“Where are we going?” Vhalla whispered to Elecia, noticing the tent they were walking toward.
“You think I wouldn’t let you see him before you left?” Elecia glanced at Vhalla from the corners of her eyes, cementing their unorthodox relationship into friendship.
“If the Emperor finds out ...” Vhalla glanced over her shoulder, remembering what Elecia had said earlier.
“He won’t.”
Vhalla saw the source of the other woman’s confidence standing on either side of the tent. The two soldiers were dressed entirely in black plate, identifying them as members of the Black Legion—sorcerers. They were unfamiliar to Vhalla, nameless, but Vhalla tried to remember their faces as they let her pass silently. These were the faces of good men.
A single flame, hovering over a metal disk in the far corner, barely gave enough light to see by. It was so small that the tent had looked completely dark underneath all the camouflaging brush. The atmosphere was oppressive. It stank of blood and body and death.
Vhalla fell to her knees at the sight of him, a hand covering her mouth to keep from crying out with joy, with anguish.
Aldrik’s eyes were swollen closed with the bruising on his face. Blankets were piled high atop him, but every now and then his body would shudder as if cold. That and the slow rise and fall of his chest were the only signs of life. Every part of him was covered in yellow gauze, stained with puss. But the most concerning thing of all was the large wound on the side of his head that relentlessly seeped blood.
Vhalla reached out and grabbed the prince’s bandaged hand, clinging to it. His right hand, the hand that had written her letters, the hand that had tangled itself into her hair as she slept, the hand that held her face when he kissed her; it was a wonderful hand of endless possibilities that now rested completely limp in her grasp.
“How could you do this to me?” Vhalla rasped, trying to keep sobs from escaping her chest and waking the camp.
“To show you,” Elecia said solemnly.
“To break me.” Vhalla brought her eyes up to Aldrik’s face once more, the sight of it slicing like an invisible sword from her throat down into her stomach. All the strength she had mustered was gone. The resolve had vanished with his nearness. She couldn’t leave his side now. She couldn’t.
“To show you that if you don’t do this, he will die,” Elecia whispered. “Your attempt is foolish and very likely to kill you and him. He would be upset with me for supporting it. But I value his life far more than yours.”
Vhalla gave a weak little chuckle. “We have more in common than we previously thought.” She smiled and received a small smile in return.
“I will hold up my end of the bargain; I will keep him alive for seven more days, at least. You have my word,” Elecia vowed. “It won’t be that long.” Vhalla stared at her prince, her chest filling with painful longing. She cupped his cheek gently, but he didn’t stir. “I will be the wind.”
“Here.” Elecia held out a few papers. “That’s what I need from the first riders and the main host behind them. Take that to Head Major Jax; no one else.”
Vhalla recognized the name of the Head Major of the Black Legion and accepted the parchment along with a compass.
“Jax will take care of Aldrik. I trust him.” Elecia’s confidence made Vhalla take note of this person. Clearly he had passed some tests with this woman, a woman with whom Vhalla was working to build a rapport.
The Windwalker turned once more to the comatose prince. She wasn’t going to say that fateful word of farewell. Instead, boldly, Vhalla leaned forward and placed a kiss on his chapped and broken lips. Elecia didn’t move or make comment, her silence speaking volumes of her acceptance of Vhalla’s relationship with the crown prince.
Baston was kept on the edge of camp, and Vhalla walked from Aldrik’s tent in dread-filled silence. There was a woman in Vhalla who was self-assured, confident, and capable. It was a woman who would save her prince—again—and conquer the North. She clashed starkly with the girl who wanted to hide her grief-filled face from the world, to curl under Aldrik’s blankets and leave their fate to the Gods. If they lived or died they would do it at each other’s side.
The War-strider didn’t neigh or stomp as Vhalla approached. She held out her hand and it waited expectantly. Her palm rested on Baston’s large nose, dwarfed by its size. The horse huffed impatiently. Vhalla’s mouth curled upward in sorrowful understanding. She was impatient as well.
“I’ve never seen him let another approach him,” a woman whispered in the night.
Vhalla and Elecia turned, panicking that they had been discovered. Major Reale stood a few steps away, her arms laden with chainmail and a small messenger bag. Neither said anything to the older woman.