Tower of Dawn (Throne of Glass #6) by Sarah J. Maas

Kadara settled herself near one of the three faces, folding in her wings tightly. They’d stopped once earlier—to let Kadara feed and for them to see to their needs—so the ruk wouldn’t have to seek out dinner in these barren mountains. Belly still full, Kadara now seemed content to doze.

“Yes,” Nesryn admitted, tugging free the leather strap around the base of her short braid and finger-combing her hair. Tangles snared on her still-freezing fingers as she coaxed them away, grateful that the task kept her from shuddering at the memory of the witches and their mounts. “Kadara is probably two-thirds to half the size of a wyvern. Maybe. Is she large or small, for a ruk?”

“I thought you’d heard all the stories about me.”

Nesryn snorted, shaking out her hair a final time as she approached the bedroll and food he’d laid out for her. “Do you know they call you the Winged Prince?”

A ghost of a smile. “Yes.”

“Do you like the title?” She settled on the roll, crossing her legs beneath her.

Sartaq passed her the tin of fruits, beckoning her to eat. She didn’t bother to wait for him before she dug in, the grapes cool thanks to the hours in the crisp air.

“Do I like the title?” he mused, tearing off a piece of bread and passing it to her. She took it with a nod of thanks. “It’s strange, I suppose. To become a story while you are still alive.” A sidelong glance at her while he ripped into his bread. “You yourself are surrounded by some living tales. How do they feel about it?”

“Aelin certainly enjoys it.” She’d never met another person with so many names and titles—and who enjoyed bandying them about so much. “The others … I don’t suppose I know them well enough to guess. Though Aedion Ashryver … he takes after Aelin.” She popped another grape into her mouth, her hair swaying as she leaned forward to pluck a few more into her palm. “They’re cousins, but act more like siblings.”

A considering look. “The Wolf of the North.”

“You’ve heard of him?”

Sartaq passed the tin of cured meats, letting her pick through which slices she wanted. “I told you, Captain Faliq, my spies do their jobs well.”

A careful line—nudging him toward a potential alliance was a careful line to walk. Look too eager, praise her companions too much and she’d be transparent, but to do nothing … It went against her very nature. Even as a city guard, her day off had usually sent her looking for something to do, whether it was a walk through Rifthold or helping her father and sister prepare the next day’s goods.

Wind-seeker, her mother had once called her. Unable to keep still, always wandering where the wind calls you. Where shall it beckon you to journey one day, my rose?

How far the wind had now called her.

Nesryn said, “Then I hope your spies have told you that Aedion’s Bane is a skilled legion.”

A vague nod, and she knew Sartaq saw right through all her plans. But he finished off his part of the bread and asked, “And what are the tales they tell about you, Nesryn Faliq?”

She chewed on the salted pork. “No one has any stories about me.”

It didn’t bother her. Fame, notoriety … She valued other things more, she supposed.

“Not even the story about the arrow that saved a shape-shifter’s life? The impossible shot fired from a rooftop?”

She snapped her head toward him. Sartaq only swigged from his water with a look that said, I told you my spies were good.

“I thought Arghun was the one who dealt in covert information,” Nesryn said carefully.

He passed the waterskin. “Arghun’s the one who boasts about it. I’d hardly call it covert.”

Nesryn drank a few mouthfuls of water and lifted a brow. “But this is?”

Sartaq chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.”

The shadows grew deeper, longer, the wind picking up. She studied the rock around them, the packs. “You won’t risk a fire.”

A shake of his head, his dark braid swaying. “It’d be a beacon.” He frowned at her leathers, the packs lumped around them. “I have heavy blankets—somewhere in there.”

They fell into silence, eating while the sun vanished and stars began to blink awake among the last, vibrant ribbon of blue. The moon herself appeared, bathing the campsite with enough light to see by as they finished up, the prince sealing the tins and tucking them back into the packs.

Across the space, Kadara began to snore, a deep wheeze that rumbled through the rock.

Sartaq chuckled. “Apologies if that keeps you awake.”

Nesryn just shook her head. Sharing a campsite with a ruk, in the mountains high above the grassy plains below, the Winged Prince beside her … No, her family would not believe it.

They watched the stars quietly, neither making a move to sleep. One by one, the rest of the stars emerged, brighter and clearer than she’d seen since those weeks on the ship here. Different stars, she realized with a jolt, than those up north.

Different, and yet these stars had burned for countless centuries above her ancestors, above her father himself. Had it been strange for him to leave them behind? Had he missed them? He’d never spoken of it, what it was like to move to a land with foreign stars—if he’d felt adrift at night.

“Neith’s Arrow,” Sartaq said after uncounted minutes, leaning back against the rock.