“Fine,” was all he could think to say.
She shrewdly looked him over. As if weighing the man within. “It was real, Aedion,” she said. “All of it. I don’t care if you believe me or not. But it was real for me.”
He couldn’t bear to hear it. “I have a meeting,” he lied, and stepped around her. “Go slither off somewhere else.”
Hurt flashed in her eyes, quickly hidden. He was the worst sort of bastard for it.
But he continued into Kyllian’s tent. She didn’t come after him.
She was a stupid fool.
A stupid fool, to have said anything, and to now feel something in her chest crumpling.
She had enough dignity left not to beg. To not watch Aedion go into Kyllian’s tent and wonder if it was for a meeting, or because he was seeking to remind himself of life after so much killing today. To not give one inch of space to the burning in her eyes.
Lysandra made her way toward the comfortable tent Sol of Suria had given her near his. A kind, sharply clever man—who had no interest in women. The younger brother, Ravi, had eyed her, as all men did. But he’d kept a respectful distance, and had talked to her, not her chest, so she liked him, too. Didn’t mind having a tent in their midst.
An honor, actually. She’d gone from having to crawl into the beds of lords, doing whatever they asked of her with a smile, to fighting beside them. And she was now a lady herself. One whom both the Lords of Suria and the Lord of Allsbrook recognized, despite Darrow spitting on it.
It might have filled her with gladness had battle not worn her out so completely that the walk back to the tent seemed endless. Had the general-prince not filleted her spirit so thoroughly.
Every step was an effort, the mud sucking at her boots.
She turned down an alley of tents, the banners shifting from the white stag on emerald green of the Bane to the twin silver fish on vibrant turquoise of those belonging to the House of Suria. Only fifty more feet to her tent, then she could lie down. The soldiers knew who she was, what she was. None, if they glanced twice in her direction, called out to her in the way men had done in Rifthold.
Lysandra trudged into her tent, sighing in exhausted relief as she shouldered her way through the flaps, aiming for her cot.
Sleep, cold and empty, found her before she could remember to remove her boots.
CHAPTER 11
“You’re sure of this?” His heart pounding, Chaol braced a hand on the desk in the quarters he shared with Yrene and pointed to the map that Nesryn and Sartaq had spread before them.
“The soldiers we questioned had been given orders on where to rendezvous,” Sartaq said from the other side of the desk, still clad in his rukhin flying clothes. “They were far enough behind the others that they would have needed directions.”
Chaol rubbed a hand over his jaw. “And you got a count on the army?”
“Ten thousand strong,” Nesryn said, still leaning against the nearby wall. “But no sign of the Ironteeth legions. Only foot soldiers, and about a thousand cavalry.”
“As far as you could see from the air,” Princess Hasar countered, twirling the end of her long, dark braid. “Who is to say what might be lurking amid the ranks?”
How many Valg demons, the princess didn’t need to add. Of all the royal siblings, Hasar had taken Princess Duva’s infestation and their sister Tumelun’s murder at her hand the most personally. Had sailed here to avenge both her sisters, and to ensure it didn’t happen again. If this war had not been so desperate, Chaol might have paid good coin to see Hasar rip into Valg hides.
“The soldiers didn’t divulge that information,” Sartaq admitted. “Only their intended location.”
At his side, Yrene wrapped her fingers around Chaol’s and squeezed. He hadn’t realized how cold, how trembling, his hand had become until her warmth seeped into him.
Because the intended target of that enemy army now marching to the northwest …
Anielle.
“Your father has not kneeled to Morath,” Hasar mused, flicking her heavy braid over the shoulder of her embroidered sky-blue jacket. “It must make Erawan nervous enough that he saw the need to send such an army to crush it.”
Chaol swallowed the dryness in his mouth. “But Erawan has already sacked Rifthold,” he said, pointing to the capital on the coast, then dragging a finger inland along the Avery. “He controls most of the river. Why not send the witches to sack it instead? Why not sail right up the Avery? Why take an army so far to the coast, then all the way back?”
“To clear the way for the rest,” Yrene said, her mouth a tight line. “To instill as much terror as possible.”
Chaol blew out a breath. “In Terrasen. Erawan wants Terrasen to know what’s coming, that he can take his time and expend forces on destroying swaths of land.”
“Does Anielle have an army?” Sartaq asked, the prince’s dark eyes steady.
Chaol straightened, hand balling into a fist, as if it could keep the dread pooling in his stomach at bay. Hurry—they had to hurry. “Not one able to take on ten thousand soldiers. The keep might survive a siege, but not indefinitely, and it wouldn’t be able to fit the city’s population.” Only his father’s chosen few.
Silence fell, and Chaol knew they were waiting for him to speak, to voice the question himself. He hated every word that came out of his mouth. “Is it worth it to launch our troops here and march to save Anielle?”
Because they couldn’t risk the Avery, not when Rifthold sat at its entrance. They’d have to find a place to land and march inland. Across the plains, over the Acanthus, into Oakwald, and to the very foothills of the White Fangs. Days of travel on horseback—the gods knew how long an army would take.
“There might not be an Anielle left by the time we get there,” Hasar said with more gentleness than the sharp-faced princess usually bothered with. Enough so that Chaol reined in the urge to tell them that was precisely why they had to move now. “If the southern half of Adarlan is beyond help, then we might land near Meah.” She pointed to the city in the north of the kingdom. “March near the border, and set ourselves up to intercept them.”
“Or we could go directly to Terrasen, and sail up the Florine to Orynth’s doorstep,” Sartaq mused.
“We don’t know what we’ll find in either,” Nesryn countered quietly, her cool voice filling the room. A different woman in some ways than the one who’d gone with Chaol to the southern continent. “Meah could be overrun, and Terrasen might be facing its own siege. The days it would take for our scouts to fly northward would waste vital time—if they return at all.”
Chaol drew in a deep breath, willing his heart to calm. He hadn’t the faintest idea where Dorian might be, if he’d gone with Aelin to Terrasen. The soldiers Nesryn and Sartaq had interrogated had not known. What would his friend have chosen? He could almost hear Dorian yelling at him for even hesitating, hear him ordering Chaol to stop wondering where he’d gone and hurry to Anielle.
“Anielle lies near the Ferian Gap,” Hasar said, “which is also controlled by Morath, and is another outpost for the Ironteeth and their wyverns. By bringing our forces so far inland, we risk not only the army marching for Anielle, but finding a host of witches at our backs.” She met Chaol’s gaze, her face as unflinching as her words. “Would saving the city gain us anything?”
