Page 39 of The Cruel Dawn (Vallendor #2)

Elyn, Philia, Jadon, and Separi join me in the burning town.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Elyn hands me the bag holding the Librum Esoterica , then places her palms on both of my shoulders.

She breathes deep, then moves her hands to my hips, and finally to my back.

That sensation of crawling ants travels all around my body until there’s no place left for them to go.

I take a deep breath and sling the bag over my left shoulder, which cries out in agony, as a flash of pain makes my legs quiver. I squint at Elyn and gasp, “You missed a spot.”

“No, Kai. That entire arm…” She shakes her head and whispers, “You aren’t well.”

I try to smile, but she doesn’t blink. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I swallow and blink away the tears welling in my eyes. “Yeah. I understand.”

As Elyn brushes ash off my armor, I stare at the charred inn, the guardhouse, and those creaky houses that ought to be demolished. I’m hardly in better shape.

“We need to hurry,” Elyn says. Because I’m falling apart.

I look over to Philia. “You should’ve stayed back at the—”

“No,” the redhead says. “We’re so close now. I’m not leaving without Livvy. She’s here.” I follow her eyes to my bag, where the Librum Esoterica , the key to Olivia’s freedom, is stowed. Philia is at her most desperate, and I hope she chooses wisely.

I hope she proves me wrong.

There aren’t many soldiers left in Gileon Wake’s regiment. Four sit at the entrance to the barracks, and not one of them glows with life—not blue, not amber. Does Wake know that his men are dead—and considering the maggots in their eyes and mouths, that they have been dead for a while?

The camp smells of urine and smoke. The ground is thick mud, littered with scraps of armor, broken weapons, and rotting food. Flies swarm everywhere.

Some soldiers sleep in mold-covered tents that sag under the weight of damp rot. The tents themselves are mismatched, patched together. Other soldiers sleep out in the open, sprawled on tattered bedrolls or directly on the cold ground, barely hanging on to life.

Campfires burn at every thirteenth tent. Men huddle in silence around these fires, their faces gaunt and their eyes hollow. The amber glow that marks them flickers like dying candlelight. There’s no camaraderie, no drunken songs or shared laughter, only coughing and curses.

One of three bloodhounds lifts her head as we pass.

Daisy! My old friend.

She sniffs the breeze. She stands, and her tail wags hard and fast at my familiar scent.

“Sweet girl,” I say, “Daisy, my lovely one!” I wave my hand over the other hounds’ noses, and they dip their big heads in recognition. I kiss Daisy’s forehead and offer her and her brothers leftover pork cooked by Separi and boar jerky cured by Philia.

“Can your noses even work in these conditions?” I ask her.

“There’s nothing alive to search for,” she replies sadly.

“We’ll be back,” I assure her and the boys.

We move on, sneaking past the armaments, the mess tent, and a small tarp covering cords of firewood.

Command tents cluster near the center of the camp.

“Gileon will be in there.” Jadon points to the fanciest of the tents, the one made of heavy, green wool.

A banner hangs limply from a crooked pole, that twin leopard emblem faded and stained with mud.

A gold-threaded colure has been embroidered into the tent flaps.

A plume of smoke rises from a hole in the center of the tent.

Two imposing knights guard the entrance.

Jadon eases out a breath. “Hope this goes without bloodshed. I hope he understands that neither of you cares if it doesn’t .”

Because we’re leaving with that ring—his finger still in it or not.

My gaze stays on Gileon’s tent. “It’s made of wool.”

“Yeah,” Jadon says. “And?”

I shiver. “I’m allergic to wool.”

Jadon laughs. “Kai, be serious.”

I don’t laugh. I don’t even crack a smile. “You don’t remember my rashes that day I sheared farmer Gery’s sheep back in Maford? It was part of my punishment for causing a public disturbance.” I shiver again, remembering the hives on my skin.

Jadon tries to swallow his embarrassment. Too late. “Just…don’t touch it.”

I roll my eyes. That would be a stupid legacy. She could wield fire and wind in her hands. She could hear others’ thoughts. Pity she met her death after an encounter with soggy wool.

We walk toward the tent, hands ready on our swords.

Soldiers watch us approach, but none move to stand.

Philia whispers, “Why aren’t they fighting us?”

“They’re contending with a greater threat now,” Elyn says.

Some soldiers’ eyes widen once they see me. They whisper, “Lady,” believers again now that death is in the air.

“If everyone dies, what will happen to…?” Philia looks back over her shoulder at Daisy and her brothers.

“Maybe,” I say, “you and Olivia can be their mommas. Give them a good home.”

