Page 6 of The Cruel Dawn (Vallendor #2)

As Shari bounds into the courtyard, the Gashoans gasp with excitement and fear.

The wolf nuzzles my legs, and I press my face against her thick black coat.

Lightness comes over me—she’s always brought me joy.

She’d sleep at my feet, lead me through forests on long walks, wait patiently as I tossed her honeycakes, dried elk hides, and apples.

Now, her heart beats with love beneath her fur—but I hear a soft, barely there whine.

“You okay, girl?” I ask, my nose to her nose, my golden eyes blinking into her green-jeweled ones.

The wolf’s breathing stills—I can’t hear her thoughts because she’s not mine.

Zephar can’t hear her thoughts, either, because he’s not Eserime. Still, he studies us and laughs. “She doesn’t want you to leave again. She missed you more than I did.”

I kiss Shari’s nose, pat her head, and say, “I love you, too.” I want to say, “I’m not going anywhere,” but I can’t, and she knows that I can’t, and that’s probably why she won’t exhale.

“Relax,” I say, offering her a honeycake.

The wolf cocks her head—this isn’t what she asked for—but she takes the cake anyway, since this is all that I can give her.

After their second song of farewell, the Gashoans line the courtyard and toss bundles of chamomile and wild thyme at our feet.

Zephar holds my hand as we enter the temple with our Mera warriors—who no longer want to slit my neck but now recognize my authority—and Eserime healers behind us.

Shari trots ahead of us—she knows the way.

“Last we talked,” Zephar says, “Gasho was marked to be the final city destroyed.”

I nearly stumble. “But Gasho’s already been destroyed—and now, we’re restoring it. Everything on the list was meant to rebuild the city.”

“No,” he says, his eyebrows creased. “This is more of a cleanup than a restoration. Gasho was nowhere close to total destruction. There was no cleansing fire.”

We’re outside again, and Zephar gazes at the nighttime sky.

The altar beneath the belltower glows in the night. Carved from a single piece of alabaster, the solid ball is as tall as the tallest Gashoan. The Sisters place the last of the night offerings there, and then they kneel to pray.

“We won’t destroy Gasho,” I say now to Zephar. “You do realize that Danar Rrivae wants Vallendor for himself and plans to kill me, right-?”

“Kai,” Zephar says, “ everyone wants to kill you. The Dashmala, Syrus Wake, What’s-His-Face on the other side of Doom Desert.”

“This is beyond old-fashioned hate—”

“I know—”

“Do you, though?” I ask, head cocked.

“Of course I do, and I’m not worried.” Zephar reaches for my face and tucks strands of my hair behind my ears. “If I’m not panicking, then you shouldn’t panic, either. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“No.”

“Okay, then. Relax a moment.”

Only the Sisters follow us to a garden as wide as the temple’s courtyard.

Mist, veiling this terrace and hiding its true size, flows like a river around the roots of trees that look as old as the realm itself.

Those roots rise out from the ground like warriors, and their branches block most of the sky.

Gleaming, fat plums hang from the twigs of some of these trees. Flowers in impossible shades of indigo quiver on their vines.

“This place,” I whisper, “it reminds me of…”

“Ithlon?” Zephar asks.

I close my eyes. “Yes.” I’d designed it that way.

Zephar kisses my hand and leads me deeper into the garden, our feet silent against the smooth, polished-stone pathway. Soon, we’re walking beside a stream of clear water that opens into small ponds around the garden. Their mirrored surfaces reflect light from the sky above.

We stop at a space where the mist gathers thickest and most fragrant.

No mortals can move beyond this point without dying.

This is the Sanctum of the Dusky Hills.

Polished alabaster walls and mosaic tiles of crimson and gold. Sigils of moths, and runes of protection: diamonds, bears, wolves, paddles, and knots.

Up above, the nightstar, goddess Selenova, slowly treks across the dark canvas as her children, called “stars” by humans, dash across their sky-playground just like Gashoan children chasing fireflies across the marshland.

Zephar and I walk the mist-covered trail lit by pearly light, and we approach the sounds of flutes, drums, and voices singing a song about stars and glows and…

The dawn will find you as my love draws near,

Blades of desire cut my heart, unaware.

I lose sight and sound in open spaces.

I lose sight and sound behind closed doors.

Your beauty has me bound in quiet place,

My heart you’ve lain and belongs to you.

