Rowan’s throat had gone tight at the mention of his da. Though he’d passed several years ago, the wound still felt fresh. Everyone said the pain of loss would be easier to bear with time, but he hadn’t yet learned how to lighten that load from his shoulders.
“Thank you, Ewan. But maybe I ought to at least put on a shirt.” Rowan forced a reassuring grin. “I seemed to have given your daughter the wrong impression earlier.”
Ewan snorted and put an arm around Rowan as they walked. “Tessa means well. She’s a good woman, Rowan.”
“I’m aware of her merits, Ewan. But…”
“I know, lad.” Ewan patted his shoulders. “Losing Ambra was hard for us all, especially her. She’s just looking for any piece of her sister to cling to, and she knows you two were close. This fancy she has for you will pass. Give it a while longer. In the meantime…” Ewan shoved him forward. “Go get yourself a proper shirt.”
Rowan laughed and spun around to walk backward. “You’ll let me know when the Crows have been spotted on the horizon?”
“Aye, ya know I will.”
Rowan’s heart fluttered in his chest, and he practically skipped away in search of a shirt. It’d been three weeks since he sailed away from Brucia. Three weeks since he’d last seen both Ieduin and Rixxis, though he had thought of them every day with growing fondness. He’d considered writing, but couldn’t risk the letters being intercepted by Trinta’s agents. If they knew that his affections for both Rixxis and Ieduin extended beyond a professional partnership, the Trintan crown would use that information against him.
As much as he wished otherwise, no number of Crows would win him this war. It would be won and lost in the hearts and minds of the men who fought it. A small but inspired force fought with the strength of an army ten times its size.
And so, he had begun a very dangerous sort of dance along the razor's edge, a dance wherein he had to court disaster without becoming it.
Three
Arynheldupafist. Behind him, two dozen carts, two hundred Crows, fifty Elven merchants, and their accompanying staff, ground to a halt.
Ahead, down in the valley, D’thallanar stretched as far and wide as the eye could see. At the center of the city, great pagodas stood like ancient trees, the bright red arches visible even at that distance.
Mercia sucked in a breath and adjusted the cloak hood over her head. “Divine have mercy. That’s all one city?”
“More like thirteen small cities all crammed together,” Ruith answered. The Crow’s horse stamped impatiently against the soft, dry earth. “Twelve million souls.”
D’thallanar was all one city, even if it acted like many smaller cities. Though there was only supposed to be one governing body for the whole place, the reality was much more complex. Each of the twelve clans ruled the streets around their clan house with an iron fist. Territory lines were clearly drawn between one clan and another. Crossing those lines without permission could be an act of war, starting a decades-long feud between families. Or, if done correctly, it could unite clans for generations.
Somehow, they had to make all twelve clans—and the Yeutlands—work together.
He turned his head, eying Mercia next to him and wondering for the thousandth time if bringing her was a mistake. She would have been safer back in Brucia, or with Eris. D’thallanar could be a deadly place, and as a human, she would be in more danger than most.
“You have that look again,” she said without turning her head.
“What look?” he huffed. “And how would you know since you’re not looking at me?”
Mercia turned her head, eyebrow raised at him. “The look that says you would have left me tied to a wall for my safety.”
“D’thallanar is not a safe place,” Aryn explained, and they started forward again at a slower pace. “And it will be incredibly foreign to you. There will be much you won’t understand.”
“And your Elvish is still terrible,” Ruith added with a grunt.
Aryn shot the Crow a glare, even though it was true. Mercia had been trying to learn, but her mother tongue was much too clunky. She was not used to the subtle differences in tone. Even if she’d learned that, the customs and traditions that were second nature to him would be strange to her. The elves rarely tolerated strong-willed and outspoken humans, let alone females.
Mercia frowned. “Surely they speak the common tongue.”
“Though most can, few will,” Aryn said. “Even among the slaves. Many clans outlaw it. Some warlords will cut out the tongues of their slaves as a punishment for using it.”
“I will have to perfect my Elvish then,” she said in Elvish, or tried to. Anyone who’d been born and raised in D’thallanar would find her accent deplorable.
Aryn exchanged a glance with Ruith, who chuckled.
Mercia scowled. “Don’t you look at him. If I’m a poor Elvish speaker, it’s only because you’re a poor teacher, Aryn.”
“It can’t possibly be because you’re too stubborn to learn,” Aryn replied dryly.