Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 56: The Beginning or the End

She had to be right.

Otherwise, they were dead.

Dozens of footsteps crunched over the frozen grass. Ryne tensed.

"One minute, Cidarius," Ryne muttered. "Then I'm killing people."

Her mouth felt dry. "Hold fire."

Thirty seconds passed. The footsteps drew nearer.

Ryne drew his sword. A figure stepped into the light and Ryne tensed, half-rearing back as if to swing. Then he relaxed, his face incredulous.

"Tristan?" Ryne demanded.

Tristan's smile was tired. "Nice of you to provide a welcoming committee. Although I could have done without a sword pointing at my face."

Ryne strode forward. The two young men embraced, pulling back with identical grins. Tristan's hair was dusty, and his grey cloak was torn in several places, pockmarked with blood and dirt. But it was his eyes that caught Anna's attention; there was a harder glint to them now, as if he'd seen things. Things he wasn't likely to forget.

Tristan gripped her shoulders. "You're okay?"

"Yeah." Anna's throat was tight. "You're also in one piece?"

His fingers dug in. "Yeah."

They studied each other. She wondered if Tristan was imagining the same thing she was: cold stone walls, manacles clamped to their wrists, the sound of Eris's soft laughter... Sweat beaded the back of her neck. She didn't want to hurt Tristan, but it was like rebreaking an arm to set it: some pain was a necessary evil.

"Tristan," Anna said. "I'm not sure if you got my letter, but there's something you need to know." She steeled herself. "Lucia's alive, and she's—"

"I know," Tristan said. "Halson's ships weren't far behind us." He stepped back. "I've brought company."

Thousands of torches blazed to life. Anna's breath snagged in her chest. She felt suddenly dizzy, as if she'd been running for miles.

"You did it," Anna said. "You convinced Talulla."

Tristan's mouth flattened. "Just about. The princess is still in Salvatoria, but she's given us use of her army for as long as the battle lasts." He raised an arm. "This is her chief commander, Faolan."

A young man stepped forward. He had the typical Salvatorian colouring — shiny dark hair and coal-black eyes — and he was dressed in fighting leathers. Several badges gleamed on his chest. He dipped his head.

"Your Majesty," Faolan said.

Anna stilled. The stranger was looking at her. Not at Ryne. Before she had a chance to process that, Tristan was speaking again. "And I've brought someone else."

Ryne's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

Tristan's mouth tightened. "Just hear him out."

A young man stepped forward. He was dressed in a worn cloak, and his auburn hair was so caked with mud that it looked brown. He was limping, one hand pressed to his back. Anna gripped her knife so tightly that the metal threatened to split her skin.

Shit.

"Anna," Owain said calmly. "Ryne."

"You," Ryne snarled.

He lunged. Shouts rang out as Ryne's fist collided with Owain's jaw. There was a sickening crack, and Owain's head flew back. The faerie prince stumbled. Blue blood gushed from his nose, sliding over his chin, and Tristan ran towards him. Ryne started forward — as if to swing again — and Anna caught the back of his tunic. Her heart was a wheel, spinning so fast that she might be sick.