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“That is theFallen Woman. It was erected not a year after the village was attacked. Every season’s beginning sees the entire Mecca surrounding her, praying for the people on the Ledge, for those in the Chasm and those who never made it as far.” The Queen turns to face Dawsyn fully. “Do not think we have forgotten. Do not think we do not understand our good fortune. We teach our children to honor those poor souls doomed to their plight, and we do not take our days in the valley for granted.”

“You seem to know much about a place you’ve never been to,” Dawsyn says in answer, her arms crossed against her chest.

“Do you think we did not try in the beginning? We sent our army up the slope and most did not return. They were picked from the mountain by Glacians or froze in the night. Some made it far enough to see Glacia, and the Chasm, but they were thrown back into Terrsaw, their bodies mangled – all save for one, who lived long enough to convey what they had found. Humans are no match for Glacians, my dear, and we’ve long since stopped trying to prove otherwise. We cannot sacrifice all of us to save the few.”

Ryon frowns. He has never heard Glacians tell of human armies they slaughtered. Perhaps the battle was too easily won to count for bragging.

“Now,” the Queen utters, “you can find sanctuary here, my dear. I’d say you are owed more, but for now, let me offer you a bed, food, clothing, shelter, anything you might need. You are welcome inside the palace for as long as you wish to stay.”

From the corner of his eye, Ryon sees Queen Cressida balk quietly.

“Thank you,” Dawsyn says stiffly. “But I can fend for myself.”

“Very well,” the Queen says. “The people of Terrsaw will celebrate your return.”

“The people of Terrsaw needn’t know where I come from,” Dawsyn tells her. “And I’d prefer they didn’t.”

The Queen pauses, looking at her curiously. “As you wish,” she concedes. “It does not escape me that your return might bring false hope. Regardless, should you change your mind, we would be honored to present you to Terrsaw. Please never consider yourself without resource. We will accommodate whatever you might need.”

Dawsyn nods awkwardly. Finally, her eyes meet Ryon’s and they seem to plead to be taken from this place. There is something in her stare that makes him think of an animal before a coming blizzard and he opens his hand to her, resisting the urge to fly them to their refuge before the weather lands.

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

Dawsyn allows Ryon to lead her back through the Mecca, though she does not remember the many buildings they pass. She cannot name what fills her, but it is unfathomably heavy. If she could, she would plunge a hand through her chest, grasp the writhing, poisonous thing and rip it from her body. She only knows that sorrow clogs her throat, for this world that Briar, her mother, her father, her sister never knew. This beauty that fell like water through her grandmother’s hands. The sun and fruit and art that her people will never touch.

“Stop,” Dawsyn mutters to Ryon, his hand encasing hers. “I want to stop.”

She needs to wrench what she knows from her mind. She wants to forget the Ledge, the Chasm, the pool, and the people who did nothing to deserve their fate. Ryon suddenly pulls her in another direction and she finds her feet crossing a stoop, a bell ringing overhead. She half-falls into a darkened room, the noise and smells within assaulting her. Deep voices climb one another, rising to the low ceiling in an indistinct cacophony. Glasses clink and wooden stools scrape along the stone floor.

A bar, much larger than the one in Salem’s inn, stretches wide before them, crowded by the patrons who shout and drink. Some suck on implements that emit a sweet, cloying smoke.

Ryon pushes her to a corner of the room, far from the bar and the patrons who wander beyond it. “Stay there,” he utters, and then he is gone.

Dawsyn lets her head fall gently to the wooden table, her eyes closing against her will.

“You look in need of a drink, darlin’,” a voice beckons, rough and slurred. “Here you are.”

Dawsyn raises her head when the cold drops of liquid splash her cheek. Against her skin is a tankard. The man beyond it leers with blackened teeth, his face mottled red and purple.

Before she can take it, they are interrupted.

“Go,” comes Ryon’s rumbling voice.

She feels his hand on her shoulder, claiming her, and for once she is not disturbed.

“Perhaps she don’t want me to go,” the drunk slurs. His own drink comes down hard upon the table.

Ryon growls softly, “Leave, or you’ll be holding your face together after I’ve cut it six ways.”

The patron must see the sword hilt protruding beyond Ryon’s shoulder, or perhaps he finally takes stock of the sheer mass before him. The man backs off, disappearing among the crowd.

Dawsyn tries to straighten her body, her spine like rubber. “What if I wanted him to stay?”

An eye roll. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t I?”

“If you did, it was only to irritate me.”