Page 56 of Winds of Death (War of the Alliance #4)

Chapter

Thirty

S wiping at the tears trickling down her face, Pip found Fieran sitting with his back to the wall in a tucked-away corner of the hangar.

Not giving herself time to hesitate, she curled up on his lap, tucking her head against his shoulder beneath his chin as she wrapped her arms around him. “I heard. I’m so sorry.”

Fieran’s arms came around her, holding her close, and he pressed his face against her hair. His voice was hoarse, choked with tears and an angry fervor. “I hate this war. I hate it. I just want it to end.”

“I know. Me too.” Pip tangled her fingers in the warmth of his shirt and didn’t try to hold back her tears.

First Fieran and Merrik crashed. Then they’d lost Pretty Face. Fieran’s dacha had come far too close to death that day.

And now Myles.

It was too much. Too much death. Too much pain. How much more would this war take before it was over?

She cried into Fieran’s shirt, and if his chest shuddered with his own sobs, she couldn’t fault him. Today was a day for breaking.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she sniffed and hiccupped her way to silence. Held by Fieran as she was, she was warm and cozy, even if her eyes were now gritty, her nose stuffed.

“I should have asked before now, but are you all right?” Fieran murmured the words into her hair as he cradled her to his chest.

Was she all right? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to remember the things she’d witnessed that day.

“Maybe.” No, that wasn’t quite right. She was shaken, yes. She now had memories she wished she could erase. But she couldn’t regret it. She’d done what she’d had to do. “I think so.”

The Alliance had needed those machines, and no one besides her could have gotten them from the battlefield that quickly.

The dwarves might have been able to handle it on their own, but their magic would have taken more time and more tools than hers did.

Some of them likely would have died in the attempt.

Those machines had knocked Prince Farrendel Laesornysh unconscious and forced Fieran to fight that airship instead of guarding Fort Defense.

Because of that, Mongavarian aeroplanes had bombed Fort Defense, killing Myles.

If fetching those two machines for study could prevent such a thing from happening again, then her churning stomach and weighted soul would be worth it.

“I’m sorry.” Fieran’s hand traced up her back to cradle the back of her head.

“You already said that.” Her scalp tingled at his touch, the tingles spreading down her spine. That felt rather good. Her tense muscles relaxed further. “And you don’t have to apologize. I was the only choice, and I don’t regret going. I got the job done.”

“I knew you would.” His voice was rough, but the pride in his tone settled deep in her chest.

And she loved him for it. He was both capable himself and yet treated her with respect for her own capabilities.

This was what she’d been searching for when she’d left home to join the army mechanics. Not a place merely to use her skills. Not even just respect for those skills since her family already gave her that.

But this place of belonging. This home that wasn’t the home of her childhood but one she created for herself.

She didn’t know how long this war would last or how much it would demand of her and Fieran before it was over. But she was certain of him. She knew where her heart lay.

Sitting up, she cradled his face, taking in his damp lashes, the redness surrounding his piercing blue eyes, the bleakness in his gaze. “We’re going to be okay, Fieran. No matter what happens, we are going to be okay.”

Then she kissed him. The kiss was too filled with need, too desperate with the memories of that day, but she didn’t care. She simply needed him, as she could tell he needed her.

When he pulled back, he leaned his forehead against hers, their breathing ragged between them. But a hint of a smile curved his lips. “Yes. We’re going to be okay.”

It was so tempting to remain there, held in his arms where they could ignore the war and the weight of their responsibilities.

But they couldn’t.

She clambered to her feet before she held out a hand to Fieran. “Go check on your dacha again. I’ll fetch supper and bring it there.”

Terrifying as it would be to dine in the quarters of Prince Farrendel Laesornysh , she could handle it. Her fear-awe of Fieran’s dacha didn’t seem so scary after what she’d been through that day.

She’d faced battle. She’d face Fieran’s dacha too. Because she was going to fight for Fieran, whether that meant fighting Mongavarian soldiers or fighting her own fears of his famous family.

She would fight. For Fieran. For the flyboys and flygirls of the Half-Breed Squadron. For the Alliance.

And, together, they might stand a chance.

This time when Fieran approached his dacha’s quarters, Uncle Iyrinder and a cordon of Uncle Weylind’s guards were arrayed before the door, holding off the swarm of elves, humans, and even trolls who were asking to see King Weylind.

