And behind them, snaking into the distance, the army of the khagan moved.
Part of it, at least. Half the ruks and Darghan riders would march under Kashin’s banner on the eastern side of the mountains, to draw out the forces from the Ferian Gap into open battle in the valley. While they snuck behind, right through their back door.
Snow lay heavy on the Fangs, the gray sky threatening more, but the rukhin scouts and wild men had assessed that no bad weather would hit them for a while yet—not until they reached the Gap, at least.
Five days’ trek, with the army and mountains. It would be three for the army that marched along the lake’s edge and river.
Aelin tipped her face toward that cold sky as they began the endless series of switchbacks up the mountainsides. The rukhin could carry much of the heavier equipment, thank the gods, but the climb into the mountains would be the first test.
The khagan’s armies had crossed every terrain, though. Mountains and deserts and seas. They did not balk now.
So Aelin supposed she would not, either. For whatever time she had left, until it was over.
This final push north, homeward … She smiled grimly at the looming mountains, at the army stretching away behind them.
And just because she could, just because they were headed to Terrasen at last, Aelin unleashed a flicker of her power. Some of the standard-bearers behind them murmured in surprise, but Rowan only smiled. Smiled with that fierce hope, that brutal determination that flared in her own heart, as she began to burn.
She let the flame encompass her, a golden glow that she knew could be spied even from the farthest lines of the army, from the city and keep they left behind.
A beacon glowing bright in the shadows of the mountains, in the shadows of the forces that awaited them, Aelin lit the way north.
PART TWO
Gods and Gates
CHAPTER 68
The black towers of Morath rose above the smoking forges and campfires of the valley below like a cluster of dark swords raised to the sky.
They jutted into the low clouds, some broken and chipped, some still standing proud. The wrath and final act of Kaltain Rompier written all over them.
Spreading his soot-colored wings wide, Dorian caught a wind that reeked of iron and carrion and banked around the fortress. He’d learned to harness winds during these long days of travel, and though he’d covered much of the journey as a swift, red-tailed hawk, he’d shifted this morning into an ordinary crow.
Flocks of them circled Morath, their caws as plentiful as the ringing of hammers on anvils throughout the valley. Even with hell unleashed in the north, there was still more camped down here. More troops, more witches.
Dorian followed the example of the other crows and gave the wyverns a wide berth, flying low as coven after coven went about their scouting or reporting or training. So many Ironteeth. All waiting.
He circled Morath’s uppermost towers, scanning the keep, the army in the valley, the wyverns in their lofty aeries. With each flap of his wings, the weight of what he’d hidden in a rocky outcropping ten miles north grew heavier.
It would have been madness to bring the two keys here. So he had buried them in the shale rock, not even daring to mark the spot. He could only pray it was far enough away to avoid Erawan’s detection.
At the side of a tower, two servants bearing armloads of laundry emerged from a small door and began winding up the exterior stair, heads bowed as if trying to ignore the army that rippled far below. Or the wyverns whose bellows echoed off the black rock.
There. That door.
Dorian flapped toward it, willing his heart to calm, his scent—the one thing that might doom him—to remain unmarked. But none of the Ironteeth flying overhead noticed the crow-that-did-not-smell-like-a-crow. And the two laundresses winding up the tower stairs didn’t call out as he landed on the small stone railing and folded his wings neatly.
A hop, and he was on the stones.
A shift, muscles and bones burning, and the world had become smaller, infinitely deadlier.
And infinitely less aware of his presence.
Dorian’s whiskers twitched, his oversized ears cocking. The roar of the wyverns rocked through his small, furred body, and he gritted his teeth—large, almost too big for his little mouth. The reek grew near-nauseating.
He could smell … everything. The lingering freshness of the laundry that had passed by. The gamey musk of some sort of broth clinging to the laundresses after their lunch. He’d never thought mice to be extraordinary, yet even soaring as a hawk, he had not felt this alertness, this level of being awake.
In a world designed to kill them, he supposed mice needed such sharpness to survive.
Dorian allowed himself one long breath before he squeezed beneath the shut door. And into Morath itself.
His senses might have been sharper, but he had never realized how daunting a set of stairs truly was without human legs.
He kept to the shadows, willing himself into dust and gloom with every pair of feet that strode by. Some were armored, some were booted, some in worn shoes. All the wearers pale and miserable.
No witches, thank the gods. And no Valg princes or their grunts.
Certainly no sign of Erawan.
The tower he’d entered was a servants’ stair, one Manon had laid out during one of her various explanations to Aelin. It was thanks to her that he followed a mental map, confirmed by his circling overhead for the past few hours.
Erawan’s tower—that’s where he’d begin. And if the Valg king was there … he’d figure it out. Whether he might repay Erawan for all he’d done, regardless of Kaltain’s warning.
His breathing ragged, Dorian reached the bottom of the winding steps, curling his long tail around him as he peered to the dim hallway ahead.
From here, he’d need to cross the entire level, take another staircase up, another hall, and then, if he was lucky, Erawan’s tower would be there.
Manon had never gained access to it. Never known what waited up there. Only that it was guarded by Valg at all hours. A good enough place to begin his hunt.
