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The mage leaves, shutting the door, now replaced on its frame.

Dawsyn lies upon the cot, whole and well but sick all the same.

She is not simple. She has known from its inception that her fate was decided. She has seen the holes and gaps of Terrsaw that leave her wondering. She has noticed the gleam in Ryon’s eyes and wondered if it was more than attraction, something colder, opportunistic. She has watched every person bend to help her, traces of guilt in their words. They have been generous, kind, accommodating, as though groveling, atoning.

For what do they atone?

What have they done?

She rises from her cot, finding herself wearing a man’s tunic and little else. She goes to the mantel above the fireplace, taking the iron poker that rests there. She stokes the flames for a time, letting her bare legs warm, letting her thoughts surmise. When she leaves the room and steps into the sleepy quiet of the inn, the poker is still in her hand, hot to the touch.

CHAPTERTHIRTY

In his life, Ryon has been roused from sleep with violence more times than he cares to remember. The Colony was full of the best of Glacia and some of the worst. Every so often in his youth, the worst found him.

Dreams slip like sand through fingers as he becomes aware of a weight on his lap, a hand on his wrist, a press to his throat. His eyes snap open, and they find Dawsyn’s.

For a few blissful seconds, he only registers her warmth, her scent, the bare skin of her legs straddling him. He hardens within seconds, his free hand sliding onto her thigh. But the gleam in her eye is far from warm, and something rigid lies along his neck; it constricts his air.

“Dawsyn?”

“Ryon,” she answers. Her voice is as calm as ever, but her glare sharpens, piercing him, giving away the rage beneath the composure. She presses the length of the iron poker a little harder into his throat.

Ryon coughs. “What are you doing?”

She lifts the poker from his throat, only to spin it in her palm until its burning point is an inch from his Adam’s apple.

He swallows.

“I have a couple of questions for you, and I will need your answers.”

Her hands did not tremble when she stood before King Vasteel or when she killed the mountain cat. There was no tremor when she forced her way into the Queens’ palace, nor when she killed the Glacians on the riverbank, but they tremble now.

The weight of the world falls to Ryon’s stomach. He looks closer, into her, and sees what she hides so well – the hurt, the disappointment. The two things he knew he would eventually bring her.

“OK,” he says. “OK.”

“Let’s start with this: tell me how you plan to conquer Glacia.”

“Put the poker away first.”

She lets the tip touch his skin, and he balks, hissing.

“I cannot. I haven’t decided whether or not to skewer you with it.”

He feels the place where the poker touched him throb as his blood rushes to cool it, but he steels himself to answer. Strange how important she has come to be that the thought of disappointing her is intolerable.

“There is an entire rebellion in the Colony, mixed-bloods who are tired of their misfortune. I lead them.”

“And yet you left them. Why?”

Ryon sighs heavily. “You cannot usurp a king’s court without weapons.”

Dawsyn nods. “Salem?” she asks.

“Esra,” Ryon answers. “He trades in more than just liquor. He brings me small amounts from a blacksmith in the Mecca, and I carry it back to the Colony bit by bit.”

“How brave,” she mutters dryly. “Why keep it from me?”