“Kill him,” she ordered the silver-haired Fae royals, her heart thundering.
No one dared tell her to burn him herself.
Endymion raised a hand, and the Valg-possessed man began gasping. Yet not before his eyes darkened wholly, until no white shone.
Not from the death sweeping over him. But as he seemed to convey a message down a long, obsidian bond.
The message that might doom them: Aelin Galathynius was not here.
“Enough of this,” Aedion snarled, and fear—real fear blanched his face as he, too, realized what the messenger had just relayed to his master.
The Sword of Orynth flashed, black blood spraying, and the man’s head tumbled to the rug-covered ground.
In the silence, Lysandra panted, lifting her hand from her arm to survey the wound. The cut was not deep, but it would be tender for a few hours.
Ansel of Briarcliff sheathed her wolf-headed sword and gripped Lysandra’s shoulder, her red hair swaying as she assessed the injury, then the corpse. “Nasty little pricks, aren’t they?”
Aelin would have had some swaggering answer to set them all chuckling, but Lysandra couldn’t find the words. She just nodded as the black stain inched over the tent floor. The Fae royals sniffed at the reek, grimacing.
“Clean up this mess,” Darrow ordered no one in particular. Even as his hands shook slightly.
By the tent flaps, Nox was gaping at the decapitated Valg. His gray eyes met hers, searching, and then lowered. “He didn’t have a ring,” Nox murmured.
Snatching up a dangling edge of tablecloth from the untouched refreshment table, Aedion wiped the Sword of Orynth clean. “He didn’t need one.”
Erawan knew Aelin was not with them. That a shifter had taken her place.
Aedion stalked through the camp, Lysandra-as-Aelin at his heels. “I know,” he said over his shoulder, for once ignoring the warriors who saluted him.
She kept following him anyway. “What should we do?”
He didn’t stop until he reached his own tent, the reek of that Valg messenger clinging in his nose. That whip of blackness spearing for Lysandra still burning behind his eyes. Her cry of pain ringing in his ears.
His temper roiled, howling for an outlet.
She followed him into the tent. “What should we do?” she asked again.
“How about we start with making sure there aren’t any other messengers lurking in the camp,” he snarled, pacing. The Fae royals had already conveyed that order, and were sending out their best scouts.
“He knows,” she breathed. He whirled to face her, finding his cousin—finding Lysandra shaking. Not Aelin, though she’d been plenty convincing today. Better than usual. “He knows what I am.”
Aedion rubbed his face. “He also seems to know we’re going to Orynth. Wants us to do just that.”
She slumped onto his cot, as if her knees couldn’t hold her upright. For a heartbeat, the urge to sit beside her, to pull her to him, was so strong he nearly yielded to it.
The tang of her blood filled the space, along with the wild, many-faced scent of her. It dragged a sensual finger down his skin, whetting his rage into something so deadly he might have very well killed the next male who entered this tent.
“Erawan might hear the news and worry,” Aedion said when he could think again. “He might wonder why she isn’t here, and if she’s about to do something that will hurt him. It could force him to show his hand.”
“Or to strike us now, with his full might, when he knows we’re weakest.”
“We’ll have to see.”
“Orynth will be a slaughterhouse,” she whispered, her shoulders curving beneath the weight—not just of being a woman thrust into this conflict, but a woman playing another, who might be able to pretend, but only so far. Who did not truly have the power to halt the hordes marching north. She’d been willing to shoulder that burden, though. For Aelin. For this kingdom.
Even if she’d lied to him about it, she’d been willing to accept this weight.
Aedion slumped down beside her and stared blankly at the tent walls. “We’re not going to Orynth.”
Her head lifted. Not just at the words, but at how close he sat. “Where are we going, then?”
Aedion surveyed his suit of armor, oiled and waiting on a dummy across the tent. “Sol and Ravi will take some of their men back to the coast to make sure that we don’t encounter any more attacks from the sea. They’ll rendezvous with what’s left of the Wendlynian fleet while Galan and his soldiers stay with us. We’ll march as one army down to the border.”