His ears twitched. No approaching steps. No cats, mercifully.
Dorian turned the corner, his grayish brown fur blending into the rock, and scuttled along the groove where the wall met the floor. A guard stood on watch at the end of the hall, staring at nothing. He loomed, large as a mountain, as Dorian approached.
Dorian had nearly reached the guard and the crossroads he monitored when he felt it—the stir, and then the silence.
Even the guard straightened, glancing to the slit of a window behind him.
Dorian halted, tucking himself into a shadow.
Nothing. No cries or shouts, yet …
The guard returned to his post, but scanned the hall.
Dorian remained still and quiet, waiting. Had they discovered his presence? Sent out a call?
It couldn’t have been as easy as it had seemed. Erawan no doubt had traps to alert him of any enemy presence—
Rushing, light steps sounded around the corner, and the guard turned toward them. “What is it?” the man demanded.
The approaching servant didn’t check his pace. “Who knows these days with the company we keep? I’m not lingering to find out.” Then the man hurried on, rushing past Dorian.
Not rushing toward something, but away.
Dorian’s whiskers flicked as he scented the air. Nothing.
Waiting in a hallway would do no good. But to plunge ahead, to seek out whatever might be happening … Not wise, either.
There was one place he might hear something. Where people were always gossiping, even at Morath.
So Dorian ventured back down the hall. Down another set of stairs, his little legs barely able to move fast enough. Toward the kitchens, hot and bright with the light of the great hearth.
Lady Elide had worked here—had known these people. Not Valg, but people conscripted into service. People who would undoubtedly talk abo
ut the comings and goings of this keep. Just as they had at the palace in Rifthold.
The various servants and cooks were indeed waiting. Staring toward the stairs on the opposite side of the cavernous kitchen. As was the lean, green-eyed tabby cat across the room.
Dorian made himself as small as possible. But the beast paid him no mind, its attention fixed on the stairs. As if it knew, too.
And then steps—quick and hushed. Two women entered, empty trays in their hands. Both wan and trembling.
A man who had to be the head cook asked the women, “Did you see anything?”
One of the women shook her head. “They weren’t in the council room yet. Thank the gods.”
Her partner’s hands wobbled as she set down her tray. “They will be soon, though.”
“Lucky you got out before they came,” someone said. “Or you might have found yourself part of lunch, too.”
Lucky, indeed. Dorian lingered, but the kitchen resumed its rhythms, satisfied two of its own had made it back safely.
The council room—perhaps the same Manon had described. Where Erawan preferred to have his meetings. And if Erawan himself was headed there …
Dorian scuttled out, heeding that mental map Manon had crafted. A fool—only a fool would willingly go to see Erawan. Risk it.
Perhaps he had a death wish. Perhaps he truly was a fool. But he wanted to see him. Had to see him, this creature who had ruined so many things. Who stood poised to devour their world.
He had to look at him, this thing who had ordered him enslaved, who had butchered Sorscha. And if he was fortunate—maybe he’d kill him.
He could remain in this form and strike. But it would be so much more satisfying to return to his own body, to draw Damaris, and end him. To let Erawan see the pale band around his throat and know who killed him, that he hadn’t broken him yet.
And then Dorian would find that key.
The silence showed him the way, perhaps more so than the mental map he’d memorized.
Halls emptied out. The air became thick, cold. As if Erawan’s corruption leaked from him.
There were no guards, human or Valg, standing watch before the open doors.
No one to mark the hooded figure who strode in, black cape flowing.
Dorian hurried, skittering after that figure just as the doors shut. His magic swelled, and he willed it to calm, to coil, an asp poised to strike.
One blow to get Erawan down, then he’d shift and draw Damaris.
The figure halted, cloak swaying, and Dorian dashed for the nearest shadow—by the crack between the door and floor.
The chamber was ordinary, save for a table of black glass in its center. And the golden-haired, golden-eyed man seated at it.
Manon had not lied: Erawan had indeed shed Perrington’s skin for something far fairer.
Though still dressed in finery, Dorian realized as the Valg king rose, his gray jacket and pants immaculately tailored. No weapons lay at his side. No hint of the Wyrdkey.
But he could feel Erawan’s power, the wrongness leaking from him. Could feel it, and remember it, the way that power had felt inside him, curdling his soul.
Ice cracked in his veins. Quick—he had to be quick. Strike now.
“This is an unexpected delight,” Erawan said, his voice young and yet not. He gestured to the spread of food—fruits and cured meats. “Shall we?”
Dorian’s magic faltered as two moon-pale, slender hands rose from the folds of the black cloak and pushed back the cowl.
The woman beneath was not beautiful, not in the classical way. Yet with her jet-black hair, her dark eyes, her red lips … She was striking. Mesmerizing.
Those red lips curved, revealing bone-white teeth.
Cold licked down Dorian’s spine at the pointed, delicate ears peeking above the curtain of dark hair. Fae. The woman—female was Fae.
She removed her cloak to reveal a flowing gown of deepest purple before she settled herself across the table from Erawan. Not an ounce of hesitation or fear checked her graceful movements. “You know why I have come, then.”
