the back of her neck and let her forehead drop against Dafydd’s shoulder again. “That was fast.”
“Hopefully fast enough. It was almost dawn when we entered the passageway. I’d have thought Emyr would be here by now.”
“He’ll be on the crevasse banks,” Lara said absently. “The Unseelie army will have followed him from the plains they were fighting on, to keep the fight outside the city. Taking the city is like fighting at Thermopylae. As long as they can keep the bulk of the army occupied, the city entrance can be guarded by a handful of people.” She blinked up before she was finished, astonished at herself, and Dafydd turned to give her a look of surprised admiration.
“A few days in the Barrow-lands and you’re a master tactician.”
Lara shook her head. “It’s just that I’ve ridden into the city twice now. Unless there’s a back way in, and a way past that crevasse, Emyr’s going to be stuck fighting out there. He should have gone to pitched battle on the fields,” she added thoughtfully. “Here he’s got nowhere to run. They’ll be backed up against the canyon. The Unseelie just have to push them over.”
Ioan came closer. “You mean it’s possible his army could be utterly routed. That the Seelie could be all but destroyed, if they’ve brought the fight this close to the citadel.”
“We have to stop them.” Lara clicked at the horse, trying to urge it forward even from her backseat position, but Aerin, a few yards ahead of them, raised a hand for patience.
“Whether it’s here or further out, we go to face battle, Truthseeker, and not one of us is armed for it. Outfitting ourselves now may lose a few minutes, but better that than to die for lack of arms. Ioan, can you take us to the armory?”
The Unseelie king—prince, Lara corrected herself; Hafgan, no doubt, still thought of himself as king—looked discomfited. “It’s not a place I often go.”
Aerin’s lip curled in derision. “Then I’ll find it myself.” She wheeled her horse around, even its footsteps managing to sound contemptuous.
“Wait. I should be able to find it.” Lara lifted her voice and Aerin’s shoulders tensed, though she didn’t urge her horse into a run. Lara crushed her eyes closed, bringing to mind the finely worked black-bladed swords carried by Unseelie warriors. A thrum of enthusiasm sprang up from the worldbreaking staff, as if it recognized her intention of finding other weaponry.
A path sliced through her cut-off vision, brighter and more certain than any she’d followed before. Her magic had learned: it no longer pointed to the most direct route, but instead shot through the city streets, finding a route accessible to all. The staff sang urgency, encouraging her, and Dafydd made a small sound of incredulity. It was Aerin, though, who said “Well done, Truthseeker.”
She was in motion before Lara opened her eyes, hoof-steps clattering across the city. Lara blinked after her, then drew up in astonishment herself. The path, still seared in her mind, was as bright and vivid along the citadel roads as it was in her thoughts. She said “You can see that?” unnecessarily as Dafydd put his heels to their horse and followed Aerin with Ioan a few steps behind them.
“We can. Your power is growing, Lara.” Dafydd sounded delighted.
Caution roiled through Lara as the staff exuded smugness. She curled a hand back, not quite touching it. “Power corrupts.”
Dafydd, unexpectedly, said, “And absolute power is kind of neat,” making Lara laugh and release the near- hold she had on the staff. The glaring path through the city wavered, then stabilized as she focused, determined not to lose the ease of everyone being able to see it. The staff had lent her strength: she had very little doubt of that. But it wasn’t the staff’s magic that created the true paths, a fact that rang with strong, pleased music. It was a tool at best, and one she would not come to rely on. A sense of resentment washed up from it before settling again, and Lara had a few seconds to look over the city before the pathway led them into the armory.
No one was left within the city boundaries. Nowhere visible, at least: the glittering black streets were empty in every direction, no hints of life peeping from the pathways that crossed the walls. Lara wondered if Hafgan had returned and taken his people away, as the unbroken walls and buildings didn’t suggest the city had already been sacked. And if he had, she wondered if there would be anything in the armory for them to arm themselves with, or if it would prove a useless detour.
