“We’re putting a rug over it,” Aelin told him.
Lysandra laughed. “Something tacky, I hope.”
“I’m thinking pink and purple. Embroidered with flowers. Just what Erawan would have loved.”
The Fae males gaped at them, Ren blinking. Elide ducked her head as she chuckled.
Rowan snorted again. “At least this court won’t be boring.”
Aelin put a hand on her chest, the portrait of outrage. “You were honestly worried it would be?”
“Gods help us,” Lorcan grumbled. Elide elbowed him.
Aedion said to Ren, the young lord lingering by the archway, as if still debating making a quick exit, “Now’s the chance to escape, you know. Before you get sucked into this endless nonsense.”
But Ren’s dark eyes met Aelin’s. Scanned them.
She’d heard about Murtaugh. Knew now was not the time to mention it, the loss dimming his eyes. So she kept her face open. Honest. Warm. “We could always use one more to partake in the nonsense,” Aelin said, an invisible hand outstretched.
Ren scanned her again. “You gave up everything and still came back here. Still fought.”
“All of it for Terrasen,” she said quietly.
“Yes, I know,” Ren said, the scar down his face stark in the rising sun. “I understand that now.” He offered her a small smile. “I think I might need a bit of nonsense myself, after this war.”
Aedion muttered, “You’ll regret saying that.”
But Aelin sketched a bow. “Oh, he certainly will.” She smirked at the males assembled. “I swear to you, I won’t bore you to tears. A queen’s oath.”
“And what will not boring us entail, then?” Aedion asked.
“Rebuilding,” Elide said. “Lots of rebuilding.”
“Trade negotiations,” Lysandra said.
“Training a new generation in magic,” Aelin went on.
Again, the males blinked at them.
Aelin angled her head, blinking right back at them. “Don’t you lot have anything worthwhile to contribute?” She clicked her tongue. “Three of you are ancient as hell, you know. I’d have expected better from cranky old bastards.”
Their nostrils flared. Aedion grinned, Ren wisely clamping his lips together to keep from doing the same.
But Fenrys said, “Four. Four of us are old as hell.”
Aelin arched a brow.
Fenrys smirked, the movement stretching his scars. “Vaughan is still out there. And now free.”
Rowan crossed his arms. “He’ll never be caught again.”
But Fenrys’s smirk turned knowing. He pointed to the camped Fae army on the plain, the wolves and humans amongst them. “I have a feeling someone down there might know where we could start.” He glanced at Aelin. “If you’d be amenable to another cranky old bastard joining this court.”
Aelin shrugged. “If you can convince him, I don’t see why not.” Rowan smiled at that, and scanned the sky, as if he could see his missing friend soaring there.
Fenrys winked. “I promise he’s not as miserable as Lorcan.” Elide smacked his arm, and Fenrys darted away, hands up as he laughed. “You’ll like him,” he promised Aelin. “All the ladies do,” he added with another wink to her, Lysandra, and Elide.
Aelin laughed, the sound lighter, freer than any she had made, and faced the stirring kingdom. “We promised everyone a better world,” she said after a moment, voice solemn. “So we’ll start with that.”
“Starting small,” Fenrys said. “I like it.”
Aelin smirked at him. “I rather liked the whole let’s-vote-on-the-Wyrdkeys thing we did. So we’ll start with more of that, too.”
Silence. Then Lysandra asked, “Voting on what?”
Aelin shrugged, sliding her hands into her pockets. “Things.”
Aedion arched a brow. “Like dinner?”
Aelin rolled her eyes. “Yes, on dinner. Dinner by committee.”
Elide coughed. “I think Aelin means on vital things. On how to run this kingdom.”
“You’re queen,” Lorcan said. “What’s there to vote on?”
“People should have a say in how they are governed. Policies that impact them. They should have a say in how this kingdom is rebuilt.” Aelin lifted her chin. “I will be queen, and my children …” Her cheeks heated as she smiled toward Rowan. “Our children,” she said a bit softly, “will rule. One day. But Terrasen should have a voice. Each territory, regardless of the lords who rule it, should have a voice. One chosen by its people.”
