More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Blond hair and icy-blue eyes appear above me, and my heart plummets with the assassin’s body. Jack Barlowe.
“No.” I shake my head. “But Eya’s dead. Assassins. Aetos.” “Fuck.” I laugh, the sound tripping out of my lips hysterically. “Jack Barlowe saved my life.”
“I saw Jesinia,” he says quietly. “The good news is she knows where the vault is. There are wards, but she knows how to get through them, too. But the bad news is we need someone in King Tauri’s bloodline to do it. They’re not just in some sublevel vault. They’re in the royal one.” His shoulders dip in defeat. “I’m sorry, Violet.”
“Then it’s a good thing we have access to a prince who happens to hate his father.”
Leaning up, I brush my lips across his, then kiss him gently as if it’s the first time. This isn’t heat and passion, though I know it will be in a matter of heartbeats. This is something else entirely. Something that scares the shit out of me, and yet I can’t bring myself to pull away, even in the name of self-preservation.
The energy between these two is anything but good, which I should have expected. Xaden’s father started a war that Aaric’s father ended.
“We need your help. And you can say no and walk away right now, but if I explain why we need you and you say no…”
“You know what’s happening out there, and you came here for a reason, right?” I say to Aaric, putting myself in front of Xaden. “Help us do something about it.” “You have no idea what he did to Alic!” he seethes.
“Your brother was a craven, murderous prick.” Xaden hooks his fingers into my waistband and tugs me backward, setting me slightly behind him before he shoves Aaric through the wards and into the hallway. “And I’m not sorry I killed him.”
“Absolutely. The only person I hate more than Xaden Riorson is my father. Just keep your boyfriend the fuck away from me.” He stares straight ahead.
“One time, I heard her recite the entire unification agreement while climbing the battlements in Calldyr,”
“To establish your own wards that aren’t dependent on Basgiath’s because you know you’ll be waging war on two fronts. There’s nothing under here.” He stands. “Where is it? Draithus? That’s the most logical choice. Close to both the Navarrian border and the sea.”
My last words with my father before the Battle of Aretia were spoken in anger, because he was sending me away for my own safety. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for that, but I like to think he forgives me.
“‘After we placed the last rune, we placed the wardstone where the dragons felt the deepest currents of magic run,’” I translate slowly to Xaden, then glance up. “I might be off a word or two, but it’s here!” I flip another few pages. “‘That last step complete, the protections fell into place at…’” My face scrunches as I work out the rest. “‘…at the birth of an iron rain.’”
to Brennan. He should be able to translate it. They won’t expect you to leave until morning, so you can get out of here without being searched if you head out now, and splitting up the journals means we can read them twice as fast.”
We can do this—we’re doing this. We have the firsthand account of how the First Six activated their wardstone, and I know I can talk Xaden into flying for Cordyn to secure the luminary with me. He won’t like it, but he’ll do it. I just have to figure out how to get the leave approved.
“I thought that was you. I was getting some lemonade when Jack told me he saw you out here, and I remembered that you’re on my mending list.” He hands me the mug, then stands at my side, looking up at the sky. “It’s your favorite, if I remember.”
“And don’t worry about my shoulder. It’s already healed. You know, I never got the chance to thank you for helping us during interrogation.” “I never like to see you hurt, and Varrish has it out for you.” He drinks from his own skin, then
“I never like to see you hurt,” Nolon whispers, apology crinkling his brow as the mug rolls from my hand, crashing to the gravel a heartbeat later. “But I can’t protect you from the consequences of your own actions when you risk the safety of every civilian in this kingdom.”
“Why, Cadet Sorrengail, what have you gotten yourself into?”
The only signet more terrifying than an inntinnsic is a truth-sayer. And yet we let them live.
Nolon walks in, his steps sluggish, his eyes heavy with sadness. “We just need you to answer a few questions, Violet.” “You drugged me.” My voice cracks. “I trusted you. I’ve always trusted you.” “Clear this up quickly and we can return to trusting each other,” Nolon says.
“I wanted to be wrong,” he says gently. “But Markham had sounded the alarm that the royal wards within the king’s private library had been breached, and then I saw you standing in the courtyard with a scribe’s satchel—”
“And had that been the case, you would have woken up in the infirmary with a headache and my most sincere apologies.” Nolon holds up the scarred leather journal, the very key to protecting Aretia. “But you carried this.”
“Violet, please,” Nolon pleads, setting the journal on the table. “Just explain. Was it an unsanctioned squad challenge? Some kind of dare between second-years? They’re still trying to ascertain exactly what’s missing. Help us. Tell us, and this will go much easier for you.”
“I’m guessing you have no proof, Major Varrish, because none of you can cross a royal ward, and no one is volunteering to tell the king that there’s been an alarm, false or otherwise. Please, let me remind you, the last time someone accused me of lying without proof, they found themselves assigned to the farthest outpost Luceras has to offer.”
Varrish stands slowly, then backhands me. Pain erupts in my cheek as my head snaps to the side under the force of the blow.
“And bringing them in means they’ll know what’s happened, and given the relic winding around Imogen Cardulo’s arm, I doubt she’ll be willing to wipe their memories. Killing them presents an entirely different set of issues, too. You’re sure none of the cadets have hand injuries?”
