Yrene did not hesitate. The words tumbled from her lips.
“A favor, Great Khagan. I would ask you a favor.”
The palace was in uproar, but Chaol and Yrene still found themselves alone with Nesryn and Sartaq, sitting, of all places, in their suite.
The prince and Nesryn had joined them on the long walk back to the room, Chaol wheeling his chair close to Yrene’s side. She’d been swaying on her feet, and was too damned stubborn to mention it. Even went so far as to assess him with those sharp healer’s eyes, inquiring after his back, his legs. As if he was the one who’d drained his power to the dregs.
He’d felt it, the shifting within his body as mighty waves of her power flowed into Duva. The growing strain along parts of his back and legs. Only then had he left her side during the healing, his steps uneven as he’d gone to lean against the wooden arm of a nearby couch and quietly asked the nearest servant to bring his chair. By the time they’d returned, he’d needed it—his legs still capable of some motion, but not standing.
But it did not frustrate him, did not embarrass him. If this was to be his body’s natural state for the rest of his life … it was not a punishment, not at all.
He was still thinking that when they reached his suite, mulling over how they might work out a schedule of him fighting in battle with her healing.
For he would fight. And if her power was drained, he’d fight then, too. Whether on horseback or in the chair itself.
And when Yrene needed to heal, when the magic in her veins summoned her to those killing fields and their bond grew thin … he’d manage with a cane, or the chair. He would not shrink from it.
If he survived the battle. The war. If they survived.
He and Yrene found spots on the sorry replacement for the gold couch—which he was honestly debating bringing back to Adarlan with him, broken bits and all—while Nesryn and the prince sat, carefully, in separate chairs. Chaol tried not to look too aware or amused by it.
“How did you know we were in such trouble?” Yrene asked at last. “Before you linked up with the guards, I mean.”
Sartaq blinked, stumbling out of his thoughts. A corner of his mouth lifted. “Kadja,” he said, jerking his chin toward the servant currently setting a tea service before them. “She was the one who saw Duva leave—down to those tunnels. She’s in my … employ.”
Chaol studied the servant, who made no sign that she’d heard. “Thank you,” he rasped.
But Yrene went one step further, taking the woman’s hand and squeezing it. “We owe you a life debt,” she said. “How can we repay you?”
Kadja only shook her head and backed out of the room. They stared after her for a moment.
“Arghun is no doubt debating whether to punish her for it,” Sartaq mused. “On the one hand, it saved Duva. On the other hand … she didn’t tell him at all.”
Nesryn frowned. “We need to find a way to shield her, then. If he’s that ungrateful.”
“Oh, he is,” Sartaq said, and Chaol tried not to blink at the casualness between them, or her use of we. “But I’ll think on it.”
Chaol refrained from revealing that one word to Shen, and Kadja would have a faithful protector for the rest of her life.
Yrene only asked, “What now?”
Nesryn ran a hand through her dark hair. Different. Yes, there was something wholly different about her. She glanced to Sartaq—not for permission, but … as if reassuring herself that he was there. Then she said the words that made Chaol glad he was already sitting.
“Maeve is a Valg queen.”
It all came out then. What she and Sartaq had learned these past weeks: stygian spiders, who were really Valg foot soldiers. A shape-shifter who might be Lysandra’s uncle. And a Valg queen who had been masquerading as Fae for thousands of years, hiding from the demon kings she’d drawn to this world in her attempt to escape them.
“That explains why the Fae healers might have fled, too,” Yrene murmured when Nesryn fell silent. “Why Maeve’s own healer compound lies on the border with the mortal world. Perhaps not so they can have access to humans who need care … but as a border patrol against the Valg, should they ever try to encroach her territory.”
How close the Valg had unwittingly come when Aelin had fought those princes in Wendlyn.
“It also explains why Aelin reported an owl at Maeve’s side when they first met,” Nesryn said, gesturing to Yrene, whose brows bunched.
Then Yrene blurted, “The owl must be the Fae form of a healer. Some healer of hers that she keeps close—as a bodyguard. Has let everyone believe to be some pet …”
Chaol’s head spun. Sartaq gave him a look as if to say he understood the feeling well.
“What happened before we arrived?” Nesryn asked. “When we found you …”
Yrene’s hand clenched his. And it was his turn to tell them what they had learned, what they had endured. That regardless of what Maeve might plan to do … There remained Erawan to face.
Until Yrene murmured, “When I was healing Duva, the demon …” She rubbed at her chest. He’d never seen anything so remarkable as that healing: the blinding glow of her hands, the near-holy expression on her face. As if she were Silba herself. “The demon told me it was not a Valg prince … but a princess.”
Silence. Until Nesryn said, “The spider. It claimed the Valg kings had sons and daughters. Princes and princesses.”
Chaol swore. No, his legs would not be able to function anytime soon, with or without Yrene’s slowly refilling well of power. “We’re going to need a Fire-Bringer, it seems,” he said. And to translate the books Hafiza said she would gladly hand over to their cause.
Nesryn chewed on her lip. “Aelin now sails north to Terrasen, an armada with her. The witches as well.”
“Or just the Thirteen,” Chaol countered. “The reports were murky. It might not even be Manon Blackbeak’s coven, actually.”
“It is,” Nesryn said. “I’d bet everything on it.” She slid her attention to Sartaq, who nodded—silent permission. Nesryn braced her forearms on her knees. “We did not return alone when we raced back here.”
Chaol glanced between them. “How many?”
Sartaq’s face tightened. “The rukhin are vital enough internally that I can only risk bringing half.” Chaol waited. “So I brought a thousand.”
He was indeed glad he was sitting down. A thousand ruk riders … Chaol scratched his jaw. “If we can join Aelin’s host, along with the Thirteen and any other Ironteeth Manon Blackbeak can sway to our side …”
“We will have an aerial legion to combat Morath’s,” Nesryn finished, eyes bright. With hope, yes, but something like dread, too. As if she perhaps realized what combating would ensue. The lives at stake. Yet she turned to Yrene. “And if you can heal those infected by the Valg …”
“We still need to find a way to get their hosts down,” Sartaq said. “Long enough for Yrene and any others to heal them.” Yes, there was that to account for, too.
Yrene cut in, “Well, as you said, we have Aelin Fire-Bringer fighting for us, don’t we? If she can produce flame, surely she can produce smoke.” Her mouth quirked to the side. “I might have some ideas.”
Yrene opened her mouth as if she’d say more, but the suite doors blew open and Hasar breezed in.
Hasar seemed to check herself at the sight of Sartaq. “It seems I’m late for the war council.”
Sartaq crossed an ankle over a knee. “Who says that’s what we’re discussing?”
Hasar claimed a seat for herself and adjusted the fall of her hair over a shoulder. “You mean to tell me the ruks shitting up the roofs are just here to make you look important?”
Sartaq huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, sister?”
The princess only looked to Yrene, then Chaol. “I will come with you.”
Chaol didn’t dare move. Yrene said, “Alone?”
“Not alone.” The mocking amusement was gone from her face. “You saved Duva’s life. And ours, if she had grown more bold.” A glance to Sartaq, who watched with mild surprise. “Duva is the best of us. The best of me.” Hasar’s throat bobbed. “So I will go with you, with whatever ships I can bring, so that my sister will never again look over her shoulder in fear.”