He glanced up at the window and the brightening sky. He could, perhaps, justify a short delay.

He was nearly ready to go to her when his stomach clenched. That painful, familiar feeling had returned, and it was all he could do to mask it from Rehada.

It was a scene they’d played out a handful of times already. She studied him, confused but unwilling to voice her concerns when he was so clearly unwilling to share. Words of explanation nearly slipped from his mouth, but as he’d done so many times before, he remained silent. This was not something he could share with her. Not yet.

“Go,” she said, turning away from him and lying down. “And give your bride a kiss for me.”

The pain was growing worse-perhaps a sign from the ancients. Either way, he was late.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, and though he left without another word, the scent of her jasmine hair haunted him throughout the cold and empty streets.

As his pony crested the snow-covered hill, Nikandr squinted from the reflection of the morning sun. The walrus tusk cartridges on the bandolier across his chest clacked as he shifted position in the saddle. Although the wind was brisk and bitter, it had been a long ride and he had long since grown accustomed to it.

The road ahead lay empty-a change from the previous hour, which had brought a score of wagons and coaches heading in the opposite direction toward Volgorod. He could not yet see the eyrie on its high cliff, but its presence could be felt. A dozen ships, waiting for their berth, held position among the burly white clouds. The ships bore goods or dignitaries, or both, in anticipation of the coming Council. Most would return home immediately in hopes of flying the circuit again before Council finished three weeks hence, but some-those whose homes were too distant or whose master’s only purpose was to treat with the gathered royalty-would remain for the duration.