: Chapter 46

Grey sets a brutal pace. Wind and rain whip at my face, stinging my eyes, sending my cloak streaming out behind me until it makes no difference. Mercy feels the urgency, because she puts her head down and throws her head into the run. Grey doesn’t have a long lead, but it’s far enough that I’m not sure he knows I’ve followed. Just when I’m beginning to worry that Mercy won’t be able to keep up, Grey’s horse slows to a canter, and I’m able to draw alongside.

I don’t know if he thinks I’m trying to help him or trying to stop him—and honestly, I’m not entirely sure myself. But I don’t get a chance to say a word. He only keeps a tight grip on the rein long enough to say, “Don’t fall behind,” and then his horse digs its hooves into the mud and springs ahead.

And then … I feel his magic. Or maybe I simply sense the change in Mercy. Her breathing is no longer labored. Her stride feels effortless, despite the cold rain and the mud underfoot. The sky is pitch-black, the rain pouring down, but she feels like we could gallop for hours.

And we do.

I lose track of time. The rain eventually stops, but the wind from Mercy’s speed keeps me shivering under my cloak. Whatever magic Grey is using to keep the horses from tiring doesn’t extend to us—or at least to me. I alternate holding the reins in one hand so I can hold the other under the warm saddle blanket while she runs. My joints begin to ache, and by the time the sun creeps over the horizon, a dull knife of hunger has begun to twist in my gut. In a way, I’m glad for the soreness and irritation, because it pulls my thoughts away from everyone who might be in danger. Jax, accused of something I’m sure he hasn’t done. Callyn and Nora, wrapped up in something bigger than they realize. The queen and little Sinna, at the mercy of … who? Who else is Alek working with?

I don’t know. But I can’t stop thinking of the tears on the queen’s cheeks on the night I learned they’d lost the baby. Little Sinna’s voice. He said I have to be patient, but he would come back.

Nakiis? I can’t quite make that work out in my head. Alek hates magic. He wouldn’t be working with a scraver. The queen and the princess would have been surrounded by a full contingent of palace guards, anyway. No one could simply walk into the palace and kidnap the queen. Few people could have gotten close.

My thoughts spin and spin … and go nowhere. Mercy gallops on. I knot the reins and hook my fingers in her mane in an effort to stop them from cramping.

If Grey feels the effects, he’s ignoring it.

I try to do the same.

Once the sun rises, I begin to recognize landmarks. Without having to stop, we’ve covered almost two days’ worth of travel in what I estimate to be twelve hours. If we continue at this pace, we’ll tear into Briarlock in the middle of the night.

Exhausted. Starving. And alone.

I need to think about this like a soldier. I was never a tactician, but close proximity to the king allowed me access to a lot of senior officers, so I know how to plot an assault. We have no idea who we’ll be facing—and it’ll be days before anyone from Ironrose can reach the small village. We have no idea who else read that letter either. The courier channels aren’t the most secure. Would word have reached the Crystal Palace? Will there be soldiers to meet us? Now that Emberfall and Syhl Shallow are at peace, the guard stations at the two mountain passes are only minimally staffed, mostly with longbowmen and messengers—few true combat warriors.

When the Truthbringers attacked the palace, there were hundreds of them, and all at once. They swarmed into the castle and nearly overtook the guards and soldiers. We weren’t prepared.

We’re not prepared now. Are there hundreds waiting to ambush the king in Briarlock? Hundreds of people with weapons made from Iishellasan steel? We need a plan.

I don’t know who I’m fooling. We need an army.

Don’t fall behind.

I’m trying. My mouth is bone-dry, and my bladder has been begging me to stop for what feels like hours. The sun has dried my cloak and warmed my skin, but now I’m sweating beneath my armor. I keep thinking of how Rhen said Grey would never yield, and he spoke of that like a failing.

Right now, it feels like a massive victory, because I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to keep this pace before my body gives up.

We’ve reached the open fields far northwest of Ironrose Castle, and the mountains are clearly visible in the distance. The terrain here is uneven and rocky, terrible for galloping, but Grey’s magic must be flattening the ground or supporting the horses, because Mercy’s steady hoofbeats never vary. Dusk is hours away, and I want to beg for a break, but I know he’ll leave me behind. I can sense it.

I have to keep up. I’ll tie myself to the saddle if I have to.

Out of nowhere, Mercy’s gait falters. She stumbles hard on one rock, then another. It’s so unexpected after miles and miles of a fluid pace that I nearly drop over her shoulder. Ahead of me, the king’s horse stumbles, too, throwing its head down, pulling the reins free. We’re heading toward rockier turf. I expect Grey to swear or reach for his rein or try to maintain control—but he does nothing.

Then I realize he’s falling.

I put a heel against Mercy’s side, heedless of the rocks. Her hooves slip and stumble, but she responds, lurching alongside the king’s horse. I grab hold of his armor, fighting to reach for his reins. Grey’s body is limp. Lifeless.

The horses stagger again and I lose Mercy’s reins. “Whoa!” I cry. I can’t control them both. His horse feels Grey slipping and shies away.

