Page 94 of The Flame King's Queen

“It’s not merely a matter of riding,” she tells Mother Linnea, glancing at me, as if wondering how much she should share. “It’s strenuous riding that could put strain on my body.”

Mother Linnea looks from one of us to the other, waiting for us to elaborate, but neither of us does.

“Does this have something to do with Emmeric?” she asks.

I give a short exhalation. “I can’t tell you any details, but yes.”

Mother Linnea looks from Isavelle to me. “Then I’m afraid the only advice I can give will be sorely biased. I love Maledin and what it has become, and I wish for things to continue as they are. Queen Isavelle has faced Emmeric and that thing using him as a living puppet several times. To exclude her now would not be in anyone’s best interest, including hers and Sylvi’s,Ma’len. If you wish to protect your mate, you will allow her to use her abilities to protect Maledin.”

Her stern tone leaves no room for misunderstanding. It’s what I expected to hear, though hearing it doesn’t make me any less worried for my mate.

“I hope my advice hasn’t offended you,Ma’len.”

I shake my head. “I’m never offended by honest advice. Thank you, Mother Linnea.” I could gather my inner circle together and consult them, but I’m sure they will either tell me the same as Mother Linnea, or that it’s a decision for me and Isavelle.

“It’s my honor,Ma’len,” she murmurs, and then walks deeper into the Flame Temple.

When we’re alone, I ask her, “Do you truly wish to come with us on this mission.”

She gazes up at me with clear, determined eyes. “Even if I thought I could do nothing but tend wounds and pass around water, I wouldn’t wish to stay behind. But I could truly be of help, in ways that no one else can.”

She’s right. There are no two ways about it. Isavelle has proven herself time and time again that she’s useful, resourceful, and skilled.

“How about I just order you to stay behind, hm?” I ask Isavelle with mock severity. “What then?”

“Then you wouldn’t be my Zabriel,” she says, rising up on her toes to pull me down for a kiss. After pressing her lips so tenderly to mine, she says, “I know you want to protect me, but you can’t protect your queen if there’s no Maledin.”

I sigh and kiss the top of her head, wishing it was four days ago, and we were still blissfully sheltered from the world in our nursery-bedroom.

Northeastern Maledin is a foggy,rocky place, and the air is cold and damp against our faces. It’s early morning and the wingrunners are all bundled in their cloaks, but they keep tight hold of their halberds, and their eyes shift warily across the landscape. Steam gently rises from the wyverns’ nostrils. We can see very little through the gloaming except for the dead, twisted trunks of trees and rocky outcrops.

Isavelle and I flew on Esmeral, who is one of the few flashes of color in this gloomy place, but I don’t like being without my dragon.

“Did the flight bring you any discomfort,sha’lenla?” I ask my queen.

Isavelle shakes her head. Fine droplets of water are collecting in her hair. “I’m fine.” She keeps her eyes fixed on our environment, hunting for movement. I’m busy cataloguing every route through which we could be ambushed, and there are many.

Isavelle seizes my arm and gasps. “Look, up there.”

Four figures are standing above us on a rocky ledge. Each wears a hunter’s black tricorn hat, and black jacket, and a long cloak, and all have black cloths swathing their faces and necks. Not even a lock of hair is visible, and their eyes are shadowed. All of them are strangers to me.

The man at the front nods slowly to us in acknowledgment, and holds his finger to where his lips are concealed. He nods to his right for us to follow, and then they all draw back out of sight. We can’t reach the top of the rocks, but there is a path through the scrub, and I presume that is where they wish us to go.

“We are not to speak with them?” Isavelle whispers, frowning at the place where the men were standing.

“I suppose we have our orders,” I mutter darkly, not enjoying the feeling of following someone else’s orders on blind trust. I glance at Esmeral, and I see that she’s focused on Isavelle, poised at the ready to fly away with the queen and protect her if there’s any sign of trouble.

I grasp my mate’s hand and whisper a reminder. “You are to stay back with me, and if there’s one sign of treachery, you are to leave immediately. On Esmeral or on a wyvern, it matters not. Esmeral and the wingrunners can defend themselves, you can’t.”

“I know,” Isavelle says, but her eyes are as hard as steel.

“Captain,” I call quietly, and Captain Ashton gives the order for the wingrunners to stay low and fan out in the direction that the man in black indicated. Several more move in other directions to search for an ambush and guard our backs.

Isavelle, Fiala, Dusan, and Esmeral remain with me, the three of us keeping the queen guarded on all sides. I walk with my sword drawn. I want to trust that this is an honest offer of an alliance because I believe the former witchfinders loathe Emmeric almost as much as I do, but I don’t trust easily these days. My reckless youth is receding further behind me now that I have both Isavelle and Sylvi to think about.

As we crest a ridge, I glimpse in the distance, at the bottom of the valley, a lone ramshackle dwelling, more hut than cottage. There are tiles missing from the roof, a smashed window here and there, and the walls appear to be crumbling. If the lich is in there, it may not care about comforts and status, but it’s difficult to believe that arrogant Prince Emmeric would consider this place fit for inhabiting.

The wingrunners are closing in around it from all sides, their bodies nearly invisible against the gray rocks. The four black figures are slinking along the valley, nearing the dwelling.

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