“My lord!” A scout hurried up the cliffside path to whisper something in Malik’s ear.

Malik turned to Eliana, eyebrows raised. “It seems Simon is alive.”

The world beneath her feet floated away. “What? But Rahzavel—”

“Has taken him captive, apparently. They are on one of the warships bound for Astavar.”

“Which one?” When the scout hesitated, Eliana grabbed her arm. “Which one?”

“I can’t say,” the scout replied. “Our contact on the smuggler’s ship saw them board, but couldn’t recall which ship. They all look the same, he said.”

Eliana snorted. “And these are the people we’re entrusting our lives to?”

“Not many smugglers remain who dare to cross the Narrow Sea,” Malik pointed out. “We’re lucky we could find anyone at all.”

“What are you thinking, my queen?” Zahra murmured at Eliana’s ear.

Eliana stared hard at the ships down the coast.

“I’m thinking,” she said slowly, “that we won’t be going with the others when they leave.”

Zahra nodded. “You’re thinking we must save Simon.”

A warm wave of relief swept through Eliana’s body. “Yes.”

“Because you feel guilty for leaving him?”

Yes. Because not even he deserves death at Rahzavel’s hands. Because he gave his life to allow us escape.

Because I couldn’t save Harkan. But I can, perhaps, save Simon.

“Because he has answers I want,” she replied.

Zahra gave her a pointed look and tapped her own ghostly temple. “Remember…angel.”

“Not anymore, you aren’t.” Eliana turned to face Malik. “You’ll get my brother to Astavar—and Hob as well.” She glanced at Hob. “Unless you wish to return to Patrik?”

“I won’t leave Navi or the boy,” Hob said quietly, his eyes bright but his jaw set. “I’ll find Patrik later. Sometimes our work for the rebellion requires us to live apart. He will understand.”

An ache swelled beneath Eliana’s ribs.

Sometimes, Rozen Ferracora had told her, when their training had first begun, your work will take you away from home for days at a time. Remember this: I will always love you when you return. No matter what you have done.

She clutched her necklace so hard that the corroded rim bit into her palm. “Well, Malik?”

“For the girl who saved my sister and showed her such kindness?” Malik bowed his head. “I would do anything.”

“Remy won’t forgive me for leaving without saying goodbye.”

“Yes, I will.”

Eliana turned to find Remy standing behind her, his face pinched and grave. “If you can save him, El,” he said quietly, “you should do it.”

A horn blasted from down the coast; across the gathered warships, torches flared to life.

“Night comes,” Zahra murmured. “We must go.”

“And so must we.” Malik turned, whistled softly. His scouts gathered, breaking camp in efficient silence.

Eliana pulled Remy to her, and together they found Hob helping Navi to her feet at the trees’ edge. “You’ll watch over him?”

“He won’t leave my sight,” Hob said. “Neither of them will.”

“Eliana,” whispered Navi, reaching for her. “You’ll save him. I know it.”

Eliana moved toward her, Remy still at her side, and kissed her brow. “I will try.”

“I know what you are. The wraith thought it would comfort me to know.”

“What?” Eliana glared at Zahra.

“Don’t be angry with her. It was a kindness.” Navi kissed Eliana’s hand, pressed it to her cheek. “If anyone can save him, you can.”

Remy stared. “What is she talking about?”

“Navi,” Eliana said quickly, “all of that is childish nonsense—lies that people craving comfort tell themselves.”

“You don’t believe that,” Navi murmured.

Eliana’s necklace felt suddenly too heavy around her neck. “I don’t know what to believe.”

Zahra smiled. “Then you are on the right path.”

Eliana ducked to kiss Remy’s cheek, whispered, “I love you,” and cupped his face in her hands, memorizing every line and curve.

“Save him,” he told her, his voice wobbly, and before Eliana could change her mind, she turned and ran down the cliff toward the darkening sea.

47

   Rielle

“My dreams are strange of late. I fear… My darling daughter, please forgive me. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

—Letter from Lord Dervin Sauvillier to Lady Ludivine Sauvillier

June 19, Year 998 of the Second Age

Rielle glanced back at Tal only once.

“Stay here,” she commanded, then ran out of the house, ignoring his shouts. She felt a twinge of guilt at leaving him pinned under the rafter and hoped it wouldn’t hurt him irreparably, but at least there he was out of harm’s way.

He also wouldn’t be able to interfere.

She raced out of the maze, aiming for the nearest hills and the spectator stands. The acolytes’ fire had ravaged much of the maze; her path out was clear, though clogged with smoking rubble.

At last she emerged into the foothills—and chaos.

Half the stands stood in ruins, bedraggled banners in the colors of House Courverie flying ragged in an unnatural gale. The sharp alpine scent of windsinger magic stung Rielle’s nose.

Dozens of bodies lay strewn across the ground. Thousands had come to see her trial, and now they scattered across the valley like upset ants. The air was clogged with screams, wails of pain, the crash of elemental magic.

On one of the ridges that lined the hills, she scanned the scene with a pounding heart. She could make no sense of what she saw—people running with children in their arms, elementals in scattered duels. Who was the attacker here? Borsvall?

Every sense pulled taut as she searched for some sign of him. Corien, here, no longer a dream. The very idea seemed impossible.

And yet—

She straightened, her skin tingling. A sharp twinge of satisfaction that was not her own plucked a song across her ribs.

Come find me, Rielle.