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“Behold! The other east entrance to Soldor!” Radomir announces with too much energy after a day-and-a-half trek through a dark mountain. “You are almost free!”
And onto the next leg of what seems a futile task.
“Move!” Abarrane bellows, and a jumble of Islorians, Ybarisans, and saplings shift to one side as we head to the front.
At some point, soldiers weren’t as focused on the rider next to them as they were on what deadly creature might wait for us around the next corner. Lines blurred and fears of one another relaxed.
Aside from a few small beasts that stayed away from our lengthy entourage, we didn’t come across a single threat.
I imagine it would be a different story if Romeria were here.
“My kind will not be of much help to you in this next task, so we will remain within these stone walls.” Radomir’s cautious gaze is on the morning sun streaming in ahead. I’ve seen firsthand what it can do the moment it touches a sapling’s skin. “I will meet you tonight at the first watchtower, when the moon is high.”
“And I will attempt to ensure they do not kill you when you arrive.”
“That would be much appreciated.” His thin lips split wide. Now that I have seen his old face, he seems less of a soulless demon, but I can’t allow myself to forget all the horrors these saplings have committed in the name of survival.
I hesitate. “Thank you for being our guide. I doubt we would have made it here without you.”
“You certainly would not have. And if Her Highness’s plans fail and the curse is not lifted, I think I shall regret ever leading you.” He shifts away. “My people! Fall back and let them through!”
I squint against the morning light as we step out onto the stone.
“This must have been used for wagons coming in from the Ybarisan side, back before the rift formed,” Kienen notes as we navigate our horses around boulders on a rough path hewn from use long ago and just wide enough for two mounts.
“There were no sides back then.” And if Neilina has her way, there will come a day when there is no Islor.
We round a corner and get our first good look across the rift and into Ybaris, where the arid and damaged land on their side mirrors ours. Pre-rift accounts of this area told of rich valleys and fertile soil, but Aminadav’s fury left an unsightly scar beyond the endless divide.
“Fates,” Telor whispers, horror splayed over his face. “I have never seen an army like that.”
Neither have I. Tiny dots merge over the land as far as we can see—of tents and wagons and Ybarisans willing to die for their slain royal family, thanks to the lies of their treacherous queen.
“Many of them are simple mortals, untrained and terrified. They will not be able to fight,” Abarrane says.
“Many of them are elven soldiers and casters, trained and terrified, and they will be able to fight,” Kienen counters, his posture rigid as he peers down upon Lyndel’s forces below. They are trained soldiers as well, but they will be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the other side. And all that stops them from crossing are two stone walls on either end of the bridge, each one erected when the two nations split. Neither will withstand the whole of Neilina’s elementals.
Suddenly, I wish I had insisted that Romeria come.
“We do not want to fight them,” I remind them. “As long as we can hold them off until Hudem’s full moon, their attention will shift elsewhere.” At least until reinforcements arrive.
A deafening screech sounds, and Telor’s soldiers have their swords drawn in their next breath, their horses shifting uneasily. Everyone is waiting for that beast Romeria named a dragon to resurface.
But it’s the taillok that soars above us, its iridescent feathers shimmering. Just as Gesine promised.
“Hold!” I shout as it swoops down to land on a nearby boulder.
Telor orders the soldiers to continue down the path as I dismount, my attention on the letter strapped to the taillok’s leg, my relief bringing a smile to my lips.
It screeches again as I approach, its hooked beak looking primed to attack. “Any special instructions?”
“Do not anger it?” Kienen offers.
It watches intently as I unfasten the leather belt that holds the letter but makes no move.
“The witch is watching us?” Abarrane asks with mild interest. She would never admit that something tied to the casters and the Nulling might be useful.
“She is,” I say. Gesine will be able to relay my well-being to Romeria, who I’m sure shares my worry.
I crack open the seal and read the familiar scrawl.
And curse.
And curse again.
Nymph doors?
A war in the east?
A brewing rebellion in Cirilea?
Elisaf sidles up to me. “Anything interesting?”
“A thing or two.” Or ten. Not interesting. Devastating. I hand it to him to read as my mind spins, the seer’s stark prediction blazing prominently. Islor must fall before it can rise. If this is not its fall, then I can’t imagine what else would be.
