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“If you do not lead these men today,”
Chaol growled, “then I will.”
His father looked at him at last, his face
grave. “Your wife is pregnant.”
The shock roiled through Chaol like a
physical blow.
Yrene—Yrene—
“A skilled healer she might be, but a deft
liar, she is not. Or have you not noticed her
hand frequently resting on her stomach, or
how green she turns at mealtime?”
Such mild, casual words. As if his father
weren’t ripping the ground out from beneath
him.
Chaol opened his mouth, body tensing. To
yell at his father, to run to Yrene, he didn’t
know.
But then the bone drums stopped.
And the army began to advance.