Page 130 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Light footsteps descended the stairs. Merrick emerged. He studied Duncan for a moment, then crossed the room and lowered himself into the nearest chair.

“Duncan,” he said quietly, elbows braced on his knees. “Cairon has nearly finished the launch system for the tar canisters. We’ll be ready to strike soon.”

The words reached Duncan, but they dissolved before meaning could form. He pressed a hand to his mouth as the first sharp tremor broke free, a breath splintering into something perilously close to a sob. “I don’t care, Merrick,” he rasped. “I simply do not care.”

Merrick’s expression shifted. He moved closer and set a hand on Duncan’s shoulder, then lowered his head until his forehead rested against Duncan’s. “I know,” he murmured.

“I—I—” Duncan tried to speak, but the words collapsed in his throat.

“I know,” Merrick said again, firmer. “You needn’t say it.”

Duncan’s hand found Merrick’s arm and gripped it to keep himself from breaking apart. The years peeled back. He was a boy again, drenched and shivering after Merrick had hauled him from a well, both of them laughing in the mud. The memory felt like something glimpsed through glass, distant but warm. Hard to believe he had once known a life untouched by grief.

They parted only when new, steady footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“How is she?” Concern was carved deep into the lines beside Isander’s mouth. The surprise that crossed his face at finding Merrick bent close to Duncan vanished quickly.

“The same.” Duncan shook his head. “Perhaps, worse.”

Isander nodded once, then stepped aside as another figure swept in behind him.

Duncan was on his feet the moment he recognized her.

Yaoaya’s cloak was dark with autumn rain, the folds of her headwrap still damp from the road. The instant she stepped into the chamber she recoiled as if the air itself had struck her. She lifted a hand to her nose, and grave grey eyes searched the room.

When she saw Kora, horror flashed across her face. It hardened almost at once into fury. She wasted no time on greetings, crossed to the table, tore the blanket back with a single sweep, and took in the darkened veins and the faint flutter at Kora’s throat. Then she wheeled on Duncan, hands already slashing through the air.

“Out,” she snapped, pointing to the ceiling, the door, the stone beneath them. “Out. Away.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, then barked, “Inn. Now.”

“Yaoaya—” Duncan stepped toward her too fast. “We have healers here—”

She seized the front of his doublet with both hands and surprising strength for her frail age. Brass toggles clattered as she shook him once. “You kill her,” she hissed. A strange green light sparked in her eyes, then vanished. “No air. No breath. You keep her here, she die here.” She continued, muttering words he did not understand, cadence falling between supplication and rage. Perhaps prayers. Perhaps curses.

Duncan could only stare at her, guilt and confusion colliding in his chest.

“Get the litter!” It was Isander. “Now! And someone gather the duchess’s belongings.”

Duncan lifted Kora himself. He barely registered the bite of autumn air as they stepped aboveground. It filled his lungs and stung his eyes until he could not tell whether the blur came from the wind or from tears.

Soldiers stood throughout the camp in uneasy silence, helmets tucked beneath their arms, voices hushed beneath the weight of the moment. He should have straightened his cloak. Become their duke again.

He did not.

He could not.

“Go,” Merrick said, reading the fracture in his face. “We’ll manage here.”

Duncan gave a short nod, his throat too tight for speech. Whatever fight had driven him through months of war had drained clean away. He laid Kora carefully on the waiting pallet and followed the litter without another word.

The nearest inn was a squat, timbered house with green shutters and a crooked sign half-swallowed by ivy. Smoke curled from its eaves as the scent of hearthfire and stew drifted into the chill. Hens scratched beneath the kitchen window, heedless of armies and alliances. The sheer normalcy of it lodged in Duncan’s chest like a blade. How could the world persist in such ordinary rhythms when his own hinged on the rise and fall of one woman’s chest?

The innkeeper’s wife blanched at the sight of the duke, dropped into a curtsy so deep her knees cracked, then snapped upright and began issuing orders sharply enough to command a garrison. Yaoaya joined in with clipped gestures and harsher words.

Someone may have spoken to him. Duncan could not say. He lifted Kora from the pallet and carried her inside, anchoring himself to her weight.

“Here,” Yaoaya snapped, pointing to the bed by the window, and flung the shutters wide before unpacking her satchel. A sharp, acrid scent, like burnt radishes, filled the room as she began brewing something, thick steam rising in unpleasant ribbons.

Kora’s head tipped faintly to one side as Duncan laid her down. In daylight her skin looked even paler than it had in the mine, almost translucent against the linen. The sight cut through him anew.