Page 73 of White Horse Black Nights

I scratch my nails hard against my scalp, but the pain isn’t enough. Myst watches me steadily with her velvety black eyes as I fidget—resting a foot on the rocks behind me, pacing toward the falling water, then doubling back.

When I agreed to run away with Sabine, I knew the price. Backstabbing the only person who’s shown me an ounce of concern. It comes down to a simple toss-up, like Rian’s favorite game, the coin flip with his Golath dime. Sabine or Rian. Rian or Sabine. One of them was always going to feel my knife in their back.

And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be her.

I close my eyes, pinching the uneven bridge of my nose, broken so many times in the ring that I’ve lost most feeling in it.

“Wolf. Come on, you lug. Get up.”I can hear Rian’s voice now from many years ago. “The whorehouse on Second Street has two new girls. Twins. We can fuck them together, eh?”

I’d been finishing up a drill in the Golden Sentinels’ training grounds. The army camp was just north of Duren’s walls, pushing up against the edge of the Blackened Forest. It was strange for Rian to interrupt me while in a drill, and I was about to tell him to fuck off, when I spotted Lord Berolt’s carriage pull up near the archery range.

A blade of fear sliced into my belly.

Lord Berolt always had a fascination for godkissed people, but now, according to dark rumors, he’d started experimenting on aging godkissed whores who’d outlived their beauty, or nonessential godkissed soldiers.

I had to quickly wonder if my skills counted as essential.

“Come on, Wolf,” Rian insisted, his voice light, though there was fear in his eyes as he glanced at his father’s carriage. “Tell your commander I ordered you to wrap up early so you can wet your cock on a twin.”

He got me out of there before Lord Berolt started perusing the training grounds for viable candidates for his experiment table. It wasn’t the first time Rian saved me, either. He always sheltered me from his father’s attention. Downplaying my godkiss, insisting I was just a brute who was useful to train against. Always masking his real intentions with a smirk and a quip.

Now, Myst’s stomach grumbles. She sniffs my pockets for more cheese. I shake my head fondly at her, glad to be distracted from the past.

“Whoever heard of a horse who liked cheese? I don’t think it’s good for you, crazy mare.” I crouch by my rucksack to dig for a different treat for her, and my fingers brush over crumpled paper. I pull out Lord Charlin Darrow’s letter.

I haven’t given the letter much thought since we left Bremcote. The Darrow wax seal glistens in the firelight with the emblem of a sheep’s head. It occurs to me that Lord Rian will never receive this letter, now that I’m not returning to Duren. I could throw it in the fire. I could let it turn to dust, forgotten in the bottom of my rucksack.

Or I could read it—why the hell not? What secret was so meaningful for Lord Charlin to think it could possibly sway Rian?

Still, I pause before breaking the wax seal, still bound by years of fealty. But then I take in Sabine’s sweet, slumbering form beneath the blanket, shivering without my warmth beside her, and my heart knows I’d damn myself to the underrealm for her.

With a finger jerk, I break the seal and open the letter. I don’t know what I expected to find. A minor scandal that Lord Charlin discovered; a bribe of some ilk. Maybe a pitiful wager on a horse race in an attempt to regain his fortune.

But as soon as I read the first line, the condescension melts off my face.

A tremor starts in my left hand. No—no, this can’t be right.This can’t be fucking right.I have to read the first few lines twice. My vision blurs, making me hold the letter to the firelight to keep reading. And by the Immortals, it goes on and on. Each line more bone-chilling than the last, filling my stomach like a poisoned meal.

The things Lord Charlin claims in the letter are impossible. He’s a liar or, at best, a confused old man. But he swears to have proof of his unimaginable claim—a claim that is so consequential to Sabine, to me, and to Rian that it will change everything.

The old drunk really did have one hell of a secret.

I don’t know how many times I re-read the letter before crumpling it in my fist. My heart beats erratically. I’m at war with myself. Who else knows this secret? In the letter, Lord Charlin claims he told no one. So I could throw the letter in the fire. Pretend it never existed. If Charlin himself ever tries to bring it up, I’ll arrange for him to have an unfortunate accident.

No one has to know.

But Lord Charlin, and now me,aren’tthe only ones who know. And that’s the whole fucking problem. Because this letter makes it very clear why the Volkish raiders targeted Sabine. I’d thought they were just after pretty godkissed girls that fit her description, probably to use as whores.

But I was wrong.

They weren’t after girlslikeSabine—they were afterher.

And if what Lord Charlin claims is true, then they’ll be back for her. King Rachillon will send his best spies and raiders. He might send a whole fucking army.

What am I going to do against an army? Oh, I’ll fight like hell for her. A band of raiders? That’s easy. Even a battalion? I’d give it a fair shot. But not even I can go up against an army. There’s only one person who can—someone whoalsohas a big fucking army.

My pulse scrambles in my veins. The waterfall’s rush is too loud, driving me to distraction, and the campfire smell is too strong. I’m overloaded by senses. My godkiss is going haywire.

I slump against the back of the cave, raking my nails down my face.

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