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Killing or harming children was one of them. Details of her kills. Had no sulde of her own yet. Our ancestors believed that where those hairs waved in the wind, there our destinies waited. Some of us still believe in such things, but even those who think it mere tradition … we bring them everywhere.
They bear the soul of a Darghan warrior for eternity, and are left planted atop a steppe in our sacred realm. Some do. Our father … he remains undecided. Our mother will not even leave her room thanks to her grief, and mentioning my suspicions might—I cannot bring myself to mention them to her.
To report on anything amiss. Kashin examined the suite as if assessing any potential enemies lying in wait. Too easy to sway the khagan into siding with Dorian and Aelin. Perrington—Erawan was far smarter than that. Chaol clenched the arms of the chair at that pity, from a man who recognized a fellow warrior.
You must take action. Had not even considered that the shadow of Morath might have already stretched this far. Chaol rubbed at his chest. With what he said publicly —with what he said in this room, too. Chaol was still staring at the shut door, mulling over all Kashin had implied, when the servant emerged, her tunic and pants replaced by a tied robe of thinnest, sheerest silk. It left nothing to the imagination. He clamped down on the urge to shout for Nesryn to assist him instead.
She showed no nerves, no tremor of hesitation. She was paid well for her services—all the servants were. She chose to be here, and another could easily be found at no risk to her status.
What he and Nesryn might discuss in these rooms. So he motioned to let the servant push his chair into the bathing chamber, veils of steam rippling through the white-and-blue-tiled room.
The chair glided over carpet and tile, curving around the furniture with little effort. One of the few items the fleeing healers had left behind, it seemed. And now they smoothly turned into the wafting steam of the bathing chamber. A large sunken pool filled most of it, oils gleaming on the surface, interrupted only by scattered, drifting petals. A small window high in the far wall peeked into the greenery of the garden, and candles gilded the billowing steam.
Utter luxury while his city suffered. While they pleaded for help that had not come. Dorian would have wanted to stay. Only absolute defeat, no chance of survival, would have prompted him to leave. Chaol wondered if his magic had played any part.
Helped any of them. Dorian would find his way to safety, to allies.
He knew it in his bones, though his stomach continued to roil. There was nothing he could do to help his king from here—save for forging this alliance.
Chaol barely noticed the servant removing his boots in efficient tugs. And though he could have done it himself, he barely remarked on her removing his teal jacket, then the shirt beneath. But he dragged himself from his thoughts at last when she began to remove his pants—when he leaned in to help, gritting his teeth as they worked together in stilted silence.
It was only when she reached to remove his undershorts that he gripped her wrist. Even while grateful that certain parts of him still undoubtedly worked. First he flicked the locking mechanism on the wheels, the click echoing off the stone and water.
With a few motions, he maneuvered himself to the edge of the chair, then removed his feet from the wooden plates and onto the floor, angling his legs to his left as he did so. With his right hand, he gripped the edge of the seat by his knees, while he curled the left into a fist as he bent over to brace it on the cool, steam-slick tiles.
Slippery— The servant only padded over, laid a thick white cloth before him, and backed away. He gave her a grateful, close-lipped smile as he braced his left fist again on the floor, atop the plush cloth, distributing his weight throughout the arm.
With an inhaled breath, his right hand still gripping the edge of his chair, he carefully lowered himself to the ground, swinging his rear away from the chair as his knees bent unbidden. Carefully, he scooted to the edge of the pool stairs, until he could set his feet into the warm water, right atop the second step. The servant strode into the water a heartbeat later, graceful as an egret, her gossamer robe turning as insubstantial as dew while water crept up its length.
Her hands were gentle but steady while she gripped him under the arm and helped him hoist himself the last bit into the pool, setting himself down on the top step.
Then she guided him down another and another, until he was sitting up to his shoulders. Eye-level with her full, peaked breasts. Oils and brushes and soft-looking cloths. Chaol slid his undershorts off while she turned, setting them with a loud, wet smack upon the edge of the pool. Perhaps it was because the room, located at the very pinnacle of the pale-stoned tower and its sprawling complex below, had unparalleled views of the sunset over Antica. The place she had first looked upon the ancient woman now sitting across the paper- and book-strewn desk, and heard the words that changed everything: You are welcome here, Yrene Towers.
It had been over two years since then. Two years of working here, living here, in this tower and in this city of so many peoples, so many foods and caches of knowledge. Had studied and listened and practiced and saved lives, changed them, until she had climbed to the very top of her class. The magic helped.
Magic demanded a cost— to both healer and patient. But Yrene was willing to pay it. She had never minded the aftermath of a brutal healing. If it meant saving a life … Silba had granted her a gift—and a young stranger had given her another gift, that final night in Innish two years ago. Yrene had no plans to waste either. She waited in silence as the slender woman across from her finished reading through some message on her chronically messy desk.
There were two such vials on the desk now, clear orbs atop silver feet fashioned after ibis legs. Being purified by the endless sunshine within the tower. Hafiza, Healer on High of the Torre Cesme, plucked up one of the vials, swirled its pale blue contents, frowned, and set it down. Every meeting, every encounter with Hafiza, was a lesson—a chance to learn. To be challenged. Yrene lifted the vial from its stand, holding it to the golden light of sunset as she examined the thick azure liquid within.
Saw the physicians, who advised honey tea, rest, and fresh air. Got better for a time, but returned a week ago with a vengeance.
They were the first line of inspection for the healers in the tower, their quarters occupying the sprawling complex around its base. Magic was precious, its demands costly enough that some Healer on High centuries ago had decreed that if they were to see a patient, a physician must first inspect the person. Perhaps it had been a political maneuver—a bone tossed to the physicians so often passed over by a people clamoring for the cure-all remedies of magic.
Yet magic could not cure all things. Could not halt death, or bring someone back from it. And even with the protocols with the physicians, Yrene still—as she had always done— found herself walking toward the sound of coughing in the narrow, sloped streets of Antica. Yrene tilted the vial this way and that. Mercifully, some long-ago mastermind had invented the bidgier, wind-catching towers set atop buildings to draw in fresh air to the rooms below, some even working in tandem with the few underground canals winding beneath Antica to transform hot wind into cool breezes.
The city was peppered with the small towers, like a thousand spears jutting toward the sky, ranging from the small houses made of earthen bricks to the great, domed residences full of shaded courtyards and clear pools.
Unfortunately, the Torre had predated that stroke of brilliance, and though the upper levels possessed some cunning ventilation that cooled the chambers far below, there were plenty of days when Yrene wished some clever architect would take it upon themselves to outfit the Torre with the latest advances. Catch the sunlight through the window, and focus it upon the vial.
Adjust it a few times a day to match the path of the sun. The cooler temperature and more concentrated sunlight might have the tonic ready sooner. Yrene had come to cherish those nods, the light in those brown eyes. Not realizing that Hafiza did not take money from students. No, they paid for their education in other ways. Yrene had suffered through endless indignities and degradations during her year working at the backwater White Pig Inn, but she had never been more mortified than the moment Hafiza ordered her to put the money back in that brown pouch.
Much had changed since then.