My stomach drops because I hadn’t considered that. I still feel for Alyona, but it’d be a lie to say I wasn’t relieved, for I couldneverhave sacrificed a child.
When Salom asks why Dante didn’t just fake his death, I glance at the palm marred with his mark.
And so does Justus. “Regio cannot fake his death for we have a magical way of knowing whether his heart beats.”
Salom’s gaze scrolls past the heavy smog that lifts off Lore’s flesh at the reminder of my tie to Dante.
“Ríhbiadh,” Justus says, “I know you’ve wings to fly and beaks to kill, but Glacins know the lay of the land. They’ll know his haunts. They’ll unearth him faster than we can.”
Lore eyes him.
Before my mate can reiterate that we’ve no need for additional forces, especially the Faerie kind, I jump on Justus’s reasoning. “I think he’s right, Lore. I think having people who know the land would help greatly.”
“I’m afraid the king doesn’t care to get involved as long as a sorceress is in the mix.” A gust of wind snatches Salom’s sun-hued ponytail and kicks it sideways. “And by sorceress, he means Meriam of Shabbe, not your mate, Your Majesty.”
If you want soldiers, call in your bargain, and they’ll have no choice but to lend us men.
Konstantin’s gray eyes lock on Lorcan’s as though he can tell we’re discussing the oath he swore to me earlier.
What do you advise, Lore?
Hold on to it. If we cannot manage to find him on our own, then claim it.
Out loud, he says, “Do we have your blessing to begin our hunt, Konstantin?”
A slow swallow stirs Konstantin’s corded throat. “Yes, Lorcan Ríhbiadh. You’ve Glace’s blessing to find and dispose of that man.” He whirls around, but not quickly enough for me to miss the curl of his lip.
Justus leans over and murmurs—in Shabbin, I suspect—“Konstantin hate Dante. Bad blood over Alyona.”
Lore’s eyebrows wing up. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Rossi?”
Is he surprised by my grandfather’s knowledge of Shabbin or of Glacin court gossip?
That he speaks Shabbin. As for Korol’s dislike of Regio, I’d heard rumors. Why do you think I appreciate the boy in the first place?He leans over and delicately slips the dagger into the top of my boot.Careful when you walk.
As he shifts, I worry my lip because Bronwen’s vision brightens my lids. If Konstantin is so protective of his sister, then what will he do to my daughter after she ends Alyona of Glace’s life?
Seventy-Seven
The farther north we soar, the brisker the air. If this is summer, I cannot imagine how cold it gets in this part of the world in the dead of winter. Where not a single chimney poked out of the castle, violet corkscrews of smoke inundate the human lands that rely on wood fire for warmth.
A neat strip of berthed vessels bobs on the indigo waters bordering a port made of snow and ice. Identical stalls carved from tawny timber sit side by side like orderly schoolchildren. Where the Tarelexian market is chaotic and loud, this one is tidy and quiet. Even the shoppers stream past the stalls in a disciplined fashion, a colony of ants garbed in fur.
What a culture shock. I’m aware I’m not here to sightsee or compare, but as the coastline looms closer, I cannot help but feel grateful to have been born in a kingdom full of color and noise.
As our wingbeats stir the air, fur-cloaked heads tip, mouths gape, shrill yelps resound. Evidently, the army hasn’t had time to forewarn its population of our visit. I tighten my grip on my father’s neck when he pitches his great body downward.
Though Lore wanted to fly me, I told him that if he didn’t break into his five puffs of smoke and remain in that configuration and consistency, I would stake him with obsidian myself. Oh, how he growled, but at least he indulged me.
We swerve away from the coastline and fly parallel to a narrow white street crammed with people pulling sleds filled with goods, children, and older citizens.
All stop to stare at our delegation. I wave to them, hoping to defuse some of the tangible tension that curls off them like sooty smoke, but my affable gesticulating is cut short when my father veers abruptly to the left, forcing my arm to clap back around his neck.
Soon, we land in front of a giant building made of logs and large panels of foggy glass. A wooden sign that readsVolkov and Sonswith a pretty sleigh painting is hammered over a double-wide door.
Though stained fingers scrape at the fog and reveal faces, no one comes out to greet us. In fact, there’s the definite sound of a lock clicking into place. Either Glacins are unaware of Crows’ ability to slip through walls, or they believe us too decorous to enter private property without a proper welcome.
As soon as I’m steady on the ground and bracketed by Colm, Fionn, and Justus, my father strides ahead and bangs on the wood. “Open up.”