“The other lords voted against it.” Indeed they had, the old fools.
He’d danced with treason for the past decade. Had made it an art form. Aedion smiled slightly. “Leave that to me.”
The Bane were loyal to none but Aelin Galathynius.
So were the allies she’d gathered. And the forces of Ren Allsbrook and Ravi and Sol of Suria.
And so, apparently, was Nox Owen.
Yet it was Lysandra, not Aedion, who made their flight possible.
She’d been walking back to her own tent—to Aelin’s tent, not fit for a queen, but an army captain—when Nox fell into step beside her. Silent and graceful. Well-trained. And likely more lethal than he appeared.
“So, Erawan knows you’re not Aelin.”
She whipped her head to him. “What?” A quick, vague question to buy herself time. Had Aedion risked telling him the truth?
Nox gave her a half smile. “I figured as much when I saw the surprise on that demon’s face.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“Am I? Or do you not remember me at all?”
She did her best to look down her nose at him, even as the messenger-thief towered over her. Aelin had never mentioned a Nox Owen. “Why should I remember one of Darrow’s lackeys?”
“A decent attempt, but Celaena Sardothien looked a little more amused when she cut men into ribbons.”
He knew—who Aelin was, what she’d been. Lysandra said nothing, and kept walking toward her tent. If she told Aedion, how quickly could Nox be buried under the frozen earth?
“Your secret is safe,” Nox murmured. “Celaena—Aelin was a friend. Is still one, I’d hope.”
“How.” She’d admit no more than that regarding her role in this.
“We fought in the competition together at the glass castle.” He snorted. “I had no idea until today. Gods, I was there for Minister Joval as a spy for the rebels. It was my first time out of Perranth. My first time, and I wound up unwittingly training alongside my queen.” He laughed, low and amazed. “I’d been working with the rebels for years, even as a thief. They wanted me to be their inside eyes on the castle, the king’s plans. I reported the strange goings-on until it became too dangerous. Until Cel—Aelin warned me to run. I listened, and came back here. Joval is dead. Fell in a skirmish with a band of rebels by the border this spring. Darrow plucked me up to be his own messenger and spy. So here I am.” A sidelong glance at her, awe still on his face. “I am at your disposal, even if you’re not … you.” He angled his head. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Aelin.”
Nox smiled knowingly. “Fair enough.”
Lysandra paused before the queen’s too-small tent, nestled between Aedion’s and Ren’s own. “What’s the cost of your silence? Or does Darrow already know?”
“Why would I tell him? I serve Terrasen, and the Galathynius family. I always have.”
“Some might say Darrow has a strong claim to the throne, given his relationship with Orlon.”
“I realized today that the assassin I came to call a friend is actually the queen I believed dead. I think the gods are pointing me in a certain direction, don’t you?”
She lingered between the tent flaps. Delicious warmth beckoned within. “And if I were to tell you we needed your help tonight, and that the risk was being branded a traitor?”
Nox only sketched a bow. “Then I’d say I owe my friend Celaena
a favor for her warning at the castle, plus saving my life before that.”
She didn’t know why she trusted him. But she’d developed an instinct for men that had always proved correct, even if she had been unable to act on it in the past. Had only been able to brace herself for them.
But Nox Owen—the kindness in his face was true. His words were true. Another ally Aelin had wrangled for them, this time unwittingly.
She knew Aedion would agree to the plan, even if he still hated her. So Lysandra leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Then listen carefully.”
It was done quietly and without a trace.
Every intricate element played out without issue, as if the gods themselves aided them.
At dinner, Nox Owen laced the wine he’d personally served—as a groveling apology for letting in the Valg soldier—to Lords Darrow, Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood. Not to kill them, but to send them into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Even a roaring bear couldn’t wake this lout, Ansel of Briarcliff had sniffed when she’d stood over Lord Gunnar’s cot, lifted his limp arm, and let it drop.