Philia smiles at that, though her eyes wander toward my bag again, to the key to Olivia and their happily-ever-after. I clutch the strap a little tighter.

Some men groan; others emit rattling breaths that might well be their last.

“Step away if you’re smart,” I warn a half dozen more Dashmala soldiers who’ve hurried from their own grubby tents to guard Wake’s fancier one. “If you choose to stay, you will die.”

“She’s the one who killed Sinth.”

“Drove his own pike through his mouth, she did.”

Like Sinth, these soldiers have yellow eyes, scars, and bony ridges growing along their jawlines. Their race is derived from my own, the Mera. They’re fighters, with big weapons and bigger egos.

The two soldiers whose thoughts I overheard back away from me and run.

Four foolish Dashmala unsheathe their swords. One lifts his chin and says, “I’m not gonna let some mudscraping—”

I fling him into the sky. He will never walk this land again , I think viciously. I glance behind me, to make sure Philia is watching.

“Who’s next?” I ask.

Another soldier looks at me, looks at the sky, and runs after the two men that fled. The remaining two lift their swords, ready to fight.

I flick my hand, and they are flung behind me. I’m sure they’ll land somewhere .

We reach the two Dashmala guarding Gileon Wake’s tent.

Neither knight is dying from the sickness hanging over this camp; the Dashmala are not as susceptible to most human diseases.

But their swords are useless against the wind bursting from my hands.

I slam one of them into the ground. The other Dashmala, also the size of a mountain, blocks me from entering Gileon Wake’s tent. “You—”

I flick my hand.

He crashes into the ground behind an outlying tent, and the campground shakes.

Jadon holds open the flap to his brother’s tent.

My stomach drops. I duck as I step inside, not only because of my height, but because I’m careful that no part of me, not even my hair, touches wool.

This tent is nicer and larger than most people’s homes; even with Jadon and the others standing behind me, there’s still space to move.

There’s a wash basin and a wine barrel. A small wooden chest and a sword-stand are on the opposite side.

Spotted leopard pelts drape across a bed.

The wool traps all the heat from the fire, as well as the heat of the volcanic rock the camp was built upon.

Gileon Wake brandishes that same broadsword he carried the last time we met, a sword that stands taller than him. “Don’t come any closer,” he shouts, his voice tight with fear. “Or I’ll…” He gawks at Jadon. “Brother?”

The prince was already a small man before, but now he is a shadow.

His armor hangs loose on his gaunt frame like an ill-fitting shell.

The broadsword wavers in his hands, its weight clearly too much for him.

His skin, once sun-kissed and healthy, now verges on sickly gray, with deep hollows beneath his cheekbones and dark shadows under his dull blue eyes.

Even his stance is off-balance, his knees buckling slightly under the effort of standing.

The man who once commanded legions now looks like he’s fighting just to remain upright.

In two steps, I’m standing behind the emperor’s youngest son. I yank the prince’s sword from his hands and twist his right arm behind his back.

Gileon yelps, his pulse frantic beneath my fingers. Nonetheless, he tries for nonchalance. “Jadon, tell her to release me immediately. I can’t talk if I’m being assaulted.”

“You may not remember this,” I say, “but you still owe me a couple of thousand bodies to make up for Veril Bairnell’s death.”

“Let me go,” Gileon demands.

“You’re the son of the emperor,” I say, “and he’s the circle in the middle of the colure.

He’s Supreme Manifest. Isn’t that what you all have told the realm to believe?

And if you’re the son of Supreme, you should call upon your inherited godly powers and force me to release you.

Go on. I’ll wait, but I’m only gonna squeeze you harder. ”

“Kai,” Jadon says, “we can’t. He’s…”

Family.

“Please?” Jadon adds.

“Now, that’s a powerful word,” I say, nodding but not relenting. “Before I let go…” I lean harder into Gileon and ask, “Where’s Danar Rrivae?”

He growls, “I don’t know—”

“I’m not fucking around.” I tighten my grip on his arm, and Gileon yelps.

“He was at Castle Wake, but he’s moved on,” he gasps. “To where, I don’t know.”

I release the prince and peer down at him, slumped on the ground. “Do you wanna keep toying with me?”

“You don’t know how to play our game, Ser Wake,” Elyn adds, “and so you’ll lose. Trust me when I say that cooperation works best in this instance.”

“What is your father planning to do next?” I ask.

Gileon doesn’t speak as he rubs his bony arm.

“Tell us,” Elyn says, her voice hard.

Gileon snorts. “The nerve you have, demanding anything from me.”

Elyn cocks her head. “Is that a ‘no, I’m not telling you’?”

Even under duress, Gileon Wake still has the strong chin of a boastful man—and he’s about to get it knocked off.