly. “Even if she won’t let us take the books, we should ask her to look at them—see for ourselves what might have survived all this time. What those Fae healers might have learned in that war.”

  He motioned her to rise. “We’ll go now.”

  But the suite doors opened, and Hasar breezed in, her gold-and-green dress flowing.

  “Well,” she said, smirking at their lack of clothes, their disheveled hair. “At least you two are comfortable.”

  Yrene had the sense the world was about to be knocked from beneath her as the princess smiled at Chaol. “We’ve had some news. From your lands.”

  “What is it.” The words were ground out.

  Hasar picked at her nails. “Oh, just that Queen Maeve’s armada managed to find the host Aelin Galathynius has been so sneakily patching together. There was quite the battle.”

  CHAPTER

  59

  Chaol debated strangling the smirking princess. But he managed to keep his hands at his sides, managed to keep his chin high despite the fact that he was only wearing his pants, and said, “What. Happened.”

  A naval battle. Aelin against Maeve. He waited for the dangling sword to drop. If he had been too late—

  Hasar looked up from her nails. “It was a spectacle, apparently. A Fae armada versus a cobbled-together human force—”

  “Hasar, please,” Yrene murmured.

  The princess sighed at the ceiling. “Fine. Maeve was trounced.”

  Chaol sank onto the sofa.

  Aelin—thank the gods Aelin had managed to find a way—

  “Though there were some interesting details.” Then the princess rattled off the facts. The numbers. A third of Maeve’s armada, bearing Whitethorn flags, had turned on their own and joined Terrasen’s fleet. Dorian had fought—held the front lines with Rowan. Then a pack of wyverns had soared in from nowhere—to fight for Aelin.

  Manon Blackbeak. Chaol would be willing to bet his life that someh
ow, either through Aelin or Dorian, that witch had done them a favor, and possibly altered the course of this war.

  “The magic, they say, was impressive,” Hasar went on. “Ice and wind and water.” Dorian and Rowan. “Even rumor of a shape-shifter.” Lysandra. “But no darkness. Or whatever Maeve fights with. And no flame.”

  Chaol braced his forearms on his knees.

  “Though some reports claim they spotted flame and shadow on shore—far away. Flickers of both. There and gone. And no one spotted Aelin or the Dark Queen in the fleet.”

  It would have been like Aelin, to shift the battle between her and Maeve to the shore. To minimize casualties, so she could unleash her full power without hesitation.

  “As I said,” Hasar continued, fluffing the skirts of her dress, “They were victorious. Aelin was spotted returning to her armada hours later. They’ve set sail—north, apparently.”

  He muttered a prayer of thanks to Mala. And a prayer of thanks to whatever god watched over Dorian, too. “Any major casualties?”

  “To their men, yes, but not to any of the interesting players,” Hasar said, and Chaol hated her. “But Maeve … there and gone, not a whisper of her left.” She frowned at the windows. “Maybe she’ll sail here to lick her wounds.”

  Chaol prayed that wouldn’t be the case. Yet if Maeve’s armada still sat in the Narrow Sea when they took the crossing … “But the others sail north now—to where?” Where can I find my king, my brother?

  “I’d assume Terrasen, now that Aelin has her armada. Oh, and another one.”

  Hasar smiled at him. Waiting for the question—the plea.

  “What other armada,” Chaol forced himself to ask.

  Hasar shrugged, walking from the room. “Turns out, Aelin called in a debt. To the Silent Assassins of the Red Desert.”

  Chaol’s eyes burned.

  “And to Wendlyn.”

  His hands began shaking.

  “How many ships,” he breathed.

  “All of them,” Hasar said, hand on the door. “All of Wendlyn’s armada came, commanded by Crown Prince Galan himself.”

  Aelin … Chaol’s blood sparked, and he looked to Yrene. Her eyes were wide, bright. Bright with hope—burning, precious hope.