The Liftwarden startled and hastily sketched a bow. “No, Your Majesty. There are no riders in the pass this time.” He gestured to the array of levers. “Just a ship sailing up the Frostrun.”
Seraphina paused, her eyebrows shooting up. “A ship? Whose colors do they fly?”
“None,” the Liftwarden reported. “The message from the river landing says it’s a merchant vessel.”
Her mind raced. A merchant vessel? Her thoughts immediately flickered back to Tiberius, to his fleet of trading ships, to the sickly sweet scent of his handkerchief as he clamped it over her nose and mouth.
Her skin crawled with the memory. But it could not be Tiberius. He wouldn’t dare show his face to her ever again.
…Would he?
“Tell the river landing that I will speak with the captain of this vessel,” she quietly commanded. “Andonlythe captain.”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
The Warden yanked the appropriate levers, the clack-clack of the mechanisms echoing down into the depths of the mountain.
By the time the great chains of the river lift began to rattle into motion, Duke Percival and Duchess Edith had arrived, breathless and flanked by Cyneric.
“There is a ship coming up the river,” Seraphina told them before they could ask.
“Who is it?” Duchess Edith asked, craning her head as if to try to catch a glimpse of the frigid waters of the Frostrun through the mist.
Seraphina shook her head. “I do not know.”
The wait was agonizing. The river lift was much slower than the main one—a grueling ascent all the way from the river’s shore. Seraphina stood at the railing, watching the flakes of snow drift by, her stomach clenching as her mind flickered through all the worst possible scenarios.
Please,she found herself praying just as the cage crested the landing.Just don’t let it be more bad news. We cannot bear any more bad news.
The gears groaned and locked into place. The gate swung open.
Seraphina blinked. Though she had commanded that only the captain of the ship be allowed entry into the lift, two men stepped out onto the bay, shivering in the cold. One in battered plate armor, the other in a travel-stained cassock.
Her godparents audibly gasped.
Something inside her chest jolted sharp and bright, a spark cutting through days of unending dread. Seraphina could only laugh at the sight of the two men—a sound of pure, unadulterated joy.
“Sir Tristan!” she cried out, hardly daring to believe her eyes. “Father Perero!”
Tristan Dacre’s face, haggard and unwashed, broke into a wide, beaming smile. Beside him, Father Perero clutched his golden sun pendant, looking as though he had just walked through a valley of shadow and finally emerged back into the light.
“Your Majesty!” Tristan dropped to one knee. “Forgive me. I came as swiftly as I—”
Seraphina rushed forward, flinging her arms around his neck. He smelled rank—like sea and smoke and an unwashed man. But she didn’t care. He was here. He was alive.
And he had brought her Shepherd.
“You made it out,” she whispered, tears pricking her eyes as she squeezed the knight all the more tightly. “Praise the Lord, you made it out.”
“It was a near thing,” Father Perero admitted with a laugh, his voice rising to speak over the howl of the wind. “Very near. But the Lord watches over His flock always…” The Shepherd trailed off with another shiver. “G-gracious, it’s terribly cold here, isn’t it?”
Cyneric huffed out an amused breath. “Clearly, you’ve never been to Varoa.”
Jaw tight, Duke Percival spoke over his eldest son to ask, “Did you bring anyone else from Goldreach with you, Sir Dacre? Father?”
Seraphina went perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe.Olivia.
“Yes,” Father Perero answered, tipping his head toward the lift. “We have refugees waiting in the ship down below, in desperate need of food and shelter.” For a moment, the Shepherd’s eyes tightened. “I fear too many were left behind, but we saved who we could.”
