Lysandra’s face heated as she pulled back, yielding a step. She was a trained courtesan, gods above. Highly trained. And yet the simple request reduced her knees to wobbling.
She mastered herself, squaring her shoulders. “If you don’t die tomorrow, Aedion, then we’ll talk. And see what comes of it.”
Aedion’s wolfish grin didn’t so much as falter. “Until tomorrow night, then.”
Hell waited for them tomorrow. Perhaps their doom. But she wouldn’t kiss him, not now. Wouldn’t give that sort of promise or farewell.
So Lysandra walked from the hall, heart racing. “Until tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 83
Dorian flew and flew. Along the spine of the Fangs, Oakwald a winter-bare sprawl to his right, he soared northward for nearly two days before he dared to stop.
Picking a clearing amid a tangle of ancient trees, he crashed through the branches, hardly registering the sting through his thick wyvern’s hide. He shifted as soon as he hit the snow, his magic instantly thawing the frozen stream wending through the space.
Then he fell to his knees and drank. Deep, panting gulps of water.
Finding food was an easier endeavor than he’d anticipated. He had no need of a snare or arrows to catch the lean rabbit that cowered nearby. No need of knives to skin it. Or a spit.
When his thirst and hunger had been sated, when a glance at the sky told him no enemy approached, Dorian drew the marks. Just one more time.
He had to be on his way soon. But for this, he could delay his flight northward a little while longer. Damaris, it seemed, also agreed. It summoned who he wished this time.
Gavin appeared in the circle of bloody Wyrdmarks, paler and murkier in the morning light.
“You found it, then,” the ancient king said by way of greeting. “And left Erawan with one hell of a mess to clean up.”
“I did.” Dorian put a hand to his jacket pocket. To the terrible power thrumming there. It had taken every ounce of his concentration during his mad flight from Morath to block out its whispering. His shiver was not from the frigid air alone.
“Then why summon me?”
Dorian met the man’s gaze. King to king. “I wanted to tell you that I attained it—so you might have a chance to say goodbye. To Elena, I mean. Before the Lock is forged.”
Gavin stilled. Dorian didn’t shy from the king’s assessing stare.
After a moment, Gavin said a shade softly, “Then I suppose I will also be saying farewell to you.”
Dorian nodded. He was ready. Had no other choice but to be ready.
Gavin asked, “Have you decided on it, then? That you will be the one sacrificed?”
“Aelin is in the north,” Dorian said. “When I find her, I suppose we’ll decide what to do.” Who would be the one who joined the three keys. And did not walk away from it. “But,” he admitted, “I am hoping she might have come up with another solution. One for Elena, too.”
Aelin had escaped Maeve. Perhaps she’d be as lucky in finding a way to escape their fate.
A phantom wind blew the strands of Gavin’s long hair across his face. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “For even considering it.” But grief shone in the king’s eyes. He knew precisely how impossible it would be.
So Dorian said, “I’m sorry. For what success with the Lock will mean for both of you.”
Gavin’s throat bobbed. “My mate made her choice long ago. She was always prepared to face the consequences, even if I was not.”
Just as Sorscha had made her own choices. Followed her own path.
And for once, the memory of her did not ache. Rather, it gleamed, a shining challenge. To make it count. For her, and so many others. For himself, too.
“Do not give up on life so easily,” Gavin said. “It is the life I had with Elena that allows me to even consider parting from her now. A good life—as good as any that could be hoped for.” He inclined his head. “I wish the same for you.”
Before Dorian could voice what surged in his heart at the words, Gavin glanced skyward. His dark brows narrowed. “You need to go.” For the booming of wings filled the air. Thousands of wings.
The Ironteeth legion at Morath had still rallied after the keep’s collapse, it seemed. And now made its long flight northward to Orynth, likely infinitely more eager to tear into his friends.
He prayed Maeve was not in that host. That she remained licking her wounds in Morath with Erawan. Until the rest of their horrors marched, the spider-princesses with them.