I don’t think. I use my grip on his armor to haul him over Mercy’s withers—just as his horse puts a foot down wrong, stumbles hard, and falls, its momentum sending the animal tumbling onto the jagged rocks.

“Whoa,” I say again. Mercy slows, but her sides are heaving, her neck slick with sweat. Grey is still motionless, half his body barely over Mercy’s neck, but I can’t reach the reins. She prances, agitated, stumbling on the terrain. Grey’s horse thrashes at the rocks, one leg tangled in its tack as it tries to get to its feet. There’s blood on the rocks. A horrific, panicked keening sound peals from its throat.

Too much has happened all at once. We’re out in the open, close to the Syhl Shallow border. If people are waiting to kill the king, now is the time to do it.

Then I see the source of the blood. The horse’s left hind leg is broken, blood and bone glistening through a torn patch of dark fur.

My chest goes tight, and I leap down from the saddle. “Grey,” I gasp. I pull him down from Mercy’s back. “Grey—you have to—you have to—”

He all but sags in my grip, sliding to the ground. His head nearly slams into a rock.

All the while, his horse is screaming. Fighting. Blood is all over the rocks now. The fractured leg flails awkwardly.

I reach out a hand automatically before remembering—again—that I don’t have my healing rings.

“Grey,” I say, and my voice is rough and ragged. “Grey, please.” I tug at his armor, searching his pouches, hoping, praying that he may have my rings in his possession.

He doesn’t.

I choke on my breath just as his horse manages to get to its feet.

That’s worse. The animal is clearly in shock, half the tack broken from its struggling against the rocks. And that leg, the hoof hanging, barely attached by sinew and muscle. It takes a step and falls again, then redoubles its fighting. Mercy shies away.

“Steady,” I say, and my voice breaks.

I can’t do this. I can’t.

I didn’t want to become a soldier, but I did. I didn’t want to be vicious, but I was. I didn’t want to kill anyone, but I did.

And now, I don’t want to kill a horse. An innocent horse. A good horse. A brave animal that ran far harder and longer than any good steed should.

But I can’t let it bleed to death. I can’t let it suffer. I can see the panic and terror in its eyes.

“Grey,” I say. I look at his pale skin, damp with sweat, red where his armor rubbed his neck and elbows raw. His breathing is slow and uneven. He doesn’t move. I beg anyway. “Please. Please.”

It seems selfish to beg for a horse. The queen is in danger. The princess. Their lives are at risk.

But this animal knows none of that. This animal only knows pain and suffering and wants it to end.

So I draw my sword and end it.

The silence is sudden and profound. I stand for the longest time, watching the blood soak into the earth. Eventually, Mercy noses at my hand, and I draw a shuddering breath.

“Mercy,” I whisper. The sun beats down. We’re miles away from anything, and the king is unconscious at my feet.

And, I now notice, Mercy has a bowed tendon on her left front leg. She wasn’t just stumbling. She was limping.

Silver hell.

At least she can walk. I don’t have to … to do what I did. I don’t know if I’d have the strength to do that to Mercy.

But she can’t bear the weight of a rider. Not even an unconscious one.

I scrub my hands over my face, then assess my surroundings. I don’t know exactly where we are, because I don’t ride across these rocks when I head for Syhl Shallow. But I know the mountains, and by my estimation, we’re a few hours south of the closest mountain pass. We can’t stay here. The dead horse will draw predators. We’re too exposed.

I take two minutes to attend to human needs and try to think of a plan.

I don’t come up with a good one.

Finally, I drop to a knee and take hold of the king’s arm, pulling his weight over my shoulders. He’s taller than I am, but this is a common soldier drill. I can carry him for a while. The woods are only a few miles off. We’ll find shelter, I’ll wrap Mercy’s leg, and Grey can wake up. And then …

I have no idea. I take hold of Mercy’s reins, sigh, and start walking.

By the time we reach the tree line, darkness has begun to creep toward the mountains. I have flint, so I’ll be able to start a fire, but we’re still nowhere near a stream, and I need to rest. I can’t leave the king, but at some point I’m going to have to. I can’t carry him all the way to Syhl Shallow—especially not if I’m starving and thirsty and exhausted.

I strip Mercy of her gear and start a fire. Grey hasn’t made a sound, not even when I pulled his weapons and armor free. He lies in the dirt beside the growing flames, and I have no idea what to do.

I think of Jax, his kind, wary eyes, the rough edge of his voice. He can’t be a part of this. He can’t. There’s a part of me that feels like I’m trying to convince myself. Maybe Grey’s right, and I am a fool.

Maybe I should have followed orders.

The fire is warm, but I shiver anyway. I need to find water.

Every muscle in my body begs me to wait, to rest, to sit here for just one more minute. Against my will, my eyes flicker closed.

When I open them again, the sky is a true black overhead, only a few stars twinkling between the tree branches. The fire has dwindled.

And there, leaning over me, his clawed fingers making five points of pain against my throat, is the scraver Nakiis.