Aelin swallowed hard, and Chaol took that as excuse enough to sit again, his back giving a grateful tinge. He said to the queen, “There is another person responsible for this army being here.” He gestured to Nesryn, the woman already smiling at the queen. “The rukhin you see, the army gathered, is as much because of Nesryn as it is because of me.”
A spark lit Aelin’s eyes, and both women met halfway in a tight embrace. “I want to hear the entire story,” Aelin said. “Every word of it.”
Nesryn’s subdued smile widened. “So you shall. But later.” Aelin clapped her on the shoulder and turned to the two royals still by the desk. Tall and regal, but as mud-splattered as the queen.
Chaol blurted, “Dorian?”
Rowan answered, “Not with us.” He glanced to the royals.
“They know everything,” Nesryn said.
“He’s with Manon,” Aelin said simply. Chaol wasn’t entirely sure whether to be relieved. “Hunting for something important.”
The keys. Holy gods.
Aelin nodded. Later. He’d think on where Dorian might now be later. Aelin nodded again. The full story would come then too.
Nesryn said, “May I present Princess Hasar and Prince Sartaq.”
Aelin bowed—low. “You have my eternal gratitude,” Aelin said, and the voice that came out of her was indeed that of a queen.
Any shock Sartaq and Hasar had shown upon the queen bowing so low was hidden as they bowed back, the portrait of courtly grace. “My father,” Sartaq said, “remained in the khaganate to oversee our lands, along with our siblings Duva and Arghun. But my brother Kashin sails with the rest of the army. He was not two weeks behind us when we left.”
Aelin glanced to Chaol, and he nodded. Something glittered in her eyes at the confirmation, but the queen jerked her chin at Hasar. “Did you get my letter?”
The letter that Aelin had sent months ago, begging for aid and promising only a better world in return.
Hasar picked at her nails. “Perhaps. I get far too many letters from fellow princesses these days to possibly remember or answer all of them.”
Aelin smirked, as if the two of them spoke a language no one else could understand, a special code between two equally arrogant and proud women. But she motioned to her companions, who stepped forward. “Allow me to introduce my friends. Lord Gavriel, of Doranelle.” A nod toward the tawny-eyed and golden-haired warrior who bowed. Tattoos covered his neck, his hands, but his every motion was graceful. “My uncle, of sorts,” Aelin added with a smirk at Gavriel. At Chaol’s narrowed brows, she explained, “He’s Aedion’s father.”
“Well, that explains a few things,” Nesryn muttered.
The hair, the broad-planed face … yes, it was the same. But where Aedion was fire, Gavriel seemed to be stone. Indeed, his eyes were solemn as he said, “Aedion is my pride.”
Emotion rippled over Aelin’s face, but she gestured to the dark-haired male. Not someone Chaol ever wanted to tangle with, he decided as he surveyed the granite-hewn features, the black eyes and unsmiling mouth.
“Lorcan Salvaterre, formerly of Doranelle, and now a blood-sworn member of my court.” As if that weren’t a shock enough, Aelin winked at the imposing male. Lorcan scowled. “We’re still in the adjustment period,” she loudly whispered, and Yrene chuckled.
Lorcan Salvaterre. Chaol hadn’t met the male this spring in Rifthold, but he’d heard all about him. That he’d been Maeve’s most trusted commander, her most loyal and fierce warrior. That he’d wanted to kill Aelin, hated Aelin. How this had come about, why she was not in Terrasen with her army … “You, too, have a tale to tell,” Chaol said.
“Indeed I do.” Aelin’s eyes guttered, and Rowan put a hand on her lower back. Bad—something terrible had occurred. Chaol scanned Aelin for any hint of it.
He stopped when he noticed the smoothness of the skin at her neck. The lack of scars. The missing scars on her hands, her palms. “Later,” Aelin said softly. She straightened her shoulders, and another golden-haired male came forward. Beautiful. That was the only way to describe him. “Fenrys … You know, I don’t actually know your family name.”
Fenrys threw a roguish wink at the queen. “Moonbeam.”
“It is not,” Aelin hissed, choking on a laugh.
Fenrys laid a hand on his heart. “I am blood-sworn to you. Would I lie?”
Another blood-sworn Fae male in her court. Across the tent, Sartaq cursed in his own tongue. As if he’d heard of Lorcan, and Gavriel, and Fenrys.
