Page 9 of Queen of War and Ruin

It seems odd. Why wouldn’t people want to live here, in a fertile valley, this close to a road?

Zarek is still staring at the base of the mountains. I follow his gaze, and something Anura’s mother once told me comes back in a whisper. She said there was still magic in the high places, and that sometimes, if you were very good and very lucky, you might see one of the spirits of these mountains. A creature of pure magic, darker than midnight, that moves like water over rocks.

I try to laugh at the memory, but it comes out as a snort. Anura’s mother told us a lot of stories. And I don’t seriously think my husband is staring at some magical creature, do I?

I cough. “I don’t see anything,” I admit.

Zarek turns and smiles at me.

I know who he is, now. Still, the truth of his heritage doesn’t stop him from looking every bit a prince as he shades his eyes and points up the valley, toward the ragged edge of the pine forest that clings to the sides of the mountains.

“The dust,” he says.

I squint at the mountains until I see it. There, hanging low over the tops of the trees, is a faint cloud. It could be anything—pollen, smoke, mist. But I know Zarek is right. Someone is coming down the road, out of the mountains, and they’re kicking up dust as they travel.

“It doesn’t look like a very big group,” Zarek continues. “Large groups, they make a much bigger cloud. Still, maybe we lie low until we can see who they are.”

I nod. I’m still watching the cloud hang over the forest as Zarek leads his horse down the ridge and into the valley. There’s some sort of structure in the center of the valley, something made of stone that looks like it burned to the ground decades ago. An inn, perhaps? Whatever it was, it’s surrounded by more ruined buildings, probably abandoned farms. Maybe this was once a town?

“But where are all the people?” I mutter, under my breath.

“What’s that, Princess?” Zarek asks, turning around in his saddle.

My cheeks burn as I try to look away from the curve of his lips.

“This is good land,” I say, waving my hand at the grassy fields. “You could cut hay on it, raise crops, run horses or cattle. And it’s right by the road, so trade would be easy, even over the mountains⁠—”

My voice fades as the expression on Zarek’s face shifts. He shakes his head, then turns to the strange burned-out inn on the horizon.

I blink. Distance has been playing tricks on me. Those charred spires of stone are far too big to be an inn.

“This was Dungal,” Zarek says softly.

I gasp, then feel like an idiot for not recognizing the obvious truth.

“Vsenrog built a toll station at the base of the valley,” Zarek continues. “Malrik had no reason to rebuild the palace, not if he could bleed just as much money out of travelers from a more defensible position. And no one from Dungal dared to come back. Not now that Vsenrog controls the road.”

“So that’s Vederill Pass,” I say, staring at the gap in the mountains.

Blayne taught me that the Kingdom of Dungal tried to block Vederill Pass, the route that connects Vsenrog to the Iron Mountains, the fabled home of the dragons and the best and fastest route to trade with the kingdoms to the north and west, at least if you’re willing to risk the dangers of the road. That story didn’t quite sit right; when I asked Elrick, he said Vsenrog wanted control over the pass and Dungal had the nerve to stand in their way.

Zarek nods. He’s staring at the mountains with a strange look on his face, like he’s trying to remember a dream.

No. He’s not staring at the mountains.

He’s staring at the ruins.

“Come on,” Zarek suddenly says. “Let’s find a place to hide.”

He presses his heels into his horse, and the gelding trots off, with Zarek bouncing stiffly in the saddle. I follow, entering the long shadows of what must have once been the palace of Dungal.

The ruins are massive, much larger than they looked from the top of the ridge. It takes us a long time to thread through the wreckage of what must have been homes and farms surrounding the castle. By the time we reach the blackened stone spires, the dust cloud rising from the road hovers over the very edge of the forest.

Zarek dismounts, then leads his gelding through what must have once been the gate to the castle’s main courtyard. I follow, walking my mare past the ruined stone arch. The only sound is the echo of hooves and boots, bouncing strangely off the blackened stone. My horse stops to examine a patch of emerald grass that’s taking over what was once maybe a garden. I let her graze as I dig through the saddlebag, looking for the lunch Agnes packed for us.

Zarek’s gelding comes to join us, dragging his lead rope over broken stone and small, hopeful blades of grass. I glance up to see Zarek walking along the shattered wall, staring at the ground.

And then he stops.