Page 126 of Of Iron and Moonlight

He drew his knees toward his chest. “How long have I been here?”

“Several weeks,” she said solemnly.

It had felt like years. He shut his eyes hard, holding back his own tears that threatened.

After a moment she asked quietly, “What is your real name?”

He rocked slightly. “I am nobody.”

“No,” she said fiercely. “What is your name?”

He lifted his head and met her eyes. “I told them—I told them I am nobody.”

Elara’s fingers slipped through the bars again and brushed his cheek. The gentleness startled him more than any blow, and something deep inside him broke. He recoiled and pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob.

“You are not nobody,” she said firmly, undiscouraged. “Do not say that again.”

He stilled, defeated. Took a deep breath. And for the first time in over two years, forced the truth past his ruined voice.

“I’m Gavriel.”

“Gavriel,” Elara echoed, then smiled through the sorrow. “We will free you. I swear it.”

A rough laugh scraped from his throat. “I am going to die here.”

“You are not,” she said steadily. “I will personally ensure that you live.”

He nodded absently, too drained to argue a moot point. Then a fragile thought flickered. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“The Duke of Lemierre must know,” he said, ignoring the ache in his chest. “Oorlon is colluding with Kryovarre. There is a Kryovarri spy in Vaelstrom Palace. They will attack in winter.” He paused, thinking of the man who had spared his life. “Send a raven.”

Both their heads snapped toward the corridor as a distant door creaked open.

“I will.” Elara’s jaw tightened. “You just hold on for now.” She drew a vial with green contents from her cloak, uncorked it, and swallowed. Her form shimmered, blurred, then dissolved into the air as the draught took hold.

Gavriel was alone again.

Alone in an endless waking nightmare of iron and moonlight.

Chapter 60

Njall

Snow drifted softly through the air, settling over the Niverna peaks in spirals. Njall crouched low against the slope, breath clouding before him as he tried, with little success, to blend into the white wilderness. He looked down at himself and grunted. His dark hair could not be helped. But black leather from collar to boot, and a dark cloak to match, was a spectacular failure of judgment. Against the snow, even at night, he might as well have been a banner.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Truly inspired camouflage.” He scraped a little snow over his shoulder as if that might help and lowered himself further behind a jagged outcrop. From there he had a clear view of the prison entrance, a bleak mouth carved into the mountainside.

Two guards watched the gate. Two more patrolled the perimeter, their boots cutting a steady circuit through the snow. Njall tracked them closely, noting the time between crossings, and thought himself mad for agreeing to Elara’s reckless plan.

He relaxed, only slightly, when faint impressions finally began to form in the snow. Light, careful steps making their way back toward him.

Then he went rigid. The air ahead of the tracks shimmered, a thin distortion taking shape where nothing should have been as the draught’s fragile veil unraveled. In the open. Yards still to go between her and safety.

His hand slid to the hilt of a blade across his back. His focus snapped to the guards. He watched the tilt of their heads, the slightest shift in posture that might signal suspicion. One wrong glance, one glint off her forming outline—

Elara broke through the thinning illusion in the final stretch and launched into a run.