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Varick nodded.

Laurent lifted my hand from his chest and kissed it. “You could give lessons in forgiveness, my lady.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “I think that’s what I’m doing now. Or maybe just trying to keep my husbands from brawling in front of the knights.”

Varick looked up. He and Laurent stared at each other, and I knew they were thinking about the new layers in our relationship—and theirs.

Husbands.

“I’m sorry,” Varick told Laurent. “I was wrong to blame you. Battles are chaos.”

Laurent swallowed. “I’m not eager to see another one.”

My stomach knotted. We were almost certain to see more battles.

“The sun is rising,” Varick said. “We can’t linger.”

Laurent nodded. “Edwin instructed his knights to bury the dead. Let’s go home.”

Within minutes, we were headed back to Lar Katerin. As we rode from the Rift, I looked toward the Thicket in the distance. And I finally allowed the emotion I’d buried to resurface.

Fear.

It had gripped me since I heard Midian’s voice rising from the Rift after Crasor flung his insults at Igrith and Jordan. The unnatural pitch had been just as terrifying as the first time I’d heard it booming off the chasm’s walls. But this time had also been different. Because I’d understood his words.

“Savior of the realm,” he’d said, his voice rising to a shriek before dissolving into mocking laughter. Then he’d dipped into a growl. “You know what you have to do, Given. You’ve always known where to find me. I’m waiting. Don’t make me wait much longer.”

His words had swirled around me as clearly as if he’d spoken the common tongue. There was no mistaking his message. And he was right. I wasn’t certain how I was supposed to save the realm, but I knew where I had to go. On some level, maybe I’d always known.

If I wanted to save Ter Isir, I had to enter the Rift.

Chapter Twenty-Two

GIVEN

The feast was subdued, but it was still a celebration of sorts.

It was the next evening, and I sat between Laurent and Varick in the Great Hall as one of the knights from the Wastes stood and toasted Captain Drago.

“Without you leading us, Captain,” the knight slurred, “we’d be dread”—he hiccuped—“dead.” The knight’s expression turned sentimental as he swayed on his feet. “You’re just about the nicest captain I ever met,” he rasped, his eyes growing damp.

“Gods,” Drago muttered. Farther down the table, Radu laughed.

“All right,” the knight next to the toasting knight said, “that’s enough blood-wine for Sir Alin.” He reached over and plucked the toasting knight’s goblet from the table.

“Hey!” Sir Alin cried, swiping for it and missing. “I wasn’t”—he hiccuped again—“finished with my speech.”

“Yes, you were,” his friend said. He rose and slapped Sir Alin on the back. “Come on, big boy. Bedtime.” He slung Sir Alin’s arm around his shoulders and helped the oversize knight stumble from the table.

“Not tired,” Sir Alin said sullenly.

“Uh-huh. Tell me about it in the morning when you’re staring at the inside of a bucket.”

Varick chuckled as he watched them go. “Drago will make Sir Alin regret calling him nice.”

I toyed with my goblet of blood-wine. “I thought vampires from the warrior class couldn’t get drunk.”

“Not easily, no.” Varick glanced at the knights’ table, where a raucous song about the “lovely ladies of Gate Street” had broken out. “But the lads from the Wastes don’t let that stand in their way. I think that’s their twentieth barrel of blood-wine.”