The cadre looked toward one another then. Rowan said, “There was a kingdom—to the east. Long ago. They believed in such things.” Pride glowed in his eyes, brighter than the dawn. “It was a place of peace and learning. A beacon in a distant and violent part of the world. Once the Library of Orynth is rebuilt, we’ll ask the scholars to find what they can about it.”
“We could reach out to the kingdom itself,” Fenrys said. “See if some of their scholars or leaders might want to come here. To help us.” He shrugged. “I could do it. Travel there, if you wish.”
She knew he meant it—to travel as their emissary. Perhaps to work through all he’d seen and endured. To make peace with the loss of his brother. With himself. She had a feeling the scars down his face would only fade when he willed it.
But Aelin nodded. And while she’d gladly send Fenrys wherever he wished—“The library?” she blurted.
Rowan only smiled. “And the Royal Theater.”
“There was no theater—not like in Rifthold.”
Rowan’s smile grew. “There will be.”
Aelin waved him off. “Need I remind you that despite winning this war, we are no longer flush with gold?”
Rowan slid his arm around her shoulders. “Need I remind you that since you beheaded Maeve, I am a Prince of Doranelle once again, with access to my assets and estates? And that with Maeve outed as an imposter, half of her wealth goes to you … and the other to the Whitethorns?”
Aelin blinked at him slowly. The others grinned. Even Lorcan.
Rowan kissed her. “A new library and Royal Theater,” he murmured onto her mouth. “Consider them my mating presents to you, Fireheart.”
Aelin pulled back, scanning his face. Read the sincerity and conviction.
And, throwing her arms around him, laughing to the lightening sky, she burst into tears.
It was to be a day for many meetings, Aelin decided as she stood in a near-empty, dusty chamber and smiled at her allies. Her friends.
Ansel of Briarcliff, bruised and scratched, smiled back. “Your shifter was a good liar,” she said. “I’m ashamed I didn’t notice it myself.”
Prince Galan, equally battered, huffed a laugh. “In my defense, I’ve never met you.” He inclined his head to Aelin. “So, hello, cousin.”
Aelin, leaning against the half-decayed desk that served as the lone piece of furniture in the room, smirked at him. “I saw you from a distance—once.”
Galan’s Ashryver eyes sparked. “I’m going to assume it was during your former profession and thank you for not killing me.”
Aelin chuckled, even as Rolfe rolled his eyes. “Yes, Privateer?”
Rolfe waved a tattooed hand, blood still clinging beneath his nails. “I’ll refrain from commenting.”
Aelin smirked. “You’re the Heir to the Mycenian people,” she said. “Petty squabbles are now beneath you.”
Ansel snorted. Rolfe shot her a look.
“What do you intend to do with them now?” Aelin asked. She supposed the rest of her court should have been here, but when she’d dispatched Evangeline to round up their allies, she’d opted to let them rest. Rowan, at least, had gone to seek out Endymion and Sellene. The latter, it seemed, was about to learn a great deal regarding her own future. The future of Doranelle.
Rolfe shrugged. “We’ll have to decide where to go. Whether to return to Skull’s Bay, or …” His sea-green eyes narrowed.
“Or?” Aelin asked sweetly.
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“Or decide if we’d rather rebuild our old home in Ilium.”
“Why not decide yourself?” Ansel asked.
Rolfe waved a tattoed hand. “They offered up their lives to fight in this war. They should be able to choose where they wish to live after it.”
“Wise,” Aelin said, clicking her tongue. Rolfe stiffened, but relaxed upon seeing the warmth in her gaze. But she looked to Ilias, the assassin’s armor dented and scratched. “Did you speak at all this entire war?”
“No,” Ansel answered for him. The Mute Master’s son looked to the young queen. Held her stare.
Aelin blinked at the look that passed between them. No animosity—no fear. She could have sworn Ansel flushed.
Sparing her old friend, Aelin said to them all, “Thank you.”
They faced her again.
She swallowed, and put a hand over her heart. “Thank you for coming when I asked. Thank you on behalf of Terrasen. I am in your debt.”
“We were in your debt,” Ansel countered.
“I wasn’t,” Rolfe muttered.
