Like those at the khagan’s palace, each of the Torre’s guards was fluent in at least three languages: Halha, the tongue of the northern continent, and the language of the lands to the east. With visitors from all over Erilea, those at the Torre gates had to be fluent in the three common tongues.

The guard before him shook his head, sweat sliding down his dark skin in the rippling heat. “Not yet, Lord Westfall.”

Perhaps it was rude to seek her out when she was likely too busy with other things to immediately tend to him. She’d mentioned other patients, after all.

With a nod of thanks, he again turned the roan mare toward the Torre, and was about to aim for the courtyard to its left when an ancient voice said from below, “Lord Westfall. Good to see you out and about.”

Hafiza. The Healer on High stood a few feet away, a basket draped over her thin arm and two middle-aged healers flanking her. The guards bowed, and Chaol inclined his head.

“I was looking for Yrene,” he said by way of greeting.

Hafiza’s white brows rose. “Did she not come to you this morning?”

Unease tightened his gut. “No, though perhaps I missed her—”

One of the healers at Hafiza’s side stepped forward and murmured to the Healer on High, “She is abed, my lady.”

Hafiza now raised her brows at the woman. “Still?”

A shake of the head. “Drained. Eretia checked on her an hour ago—she was asleep.”

Hafiza’s mouth tightened, though Chaol had a feeling he knew what she was about to say. Felt guilty enough before the crone spoke. “Our powers can do great things, Lord Westfall, but they also demand a great cost. Yrene was …” She sought the words, either from not using her native tongue or to spare him from further guilt. “She was asleep in the carriage when she arrived last night. She had to be carried to her room.”

He cringed.

Hafiza patted his boot, and he could have sworn he felt it in his toes. “It is of no concern, my lord. A day of sleep, and she will be back at the palace tomorrow morning.”

“If tomorrow is a holiday,” he volunteered, “she can have the day off.”

Hafiza chuckled. “You do not know Yrene very well at all if you think she considers these holidays to be days off. ” She pointed at him. “Though if you want the day off, you should certainly tell her, because she’ll likely be knocking at your door come sunrise.”

Chaol smiled, even as he gazed at the tower looming overhead.

“It is a restorative sleep,” Hafiza supplied. “Utterly natural. Do not let it burden you.”

With a final look at the pale tower high above, he nodded and wheeled his horse back to the gates. “May I escort you anywhere?”

Hafiza’s smile was bright as the midday sun. “You certainly may, Lord Westfall.”

The Healer on High was stopped every block by those wishing to merely touch her hand, or have her touch them.

Sacred. Holy. Beloved.

It took them thirty minutes to get even half a dozen blocks from the Torre. And though he offered to wait while Hafiza and her companions entered the modest home on a quiet street, they waved him off.

The streets were clogged enough to deter him from exploring, so Chaol soon headed back toward the palace.

But even as he steered his horse through the crowds, he found himself glancing to that pale tower—a behemoth on the horizon. To the healer sleeping within.

Yrene slept for a day and a half.

She hadn’t meant to. Had barely been able to rouse herself long enough to see to her needs and wave off Eretia when she’d come to prod her, to make sure she was still alive.

The healing yesterday—two days ago, she realized as she dressed in the gray light before dawn—had decimated her. That bit of progress, the nosebleed afterward, had taken its toll.

But his toes had moved. And the pathways she’d sent her magic floating along, dots of light darting through him … Damaged, yes, but if she could slowly start to replace those frayed, tiny communicators within him … It would be long, and hard, yet …

Yrene knew it was not guilt alone that had her rising so early on Tehome’s Day.

He was from Adarlan—she doubted he’d care if he got the day off.

Dawn had barely broken by the time Yrene slipped into the Torre courtyard and paused.

The sun had crept over the compound walls, spearing a few shafts of golden light into the purplish shadows.

And in one of those shafts of sunlight, the faint strands of gold in his brown hair gleaming …

“She wakes,” Lord Chaol said.

Yrene strode for him, gravel crunching loudly in the drowsy dawn. “You rode here?”

“All by myself.”

She only arched a brow at the white mare beside his. “And you brought the other horse?”

“A gentleman through and through.”

She crossed her arms, frowning up at where he sat mounted. “Any further movement?”

The morning sun lit his eyes, turning the brown into near-gold. “How are you feeling?”

“Answer my question, please.”

“Answer mine.”

She gaped at him a bit. Debated scowling. “I’m fine,” she said, waving a hand. “But have you felt any further—”

“Did you get the rest you needed?”

Yrene gaped at him truly this time. “Yes.” She scowled now, too. “And it’s none of your concern—”

“It certainly is.”

He said it so calmly. With such male entitlement. “I know that in Adarlan, women bow to whatever men say, but here, if I say it’s none of your business, then it isn’t.”

Chaol gave her a half smile. “So we’re back to the animosity today.”

She reined in her rising shriek. “We are not back to anything. I’m your healer, and you are my patient, and I asked you about the status of your—”

“If you’re not rested,” he said, as if it were the most rational thing in the world, “then I’m not letting you near me.”

Yrene opened and closed her mouth. “And how will you decide that?”

Slowly, his eyes swept over her. Every inch.

Her heart thundered at the long look. The relentless focus. “Good color,” he said. “Good posture. Certainly good sass.”

“I’m not some prize horse, as you said yesterday.”

“Two days ago.”

She braced her hands on her hips. “I’m fine. Now, how are you?” Each word was accentuated.

Chaol’s eyes danced. “I’m feeling quite well, Yrene. Thank you for asking.”

Yrene. If she wasn’t inclined to leap onto his horse and strangle him, she might have contemplated how the way he said her name made her toes curl.

But she hissed, “Don’t mistake my kindness for stupidity. If you have had any progress, or regressions, I will find them out.”

“If this is your kindness, then I’d hate to see your bad side.”

She knew he meant the words in jest, yet … Her back stiffened.

He seemed to realize it, and leaned down in his saddle. “It was a joke, Yrene. You have been more generous than … It was a joke.”

She shrugged, heading for the white horse.

He said, perhaps an attempt to steer them back toward neutral ground, “How are the other healers faring—after the attack?”

A shiver crawled up her spine as she grabbed the mare’s reins, but made no move to mount. Yrene had offered to help with the burial, but Hafiza had refused, telling her to save her strength for Lord Westfall. But it hadn’t stopped her from visiting the death chamber beneath the Torre two days ago—from seeing the desiccated body laid out on the stone slab in the center of the rock-hewn chamber, the leathery, drained face, the bones that jutted out from paper-thin skin. She’d offered up a prayer to Silba before she’d left, and had not been awake yesterday when they’d buried her in the catacombs far beneath the tower.

Yrene now frowned up at the tower looming overhead, its presence always such a comfort, and yet … Since that night in the library, despite Hafiza’s and Eretia’s best efforts, there had been a hush in the halls, the tower itself. As if the light that had filled this place had guttered.