Not too much of a detour, though: it lay closer to the city’s entrance than she’d expected, the pathway jutting down into the granite. Unlatched doors stood open and inviting, easily large enough for two riders on horseback to pass through shoulder to shoulder. A pathway wove through an enormous, globe-lit room, and Aerin made a pleased sound at the back of her throat.
Even at a glimpse, Lara could see why. Padded tunics and leggings came first on the pathway, then soft shoes, then every piece of armor a warrior could need, all in what she presumed was the most efficient order of donning them. Weapons were farther along, closer to an exit rising back to the surface. If the city came under attack, it could be protected by men and women snatching up armor and weaponry on the way to the easily defended approach. Indeed, given the size of the room and the relatively few suits and sets left, that had almost certainly happened already.
Aerin slid off her horse and stripped down, collecting new clothing as she left the old on the floor. Her bared skin was pinker than Lara thought it should be, aftereffect of the infestation Lara had sung out of her.
Dafydd, in indiscreet agreement, said, “I haven’t seen her that color since the day my mother drowned. We don’t often stay in the sun long enough to burn. Our small healing magics make it take a long time, even as pale as we are.”
“That was more than I needed to know” was a common phrase Lara got more use from than many, but using it made Dafydd laugh anyway.
“I’m sure it was. My apologies. Here.” He offered her a hand down, and together, trailed by Ioan, they sorted through trousers and tops. Lara found a padded shirt to replace the one she wore, glad to be rid of the bloodstains, but shook her head as Dafydd began offering her pieces of midnight armor.
“I’m too short.”
“And we’re too narrow.” Aerin shrugged on a chestplate irritably, demonstrating with a flick of her fingers how the shoulders sat too widely. “But ill-fitted or not, it’s better than going unarmored. Oh, phaugh, Ioan, that it fits you is not a favor.”
Ioan did a poor job of hiding a smile as he drew on armor that fit him well. “Will it make amends if I ride in front?”
Aerin’s avid agreement was almost lost beneath Lara’s stern, “That doesn’t mean you get to shoot him in the back, Aerin.”
The Seelie woman spread her hands. “I’ve nothing to shoot him with. And why would I, when he’ll be riding into the heart of battle with the enemy? Where he leads will be danger enough to a traitor.”
“A detail that might be more comforting were we all not in Unseelie garb and wearing their armor,” Dafydd pointed out. Pleasure leached out of Aerin and she stomped away, searching through the remaining weapons for one that suited her.
“You could go without helmets.” Lara waved off Dafydd’s offer of a sword, gesturing toward the staff. “This is awkward enough, and I can’t use a sword. Without helmets your coloring would give you away as Seelie.”
“Except Ioan.”
“Ioan,” Lara muttered, “has made his own bed.” Sour music ran through the phrase and she scowled, having anticipated it. Ioan, after all, was accustomed to servants and had probably never made a bed at all, but she was growing used to using the vernacular. It grated that her own expectations now got in the way of her doing so.
“I suppose he has. Lara …” Dafydd had said her name that way repeatedly now, as if it was only the beginning of what he wanted to say. They both glanced around the armory, watching Aerin curse and discard weapons as Ioan finished cinching himself into armor that fit beautifully indeed. It was as close to privacy as they’d had since Dafydd’s awakening, and he let go a quiet rush of laughter before drawing Lara into his arms. Not comfortably: he wore an armored breastplate and thigh-coverings, but his hands were un-gauntleted as he brushed fingertips over Lara’s cheek and touched his mouth to her forehead.
“You are mad,” he said quite solemnly. “Facing Merrick. Crossing back to the Barrow-lands without me. Challenging my father, and risking the Drowned Lands. Lara, forgive me if you think I lie, but I cannot imagine that I am worthy of such hazards. I owe you everything.”
Lara smiled, relaxing into his touch. Armor made it less intimate than clinging to him as they rode, but that
