No, she was not.
Veyka chose sarcasm. Lyrena chose humor.
Wounds all healed differently. Gwen could not help but admire that they’d managed it at all.
Before Lyrena had departed Baylaur with the king and queen, they’d forged a tentative truce. They were both Goldstone Guards, formidable warriors, Knights of the Round Table. Foremost, they both were intent upon Veyka’s protection.
But these months had changed everything. Whatever pull she’d felt toward the beautiful golden knight, Gwen refused to entertain it under that harsh desert sun. There was a war to be fought. Many would die—too many already had.
But Lyrena spoke the truth. She’d suffered her own losses. That did not mean that Gwen was ready to confront those, either. “I don’t want to talk about Arthur.”
“Good. Neither do I,” Lyrena said, shouldering past her and starting down the other side of the pass.
They walked in silence for several minutes. Despite the fact that Gwen had offered no answers, Lyrena did not press. Shekept walking resolutely on towards Eldermist, with little idea what she was walking into, because her queen commanded it.
Maybe it was admiration for that steadfast loyalty that had Gwen opening her mouth when all she wanted—really, truly—was to curl up inside of herself.
Gwen cleared her throat. “The humans were desperate. I sent female warriors to guard them—some of the best we had.” She paused, bitterness temporarily clogging her throat. “If those females had been in Baylaur, the city might not have fallen.”
Lyrena’s steps hitched, but only slightly. It could have been merely unsteady sand turning beneath her foot.
“You had no way of knowing that the succubus could infect fae. We all thought it was a human scourge,” the golden knight said. “Arran spoke of your competence as a commander in battle.”
Gwen felt her own features hardening, her instincts for self-protection so deeply ingrained she did not even need to consciously summon them.
“Yes. But in battle, I always had someone above me giving orders. It is different when you are the one responsible for every decision.” It was a truth she’d realized in those long, endless days trying to defend Baylaur. With the city falling down around her, Gwen had realized another truth as well.
She would have been a terrible queen.
Someday, she hoped she would find the courage to tell Veyka. To admit that the right female sat on the throne.
“What if the humans refuse to help us?” For the first time, Lyrena sounded worried.
Gwen realized why a moment later—the first curls of smoke had appeared over the horizon. They were almost in Eldermist, and not a minute too soon. From the tracking path of the sun overhead, they’d already lost some of their second hour to the trek.
Gwen picked up her pace. “Then we will have to convince them.”
“At the end of a blade?” As she spoke, Lyrena drew the sword from across her back and slid it into a slot at her belt instead.
“If necessary,” Gwen said grimly.
If Sylva was still in Eldermist, she knew the old woman would convince the humans in time. But they did not have much time to squabble. When Veyka opened the rift, they must be ready.
Gwen stopped herself from reaching for her own sword. They should arrive peacefully, with weapons to hand but notinhand. She did pull out the communication crystal. Even as it burned in her hand, an ever-present reproach, she forced herself to keep it ready. If things went amiss, she would not waste a single moment in getting word to Veyka and Arran.
But even Gwen was not prepared for the sand itself to come to life.
She swung the crystal up, the incantation already on her lips.
But a blade came down on her wrist so hard she couldn’t keep her fist closed. The crystal fell into the sand; a booted foot kicked it beyond her reach.
Lyrena fared better. Her sword was in hand, her back pressed firmly into Gwen’s, giving her cover. They were too close for her to pull her sword, but she was just as good with a dagger. She could shift if she needed to.
The thoughts raced through her mind at the same time that it tried to make sense of what her eyes saw.
They emerged from the sand itself. Thick sprays cascaded off of their dun-colored cloaks, only to be caught in the wind and swirl around where Gwen and Lyrena stood back-to-back, creating a funnel of red that clogged their eyes and lungs.
Through the miasma floated a disembodied voice. “I suppose your words will have to be enough to convince us.”
