“Thirsty from sprinting, but…” I don’t bother fighting the smile that stretches across my face. “But good.”
He glances my way, his gaze flickering to my mouth, then tugs me into one of the shadowy alcoves carved into the thick walls. “That smile,” he murmurs before his mouth takes mine in a hungry kiss.
I arch against him, spearing my hands into his hair as I kiss him back with everything I feel. It’s not slow and sensuous like the one we shared in my room. This is hard and fast and…happy.
We’re both smiling when we break apart.
“We did it,” I say as my hands fall to his shoulders.
“We did it,” he agrees, resting his forehead against mine. “I hate leaving before I really have to.”
“Me too.” I pull back and lift one of the satchels from my shoulder, then remove the journal. “But it’s safer this way. You need to get one to Brennan.”
I flip to the center of Warrick’s journal and grin at the sprawling strokes of Old Lucerish, keeping my ungloved fingers to the very edge. What I read has me grinning, victory swelling in my chest. “‘After we placed the last rune, we placed the wardstone where the dragons felt the deepest currents of magic run,’” I translate slowly to Xaden, then glance up. “I might be off a word or two, but it’s here!” I flip another few pages. “‘That last step complete, the protections fell into place at…’” My face scrunches as I work out the rest. “‘…at the birth of an iron rain.’”
I spot at least three more mentions of that term before quickly putting the journal back in the satchel. “This is it.” I hand it to Xaden. “Take this to Brennan. He should be able to translate it. They won’t expect you to leave until morning, so you can get out of here without being searched if you head out now, and splitting up the journals means we can read them twice as fast.” And ensures that one of them makes it out of this place.
He folds the cream canvas around the journal inside, then unbuttons his flight jacket and stores the bundle against his chest before rebuttoning. “I wish I could spend the night,” he says in that gravelly tone that instantly turns me on.
“That makes two of us.”
He stares at me with something like longing, then reaches into the shadows and grabs the pack he’d stored there earlier. Keeping his eyes locked with mine, he swings the pack onto his back, then reaches for my face and kisses me again.
The simple pleasure of it is perfect.
“You are astonishing,” he says against my lips. “I’ll see you in seven days.”
“Seven days,” I agree, fighting the urge to pull him into another kiss. And another. “Now go. We have to keep to the plan, remember?”
He kisses me hard and quick, then walks away, striding across the courtyard like he owns it. I rub my hand over my heart, hoping to ease the ache of watching him walk away, but the hurt is nothing compared to the triumph I feel.
I step into the courtyard, then look up, waiting to catch one last glimpse of him in the overcast sky as he flies southeast.
For the first time in months, it’s hope coursing through my veins instead of dread.
We can do this—we’re doing this. We have the firsthand account of how the First Six activated their wardstone, and I know I can talk Xaden into flying for Cordyn to secure the luminary with me. He won’t like it, but he’ll do it. I just have to figure out how to get the leave approved. And until then, we’ll keep doing what we’re doing, smuggling out weaponry and building from within Navarre until we can stand on our own. Aretia will have wards in a matter of days; I’m certain of it.
“Violet?”
I look over my shoulder and smile at Nolon as he approaches, carrying a wineskin in one hand and a pewter mug in the other. He looks so damned tired, like he’s just come from a major session or twelve. “Hi, Nolon.” I wave.
“I thought that was you. I was getting some lemonade when Jack told me he saw you out here, and I remembered that you’re on my mending list.” He hands me the mug, then stands at my side, looking up at the sky. “It’s your favorite, if I remember.”
“That’s too kind of you.” I lift the mug and drink deeply, slaking the thirst that’s burned my throat since our little sprint through the Archives. “And don’t worry about my shoulder. It’s already healed. You know, I never got the chance to thank you for helping us during interrogation.”
“I never like to see you hurt, and Varrish has it out for you.” He drinks from his own skin, then scratches his stubbled cheek. “Where is Riorson, anyway? I don’t often see you apart on Saturdays.”
My stomach dips as Jack Barlowe walks across the courtyard, Caroline Ashton at his side with some other second-years from First Wing. It completely flips when he gives me a nod, which I awkwardly return.
“Violet?” Nolon prompts, following my line of sight to Jack. “Everything all right?”
“Everything is fine. And Xaden left earlier. We don’t always get along.” I take another sip of the lemonade, then glance down at the contents. The kitchen must have changed up the recipe, because it has a funny yet familiar aftertaste.
“I meant what I said,” Nolon says quietly, glancing at the cream satchel I carry.
Cream. Not black.
My head blurs, my vision swimming momentarily as I swing my head to look at him.
“Tairn—” But Tairn isn’t there. Every connection I have is fuzzy.
No. Oh gods, no.
But…but I’ve trusted Nolon with my life for years.
“I never like to see you hurt,” Nolon whispers, apology crinkling his brow as the mug rolls from my hand, crashing to the gravel a heartbeat later. “But I can’t protect you from the consequences of your own actions when you risk the safety of every civilian in this kingdom.”
Bootsteps sound all around me and the world spins, but it’s Varrish’s face I see hovering above mine. “Why, Cadet Sorrengail, what have you gotten yourself into?”
The only signet more terrifying than an inntinnsic is a truth-sayer. And yet we let them live.
—MAJOR AFENDRA’S GUIDE TO THE RIDERS QUADRANT （UNAUTHORIZED EDITION）
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I blink slowly, my vision coming into focus with all the urgency of a snail. Dull, throbbing pressure radiates forward from the back of my head, and the mass of gray clears slightly, revealing stones set in a spiral pattern—a patch of them charred from smoke. A ceiling?
“That’s not our concern,” a man says, his voice unfamiliar and raspy. “We follow orders.”
Fear-laced adrenaline charges through me, but I lock my muscles tight, forcing myself to remain as still as possible so I can get a grip on what the fuck is happening.
“It is if she finds out,” another voice—this one female—replies.
It smells like wet moss and iron, and the air is cool but thick. We’re underground. A steady dripping sound fills the silence.
“She’s in Calldyr. We have a week until she’s scheduled to return,” the raspy-voiced one says.
And I’m sitting; that’s what’s digging into the base of my skull—the back of a chair. The weight across my wrists and ankles is familiar. I’m strapped in, just like assessment.