The lord didn’t stir, and Lysandra, wearing a field mouse’s form and tucked into the shadows behind the queen, deemed it proof enough.
The four lords’ loyal banner men also found themselves sleeping deeply that night, courtesy of the wine that Galan Ashryver, Ilias, Ren, and Ravi had made sure was handed out at their fires.
And when they all awoke the next day, there was only whipping snow beyond their tents.
The camp was gone.
The army with it.
CHAPTER 18
No one in Anielle or the gray-stoned keep looming over its southern edge shouted with alarm at the ruk that descended from the skies and alit upon the battlements.
The keep sentries who’d been on watch had only drawn their weapons, one racing into the dim interior, and pointed them at Chaol and Yrene as they slid off the mighty bird.
The cold on the open ocean was nothing compared to the wind off the wall of mountains the city had been built against, or the blistering chill from the sprawling Silver Lake it curved around, so flat that it looked like a mighty mirror spread beneath the gray sky.
Yrene knew Anielle’s layout was as familiar to Chaol as his own body—and knew, from the memories she’d seen in his soul and what he’d told her these months, that the gray shingles of the roofs had been hewn from the slate quarries just to the south, the timber of the houses taken from the tangle of Oakwald lurking beyond the flat plain that bordered the southern side of the lake. A small offshoot of peaks jutted like an arm from the snaking body of the Fangs, hemming in the city between it and the Silver Lake—and it was into the barren slopes that the keep had been built.
Level after level, Westfall Keep rose from the plain to the higher reaches of the mountain behind it, the lowermost gate opening onto the flat expanse of snow, while other levels flowed into the city to its left. It had been built as a fortress, the countless levels, battlements, and gates all designed to outlast an enemy assault. The gray stones bore the scars of just how many it had witnessed and survived, none more so than the thick curtain wall that encompassed the keep.
Intimidating, imposing, unforgiving—Chaol had told her the keep had never been built for beauty or pleasure. Indeed, no colorful banners flapped in the wind. No scent or spices drifted on it, either. Just chill, thick dampness.
From the lichen-crusted upper towers, Yrene knew that one could monitor any movements on the lake or the plain, in the city or the forest, even along the slopes of the Fangs. How many hours had her husband spent on the tower walkways, gazing toward Rifthold, wishing he were anywhere but this cold, dark place?
Chaol stayed close to Yrene, his chin high, as he announced to the dozen guards aiming their swords at them that he was Lord Chaol Westfall, and he wished to see his father. Immediately.
She’d never heard him use that voice. A different sort of authority. A lord’s voice.
A lord—and she was a lady, she supposed. Even if flying had forced her to abandon her usual dresses in favor of rukhin leathers, even if she was certain her braided hair had been whipped in about a dozen directions and would take hours and a bath to detangle.
They lingered on the battlements in silence, and Chaol’s gloved hand slid into her own, the wind ruffling the fur along his heavy cloak collar. His face revealed nothing but grim determination, yet the hand he squeezed around her own … She knew what this homecoming meant.
She’d never forget the memory she’d witnessed of the father who had thrown him down the stone steps a few levels below, granting Chaol the hidden scar just past his hairline. A child. He’d hurled a child down those stairs and forced him to make his way to Rifthold on foot.
She doubted her second impression of her father-in-law would be any better.
Certainly not as a gaunt-faced man appeared in a gray tunic and said, “Come this way.”
No title, no honorific. No welcome.
Yrene tightened her grip around Chaol’s hand. They had come to warn the people of this city—not the bastard who had left such brutal scars upon her husband’s soul. Those people deserved the warning, the protection.
Yrene reminded herself of that fact as they entered the gloomy keep interior.
The tall, narrow passageway wasn’t much better than the exterior. Slender windows set high in the walls permitted little light, and ancient braziers cast flickering shadows on the stones. Threadbare tapestries hung intermittently, and no sounds—not music, not laughter, not conversation—greeted them.
