Cinda Williams Chima

“I know that,” Han said. “I’m trying my best. This is new to me, too.” He took a ragged breath. “So here’s the truth—I love you. I love everything about you—the way you stick up for people even when it costs you. The way you keep trying to do the right thing even when you’re not exactly sure what the right thing is. I love how you put words together. You’re as skilled with words as any knife fighter with a blade. You can put an enemy down on his back, or you can raise people up so they find what’s best in themselves.” He paused. “You’ve changed my life. You’ve given me the words I need to become whatever I want.”

“I’ve nearly cost you your life,” Raisa felt compelled to say. “I don’t know that—”

“I love how you talk to lytlings,” Han broke in. “You don’t talk down to them. You respect them, and anybody can tell you’re actually interested in what they have to say.”

Putting up a hand to prevent any further disclaimers, he barreled on. “I love the way you ride a horse—how you stick there like an upland thistle, whooping like a Demonai. I love the way you throw back your head and stomp your feet when you dance. I love how you go after what you want—whether it’s kisses or a queendom.”

Then why is it I so rarely get what I want? Raisa thought.

But maybe it’s better to go after something, and not get it, than to not even try.

Han turned her hands palms up, cradling them in his. “I love your skin, like copper dusted over with gold. And your eyes—they’re the color of a forest lake shaded by evergreens. One of the secret places that only the Demonai know about.”

He let go of her hands, reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears on either side. “I love the scent of you—when you’ve been out in the fresh air, and that perfume you put behind your ears sometimes.” His fingers brushed across the pulse points, making her skin pebble up.

She’d no idea he’d noticed. She loved that he’d noticed. That’s what you do when you love someone—you notice and notice and notice.

Han smiled as if reading her thoughts. “Believe it or not, I even love your road smell—of sweat and horses and leather and wool.” He closed his eyes, breathed in, opened his eyes again as if to assure himself she was still there. “I want to breathe you in for the rest of my life.”

“We are imprisoned by history, and so we repeat the mistakes of the past. If I make mistakes, they are going to be all my own.”

Crow stared at the woman, too, his mouth literally hanging open. He swallowed hard. “Alister. Is this…is this some kind of cruel joke?”

“The Gray Wolf queens live on as wolves,” Han said, desperately hoping this wouldn’t turn out to be a disaster. “I’m told that only the descendants of Hanalea can see them, but I created a sending so that Dancer could, too. The queens carry wizard blood from before the Breaking, and so I thought maybe…”

But Crow didn’t seem to be listening. “Hana?” he whispered, his face a landscape of grief, hope, and longing.

She smiled, and it was like unshuttering a lamp. She took a step forward, extending her arms. “Alger,” she said, her voice low and musical. “I did not believe them when they said you still lived.” She swallowed hard, tears streaming down her cheeks. “There is so much I have to say to you.”

Crow walked toward her, arms outstretched like a man in a dream, which he was, in a way.

Sometimes a dream is enough.