Rhiannon inhales sharply, her gaze sweeping over the mountains.
“You all right?”
She nods. “Later.”
Later arrives in exactly twelve sweat-soaked minutes as we’re shown to our double-occupancy barracks rooms. They’re sparse, only furnished with two beds, two wardrobes, and a single desk under a wide window.
She’s quiet the entire time we make our way through the bathing chamber to wash off the ride and alarmingly silent while we dress in our summer leathers. It may only be April here at Montserrat, but it feels like Basgiath in June.
“You going to tell me what’s up?” I ask, stowing my pack beneath the bed before making sure all my daggers are where they’re supposed to be. The hilts are barely visible in the sheaths I wear at my thighs, but I doubt many people this far east would recognize the Tyrrish symbols.
Rhiannon’s hands tremble with what looks like nervous energy as she straps her sword to her back. “Do you know where we are?”
I mentally bring up a map. “We’re about two hundred miles from the coast—”
“My village is less than an hour away on foot.” Her eyes meet mine in an unspoken plea, so much emotion swirling in their dark-brown depths that my throat clogs, choking my words.
Taking her hands in mine, I squeeze, nodding. I know exactly what she’s asking and exactly what it will cost if we’re caught.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I whisper, even though it’s just us in the tiny room. “We have six days to figure it out and we will.” It’s a promise and we both know it.
Someone pounds on our door. “Let’s go, Second Squad!”
Dain. Nine months ago, I would have relished this time away with him. Now I find myself avoiding his constant expectations of me—or just avoiding him in general. Funny how much can change in such a short time.
We join the others, and Major Quade gives us the grand tour of the outpost. My stomach growls, but I ignore it, taking in the hectic energy of the base.
The fortress is basically four massive walls, filled with barracks and various chambers with turrets on each corner and a large, arched entrance that boasts a spiked portcullis that looks ready to drop at any second. On one end of the courtyard, there’s a stable with a blacksmith and armory for the company of infantry stationed here, and on the other is the dining hall.
“As you can see,” Major Quade tells us as we stand in the middle of the muddy courtyard, “we’re built for siege. In the event of attack, we can feed and house everyone within for an adequate amount of time.”
Adequate? Ridoc mouths, lifting his brows.
I press my lips together to keep from laughing, and Dain gives him a look that promises retribution from where he stands beside me. My smile falls away.
“As one of the eastern outposts, we have a full twelve riders stationed here. Three are out on patrol now, three wait, standing by in case they’re needed, and the other six are in various stages of rest,” Quade continues.
“What is that look for?” Dain whispers.
“What look?” I ask as the distinct roar of a dragon echoes off the stone walls.
“That should be one of our patrols returning now,” Quade says, smiling like he wants to mean it but can’t quite find the energy.
“The one where someone just sucked the joy out of your world,” Dain responds, bending his head slightly and keeping his voice low enough that only I can hear him.
I could lie to him, but that would make our semi-truce even more awkward. “I was just remembering the guy I used to climb trees with, that’s all.”
He startles like I’ve slapped him.
“So we’ll get you riders fed and put to bed, and then we’ll work on who you’ll be shadowing while you’re here,” Quade continues.
“Will we get to participate in any active scenarios?” Heaton asks, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Absolutely not!” Devera snaps.
“If you see combat, then I’ve failed as this being the safest place on the border to send you,” Quade answers. “But you get bonus points for enthusiasm. Let me guess. Third-year?”
Heaton nods.
Quade turns slightly and smiles at three indistinct figures in rider black as they walk under the portcullis. “There they are now. Why don’t you three come and meet—”
“Violet?”
My head whips toward the gate, and my heart combusts in a series of erratic beats that leaves me clutching my chest with the best kind of shock. No way. There’s no way. I stumble for the gate, forgetting to be stoic, to be emotionally untouchable, as she breaks into a run, her arms opening just before we collide.
She sweeps me up, yanking me against her chest and squeezing tight. She smells like dirt and dragon and the coppery tang of blood, but I don’t care. I hug her back just as hard.
“Mira.” I bury my face against her shoulder, and my eyes burn as she rests her hand on top of the very braid she taught me how to do. It’s as if the weight of everything that’s happened over the last nine months comes crashing down, slamming into me with the force of a cross-bolt.
The wind of the parapet.
The look in Xaden’s eyes when he realized I was a Sorrengail.
The sound of Jack swearing he’d kill me.
The smell of burning flesh that first day.
The look on Aurelie’s face when she fell from the Gauntlet.