Erawan smiled as he sat, pouring a goblet of wine for the female, then for himself. And all thoughts of killing vanished from Dorian’s head as the Valg king asked, “Is there any other reason you would deign to visit Morath, Maeve?”
CHAPTER 69
Orynth had not been this quiet since the day Aedion and the remnants of Terrasen’s court had marched to Theralis.
Even then, there had been a hum to the ancient city erected between the mouth of the Florine and the edge of the Staghorns, Oakwald a ripple of wood to the west.
Then, the white walls had still been shining.
Now they lay stained and grayish, as bleak as the sky, while Aedion, Lysandra, and their allies strode through the towering metal doors of the western gate. Here, the walls were six feet thick, the blocks of stone so heavy that legend claimed Brannon had conscripted giants from the Staghorns to heave them into place.
Aedion would give anything for those long-forgotten giants to find their way to the city now. For the ancient Wolf Tribes to come racing down the towering peaks behind the city, the lost Fae of Terrasen with them. For any of the old myths to emerge from the shadows of time, as Rolfe and his Mycenians had done.
But he knew their luck had run out.
Their companions knew it, too. Even Ansel of Briarcliff had gone as silent as Ilias and his assassins, her shoulders bowed. She had been that way since the heads of her warriors had landed amongst their ranks, her wine-red hair dull, her steps heavy. He knew her horror, her guilt. Wished he had a moment to comfort the young queen beyond a swift apology. But Ilias, it seemed, had taken it upon himself to do just that, riding beside Ansel in steady, quiet company.
The city had been laid at the feet of the towering, near-mythic castle built atop a jutting piece of rock. A castle that rose so high its uppermost turrets seemed to pierce the sky. Once, that castle had glowed, roses and creeping plants draped along its sun-warmed stones, the song of a thousand fountains singing in every hall and courtyard. Once, proud banners had flapped from those impossibly high towers, standing watch over the mountains and forest and river and Plain of Theralis below.
It had become a mausoleum.
No one spoke as they trudged up the steep, winding streets. Grim-faced people either stopped to stare or continued rushing to prepare for the siege.
There was no way to outrun it. Not with the Staghorns at their backs, Oakwald to the west, and the army advancing from the south. Yes, they might flee eastward across the plains, but to where? To Suria, where it would only be a matter of time before they were found? To the hinterlands beyond the mountains, where the winters were so brutal they claimed no mortal could survive? The people of Orynth were as trapped as their army.
Aedion knew he should square his shoulders. Should grin at these people—his people—and offer them a shred of courage.
Yet he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop himself from wondering how many had lost family, friends, in the battle by the river. In the weeks of fighting before that. How many were still praying that the streaming lines of soldiers making their way toward the city would reveal a loved one.
His fault, his burden. His choices had led them here. His choices had left so many bodies in the snow, a veritable path of them from the southern border, all the way to the Florine.
The white castle loomed, larger with every hill they ascended. At least they had that—the advantage of higher ground.
At least they had that.
Darrow and the other lords were waiting.
Not in the throne room, but in the spacious council chamber on the other side of the palace.
The last time Aedion had been in the room, a preening Adarlanian prick had presided over the meeting. The Viceroy of Terrasen, he’d called himself.
It seemed the man had taken his finery, chairs and wall hangings included, and run off the moment the king had been killed.
So an ancient work
table now served as their war desk, an assortment of half-rotting chairs from various rooms in the castle around it. Currently occupied by Darrow, Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood. Murtaugh, to Aedion’s surprise, was amongst them.
They rose as Aedion and his companions entered. Not out of any respect to Aedion, but for the royals with him.
Ansel of Briarcliff surveyed the piss-poor space, as she’d done for the entirety of the walk through the dim and dreary castle, and let out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding when you said Adarlan raided your coffers.” Her first words in hours. Days.
Aedion grunted. “To the copper.” He halted before the table.
Darrow demanded, “Where is Kyllian?”
Aedion gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Ren tensed, reading the warning in that smile. “He bade me to go ahead while he led the army here.” Lie.
Darrow rolled his eyes, then fixed them upon Rolfe, who was still frowning at the shabby castle. “We have you to thank for the lucky retreat, I take it.”
Rolfe fixed his sea-green stare upon the man. “That you do.”
Darrow sat again, the other lords following suit. “And you are?”
“Privateer Rolfe,” the pirate said smoothly. “Commander in Her Majesty’s Armada. And Heir to the Mycenian people.”
The other lords straightened. “The Mycenians vanished an age ago,” Lord Sloane said. But the man noted the sword at Rolfe’s side, the sea dragon pommel. Had no doubt spied the fleet creeping up the Florine.
“Vanished, but did not die out,” Rolfe countered. “And we have come to fulfill an old debt.”
Darrow rubbed at his temple. Old—Darrow truly looked his age as he leaned against the table edge. “Well, we have the gods to thank for that.”
Lysandra said, simmering with rage, “You have Aelin to thank for that.”
The man narrowed his eyes, and Aedion’s temper honed itself into something lethal. But Darrow’s voice was exhausted—heavy, as he asked, “Not pretending today, Lady?”
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