“But how much do you know?” Varrish asks softly, like it’s a kindness. “And what have you been doing with the marked ones? We’ve been watching them for years, of course, but until Cadet Aetos gave you up, all we’d had to go on was speculation. But then you didn’t come back to Basgiath. No outposts reported you seeking a healer. So, I’m going to rephrase my earlier question. Where did you go, Cadet Sorrengail? Where are you trying to ward?”
Varrish tilts his head, reminding me of an owl as he studies me. “Do you know what my signet is, Cadet Sorrengail? Why it is I’m so good in this room? It’s classified, but we’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“I see their weaknesses. It’s a great advantage in battle. Honestly, you surprised me when we met. From everything I’d heard about the youngest Sorrengail, I expected to look at you and see pain, broken bones, or maybe shame for never living up to Mom’s expectations.”
“But I saw…nothing. Someone taught you to shield, and I’ll admit you’re very good at it.” He leans closer. “Do you want to know what I see now that we’ve cut you
off from your power?” Hatred wells within me and I hope he sees it. “By Dunne, must I carry all of the conversation? ‘Yes, of course I want to know,’” he says, raising his voice in mock imitation. “Well, Cadet Sorrengail, your weaknesses are the people you love. So many people to choose from. Squad Leader Matthias and the rest of your squad, your sister, your dragons.” A twisted smile curves his mouth. “Lieutenant Riorson.”
“You have so much power here, Sorrengail. You alone can save Lieutenant Riorson from what awaits him should he arrive. Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t hurt him.”
“We had a breach of security this week, and classified documents were stolen. We caught the perpetrator and prevented the loss of intelligence, but the prisoner…” There’s a dramatic pause. “It’s blatantly obvious by connection that this rider is working with what we suspect to be a second rebellion, intent on destroying Navarre. For the safety of every civilian within our wards, I need this prisoner’s memories, wingleader. You must extract the truth, or our very way of life will be
“You’ve been torturing her for five days?” Dain accuses Varrish. Five days? It’s only Thursday? “Since she stole Lyra’s journal from the king’s private library?” Varrish sounds bored. “Absolutely. She might have been a childhood friend, Aetos, but we both know where her loyalties now lie—with Riorson and the war he’s planning against us. She wants to bring down the wards.”
” “I don’t know shit about you anymore,” Dain counters, his face twisting in anger. “There’s a war out there,” I tell him, desperate to break through before he breaks me.
I look up into the wrath of Dunne in the form of gold-flecked onyx eyes.
“There’s nowhere in existence you could go that I wouldn’t find you, remember?” He drops his lips to the dirty, frayed, blood-spattered remains of my braid and kisses the top of my head.
“You want to know something true? Something real? I love you. I’m in love with you. I have been since the night the snow fell in your hair and you kissed me for the first time. I’m grateful my life is tied to yours because it means I won’t have to face a day without you in it. My heart only beats as long as yours does, and when you die, I’ll meet Malek at your side. It’s a damned good thing that you love me, too, because you’re stuck with me in this life and every other that could possibly follow.”
“I would have come sooner if I’d known,” my mother says, her voice softening along with her eyes. “I didn’t know, Violet. I swear it. I’ve been in Calldyr for the last week.” “So your return is just what? Coincidence?” I ask. Her mouth purses, and her fingers curl around the vial. “I’d like a moment alone with my daughter.”
“You of all people know the lengths I’ll go to in order to protect her. And since I’m pretty sure you’re the reason we’re getting reports of dragons dropping wyvern carcasses at every outpost we have along our border, the reason this college is emptying itself of most of the leadership in a rush to contain the problem, the least you can do is give me a chance to say goodbye to her.”
“Violet.” Her soft voice rattles me to my very core, and I grasp Xaden’s arm to stay upright. Relief, joy, wonder—it all weakens my knees and stings my eyes. For the first time in months, I feel whole. A smile spreads across my face. “Andarna.”
Gold eyes flash open. Relief nearly brings me to my knees. She’s awake. I grin and feel my world right itself. “Hi.” “Violet.” Andarna lifts her head, and a puff of steam blows back the loosened strands of my long braid. “I meant to stay awake.”
“Food. We should seek sheep.” She flares her wings out and then stumbles forward just like she did in the height of summer.
“Put your shields up and block her out as much as possible.” I focus, shielding out that pearlescent bond I now recognize as Andarna. “Done.”
“There are many reasons younglings do not leave the Vale. The mass expenditure of energy in Resson forced her into a rapid rate of growth. You know that. But if it had happened here, or at Basgiath where she could have been quickly, safely sheltered for the Dreamless Sleep, perhaps she would have grown as usual.”
“But we flew that critical day between Resson and Aretia,” he continues. “And then we waited again to fly to Basgiath, and even then she woke several times. The elders have never seen a dragon remain Dreamless that long. And now her growth is unpredictable. There is a second set of muscles along the fronts of our wings that forms during our growth. Hers did not. The elders believe she’ll still fly…in time. Once she’s strengthened the existing muscle to compensate.”
“What she herself has not recognized.” He lowers his head, his great golden eyes locking with mine. “She’ll fly, but she’ll never bear a rider.”
And it’s all my fault. I’m responsible for Andarna’s wing, for forcing the exposure of the truth before Aretia was ready to act, for bringing a hundred riders here without permission, for the worry etched in Brennan’s forehead about boosting the sheep population for all the dragons I led here, and for putting a target on my friends’ families’ backs. I grip my pen so tight it groans under the strain.
