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.
“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.