I gasp and spin to face Zephar. “This song… You remembered that this song…” My throat tightens with emotion, and I whisper, “Zee, I love this song. The words…”

“I know.” He brushes my cheek with his finger. “I always asked them to play it during those times I missed you the most, which meant every dawn, every dusk.”

Zephar had this song written and performed for me. On the night the cantor first sang these lyrics, I cried.

Red, black, and gold moth sigils line the Sanctum’s footpath. This haven is nestled in a valley surrounded by acacia trees that have never been touched by drought or disease. That stream down in the misty garden flows from the water here, running over smooth stones speckled with green moss.

A pavilion sits in the center of this valley and is encircled by carved wooden columns entwined with vines and topped by interwoven branches and leaves.

All of it glows with runes-. The pavilion’s floor is polished stone inscribed with moths and swords and covered with plush rugs, cushions, and low-slung chairs.

“Look who’s back,” Zephar shouts.

The music stops, and thirty warriors stand at attention. Some smile. Others scowl. I am the prodigal Grand Defender returning to stir up shit and change their lives. Again.

There’s the best scout in the group: Jarini, a Mera beauty with braided, coffee-brown hair and a resting bitch face. Her eyes dance even though the rest of her cannot. She shouts, “Welcome back!”

Carana, his bronze skin almost free of markings, grins at me only because I’ve shown him patience in the past. I know he will turn on me the moment his little chest wears three worlds, and he knows I know it, too.

But where’s Dyotila? She swung a battle-ax as big as an oak tree.

And where’s Avish? He wrote the song that brought me to tears.

Some faces I don’t recognize—it’s not that I don’t remember them. No, I don’t know them. Where did they come from and why are they here?

My mouth goes dry, and I run my tongue along my lips to moisten them. A flicker starts behind my eyes and grows into a twinge across the back of my neck. I feel strange.

Jarini shouts, “Av’ve!” and the others shout, “Av’ve!” and everyone whoops and claps, and the music starts up again.

A fire burns in a circular hearth, and it doesn’t smell like burning trees and trapped wildlife. No, I smell cinnamon and chamomile, lavender and thyme.

Zephar holds out a chair and bows as I sit. “My love.”

I grin despite my misgivings. “You’re new and improved.”

“And you’re the same star that lights my sky.” He drops into the chair beside me and bends to kiss me, a kiss that turns from sweet to sultry. He tastes of mint and dates, and all of it makes me breathless and tingly.

But that tingling across the back of my neck? The heaviness pressing against my shoulders? Feels like someone’s watching me—and not the Mera and Eserime in this pavilion.

He pulls away and nudges his nose against mine. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

Platters of my favorite foods appear before me.

Roasted carrots and sweet onions. Glazed bananas and thin, crispy slices of apples.

Pistachios and almonds roasted and salted or roasted and candied.

Greens and golds and ruby-reds, there are so many colors on my plate. And honeycakes, so many honeycakes.

The faces of my destroyers are bright, and even the scowlers are now smiling. I stare at the Eserime and turn back to Zephar. “The Eserime never camped with us before. Why now?”

He catches a grape in his mouth before saying, “We’re building bridges between the hardline Mera and the other half.

The stewards believe in our cause, and there are enough challenges with Danar running around, so why not accept their partnership?

Why should immortals fight immortals? That’s a waste of time and effort.

That was your reasoning before you went away, and you were right.

The Eserime believe in you , and they add value to our interactions with the mortals, humans especially, as you saw in Gasho. ”

An Eserime healer stands at the edge of the pavilion. Her platinum-colored eyes are flecked with worry. She holds her fist beneath her chin and flicks her pinkie finger at me. Like she’s beckoning me to come over but doesn’t want anyone else to know.

Or maybe I’m imagining it. Zephar doesn’t appear to notice.

At the Sea of Devour, Elyn didn’t mention that Eserime had joined me in the wanton destruction of Vallendor, one town at a time. I mention it now to Zephar. “She and her mother said that my way was not the way.”

Zephar scoffs. “What do they know? Elyn is a big brain who’s never led anything. She doesn’t know what happens in a dying realm because she’s never been in charge of one. She’s a fucking librarian who keeps her hands clean.”

He’s right—Elyn Fynal has never managed one damned street corner, but she’s telling me how I should rule a realm?

But she was right about one thing, so I say, “There are innocent people that will be caught up in—”