Queen of Fire

He stood, eyes never leaving her face. There was a hesitancy to his movements, a slight tremble to his hands as he reached for his chair, pulling it closer to sit opposite her, his face no more than an arm’s length away, the closest they had been since that day at the Summertide Fair.

“Lord Iltis?” she asked.

“Wounded but alive,” he said. “Also frostbitten in the small finger of his left hand. Brother Kehlan was obliged to take it off. He barely seemed to notice and it was quite the struggle to stop him charging forth to look for you.”

“I was fortunate in the friends fate contrived to place in my path.” She paused, drawing breath and courage for what she had to say next. “We had little chance to talk yesterday. I know you must have many questions.”

“One in particular. There are many wild tales abroad regarding your . . . injuries. They say it happened when Malcius died.”

“Malcius was murdered, by Brother Frentis of the Sixth Order. I killed him for it.”

She saw the shock hit home as if she had slashed him with an ice-cold blade. His gaze became distant as he slumped forward, speaking in a whisper. “Wanna be a brother . . . Wanna be like you.”

“There was a woman with him,” Lyrna went on. “Like your brother, playing the role of an escaped slave, come all the way across the ocean with a grand tale of adventure. From her reaction when I killed him, I suspect their bond was close. Love can drive us to extremes.”

He closed his eyes, controlling his grief with a shudder. “Killing him would not have been easy.”

“My time with the Lonak left me skilled in certain areas. I saw him fall. After that . . .” The fire raked across her skin like the claws of a wildcat, filling her throat with the stench of her own flesh burning . . . “It seems my memory has some limits after all.”

Vaelin sat in silence for what seemed an age, lost in thought, his face even more gaunt than before. “It told me he was coming back,” he murmured finally. “But not for this.”

“I had expected you to request a different explanation,” she said, keen to draw him back from whatever memories clouded his mind. “For the way you were treated at Linesh.”

“No, Highness.” He shook his head. “I assure you I require no explanation at all.”

“The war was a grievous error. They had Malcius . . . My father’s judgement was . . . impaired.”

“I doubt King Janus’s judgement was capable of impairment, Highness. And as for the war, you did try to warn me, as I recall.”

She nodded, pausing to quiet her racing heart. I was so sure he would hate me. “That man . . .” she said. “The man with the rope.”

“His name is Weaver, Highness.”

“Weaver,” she repeated. “I assume he was an agent of whatever malignancy is behind our current difficulties. Hidden in your army, awaiting the time to strike.”

Vaelin moved back a little, puzzlement replacing his grief. “Strike, Highness?”

“He saved me,” she said. “From that thing. Then he burned me. I confess I find it curious. Though I’m learning these creatures have very strange ways.” She faltered over a catch in her throat, recalling the fire that raged as the muscular young man pulled her close, the heat of it more intense even than that dreadful day in the throne room. She raised her head, forcing herself to meet his unwavering gaze. “Is it . . . Is it worse?”

A faint sigh escaped him and he reached across the divide to grasp her hands, rough callused palms against hers. She had expected some comforting clasp before he voiced the inevitable and terrible news, but instead he gripped her wrists and raised her hands, spreading the fingers to touch them to her face.

“Don’t!” she said, trying to jerk away.

“Trust me, Lyrna,” he breathed, pressing her fingers to the flesh . . . the smooth, undamaged flesh. Her fingers began to explore of their own volition as he took his hands away, touching every inch of skin, from her brow to her chin, her neck. Where is it? she thought wildly, finding no rough, mottled scarring, provoking none of the searing pain that had continued to plague her despite the healing balms her ladies applied to the burns every day. Where is my face?

“I knew Weaver had a great gift,” Vaelin said. “But this . . .”

Lyrna sat clutching her face, caging the sobs in her breast. Every word must be chosen. “I . . .” she began, faltered then tried again. “I should . . . like you to convene a council of captains as soon . . . as soon as . . .”

Then there was only the tears and the feel of his arms around her shoulders as she rested her head on his chest and wept like a child.

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