“Fates,” Telor whispers, horror splayed over his face. “I have never seen an army like that.”
Neither have I. Tiny dots merge over the land as far as we can see—of tents and wagons and Ybarisans willing to die for their slain royal family, thanks to the lies of their treacherous queen.
“Many of them are simple mortals, untrained and terrified. They will not be able to fight,” Abarrane says.
“Many of them are elven soldiers and casters, trained and terrified, and they will be able to fight,” Kienen counters, his posture rigid as he peers down upon Lyndel’s forces below. They are trained soldiers as well, but they will be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the other side. And all that stops them from crossing are two stone walls on either end of the bridge, each one erected when the two nations split. Neither will withstand the whole of Neilina’s elementals.
Suddenly, I wish I had insisted that Romeria come.
“We do not want to fight them,” I remind them. “As long as we can hold them off until Hudem’s full moon, their attention will shift elsewhere.” At least until reinforcements arrive.
A deafening screech sounds, and Telor’s soldiers have their swords drawn in their next breath, their horses shifting uneasily. Everyone is waiting for that beast Romeria named a dragon to resurface.
But it’s the taillok that soars above us, its iridescent feathers shimmering. Just as Gesine promised.
“Hold!” I shout as it swoops down to land on a nearby boulder.
Telor orders the soldiers to continue down the path as I dismount, my attention on the letter strapped to the taillok’s leg, my relief bringing a smile to my lips.
It screeches again as I approach, its hooked beak looking primed to attack. “Any special instructions?”
“Do not anger it?” Kienen offers.
It watches intently as I unfasten the leather belt that holds the letter but makes no move.
“The witch is watching us?” Abarrane asks with mild interest. She would never admit that something tied to the casters and the Nulling might be useful.
“She is,” I say. Gesine will be able to relay my well-being to Romeria, who I’m sure shares my worry.
I crack open the seal and read the familiar scrawl.
And curse.
And curse again.
Nymph doors?
A war in the east?
A brewing rebellion in Cirilea?
Elisaf sidles up to me. “Anything interesting?”
“A thing or two.” Or ten. Not interesting. Devastating. I hand it to him to read as my mind spins, the seer’s stark prediction blazing prominently. Islor must fall before it can rise. If this is not its fall, then I can’t imagine what else would be.
His eyes bulge. “She went to Cirilea?”
I don’t know whether to be furious or proud of her. “She is fearless.” Of course that snake was hiding something vital until I left. It’s as if she wants to put Romeria in danger.
“When it involves helping others, yes.”
Even ones who may not deserve it. My brother has ordered her death, and yet it sounds like she saved him.
Elisaf frowns. “She means to rob your coffers?”
I smile grimly. “That, I am not surprised about.”
Abarrane has had enough of playing bystander. “Who is robbing you? What is happening?” she demands, and beside her, Telor and Kienen look as impatient to know.
I sigh. Where do I even begin? “I should have executed Adley the day I became king.”
The rift lookouts spotted our lengthy processional not long after we emerged from Soldor. Telor ordered his men to wave their banner high. It seems to have worked, as only a small delegation rides out to meet us, rather than enough to match us in force.
Ulysede’s banner, we keep lowered for now.
No one has tried to put an arrow into the taillok yet. It soars above us, waiting for my return letter while giving Gesine a bird’s-eye view to relay back to Romeria.
“How long has it been since you were here last?” Telor asks.
“Too long,” I admit. I entered this camp as the crown prince, and now I come as an exile. Never before have I felt this discomfort approaching my Islorian subjects, but I harden my resolve. There can be only one outcome, whether they support me as king or not.
The sprawling elven barracks are to the right, the tributaries housed next to them in a fortified encampment fit for the criminals who are sent to serve as fodder. Mortal army quarters comparable to the elven are on the left, though the two sides merge in the middle for training exercises and daily life. I’ve always thought the divide pointless but, given the growing turmoil and the willingness to murder the elven for freedom, perhaps not.