“The woman responsible for this,” Chaol said, motioning to his standing, his walking, to the army stretching down the road. “Yrene Towers. A healer at the Torre Cesme. And my wife.” Yrene bowed, and Chaol could have sworn a flicker of sorrow darkened Dorian’s eyes. But then his king was taking Yrene’s hands, lifting her from her bow. And though that sorrow still edged his smile, Dorian said to her, “Thank you.” Yrene went scarlet. “I’ve heard so much about you, Your Majesty.” Dorian only winked, a ghost of the man he’d been before. “All bad things, I hope.”
