Page 28 of Kingdom of Ash

But that was without the matter of the Valg, squatting in human hosts like parasites. Valg who would kill them immediately if they knew what the healers planned to do.

What Yrene planned to do to any Valg who crossed her path.

“The salves are made, Yrene.” Hafiza groaned as she rose from her perch on the steps and adjusted the lapels of her thick woolen jacket—cut and embroidered in the style of the Darghan riders. A gift from the last visit the Healer on High had made to the steppes, when she’d taken Yrene along with her. “They are counted. There are no more supplies with which to make them, not until we reach land and can see what might be used there.”

Yrene clutched her cloak to her chest. “I need to be doingsomething.”

The Healer on High patted the railing. “You will, Yrene. Soon enough, you will.”

Hafiza ascended the stairs with that, leaving Yrene in the hold amid the stacks of crates.

She didn’t tell the Healer on High that she wasn’t entirely sure how much longer she’d be a help—not yet. Hadn’t whispered a word of that doubt to anyone, even Chaol.

Yrene’s hand drifted across her abdomen and lingered.

CHAPTER 7

Morath. The final key was at Morath.

The knowledge hung over Dorian through the night, keeping him from sleep. When he did doze, he awoke with a hand at his neck, grasping for a collar that was not there.

He had to find some way to go. Some way to reach it.

Since Manon would undoubtedly be unwilling to take him. Even if she’d been the one who’d suggested he might be able to take Aelin’s place to forge the Lock.

The Thirteen had barely escaped Morath—they were in no hurry to return. Not when their task in finding the Crochans had become so vital. Not when Erawan might very well sense their arrival before they neared the keep.

Gavin had claimed the path would find him here, in this camp. But finding a way to convince the Thirteen to remain, when instinct and urgency compelled them to move on … that might prove as impossible a task as attaining the third Wyrdkey.

Their camp stirred in the gray light of dawn, and Dorian gave up on sleep. Rising, he found Manon’s bedroll packed, and the witch herself standing with Asterin and Sorrel by their mounts. It was that trio he’d have to convince to remain—somehow.

Already waiting near the mouth of the pass, the other wyverns shifted as they readied for the unbearably cold flight.

Another day, another hunt for a clan of witches who had no desire to be found. And would likely have little desire to join this war.

“We move out in five minutes.” Sorrel’s rocky voice carried across the camp.

Convincing would have to wait, then. Delaying it was.

Within three minutes, the fire was out and weapons were donned, bedrolls bound to saddles and needs seen to before the long day of flying.

Buckling on Damaris, Dorian aimed for Manon, the witch standing with that preternatural stillness. Beautiful, even here in the blasted snow, a shaggy goat pelt slung over her shoulders. As he neared, her eyes met his in a flash of burnt gold.

Asterin gave him a wicked grin. “Morning, Your Majesty.”

Dorian inclined his head. “Where are we wandering today?” He knew the casual words didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“We were just debating it,” Sorrel answered, the Third’s face stony but open.

Behind them, Vesta swore as the buckle on her saddle came undone. Dorian didn’t dare to look, to confirm that the invisible hands of his magic had worked.

“We already searched north of here,” Asterin said. “Let’s keep heading south—make it to the end of the Fangs before we backtrack.”

“They might not even be in the mountains,” Sorrel countered. “We’ve hunted them in the lowlands in decades past.”

Manon listened with a cool, unruffled expression. As she did every morning. Weighing their words, listening to the wind that sang to her.

Imogen’s saddlebag snapped free of its tether. The witch hissed as shedismounted to retie it. How long these little delays could keep them here, he didn’t know. Not indefinitely.

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