Page 14 of The Cruel Dawn
But Vallendor is mine.
5
As Shari bounds into the courtyard, the Gashoans gasp with excitement and fear. The wolf nuzzles my legs, and I press my face against her thick black coat. Lightness comes over me—she’s always brought me joy. She’d sleep at my feet, lead me through forests on long walks, wait patiently as I tossed her honeycakes, dried elk hides, and apples. Now, her heart beats with love beneath her fur—but I hear a soft, barely there whine.
“You okay, girl?” I ask, my nose to her nose, my golden eyes blinking into her green-jeweled ones.
The wolf’s breathing stills—I can’t hear her thoughts because she’s not mine.
Zephar can’t hear her thoughts, either, because he’s not Eserime. Still, he studies us and laughs. “She doesn’t want you to leave again. She missed you more than I did.”
I kiss Shari’s nose, pat her head, and say, “I love you, too.” I want to say, “I’m not going anywhere,” but I can’t, and she knows that I can’t, and that’s probably why she won’t exhale.
“Relax,” I say, offering her a honeycake.
The wolf cocks her head—this isn’t what she asked for—but she takes the cake anyway, since this is all that I can give her.
After their second song of farewell, the Gashoans line the courtyard and toss bundles of chamomile and wild thyme at our feet. Zephar holds my hand as we enter the temple with our Mera warriors—who no longer want to slit my neck but now recognize my authority—and Eserime healers behind us. Shari trots ahead of us—she knows the way.
“Last we talked,” Zephar says, “Gasho was marked to be the final city destroyed.”
I nearly stumble. “But Gasho’s already been destroyed—and now, we’re restoring it. Everything on the list was meant to rebuild the city.”
“No,” he says, his eyebrows creased. “This is more of a cleanup than a restoration. Gasho was nowhere close to total destruction. There was no cleansing fire.”
We’re outside again, and Zephar gazes at the nighttime sky.
The altar beneath the belltower glows in the night. Carved from a single piece of alabaster, the solid ball is as tall as the tallest Gashoan. The Sisters place the last of the night offerings there, and then they kneel to pray.
“We won’t destroy Gasho,” I say now to Zephar. “You do realize that Danar Rrivae wants Vallendor for himself and plans to kill me, right?”
“Kai,” Zephar says, “everyonewants to kill you. The Dashmala, Syrus Wake, What’s-His-Face on the other side of Doom Desert.”
“This is beyond old-fashioned hate—”
“I know—”
“Do you, though?” I ask, head cocked.
“Of course I do, and I’m not worried.” Zephar reaches for my face and tucks strands of my hair behind my ears. “If I’m not panicking, then you shouldn’t panic, either. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. Relax a moment.”
Only the Sisters follow us to a garden as wide as the temple’s courtyard. Mist, veiling this terrace and hiding its true size, flows like a river around the roots of trees that look as old as the realm itself. Those roots rise out from the ground like warriors, and their branches block most of the sky.
Gleaming, fat plums hang from the twigs of some of these trees. Flowers in impossible shades of indigo quiver on their vines.
“This place,” I whisper, “it reminds me of…”
“Ithlon?” Zephar asks.
I close my eyes. “Yes.” I’d designed it that way.
Zephar kisses my hand and leads me deeper into the garden, our feet silent against the smooth, polished-stone pathway. Soon, we’re walking beside a stream of clear water that opens into small ponds around the garden. Their mirrored surfaces reflect light from the sky above.
We stop at a space where the mist gathers thickest and most fragrant.
