Page 122 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“It’s all right,” Koraleise whispered. “I’ll rest here a moment.”

Isander looked to Duncan for direction.

Duncan gave none. He only stared at his wife, pressing her pale hand to his cheek, as though losing sight of her was the greatest terror he could imagine.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs.

Garric appeared, expression grim. “Kryovarre is here.”

Duncan looked up, and for the first time in all the years Isander had known him, his composure was entirely gone. Not even battle had ever stripped him so bare.

“Rensaya and I will stay with her,” Lyra urged gently, kneeling at Koraleise’s side.

Duncan hesitated, torn clean through: duty drawing him toward the stairs, something far more personal holding him in place.

“Go,” Koraleise whispered. She swallowed. “I’ll be better by the time you return.”

Only after a long moment of stillness, he finally nodded. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her brow, letting his hand linger a fraction too long before withdrawing. Then he walked toward the stairs like a man half-absent from his body, each step carried by will rather than habit.

Isander followed, unease coiling in his chest.

A scuff of boots sounded on the stairs behind them.

He turned and found Merrick following. “What are you doing?” Isander demanded, stepping down a step and planting a hand against Merrick’s chest.

Merrick cocked his head, infuriatingly at ease even now. “If a derDobroiov means to stand within speaking distance of Duncan, I intend to stand closer.”

“You are a wanted man in Kryovarre,” Isander snapped. “If Valdir recognizes you, he’ll hang you before the hour is out. Your head is worth more to him than any mine in Ardennesse.”

“Ah.” A low laugh escaped Merrick. “So you do still care about me.”

“This is no time for humor.”

Merrick’s grin faded.

“Andy,” he said more quietly, “you and I know better than most what the derDobroiovs are capable of. And just like you, I would give my life to keep Duncan breathing.”

Isander clenched his jaw. He despised how easily he believed him.

“Fine,” he muttered at last, stepping back. “But stay hidden.”

Merrick pulled up his hood, shadow swallowing the angles of his face. “Always do.”

Isander gave him one last searching look, then resumed climbing after Duncan.

They had chosen a canvas tent just beyond the main sweep of camp for the meeting. Garric stood waiting at the entrance, jaw set. Merrick drifted in their wake as they approached, then dissolved into shadow along the outer wall.

“Wait here.” Isander lifted a hand toward Duncan, feeling, unexpectedly, a measure of reassurance in Merrick’s presence. “Let us see the room first.”

A tight nod.

Isander slipped inside after Garric. The tent smelled of oiled canvas and stale bread. Crates were stacked high around the walls, a single wooden table placed at its center.

Valdir stood behind it with two large guards flanking him. He looked carved from winter stone, eyes cold as steel left in frost. The man who had taken so much from him. This close.

“Your Grace,” Isander said, forcing a shallow bow. “We must ensure you are unarmed.”

Valdir spread his hands with theatrical ease. “If I had intended the young derWhitte dead, Captain, it would already be done.”