Page 37 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

“They can see the bird’s wing,

they can hear the bells ring,

they can feel our hearts sing.

Oh yes, come down,

come down, come down,

come down, come down.”

I was running out of both breath and courage, and I began to panic. What would happen if I stopped singing? Would I have to sing for the rest of my life? I began to inch backward, sweat dripping down my body, the flames roaring somewhere in the hazy distance. I kept singing and kept singing, wanting to stop, knowing Icouldn’t, and then my hand landed on a boot, and I nearly cried out with relief. I held on to Ryder’s legs as he launched his arrows—four of them in a row, striking right between the creature’s closed eyes. The chimaera collapsed, its eight legs splaying out clumsily to all sides; it let out a last putrid breath that made my eyes burn. Blood trickled down its hairy, scaly face. It was still. It was dead.

Faint with relief, I shook there on the ground and listened to the others coming to help. Father couldn’t lift the thing by himself and had to shout for Gentar and Alaster, and two other men from the village, and together they staggered to the fire and dumped the beast into the flames. It was only then that I realized how truly gigantic it was, how close I’d come to a gruesome death.

Someone was helping me to my feet, and when I realized it was Ryder, I let out a sob of frantic relief, because I knew then that the danger was gone. Ryder wouldn’t let anything happen to me. The beast was dead. I was safe. I clung to him and hid my face in his coat. His hand cradled the back of my head, and I thought I felt his lips in my hair. I closed my eyes for a moment and savored the feeling of him all around me: his strong arms, his head bowing over mine. He was the enemy, and I’d hated him from the moment I’d learned what hate was, and yet in that moment his solid strength was a balm to my wildly beating heart, and I held on to him fiercely as I struggled to catch my breath.

“You’re all right, Farrin,” he whispered, a note of reverence in his voice. “You did well.”

Then I heard a ruckus and glanced past Ryder’s arm to see Father and the others rolling the great wooden ball that held Gemma’schimaera toward the fire. Gemma herself was on the ground, her skin gray from the tremendous working of magic, but when I tore away from Ryder to go to her, and drew her into my arms, she shook her head against my chest.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, her eyes bright and fierce. “I’ll be fine.” She gave me a brave smile, and I held her to me as tight as I could.

Gareth came up to us, a dirty child in his arms. The girl was alive but silent, her face hidden in Gareth’s collar. Her fingers were like talons in his shoulders.

“I don’t understand,” he said, clearly shaken. His eyeglasses were fogged over from the heat and smoke. With his free hand, he ripped them off his nose in annoyance and rubbed his face hard. “Why is there a village here, so close to the Mist? Clearly it isn’t safe. Living here, with everything that’s happening? It’s a death sentence. I thought the Senate had long ago passed legislation forbiddinganysettlement within twenty miles of the Mistline, the only exception being Fenwood, for the sake of the Order.”

The old woman Ryder had spoken to came over, her expression flinty.

“You’ve now seen for yourself what so many have tried to keep secret,” she said quietly. “We have relocated our village twice, and now we shall have to do it again. The Mist ismoving. It’s growing.” She paused, looking suddenly ashen, and then turned and retched into the dirt. “So far we’ve managed to outrun it,” she said, still turned away from us, her voice strained, “but we can’t run forever. And now, with our Anointed lords gone, vanished right out from under us? We’re defenseless. The only reason I can say even this much to you is, I assume, because the chimaera have disrupted the magic in this area. But soon it will repair itself.”

We all stared at her, except for Ryder, who glared stonily at the ground.

“Why wouldn’t you be able to say this to us?” Gemma asked the woman, her voice tired and thin. “Whatwill repair itself?”

“The Mist ismoving?” Gareth shook his head. “Dislocating entire villages? Not possible. We would have heard about such a thing. The queen would’ve sent reinforcements, the Order—”

“The Order? The queen?” The old woman’s mouth twisted. “The queen doesn’t care about us up here, us poor villages along the Mistline. What do we have to offer her? We’re not impressive. We don’t throw parties or send tributes. We don’t have the coin for long trips south around the Mist, or for greenways—save for the one in our lords’ garden, which belongs to the Order and won’t let anyone through unless the Order commands it. We’re stuck here, running for our lives.”

I couldn’t stay silent after that. I rose to my feet. “The queen doesn’t know about this, I can promise you that. She would have told me if she did.”

The old woman looked me over—not cruel, just assessing. “Would she have, my lady?”

I couldn’t answer her, unease trickling all through me. An even worse question came to mind:CouldYvaine have told me?Couldshe have sent reinforcements? Or was the knowledge of the Mist’s moving northern border stuck somewhere inside her mind, trapped by stress or illness, and forgotten?

Father spoke next, his voice solemn, his clothes ruined, blood-splattered. “Why has the Order not come? This is precisely why the Order exists—to protect the people of Edyn from the Mist and from anything that might crawl through it from the Olden realm.”

The old woman opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. Her jaw worked as if she were chewing on a word she couldn’t say. She threw a furious glance at Ryder. “You were stopping here before going to Rosewarren, my lord?”

He nodded once.

“Then I would make haste and get there before the memory of this day fades from your minds and you no longer have the strength to face her.”

“Her?” I asked, though I thought I knew who she meant.

“The Warden,” Ryder bit out. “She has—”

He stopped then, exchanged a glance with his father. For once, Alaster didn’t look smug or superior, angry or cruel. He simply looked tired, and that terrified me. He tried to speak but seemed to be fighting against something unseen, just as the old woman had, and could only manage a choked sort of sound.

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