“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.
? ? ?
The woman in the mirror ran a hand over the pale stubble covering her head, a frown creasing her smooth brow. It’ll grow back, she knew. Maybe not keep it so long this time. Lyrna turned her attention to the skin where the burns had been most severe, finding the healing hadn’t left her completely unmarked after all. There were faint pale lines visible in the flesh around her eyes, thin and irregular tracks from her brow into her hairline. She recalled something the Mahlessa’s poor, confused vessel had said that day beneath the mountain. Not there yet . . . The marks of your greatness.
Lyrna stood back from the mirror a little, angling her head to study how the marks looked in the light from the tent opening, finding they faded somewhat in direct sunlight. Something shifted in the mirror and she noticed Iltis over her shoulder, quickly averting his gaze, clutching the bandaged hand that protruded from the sleeve of his sling. He had shambled into the tent an hour ago, pushing Benten aside and collapsing to his knees before her. He had been stumbling through a plea for forgiveness when he glanced up and saw her face, falling to instant silence.
“You should be abed, my lord,” she told him.
“I . . .” Iltis had blinked, tears shining in his eyes. “I will never leave your side, Highness. I gave my word.”
Am I his new Faith? she wondered now, watching him in the mirror as he swayed a little, shaking his head and stiffening his back. The old one proved a disappointment, so now he finds devotion in me.
The tent opening parted and Vaelin entered with a bow. “The army stands ready, Highness.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She held out a hand to Orena, who stood holding the hooded fox-trimmed cloak she had chosen from the mountain of clothing Lady Reva had been overly pleased to provide. Orena came forward and draped the cloak over her shoulders whilst Murel knelt to proffer the impractical but elegant shoes for her royal feet. “Well,” she said, stepping into the shoes and pulling the hood over her face. “Let’s be about it.”