But despite the approaching army, Dorian touched Damaris’s hilt and said, “I will take care of it. Of Adarlan. For whatever time I have left. I will not abandon it.”
The sword glowed warm.
And Gavin, despite the loss that loomed for him, smiled slightly. As if he felt the warmth of the sword, too. “I know,” he said. “I have always known that.”
Damaris’s warmth held steady.
Dorian swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “When the Wyrdgate is sealed, will I be able to open this sort of portal again?” Will I be able to see you, seek your counsel?
Gavin faded. “I don’t know.” He added quietly, “But I hope so.”
Dorian put a hand over his heart and bowed deeply.
And as Gavin disappeared into the snow and sun, Dorian could have sworn the king bowed back.
Minutes later, when wings blotted out the sun, no one noticed the lone wyvern that rose from Oakwald and fell into line with the teeming host.
CHAPTER 84
There was no armor left in the castle’s depleted arsenal. And none would have fit wyverns anyway.
What had survived Adarlan’s occupation or been acquired since its fall had been distributed, and though Prince Aedion had offered to have a blacksmith weld sheets of metal to form breastplates, Manon had taken one look at the repurposed doors they’d use and known they would be too heavy. Against the Ironteeth legion, speed and agility would be their greatest allies.
So they would head into battle as they always had: with nothing but their blades, their iron teeth and nails, and their cunning.
Standing on a large balcony atop the uppermost tower of the castle of Orynth, Morath’s army spread far below, Manon watched the rising sun and knew it could very well be her last.
But the Thirteen, many of them leaning against the balcony rail, did not look eastward.
No, their attention was on the enemy, stirring in the rising light. Or on the two Crochans who stood with Manon, brooms in hand and swords already strapped across their backs.
It had not been a shock to see Bronwen arrive this morning dressed for battle. But Manon had paused when Glennis emerged with a sword, hair braided back.
They had already gone over the details. And had done so thrice last night. And now, in the light of the breaking day, they lingered atop the ancient tower.
Far out, deep in Morath’s teeming ranks, a horn rang out.
Slowly, a great beast awakening from a deep sleep, Morath’s host began to move.
“It’s about time,” Asterin muttered beside Manon, her braided hair bound with a strip of leather across her brow.
Ironteeth wyverns became airborne, lumbering against the weight of their armor.
It wouldn’t win the day, though. No, the Ironteeth, after a heavy start, soon filled the skies. A thousand at least. Where the Ferian Gap host was, Manon didn’t want to know. Not yet.
On the towers of the castle, on the roofs of the city and along the battlement walls, the Crochan army straightened their brooms at their sides, ready for the signal to fly.
A signal from Bronwen, from the carved horn at her side. The horn was cracked and browned with age, the symbols carved into it so worn they were barely visible.
Noting Manon’s stare, Bronwen said, “A relic from the old kingdom. It belonged to Telyn Vanora, a young, untried warrior during the last days of the war, who was near the gates when Rhiannon fell. My ancestor.” She ran a hand over the horn. “She blew this horn
to warn our people that Rhiannon had been killed, and to flee the city. Just after she got out the warning call, the Blueblood Matron slaughtered her. But it gave our people enough time to run. To survive.” Silver lined Bronwen’s dark eyes. “It is my honor to blow this horn again today. Not to warn our people, but to rally them.”
None of the Thirteen looked Bronwen’s way, but Manon knew they heard each word.
Bronwen put a hand on her leather breastplate. “Telyn is here today. In the hearts of every Crochan who got out, who made it this far. All of them who fell in the witch wars are with us, even if we cannot see them.”
Manon thought of those two presences she’d felt while fighting the Matrons and knew Bronwen’s words to be true.
“It is for them that we fight,” Bronwen said, her stare falling to the approaching army. “And for the future we stand to gain.”
