Page 139 of The Song Rising

His hand stroked across my hair, where it wouldn’t hurt my wounds. I leaned into it. “You will be pleased to know,” he said, “that Adhara, the erstwhile Warden of the Sarin, has come to a decision. Seeing that our human associate had won such a significant victory against Scion, she concluded that human beings may have matured just enough to merit her renewed allegiance to the Ranthen. Consequently, she has decided that her loyalists will be ready to fight for us. We need only call.”

I tried to still the heaving in my chest. At last, I had proven to Terebell that her investment in my leadership had been justified. It had all been worth it.

“Where are we?” I murmured.

“We are on our way to Dover.”

“Dover.” My head felt so heavy. “The port.”

“Yes.” His hand kept moving over my curls. “Sleep, little dreamer.”

I slipped away before I could ask anything more. When I woke again, it took a while to remember where I was. I was lying opposite a fast-asleep Maria, and my head was on Nick’s lap. We were close to the back door of the truck. Pain swelled and ebbed in all my wounds with each shunt of the vehicle.

“. . . orders at some point in the next few weeks. In the meantime, Mahoney needs to convalesce. Alsafi made a great sacrifice to get her out of there. I expect you to ensure it doesn’t go to waste.” Burnish.

“Alsafi was my Ranthen-kith.” Warden. “I will always strive to honor his memory, but I suspect that Paige will not want to be absent from the war effort for long, even to convalesce.”

I stayed still.

“If she doesn’t rest, she’s going to be too weak to contribute to that war effort.” Burnish’s voice held a note of vexation. “That won’t please my sponsor. She was tortured in the Archon, God alone knows what she had to do to break Senshield, and on top of that, I doubt her injuries have fully healed from the scrimmage. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s able to stand up.”

“She is possessed of extraordinary resilience. It was part of why we chose her to be our associate.”

Burnish made a noncommittal sound. “She’s human. Our sanity is a little more brittle than yours. As are our bones.” Silence. “She won’t see her twentieth birthday if she doesn’t rest. She’s a vital player in this game, Arcturus. Leaving aside her gift, she has come to . . . stand for something. Hall and the Sargas won’t rest until they have her.” The truck skimmed over a bump. “My sponsor needs what they call ‘fire-setters’ to generate waves of revolution in different parts of the empire. They’ve identified her as a key one. If she wants to keep fighting the Sargas, joining us is her best shot.”

“And you think your . . . sponsor is a suitable alternative to Scion.”

“Possibly. What matters is that they want Scion gone, and so do we.”

“The Ranthen will need to meet them. Whoevertheyare.”

“All in good time. They could be just as far round the twist as Scion, but I’m willing to gamble. I won’t watch us hand global power to Nashira Sargas.”

Warden didn’t reply for a while. Then he said, “I will do my utmost to persuade Paige of the sense in resting for a month. But in the end, she must make her own choices, even when they hurt her. I am not her keeper.”

“Of course not. But you can be her friend, if you know how. She’ll need plenty of those.”

One side of my ribcage ached. I shifted my weight off it, hoping they wouldn’t notice.

“What will you do next, Grand Raconteur?”

She laughed slightly. “Come morning, I’ll be in the Archon’s medical room, being treated for shock, having hidden for several hours from the murderous Paige Mahoney.”

“That seems a great risk. Someone will suspect you.”

“The wonderful thing about living in a morally bankrupt world is that every human being can be bought in one way or another. Everyone accepts a currency. Money, mercy, the illusion of power—there are always ways to purchase loyalty. Trust me: no one will accuse me.”

Warden was silent after that.

When the vehicle stopped, a light switched on inside. Scarlett Burnish roused us all and handed me a bundle of clothes. With help from Nick, I eased a dark-blue sweater, an oilskin, and a pair of waterproof trousers over my dressings, flinching at the pain when the sweater covered my left arm. The oilskin was embroidered with Scion’s maritime symbol: the anchor wrapped in rope. The hard-wearing fabric felt coarse on my skin, but I could bear it—someone must have topped up my dose while I slept.

“Where’s Eliza?” I said.

Nick wouldn’t meet my gaze. “She’s not here.”

My heart quickened.

“Don’t say it,” I said. “Nick—”

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