“Careful,” Chaol growled.

His father ignored that, too. “I would rather have my head on a pike than give the wild men of the Fangs an inch of Anielle’s land, let alone ask them for aid.”

“I hope your people agree,” said Yrene.

His father let out one of those joyless laughs. “I like you better than the assassin-queen, I think. Perhaps marrying the rabble will breed some backbone into our bloodline once more.”

Chaol’s blood roared in his ears, but Yrene’s lips curved into a smile. “You’re exactly as I’d pictured you to be,” she said. His father only inclined his head.

“Prepare this city, this keep,” Chaol managed to say through his gritted teeth. “Or you’ll deserve everything you bring down upon it.”

CHAPTER 19

Fifteen minutes later, Chaol could feel Yrene still trembling as they entered a small yet warm bedroom. One of the few cozy places in this horrible keep. A bed and a half-rusted washing basin filled most of the space, a ewer of steaming water beside it.

Not exactly a bedroom fit for a lord’s son. He fought the heat that warmed his cheeks.

“I was disowned, remember,” Chaol said, leaning against the shut door, their packs discarded at his feet. “This bedroom is meant for a guest.”

“I’m sure your father had it selected just for you.”

“I’m sure he did.”

Yrene snarled. “He’s worse than you portrayed.”

Chaol gave her a tired, small smile. “And you were brilliant.” Utterly brilliant.

His father, at least, had agreed to begin the evacuations for those on the outskirts of the city, and by the time they’d made their way to this room, the keep had already been abuzz with readying for a siege. If his father needed help planning it, the man hadn’t let on. Tomorrow, after they rested tonight, he’d see for himself what his father had in mind.

But for now, after almost two days of flying through the frigid air, he needed to rest.

And his wife, however bold and fearless, needed to rest as well, whether she admitted it or not.

So Chaol pushed off the door, prowling to where Yrene paced in front of the bed. “I’m sorry for what he said to you.”

She waved him off. “I’m sorry you ever had to deal with him for longer than that conversation.”

Her temper, despite all that loomed, despite the bastard ruling over this city, warmed something in him. Enough so that Chaol closed the distance between them, halting her pacing by taking her hand. He brushed his thumb over her wedding band.

“I wish you were meeting her instead—my mother,” he said softly.

The fierceness in her eyes banked. “I do, too.” Her mouth quirked to the side. “Though I’m surprised your father cared enough to send them away at a whisper of a threat.”

“They’re assets to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sent them with a good part of the trove.”

Yrene glanced around in doubt.

“Anielle is one of the richer territories in Adarlan, despite what this keep suggests.” He kissed her knuckles, her ring. “There are chambers full of treasure in the catacombs. Gold, jewels, armor—rumor has it the wealth of an entire kingdom is down there.”

Yrene let out an impressed hum, but said, “I should have told Sartaq and Nesryn to bring more healers than the fifty we selected.” Hafiza would remain with the foot soldiers and cavalry, but Eretia, her second-in-command, would fly with the ruks and lead the group, Yrene included.

“We’ll make do with what we have. I doubt there was a single magically gifted healer in this city until an hour ago.”

Her throat bobbed. “Can this keep survive a siege long enough for the terrestrial army to get here? It doesn’t look like it can withstand another winter, let alone an army at its doorstep.”

“This keep has stood for well over a thousand years—it survived Erawan’s second army, even when they sacked Anielle. It will outlast this third war of his, too.”

“Where will the people evacuate to? The mountains are already covered in snow.”

“There are passes through them—dangerous, but they could make it to the Wastes if they stay together and bring enough supplies.” Heading north of Anielle was a death trap, with the witches holding the Ferian Gap, and going too far south would take them to Morath’s doorstep. To go east would take them in the path of the army they sought to outrun. “They might be able to hide in Oakwald, along the edge of the Fangs.” He shook his head. “There are no good options, not at this time of year.”

“A lot of them won’t make it,” she said softly.

“They’ll stand a better chance in the Fangs than here,” he said with equal quiet. They were still his people, had still shown him kindness, even when his own father had not. “I’ll see to it that my father sends some of the soldiers who are too old to fight with them—they’ll remember the way.”

“I know I’m nothing more than the rabble,” Yrene said, and Chaol snickered, “but those who do choose to stay, who are let into the keep … Perhaps while we wait for our own forces, I could help find room for them. Supplies. See if there are any healers among them who might have access to the herbs and ingredients we need. Get bandages ready.”

He nodded, pride filling his chest to the point of pain. A lady. If not by blood, then by nobility of character. His wife was more of a lady than any other he’d met, in any court.

“Then let us prepare for war, husband,” Yrene said, sorrow and dread filling her eyes.

And it was the sight of that kernel of fear, not for herself but what they were undoubtedly soon to take part in, to witness, that had him sweeping her into his arms and laying her upon the bed. “War can wait until morning,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.

Dawn broke, and the ruks arrived.

So many ruks they blotted out the watery sun, the boom of wings and rustle of feathers filling the skies.

People cried out this time, their voices a herald of the screams to come when that army reached their doorstep.

On the plain before the southern side of the keep, flowing to the lake edge itself, the ruks settled. It had long been kept clear of settlement, the flat expanse riddled with hot springs and prone to annual flooding, though a few stubborn farmers still tried to coax crops from the hard soil.

It had once been part of the lake itself, before the Western Falls tucked into the Fangs had been dammed up, their roaring waters quieted to a trickle that fed the lake. For centuries, Chaol’s ancestors had debated breaking the dam, letting that raging river run free once more, now that their ancient forges had given way to a few water-powered mills that could easily be moved elsewhere.

Yet the destruction breaking that dam would cause, even if they gathered every water-wielder in the realm to control the flow, would be catastrophic. The entire plain would flood in a matter of minutes, some of the city being swept away as well. The waters would barrel down from the mountains, destroying everything in their path in a mighty wave that would flow to Oakwald itself. The lowest levels of the keep, the gate that opened onto the plain, would be wholly submerged.

So the dam had stayed, and the grassy plain with it.

The ruks settled themselves in neat rows, and Chaol and Yrene watched from the battlements, other sentries breaking from their posts to join them, as the riders began setting up camp with whatever supplies their mounts had carried. The healers would be brought up later, though a few might remain down in their camp until Morath’s legion arrived.

Two dark shapes soared overhead, and the sentries fell back to their posts as Nesryn and Sartaq landed on the battlement wall, a small falcon alighting beside the former’s ruk. Falkan Ennar, then.

Nesryn leaped off her ruk in an easy movement, her face grave as any pocket of Hellas’s realm. “Morath is three days away, possibly four,” she said breathlessly.

Sartaq came up behind her, the ruks needing no hitching post. “We kept high overhead, out of sight, but Falkan was able to get closer.” The shifter remained in falcon form by Salkhi.

Yrene stepped forward. “What did you see?”

Nesryn shook her head, her normally golden-brown skin bloodless. “Valg and men, mostly. But they all look fast—vicious.”