“A future we all stand to gain,” Manon said, and met the eyes of the Thirteen. Though they did not smile, the fierceness in their faces spoke enough.
Manon turned to Glennis. “You truly intend to fight?”
Glennis nodded, firm and unyielding. “Five hundred years ago, my mother chose the future of the royal bloodline over fighting beside her loved ones. And though she never regretted her choice, the weight of what she left behind wore on her. I have carried her burden my entire life.” The crone gestured to Bronwen, then to Asterin. “All of us who fight here today do so with someone standing invisible behind us.”
Asterin’s gold-flecked black eyes softened a bit. “Yes,” was all Manon’s Second said as her hand drifted to her abdomen.
Not in memory of the hateful word branded there, of what had been done to her.
In memory of the stillborn witchling who had been thrown by Manon’s grandmother into the fire before Asterin had a chance to hold her.
In memory of the hunter whom Asterin had loved, as no Ironteeth ever had loved a man, and had never gone back to, for shame and fear. The hunter who had never stopped waiting for her to return, even when he was an old man.
For them, for the family she had lost, Manon knew her Second would fight today. So it might never happen again.
Manon would fight today to make sure it never did, too.
“So we come to it after five hundred years,” said Glennis, her voice unwavering yet distant, as if pulled into the depths of memory. The rising sun bathed the white walls of Orynth in gold. “The final stand of the Crochans.”
As if the words themselves were a signal, Bronwen lifted the horn of Telyn Vanora to her lips and blew.
Most believed the Florine River flowed down from the Staghorns, right past the western edge of Orynth before cutting across the lowlands.
But most didn’t know that the ancient Fae King had built his city wisely, digging sewers and subterranean streams that carried the fresh mountain water directly into the city itself. All the way beneath the castle.
A torch lifted high, Lysandra peered into one of those underground waterways, the dark water eddying as it flowed through the stone tunnel and out the city walls. Her breath curled in front of her as she said to the group of Bane soldiers who’d accompanied her, “Lock the grate once I’m out.”
A grunt was her only confirmation.
Lysandra frowned at the heavy iron grate across the subterranean river, the metal bands as thick as her forearm. It had been Lord Murtaugh who’d suggested this particular route of attack, his knowledge of the waterways beneath the city and castle beyond even Aedion’s awareness.
Lysandra braced herself for the plunge, knowing the water would be cold. Beyond cold.
But Morath was moving, and if she did not get into position soon, she might very well be too late.
“Gods be with you,” one of the Bane soldiers said.
Lysandra gave the man a tight smile. “And with you all.”
She didn’t let herself reconsider. She just walked right off the stone ledge.
The plunge was swift, bottomless. The cold ripped the air from her lungs, but she was already shifting, light and heat filling her body as her bones warped, as skin vanished. Her magic pulsed, draining quickly at the expenditure making this body required, but then it was done.
Distantly, above the surface, the Bane swore. Whether in fear or awe, she didn’t care.
Surfacing enough to gulp down a breath, Lysandra submerged again. Even in this form, the cold tore at her, the water murky and dim, but she swam with the current, letting it guide her on its way out of the ancient tunnel.
Beneath the city walls. Into the wider Florine, where the cold grew nearly unbearable. Thick blocks of ice drifted overhead, veiling her from enemy eyes.
She swam down the river, right along the eastern flank of Morath’s host, and waited for her signal.
The Crochans took to the skies, a wave of red that swept over the city and its walls.
Atop the southern section of the wall, Ren at his side, Aedion tipped his head back as he watched them soar into the air above the plain.
“You really think they can fight against that?” Ren nodded toward the oncoming sea of Ironteeth witches and wyverns.
“I think we don’t have any other choice but to hope they can,” Aedion said, unslinging his bow from across his back. Ren did the same.
At the silent signal, archers down the city walls took up their bows.
Scattered amongst them, Rolfe’s Mycenians positioned their firelances, bracing the metal contraptions on the wall itself.
