I’m quick to untie the back flap so it flops down, concealing us. Just in case, I pull the thick throw farther up over Ahvi—still slumbering off his exhaustion from the big journey, rasping through each slow breath.
Worry worms between my ribs.
Kaan may have carried him through the Forest of Harthor and done everything in his power to make the flight easier, but riding a dragon is hard onanybody—big or small—let alone someone who has trouble breathing.
I push his hair back from his brow so I can more easily see his pallor. Thankfully, his lips and cheeks are pinker than they were when he first sank down against the sacks.
Easing the flap a little to the side, I peek through a thin opening as we swerve around a cart that’s beginning to move out onto the path. Another is wedged behind it … another … all grinding forward, dragged by restless, snow-dusted colk snorting steamy breath from flared nostrils.
From my vantage point, I have a perfect view of their stowage spaces and what they’re carrying. Mostly folk stuffed in like us, wedged between travel trunks that are wide open, personal possessions spewed through the carts. The travelers are working hard to reorganize their things, some crying, others stony faced as they slash glances back in the direction we’re headed.
Unease is already nipping at me by the time we move around the last cart in the lineup, within which a female fae cinches the binds of her blouse with trembling hands. She plants a fake smile on her face, then spins to take her crying youngling into her arms. Consoles him with soft words and gentle gestures despite the darkness gathering in her eyes.
My next breath burns like frostbite in my lungs.
Ahvi gasps, eyes popping open. Quick to find me, they strike like a slap to the face.
He wears no walls in the brief moment we lock gazes, and I know he’s hearing things he shouldn’t be. Getting dressed in traumas that don’t belong to him.
“I’m here,”I mouth, brushing his hair back from his brow. “It’s okay.”
A lie, of course. We both know it. But he falls into it, relaxing against the sack.
He squeezes his eyes shut, then whispers, “There’s a barricade of Fade soldiers ahead. They’re taking all the bloodstone from folk who want to bide the moonfalls away from the capital. I don’t think they’ll make it easy for us to get past the gates. Not if they see me or find the book in your bag.” He flicks a glance at Pyrok. “Or—”
“Got it,” Pyrok says, meeting my wide eyes.
We curse in unison.
“Luiere, Clode,”I whisper, easing my hold on her.
Windhowls—whipping with such violence I realize Clode’s been watching shit go down at these apparentgateswith a chest full of screams she couldn’t release.
The cart wobbles from side to side as I stuff my blade away. Begin working past Pyrok and over a small mountain of puffy sacks, just pulling back the partition flap when Kaan grinds out three terse words.
“This is new.”
In the distance, smudged amidst the pale gloom, is the hint of a Fade military cart and the tall, sturdy blockade. An iron gate hung between two thick, heavily runed poles guarded by numerous Fade soldiers—bold in their bloodred armor, vibrant against the bleak backdrop.
Half the contingent appears to be on this side of the gate, half on the other. And though I can’t see their beads from here, I have no doubt some of them are wearing one.
“It wasn’t like this when I came through three cycles ago,” Noeve bites out. Gaze firmly on the path, she aims her next words at me. “There’s a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards, marked with a knot of wood that looks like an eye. Pressing the knot will reveal the lid. I suggest you all get in there. Less questions, the better.”
I drop the leather flap to see Pyrok’s already shoving sacks of feathers aside. Upon locating the knot, he pops the lid, wedges his fingers beneath it, and lifts—exposing the metal hollow beneath. Long and wide, it’s etched in thousands of tiny runes barely visible in the low light.
Pyrok peers into it like he’s staring down the throat of a Sabersythe. “You want us to climb in a metal casket, Noeve?Really?”
“Better than getting blood on my feathers,” she says on a cough. “It’s got an airhole, so you won’t die. But I couldn’t work out the right sequence of runes to make it soundproof. You’ll have to find a way to keep your gob shut.”
Pyrok scratches the back of his head, grumbles something inaudible, then grits his teeth and climbs in, reaching up to take the hatchling still bundled in a sleepy ball of prickly pin feathers that have sprouted like well-fed grass.
Ahvi shuffles closer, looking up at me through big, wide eyes. “You know, I could fix that … make itreallysoundproof.”
My smile is instant. “I bet you could,” I whisper, stuffing thecompartment with his throw, then our satchels. I help Ahvi edge down into the hollow, about to close them off. “I need you to activate that shield now.”
He nods fast, moving his tongue around inside his mouth. He bites down, the silver sheen of his shield rippling out and around him as I lower the lid.
Relief loosens some of the many knots in my chest.
