From the loins of Morrighan,
From the far end of desolation,
From the scheming of rulers,
From the fears of a queen,
Hope will be born.
On the far side of death,
Past the great divide,
Where hunger eats souls,
Their tears will increase.
The Dragon will conspire,
Wearing his many faces,
Deceiving the oppressed, gathering the wicked,
Wielding might like a god, unstoppable,
Unforgiving in his judgment,
Unyielding in his rule,
A stealer of dreams,
A slayer of hope.
I read on, and with each word, my breaths grew shorter. When I got to the last verse, cold sweat sprang to my face. I raced through the loose papers again, searching for cataloging notes. The Scholar was meticulous about such things. I found them and reread them. These ancient books had come into his hands twelve years after I was born. It was impossible. It made no sense.
Until one comes who is mightier,
The one sprung from misery,
The one who was weak,
The one who was hunted,
The one marked with claw and vine,
The one named in secret,
The one called Jezelia.
I had never heard of anyone else in Morrighan with the name Jezelia. No one in the royal court had either. That was what my father had so strongly objected to—its lack of precedent. Where did my mother get it? Not from this book.
I slipped the shirt from my shoulder and turned to see what I could of my kavah. The stubborn claw and vine were still there.
Greater stories will have their way. I shook my head. No, not this one. There was a reasonable explanation. I shoved the books back into my saddlebag. I was tired and spooked by this strange forest, and I had rushed through the translations. That was all. There were no such things as dragons, certainly not ones who drank the blood of babies. It was babble. I was finding meaning where there was none. I’d look again tomorrow in the bright of day, and the rules of reason would make it clear.
I put a large branch on the fire and settled down on my bedroll. I forced my mind to think of other things. Things that made sense. Happier things. I pictured Pauline, the beautiful baby she would have, Gwyneth and Berdi helping her and their lives that continued on in Terravin. At least someone was living the life that had been my dream. I thought about how much I would love to have a taste of Berdi’s fish stew now; to hear the blowing of horns in the bay; the chatter of tavern customers; the braying of Otto; to smell salt on the air; and to watch Gwyneth size up a new customer.
The way she had sized up Rafe.
I was becoming stronger in some ways but weaker in others. Ever since that first day I met you, I’ve gone to sleep every single night thinking about you.
I closed my eyes and nestled into my bedroll, praying morning would come soon.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
PAULINE
He died in battle, my mother had told me, much as Mikael had. I had never known my father, but I had always imagined him to be the kind of man who would wrap his arms around me, gently soothe away my troubles, love me without condition, and protect me at any cost. That was how I would describe my baby’s own father to her. But I knew all fathers weren’t like that. Lia’s wasn’t.
The king was a distant man, more monarch than father, but surely his blood wasn’t ice, nor his heart stone. Lia needed help. She’d been gone for weeks now, and we’d had no word from Rafe. Though I was sure he cared about her, Rafe and his secretive band of men didn’t inspire my confidence, and with each passing day, my suspicions of them grew. I couldn’t wait any longer. The Viceregent had been sympathetic toward Lia. He was our only hope. Surely he had the king’s ear and could bend it toward forgiveness and then help.
Berdi wouldn’t let me travel alone, and Gwyneth eagerly joined me in my quest. How Berdi would manage the tavern with only Enzo for help I didn’t know, but right now we all agreed that Lia’s safety was most important. Barbarians had her. I feared what they may have done to her already.
And there were the dreams too. For a week now, they had plagued me, fleeting glimpses of Lia riding on a galloping horse, and with each stride, she faded away until she wasn’t there at all. Gone, a misty eidolon, except for her voice, a high, keening cry that cut through the wind.
I knew I risked arrest myself by going back, since I had helped Lia escape, but I had to take the chance. Though I feared the possibility of prison, I was just as afraid of walking the streets of Civica again and seeing the last places where Mikael and I had been together, the place where we had conceived our child together—the child he would never know. It was already dredging up my feelings of loss. His ghost would be present on every street I passed.
The trek on the donkeys was taking far longer than the one Lia and I had made to Terravin on our Ravians, but in my condition, riding fast and hard wasn’t an option anyway. “It’s not much farther,” I told Gwyneth when we stopped to water the donkeys. “Just another two days.”
Gwyneth brushed her thick red locks from her face, and her eyes narrowed, looking down the road still ahead of us. “Yes, I know,” she said absently.
“How would you know? You’ve been to Civica?”
She snapped back to attention, tugging on Dieci’s reins. “Just a guess,” she said. “I think you should let me speak with the Chancellor when we get there. I might have more power of persuasion than you.”
“The Chancellor hates Lia. He’d be the last person to speak to.”
She tilted her head to the side and shrugged. “We’ll see.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
RAFE
“Bite down!” I commanded.
We couldn’t afford for him to scream out, not with the way sound echoed through these rocky hills. I shoved a leather strap between his teeth. Sweat poured down his forehead and dotted his upper lip.
“Hurry,” I said.
Tavish shoved the needle into Sven’s cheek and pulled the bloody gut through the other side of the wound that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw. It was too long and too gaping to leave to a poultice. I held Sven’s arms in case he flinched, but he remained still—only his eyelids fluttered.
We had encountered a patrol of Vendans. The barbarians were becoming bolder and more organized. I had never seen a Vendan patrol numbering more than a handful this far out from the Great River. There were plenty of small rogue bands of three or four, fierce and violent—that was their way—but not an organized and uniformed patrol. It didn’t bode well for any of the kingdoms.
The treacherous Great River had always been our ally. A thin chain drawbridge that could barely support a single horse was their only way across. Were they breeding horses on this side of the river now? The patrol we encountered had fine, well-trained mounts.
We took them all down, but not before Sven suffered the first blow. He was riding ahead of us and was knocked from his horse before I could even draw my sword, but then I moved swiftly, taking down his attacker and three more who followed behind him. In minutes, the Vendans littered the ground at our feet, a dozen in all. Jeb’s face was still spattered in blood, and I could feel the crusted smears on mine.