Morath marched. There would be no more delays, no more surprises. This battle would unfold.
Aedion glanced toward the curve of the Florine, the ice sheets glaringly bright in the morning sun. He shut out the dread in his heart. They were too desperate, too outnumbered, for him to deny Lysandra the task she’d taken on today.
A look over his shoulder had Aedion confirming that Bane soldiers had the catapults primed atop the battlements, the Fae royals ready to use their depleted magic to levitate the enormous blocks of river-stone into place. And on the city walls, Fae archers remained watchful as they waited for their own signal.
Aedion nocked an arrow into his bow, arm straining as he pulled back the string.
As one, the army gathered on the city walls did the same.
“Let’s make this a fight worthy of a song,” Aedion said.
CHAPTER 85
Manon and the Thirteen shot into the skies as the Crochan army flowed below, a red tide rushing toward the sea of black ahead.
Forcing the Ironteeth legion to choose: their ancient enemies or their new ones.
It was a test, and one Manon had wanted to make early. To see how many of the Ironteeth would heed the command to plow forward, and how many might break from their orders, the temptation of battling the Thirteen too much to bear. And a test, she supposed, for the Matrons and the Heirs who led their legion—would they fall for it? Split their forces to swarm the Ironteeth, or continue their assault on the Crochans?
Higher and higher, Manon and the Thirteen rose, the two armies nearing each other.
The Crochans didn’t hesitate as their swords glinted in the sun, pointing toward the oncoming wyverns.
The Ironteeth had not trained against an enemy able to fight back. An enemy who could be airborne, smaller and faster, and strike where they were weakest: the riders. That was the Crochans’ goal—to bring down the riders, not the beasts.
But to do so, they’d need to brave the snapping jaws and spiked tails, the poison coating them. And if they could navigate around the wyverns, then the matter would remain of facing the flying arrows, and the trained warriors atop the beasts. It would not be easy, and it would not be quick.
The Thirteen rose so high that the air became thin. High enough that Manon could see to the very back of the host, where the horrific, unmistakable bulk of Iskra Yellowlegs’s wyvern flew.
A challenge and a promise of a confrontation to come. Manon knew, despite the distance, that Iskra had marked her.
No sig
n of Petrah. Or of the two remaining Matrons. Who had replaced the Yellowlegs crone to become High Witch, Manon didn’t know. Or care. Perhaps her grandmother had convinced them not to appoint Iskra or a new one just yet—to clear the way for her own path to queendom.
Just as Manon’s head turned light at the altitude, fifty or so wyverns peeled away from the enemy’s host. Flying upward—racing for them, beasts freed of their tether. Hungry for the glory and bragging rights that killing the Thirteen would win.
Manon smiled.
The two armies slammed into each other.
Loosing a breath, Manon yanked once on Abraxos’s reins.
Her fierce-hearted wyvern flung out his wings as he arched—and plummeted.
The world tilted while they twisted and plunged down, down, down, the Thirteen falling with them. They tore through wisps of cloud, the clashing army blurring, the castle and city looming below.
And when the Ironteeth were close enough that Manon could see they were Yellowlegs and Bluebloods, Abraxos banked sharply to one side and a current launched him right into the heart of them.
The Thirteen snapped into formation behind her, a battering ram that smashed through the Ironteeth.
Manon’s bow sang as she fired arrow after arrow.
At the first spray of blue blood, some part of her slipped away.
But she kept firing. And Abraxos kept flying, ripping apart wing and throat with his tail and teeth.
And so it began.
Even in the river, the thunder of marching feet rumbled past Lysandra.
They didn’t see the large white snout that periodically broke through the ice floes to huff down a breath. The sky was dark now, thick with the clashing of wyverns and Crochans.
Bodies occasionally plunged into the river, Ironteeth and Crochan alike.
The Crochans who thrashed, who were still alive, Lysandra covertly carried to the far shore. What they made of her, they didn’t say. She didn’t linger long enough to let them.
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