They were here because of him. He had to find a way to free them and get them back to Glasnith where they belonged.
Brokk led him into what must have been the meeting hall, a rustic structure of wood and rock, the walls decorated with the same curling ram horns the Renegades wore on their helms. A fire blazed in the center of the room, and they sat down at a table near it. Brokk called for stew and ale, and a young woman brought out a tray from the kitchens attached to the back of the hall. Reyker held a bowl in one hand, a tankard in the other, too stunned to eat or drink.
“Easy, Lagorsson. You look like you’re about to cry into your ale.” In less than a minute, Brokk’s tankard was already half empty, as was his bowl.
Reyker took a swig of the bitter liquid, letting it heat his stomach. “It doesn’t feel real. I never expected to make it home. I thought I was going to die on Glasnith.”
“You did die.” Brokk pointed a spoon at him. “According to our informants.”
“For a time.” Those months between when he washed ashore in Stony Harbor to the day Draki burned it down, between when Lira found him and when he watched her jump from the bluffs. He’d never been more alive than he had during that period he was presumed dead.
“The other Renegades want to lock you up. When Jarl Solvei returns, she’ll want to cut off pieces of you and send them to taunt the warlord. I’m the only friend you have here. The last time I saw you, you were a child taking on a villain, fighting Draki for Vaknavangur, for us, its people. I want to know how that brazen boy became the Sword of the gods-damned Dragon.”
Reyker tossed his head back, draining his tankard, clunking it against the table. “We’re going to need a few more of these.”
CHAPTER 21
LIRA
Once we were far enough out of reach, we had to abandon the longship. The ship stalled when the winds died, and we were too exposed, sitting out on open water in a boat that took more than two people to steer. Quinlan and I trudged through knee-deep surf with sacks full of supplies we’d pilfered from the ship slung over our shoulders. We held on to each other for balance, struggling to keep our footing as the current fought to suck us back out, and made it onto the black-sand beach.
The moment my foot touched shore, the bracelet on my wrist grew tighter, as if the key knew where it was and was urging me on.
There were pillars rising from the sea here, like those around Stony Harbor, but these were sharp blue-black rock instead of worn brown stone, some hollowed in the center where the ocean had carved out arches and caverns. The cliffs looming directly in front of us seemed to be made of thousands of miniature versions of those pillars, the jagged black slabs combining to form a tower of spikes.
“Up?” Quinlan asked, nodding at the cliff wall.
“Up.”
At least the jutting rock made the cliffs easy to scale, though we had to move slowly to avoid slicing ourselves open on the serrated edges. The dead wind sprang back to life as we climbed, whipping up from the sea to tug at me like restless fingers, sending waves crashing at the foot of the cliffs and spindrift misting my skin. By the time we reached the top, we were both breathing hard, our palms scratched and bloody, our clothing torn in places.
All those aches disappeared as we took in the view from atop the cliffs.
Spread out below us was a valley carpeted in green moss and yellow wildflowers, crisscrossed with dozens of meandering streams formed by snowmelt trickling down the mountainsides. The mountains themselves were scattered, lonely rock giants punching up defiantly through the earth wherever they pleased, their summits capped with snow.
“I thought it would be nothing but ice,” Quinlan whispered. “A frozen wasteland, like the legends said.”
“So did I, once.” Before Reyker showed me how wrong I’d been, how beautiful his island was, vibrant and lush outside of the winter months, except for the deepest parts of the glacial Highlands—those were frozen year-round. And, unfortunately, they were exactly where we needed to go.
“Do you know where we are?” Quinlan asked.
I shook my head. Reyker’s memories were still fresh in my mind, but they were flashes across time and place with no way to organize them into a map of the island. “We’re on the coast now. That means we have to head inland.”
To the heart of the Frozen Sun, Veronis had said. The center of Iseneld.
Quinlan swept his arm out and bowed. “Lead the way, Lady Lira, enchanter of sea creatures, explorer of uncharted terrain.”
I unstrapped the ice axes from the supply sack and handed one to Quinlan. They’d be essential on the glacier, and for now we could use them as walking sticks. I skidded down the rocky slope in my stolen boots to the floor of the valley, with Quinlan right behind me. From there, we picked our way over a rock field buried under moss and tussock grass. The air was cool, but the valley was protected from the gusting wind. I was dressed in clothes I’d found on the ship—a heavy wool coat that came to my knees, and trousers so loose I’d had to tie them with rope just to keep them from falling off. For the first time since we’d left Glasnith, I felt warm.
Quinlan was dressed similarly, looking almost at ease. It was his nature, adapting to whatever the circumstances required without losing his wit or composure. I envied it.
“What do you think Garreth and Zabelle are doing right now?” he asked.
“Arguing.”
They were both alive—that was the first thing Quinlan had said after we’d sailed out of sight of Solvei’s fleet, filling in what I’d missed while Solvei dragged me down to the longship in Stalwart Bay. When the drawbridge collapsed, the wind-wafter had used the last of her strength to slow Zabelle’s fall. She’d suffered a broken ankle, nothing more. Garreth helped her onto a horse and gave the command to retreat. Zabelle led the Daughters of Aillira and the nomads out of the village, bow in hand, taking down anyone who tried to stop them. Few did. The Renegades and Dragonmen were too busy killing one another.
Garreth had debated coming after me. It was Quinlan who convinced him to stay so he could lead the nomads and reunite the clans of Glasnith, because our country needed its prince. Quinlan had to come in his friend’s place, to follow me wherever I was taken and keep me as safe as he could.
“Maybe Solvei and her warriors killed all the Dragonmen,” Quinlan said. “Maybe Garreth is already prince of Glasnith.”
“She only stopped in coastal villages that were on her route, only killed the Dragonmen who didn’t run. The Dragonmen are spread too far. I’m sure she thinned their numbers, but the way Draki bragged about being an emperor . . . I doubt he’d have left Glasnith if he thought he’d lose control over the island. And there’s still Madoc and the mercenaries, Draki’s supposed allies, to contend with. Not to mention the god of death.”