Aelin gave Fenrys a vulgar gesture that set Hasar chuckling, and faced the royals. “They’re barely housebroken. Hardly fit for your fine company.” Even Sartaq smiled at that. But it was to the small, delicate woman that Aelin now gestured. “And the only civilized member of my court, Lady Elide Lochan of Perranth.”
Perranth. Chaol had combed through the family trees of Terrasen just this winter, had seen the lists of so many royal households crossed out, victim to the conquest ten years ago.
Elide’s name had been among them. Another Terrasen royal who had managed to evade Adarlan’s butchers.
The pretty young woman took a limping step forward, and bobbed a curtsy to the royals. Her boots concealed any sign of the source of the injury, but Yrene’s attention shot right to her leg. Her ankle. “It’s an honor to meet all of you,” Elide said, her voice low and steady. Her dark eyes swept over them, cunning and clear. Like she could see beneath their skin and bones, to the souls beneath.
Aelin wiped her hands. “Well, that’s over and done with,” she announced, and strode to the desk and map. “Shall we discuss where you all plan to march once we beat the living shit out of this army?”
CHAPTER 49
Rowan had been speaking to the captain of their ship when the ruk had flown past.
According to her mate, the ruk nearly slammed right into the ship thanks to the dense fog on the sea. A scout—from an armada to the south.
A skeleton crew had remained amongst them, though the scout hadn’t been privy to the royals’ plans. All she knew was that the khagan’s army had gone to Anielle.
Where they would go after that—to Rifthold, to Eyllwe—had not been decided.
So Aelin would help them decide. Make sure that when this business with Anielle was over, the khagan’s army marched northward. To Terrasen.
And nowhere else. Whatever she needed to do to convince them, offer them in exchange for it, she’d pay it. Even if hauling ass to Anielle had meant delaying her own return to Terrasen.
She supposed it’d be better to return with an army behind her than alone.
Yet now, standing in the royals’ war tent, Aelin still couldn’t quite believe just how many the khagan had sent. With more to come, Prince Sartaq had claimed.
They’d wended through the neatly organized tents and soldiers, both on foot and the downright awe-inspiring cavalry. The Darghan, the legendary riders from the steppes of the khaganate. The royal family’s mother-people, who had taken the continent for themselves.
And then they’d seen the ruks, and even miserable Lorcan had sworn in awe at the mighty, beautiful birds adorned with ornate armor, and the armed riders atop them. The scout had been one thing. An army of them had been glorious.
A glance at Rowan told her that shrewd mind was already calculating a plan.
So Aelin asked casually, flashing the royals a grin, “Where did you all plan on going after this?”
Princess Hasar, as shrewd as Aelin’s mate, returned her smile—a razor-sharp thing of little beauty. “Doubtless, you’re about to begin some scheme to convince us to go to Terrasen.”
The room tensed, but Aelin snorted. “Begin? Who says I’m not already in the thick of it?”
“Gods help us,” Chaol muttered. Rowan echoed the sentiment.
Hasar opened her mouth, but Prince Sartaq cut in, “Where we march will be decided after Anielle is secured.” The prince’s face remained grave, calculating—but not cold. Aelin had decided within moments that she liked him. And liked him even more when it came out that he had just been crowned the khagan’s Heir. With Nesryn as his potential bride.
Potential, to Aelin’s amusement, because Nesryn herself wasn’t so keen on being empress of the mightiest empire in the world.
But what Sartaq had said—
Elide blurted, “You mean to not go to Terrasen?”
Aelin kept still, her fingers curling at her sides.
Prince Sartaq said carefully, “It had been our initial plan to go north, but there might be other places like Anielle in need of liberation.”
“Terrasen needs aid,” Rowan said, his face the portrait of steely calm as he surveyed their new allies and old friends.
“And yet Terrasen has not called for it,” Hasar countered, utterly unfazed by the wall of Fae warriors glowering at her. Exactly the sort of person Aelin had hoped she’d be when she wrote to her all those months ago.
Chaol cleared his throat. Gods above, Chaol was walking again. And married to Yrene Towers, who had healed him.
A thread in a tapestry. That’s what it had felt like the night she’d left the gold for Yrene in Innish. Like pulling a thread in a tapestry, and seeing just how far and wide it went.
All the way to the southern continent, it seemed. And it had rippled back with an army and a healed, happy friend. Or as happy as any of them might be at the moment.
Aelin met Chaol’s stare. “Focus on winning this battle,” he said, nodding once in understanding at the fire she knew smoldered in her eyes, “and then we shall decide.”