Fieran pushed past them, nodded to Uncle Iyrinder, and slipped inside. When he entered the bedchamber, Uncle Weylind was already packing up his paperwork.

Rising, Uncle Weylind tucked the paperwork into a leather bag, gripping the wooden lap desk under one arm. “Are you able to stay for a while, nirshon? I am needed elsewhere.”

“Yes, I can stay.” Fieran sank onto the seat by the head of the bed. Dacha lay in nearly the same position as he’d been when Fieran had left several hours ago. Yet his chest rose and fell just as steadily, and his color was better than it had been.

Even as Uncle Weylind left, Fieran reached for Dacha’s swords. The cleaning cloth hung from one of the hilts and the tin of oil rested on the shelf of the table beside the bed.

As a peaceful quiet settled over the room, he set to work polishing the swords, the movements practiced and familiar, even if he’d never cleaned this particular pair of swords before.

But seeing to them was the least he could do after wielding them in battle earlier that day. He ran the polishing cloth down each side of the blade. Back and forth in steady motions, the glide of the cloth on steel strangely soothing.

As he was finishing the second sword, there was a knock on the outer door before it swung open with a stirring of the air and Pip’s voice calling softly, “We brought food.”

He sheathed the swords, leaned them against the wall, wiped his hands free of the oil as best he could on clean sections of the rag, and stood.

Dacha still slept, not even stirring at the noise. But he was sleeping easily and would probably enjoy being left in peace instead of Uncle Weylind or Fieran hovering.

Grabbing his chair, Fieran pushed open the door between the rooms, hauling the chair after him.

In the main room, Pip had set a tray on the table and was busy setting out the plates and silverware. In the doorway, Merrik stood, talking quietly with his dacha, another tray in his hands.

Fieran set the chair beside the table. After fetching the second chair and closing the door between the rooms, he and Pip picked up the table and moved it closer to the cushioned bench so that there would be enough seats for all of them.

Uncle Iyrinder claimed one of the bowls and spoons from Merrik’s tray before he turned to face outward again, eating while standing guard.

Then Merrik strode inside, his gait hitching in that way that betrayed how much his foot and ankle were hurting.

Nor was he using his magic to make his prosthetic move more smoothly.

But he was walking, even after the strain of the day. His body was healing and adjusting.

After setting the tray on the table, Merrik sank onto the cushioned bench with a sigh. He turned sideways so that he could prop his feet up. “So, Pip, has Fieran told you about the time he dragged me out of a tree?”

“Yes.” Pip perched on a chair, a grin helping to dispel some of the weight in her eyes. “Pointed out the exact tree and everything while we were at Treehaven.”

“It wasn’t my fault you tried to catch me when I fell.” Fieran took the other chair, reaching a hand to Pip. She clasped it beneath the table. “Nor that you didn’t let go as I was dragging you down.”

“I told you not to climb that high.” Merrik shook his head as he helped himself to the food.

Fieran hadn’t listened to Merrik, and look where that had gotten the two of them. The broken arms when they’d been children had been bad enough. But Merrik was still paying for Fieran’s recklessness.

Fieran held Merrik’s gaze. “I’m sorry for that. And the broken arm you got out of the deal.”

Merrik huffed and tossed one of the rolls at Fieran. “I did not tell you that to make you apologize. Now, eat.”

Fieran caught the roll. As it was several days old, it was plenty hard, smacking into his palm. “The rest did you good, I see.”

Pip had retrieved some of the mystery meat and was struggling to cut it with one hand, her other hand still gripping his. “Then the two of you had better come up with a funnier story than that. I’m sure you have them.”

“Have I told you about our old tradition of spit handshakes?” Fieran grinned as he set the roll on his plate and reached to dish out some of the mystery meat.

“ Old tradition? That implies it has been years since we last employed it.” Merrik grimaced, nose wrinkling, before he took a bite.

“Hey, you were the last one to initiate it. I was the very mature one who said we should make that the last one.” Fieran waggled his fork in Merrik’s direction.

“I was the first one to say we were too old for such things.” Merrik shook his head, his long chestnut hair flowing over his shoulders.

Pip glanced between the two of them, her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Spit handshakes? Do I want to know?” She gave a little tug on the hand clasping his under the table, as if reconsidering whether she dared hold his hand if he went about performing such unsanitary handshakes all the time.