Aelin flashed him a grin. “We’re going to have fun, you and I.” She surveyed her allies, worn and battle-weary, but still standing. All of them still standing. “I think we’re going to have a great deal of fun.”
At midday, Aelin found Manon in one of the witches’ aeries, Abraxos staring out toward the battlefield.
Bandages peppered his sides and wings. And covered the former Wing Leader.
“Queen of the Crochans and the Ironteeth,” Aelin said by way of greeting, letting out a low whistle that had Manon turning slowly. Aelin picked at her nails. “Impressive.”
Yet the face that turned toward her—
Exhaustion. Grief.
“I heard,” Aelin said quietly, lowering her hands but not approaching.
Manon said nothing, her silence conveying everything Aelin needed to know.
No, she was not all right. Yes, it had destroyed her. No, she did not wish to talk about it.
Aelin only said, “Thank you.”
Manon nodded vaguely. So Aelin walked toward the witch, then past her. Right to where Abraxos sat, gazing toward Theralis. The blasted patch of earth.
Her heart strained at the sight of it. The wyvern and the earth and the witch behind her. But Aelin sat down beside the wyvern. Brushed a hand over his leathery head. He leaned into her touch.
“There will be a monument,” she said to Abraxos, to Manon. “Should you wish it, I will build a monument right there. So no one shall ever forget what was given. Who we have to thank.”
Wind sang through the tower, hollow and brisk. But then footsteps crunched in hay, and Manon sat down beside her.
Yet Aelin did not speak again, and asked no more questions. And Manon, realizing it, let her shoulders curve inward, let her head bow. As she might never do with anyone else. As no one else might understand—the weight they both bore.
In silence, the two queens stared toward the decimated field. Toward the future beyond it.
CHAPTER 119
It took ten days for everything to be arranged.
Ten days to clear out the throne room, to scrub the lower halls, to find the food and cooks they needed. Ten days to clean the royal suite, to find proper clothing, and outfit the throne room in queenly splendor.
Evergreen garlands hung from the pews and rafters, and as Rowan stood on the dais of the throne room, monitoring the assembled crowd, he had to admit that Lysandra had done an impressive job. Candles flickered everywhere, and fresh snow had fallen the night before, covering the scars still lingering from battle.
At his side, Aedion shifted on his feet, Lorcan and Fenrys looking straight ahead.
All of them washed and brushed and wearing clothes that made them look … princely.
Rowan didn’t care. His green jacket, threaded with silver, was the least practical thing he’d ever donned. At his side, at least, he bore his sword, Goldryn hanging from his other hip.
Thankfully, Lorcan looked as uncomfortable as he did, clad in black. If you wore anything else, Aelin had tutted to Lorcan, the world would turn on its head. So burial-black it is.
Lorcan had rolled his eyes. But Rowan had glimpsed Elide’s face when he’d spotted her and Lysandra in the hall off the throne room moments before. Had seen the love and desire when she beheld Lorcan in his new clothes. And wondered how soon this hall would be hosting a wedding.
A glance at Aedion, clad in Terrasen green as well, and Rowan smiled slightly. Two weddings, likely before the summer. Though neither Lysandra nor Aedion had mentioned it.
The last of their guests finished filing into the packed space, and Rowan surveyed the rulers and allies seated in the front rows. Ansel of Briarcliff kept fidgeting in her equally new pants and jacket, Rolfe draping an arm over the pew behind her as he smirked at her discomfort. Ilias, clad in the white, layered clothes of his people, sat on Ansel’s other side, the portrait of unruffled calm. A row ahead, Galan lounged in his princely regalia, chin high. He winked as his Ashryver eyes met Rowan’s.
Rowan only inclined his chin back to the young man. And then inclined it toward his cousins, Enda and Sellene, seated near the aisle, the latter of whom had needed a good few hours of sitting in silence when Rowan had told her that she was now Queen of Doranelle. The Fae Queen of the East.
His silver-haired cousin hadn’t dressed for her new title today, though—like Enda, she had opted for whatever clothing was the least battle-worn.