Princess Hasar smirked at Aelin. “So be sure to impress us.”
Again, that tension rippled through the room.
Aelin held the princess’s stare. Smiled slightly. And said nothing.
Nesryn shifted on her feet, as if well aware what that silence could mean.
“How solid are the keep walls?” Gavriel asked Chaol, gently steering the conversation away.
Chaol rubbed at his jaw. “They’ve withstood sieges before, but Morath has been hammering them for days. The battlements are solid enough, but another few blows from the catapults and towers might start coming down.”
Rowan crossed his arms. “The walls were breached today?”
“They were,” Chaol said grimly. “By a siege tower. The ruks couldn’t arrive in time to pull it down.” Nesryn cringed, but Sartaq did not offer an apology. Chaol went on, “We secured the walls, but the Valg soldiers cut down a number of our men—from Anielle, that is.”
Aelin surveyed the map, blocking out the challenge of the fierce-eyed princess who was a mirror in so many ways. “So how do we play it? Do we slam through the lines, or pick them off one by one?”
Nesryn stabbed a finger onto the map, right atop the Silver Lake. “What if we pushed them to the lake itself?”
Hasar hummed, all traces of taunting gone. “Morath placed itself foolishly in their greed to sack the city. They didn’t estimate being trampled by the Darghan, or picked apart by the rukhin.”
Aelin glanced sidelong to Rowan. Found him already staring at her.
We’ll convince them to go to Terrasen, her mate said silently.
Chaol leaned forward, back quivering a bit, and ran a finger over the lake’s western shore. “This section of the lake, unfortunately, is shallow a hundred yards from the shore. The army might be able to wade out there, draw us into the water.”
“A few hours in that water,” Yrene countered, mouth a tight line, “would kill them. The hypothermia would set in quickly. Maybe within minutes, depending on the wind.”
“That’s if the Valg fall victim to such things,” Hasar said. “They don’t die like true men in most ways, and you claim they hail from a land of darkness and cold.” So the royals truly knew about their enemies, then. “We might push them into the water to find they don’t care at all. And in doing so, risk exposing our troops to the elements.” The princess jabbed the keep walls. “We’re better off pushing them right into the stone, breaking them apart against it.”
Aelin was inclined to agree.
Lorcan opened his mouth to say something no doubt unpleasant, but footsteps squelching in mud outside the tent had them whirling toward the entrance long before a pretty, dark-haired young woman burst in, twin braids swinging. “You wouldn’t believe—”
She halted upon seeing Aelin. Seeing the Fae males. Her mouth popped into an O.
Nesryn chuckled. “Borte, meet—”
Another set of steps in the mud, heavier and slower than Borte’s quick movements, and then a young man stumbled in, his skin not the gold-kissed brown of Borte or the royals, but pale. “It’s back,” he panted, gaping at Nesryn. “For days now, I swore I felt something, noted changes, but today it just all came back.”
Nesryn angled her head, her curtain of dark hair sliding over an armored shoulder. “Who …”
Borte squeezed the young man’s arm. “Falkan. It’s Falkan, Nesryn.”
Prince Sartaq stalked to Nesryn’s side, graceful as any Fae warrior. “How.”
But the young man had turned toward Aelin, eyes narrowing. As if trying to place her.
Then he said, “The assassin from the market in Xandria.”
Aelin arched a brow. “Hopefully, the horse I stole didn’t belong to you.”
A cough from Fenrys. Aelin threw the warrior a grin over her shoulder.
The young man’s eyes darted over her face, then landed on the enormous emerald on her finger. The even bigger ruby in Goldryn’s hilt.
Borte blurted to Nesryn, “One minute, we were eating dinner at the campfire, then the next, Falkan clutched his stomach like he was going to puke up his guts all over everyone”—a glare from Falkan at Borte—“and then his face was young. He’s young.”
“I was always young,” Falkan muttered. “I just didn’t look it.” His gray eyes again found Aelin’s. “I gave you a piece of Spidersilk.”
For a heartbeat, the then and the now blended and wobbled. “The merchant,” Aelin murmured. She’d last seen him in the Red Desert—looking twenty years older. “You sold your youth to a stygian spider.”
“You two know each other?” Nesryn gaped.
“The threads of fate weave together in strange ways,” Falkan said, then smiled at Aelin. “I never got your name.”
Hasar chuckled from the other side of the desk. “You already know it, shifter.”