This drafty, ancient house had been his home? Compared to the khagan’s palace, it was a hovel, not fit for ruks to roost.
“My father,” Chaol murmured so their escort wouldn’t hear, no doubt reading the dismay on Yrene’s face, “doesn’t believe in wasting his coffers on improvements. If it hasn’t collapsed, then it’s not broken.”
Yrene tried to smile at the attempt at humor, tried to do it for his sake, but her temper roiled with every step down the hall. Their silent escort at last paused before two towering oak doors, the wood as old and rotting as the keep itself, and knocked once.
“Enter.”
Yrene felt the tremor that went through Chaol at the cold, sly voice.
The doors swung open to reveal a dark, column-lined hall speared with shafts of watery light.
The only greeting they would get, it seemed, since the man seated at the head of the long, wooden table, large enough to host forty men, did not bother to rise.
Each of their steps echoed through the hall, the roaring, mammoth hearth to their left hardly taking the edge off the cold. A goblet of what seemed to be wine and the remains of the evening meal lay before the Lord of Anielle on the table. No sign of his wife, or other son.
But the face … it was Chaol’s face, in a few decades. Or would be, if Chaol became as soulless and cold as the man before them.
She didn’t know how he did it. How Chaol managed to lower his head in a bow.
“Father.”
Chaol had never been ashamed of the keep until he’d walked through it with Yrene. Had never realized how badly it needed repairs, how neglected it had been.
The thought of her, so full of light and warmth, in this bleak place made him want to run back to the ruk waiting on the parapets and fly to the coast again.
And now, at the sight of her before his father, who had not bothered to rise from his chair, whose half-eaten dinner lay discarded before him, Chaol found his temper in need of a short leash.
His father’s fur-lined cloak pooled around him. How many times had he seen him on this chair, at the head of this mighty table, which had once seated some of the finest lords and warriors in Adarlan?
Now it lay empty, a husk of what might have been.
“You walk,” his father said, scanning him from head to toe. His attention lingered on the hand Chaol still kept clasped around Yrene’s. Oh, he’d surely bring that up soon enough. When it
would strike deepest. “Last I heard, you could not so much as wiggle your toe.”
“It is thanks to this woman,” Chaol said. Yet Yrene stared at his father with a coldness Chaol had never glimpsed before. As if she were thinking of rotting his organs from the inside out. It warmed Chaol enough to say, “My wife. Lady Yrene Towers Westfall.”
A kernel of surprise lit his father’s face, but swiftly vanished. “A healer, then,” he mused, surveying Yrene with an intensity that made Chaol want to start shattering things. “Towers is not a noble house I recognize.”
The miserable bastard.
Yrene’s chin lifted slightly. “It may not be, milord, but its lineage is no less proud or worthy.”
“At least she speaks well,” his father said, sipping from his wine. Chaol clenched his free hand so hard his glove groaned. “Better than that other one—the swaggering assassin.”
Yrene knew. All of it. She knew every scrap of history, knew whose note she carried in her locket. But it didn’t ease the blow, not as his father added, “Who, it turned out, is Queen of Terrasen.” A mirthless laugh. “What a prize you might have had then, my son, if you’d managed to keep her.”
“Yrene is the finest healer of her generation,” Chaol said with deadly quiet. “Her worth is greater than any crown.” And in this war, it might very well be.
“You don’t need to bother proving my value to him,” Yrene said, her icy eyes pinned on his father. “I know precisely how talented I am. I don’t require his blessing.”
She meant every damn word.
His father turned that aloof stare upon her again, curiosity filling it for a moment.
If he’d been asked, even minutes ago, how he thought this encounter might go, Yrene being utterly unfazed by his father, Yrene going toe to toe with his father, would not have been among the possible outcomes.
His father leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t come here to at last fulfill your oath to me, did you.”
“That promise is broken, and for that I apologize,” Chaol managed to say. Yrene bristled. Before she could tell him not to bother again, Chaol went on, “We came to warn you.”
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