Such changes would come to Doranelle—ones Rowan knew he could not predict. The Whitethorn family would rule, Mora’s line restored to power at last, but it would remain up to them, up to Sellene, how that reign would shape itself. How the Fae would choose to shape themselves without a dark queen lording over them.
How many of those Fae would choose to stay here, in Terrasen, would remain to be seen. How many would wish to build a life in this war-torn kingdom, to opt for years of hard rebuilding over returning to ease and wealth? The Fae warriors he’d encountered these two weeks had given him no indication, yet he’d seen a few of them gaze toward the Staghorns, toward Oakwald, with longing. As if they, too, heard the wild call of the wind.
Then there was the other factor: the Fae who had dwelled here before Terrasen’s fall. Who had answered Aelin’s desperate plea, and had returned to their hidden home amongst the Wolf Tribe in the hinterlands to prepare for the journey here. To return to Terrasen at last. And perhaps bring some of those wolves with them.
He’d work to make this kingdom worthy of their return. Worthy of all who lived here, human or Fae or witch-kind. A kingdom as great as it had once been—greater. As great as what dwelled in the far South, across the Narrow Sea, proof that a land of peace and plenty could exist.
The khaganate royals had told him much about their kingdom these days—their policies, their peoples. They now sat together on the other side of the throne room, Chaol and Dorian with them. Yrene and Nesryn also sat there, both lovely in dresses that Rowan could only assume had been borrowed. There were no shops open—and none with supplies. Indeed, it was a miracle that any of them had clean clothes at all.
Manon, at least, had refused finery. She wore her witch leathers—though her crown of stars lay upon her brow, casting its light upon Petrah Blueblood and Bronwen Crochan, seated on her either side.
Aedion’s swallow was audible, and Rowan glanced to the open doors. Then to where Lord Darrow stood beside the empty throne.
Not an official throne—just a larger, finer chair that had been selected from the sad lot of candidates.
Darrow, too, stared toward the open doors, face impassive. Yet his eyes glowed.
The trumpets rang out.
A four-note summons. Repeated three times.
Pews groaned as everyone twisted to the doors.
Behind the dais, hidden beyond a painted wooden screen, a small group of musicians began playing a processional. Not the grand, sprawling orchestra that might accompany
an event of this magnitude, but better than nothing.
It didn’t matter anyway.
Not as Elide appeared in a lilac gown, a garland of ribbons atop her braided black hair. Every step limped, and Rowan knew it was because she had asked Lorcan not to brace her foot. She’d wanted to make this walk down the long aisle on her own two feet.
Poised and graceful, the Lady of Perranth kept her shoulders thrown back as she clutched the bouquet of holly before her and walked to the dais. Lady of Perranth—and one of Aelin’s handmaidens. For today.
For Aelin’s coronation.
Elide was halfway down the aisle when Lysandra appeared, clad in green velvet. People murmured. Not just at the remarkable beauty, but what she was.
The shape-shifter who had defended their kingdom. Had helped take down Erawan.
Lysandra’s chin remained high as she glided down the aisle, and Aedion’s own head lifted at the sight of her. The Lady of Caraverre.
Then came Evangeline, green ribbons in her red-gold hair, beaming, those scars stretched wide in utter joy. The young Lady of Arran. Darrow’s ward. Who had somehow melted the lord’s heart enough for him to convince the other lords to agree to this.
To Aelin’s right to the throne.
They had delivered the documents two days ago. Signed by all of them.
Elide took up a spot on the right side of the throne. Then Lysandra. Then Evangeline.
Rowan’s heart began thundering as everyone gazed down the now-empty aisle. As the music rose and rose, the Song of Terrasen ringing out.
And when the music hit its peak, when the world exploded with sound, regal and unbending, she appeared.
Rowan’s knees buckled as everyone rose to their feet.
Clad in flowing, gauzy green and silver, her golden hair unbound, Aelin paused on the threshold of the throne room.
He had never seen anyone so beautiful.
Aelin gazed down the long aisle. As if weighing every step she would take to the dais.
To her throne.
The entire world seemed to pause with her, lingering on that threshold.
Shining brighter than the snow outside, Aelin lifted her chin and began her final walk home.
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