Resurrection.

She glanced at Ludivine, who was absently fiddling with the end of her left sleeve. She tugged it farther down her arm, even though the blightblade scar was completely obscured.

They all adore Audric, Rielle told Ludivine, determined to distract them both. This sort of thing suits him, beautifully.

Ludivine was silent.

What is it?

They do not all adore him, Ludivine replied.

The ones who don’t are unworthy of him, Rielle said at once. Then, after a pause: And me? How do they feel about me?

Ludivine hesitated. Many are pleased to see you return.

And some, Rielle guessed, are not as pleased.

We’ll have to talk about this later, I think.

Why?

With a gentle press against her mind, Ludivine directed Rielle’s attention up the road, toward the grand outer gates of Baingarde’s lower yards, where a group of people awaited them: Sloane, in her blue-and-black House of Night robes. Evyline, and the rest of Rielle’s gold-armored Sun Guard.

And Tal.

Despite the clamor of the crowd, the cries of her name, the flowers thrown at her and Audric’s feet, Rielle felt Tal’s anger as clearly as if someone had taken a knife to the fleshy underside of her arm.

Her throat clenched up at the sight of him. She should never have abandoned him in Carduel without so much as a message explaining herself.

They entered the massive stone yard that separated the lowest reaches of Baingarde from the city’s upper neighborhoods. The yard glittered with fountains, adorned with dramatic sculptures of the saints. Rielle held her breath and bowed low before Tal. Behind her, the gates clanged shut. At once, the crowd pressed against the iron flourishes—banging their fists, waving their silken gold banners, chanting her name, Audric’s name, Ludivine’s name.

“Did you really stop a tidal wave, my lady?” called out a jubilant male voice.

Rielle smiled hopefully up at Tal. Implacable, he opened his mouth, most likely to admonish her, but before he could, she jumped to her feet and threw her arms around his shoulders. The smoke-sharp scent of his clothes and the soft press of his blond waves against her cheek were such familiar sensations that a burst of homesickness, irrational and surprising, overwhelmed her.

“If you yell at me in front of everyone,” she teased, “they might tear down the gates to rescue me and carry you screaming to the nearest dungeon.”

His embrace was stiff. “My office,” he murmured. “One hour.”

• • •

Rielle had known Tal would be furious with her, but she hadn’t realized just how furious.

She arrived at his office ten minutes early, after convincing Audric to stall their meeting with Queen Genoveve. Taking her customary seat at the scarlet-curtained window, she waited, hands folded tightly in her lap. The clock on the mantel, crowned with gilded flames, ticked away her every breath. Tal’s shield sat on its stand near the hearth, grinning a demented, polished grin.

Beside Rielle’s feet sat a padded wooden crate, which their Borsvall escort had helped carry on the journey south. The crate’s contents quietly hummed, a phantom energy that she felt more than heard, like an arm drawing shapes in a dark room.

The clock chimed a single golden tone—half past four—and the door flew open, admitting a glowering Tal. He slammed the door shut behind him, unclasped his scarlet-and-gold day coat, and tossed it onto his chair. For a long moment he leaned hard against the desk, his back to Rielle.

“It’s lovely to see you too,” Rielle remarked when she could no longer bear the tense silence.

Tal turned, his eyes bright and anguished. Rielle’s froze, staring. She had not expected tears. She had expected him to yell at her or, even worse, to tell her in that soft, wounded voice of his how deeply she had disappointed him.

Instead, he sank to his knees before her, gathered one of her hands in his, and kissed their interlaced fingers. His mouth lingered against her skin, hot and urgent, as if it were his last chance to show her affection. The afternoon sunlight slanted against his skin, illuminating lines of exhaustion around his eyes and mouth.

Rielle struggled to find her voice. With her free hand, she touched his hair. “Tal, I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head against her knuckles, then rose to sit beside her. “Rielle, may I hold you for a moment? To convince myself that you are in fact here, and safe?”

Rielle could not remember a time when she had felt more taken aback. “Of course.”

Without hesitation, Tal’s arms came around her. When he exhaled into her hair, his hand cupping the back of her neck, the sound came out torn. Rielle’s body sat at an awkward angle, but she did not dare move to ease her discomfort. She spared a fond feeling toward her younger, smitten self, who would have been giddy to have Tal touch her in such a way.

“Now that I’ve reassured myself you are in fact not a dream here to torment me, I must ask you a question,” he said at last. Dry-eyed, he straightened his tunic and then fixed her with a glare as hard as sunlit nails. “What in God’s name were you thinking, leaving us all in Carduel like that? And taking Ludivine and Audric with you? My God, Rielle.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “No one knew where you had gone. No one knew if you were even alive, until we received word from our spies in Borsvall that, yes, you were alive, though you’d barely avoided capture by the Borsvall commander and her soldiers, who had been plotting to do so for weeks. And don’t think I won’t take our own spies to task for that blunder—if they survive Queen Genoveve’s fury, that is.”

Tal rose and began to pace. “And, of course, the fact that you abandoned frightened citizens in Carduel hasn’t exactly increased your popularity among those who deeply distrust any power that could accomplish what you’ve achieved, and therefore distrust you.”

“Tal—”

“No, I’m not nearly finished yet. Then, a tidal wave threatens the Borsvall capital, and you fly out on Atheria to stop it, with no regard for your own safety.”

Rielle bristled. “I’ll have you know—”

“I said, I’m not finished yet!” Tal snapped, his voice cracking. The sound of his anger seemed to deflate him; he rubbed a hand over his face. “And then, after all of this, you journey to the Sunderlands, still not sending word to anyone in Celdaria of your health, your whereabouts, your intentions. You visit the Gate, of all places, and attempt to repair it, without any preparations or assistance, and thereby weaken it dramatically.”

He whirled on her. “You heard, I suppose, of the thousands of birds that lost all their navigation abilities, thanks to the shock waves from your efforts, and dropped dead across the streets of Luxitaine? Five citizens dead. Seventeen injured. And thank God it wasn’t more than that. Storms up and down the coasts. Wildfires in the heartlands.”