“If Erawan’s searching for a way into Terrasen,” Ren said at last, “the mountains would be foolish.” He frowned toward the discarded trays of food they’d devoured minutes ago. Hearty mutton stew and roasted root vegetables. Most of it bland, but it had been hot. “The land does not forgive easily out here. He’d lose countless troops to the elements alone.”
“Erawan does nothing without reason,” Aedion countered. “The easiest route to Terrasen would be up through the farmlands, on the northern roads. It’s where anyone would expect him to march. Either there, or to launch his forces from the coast.”
“Or both—by land and sea.”
Aedion nodded. Erawan had spread his net wide in his desire to stomp out what resistance had arisen on this continent. Gone was the guise of Adarlan’s empire: from Eyllwe to Adarlan’s northern border, from the shores of the Great Ocean to the towering wall of mountains that cleaved their continent in two, the Valg king’s shadow grew every day. Aedion doubted that Erawan would stop before he clamped black collars around all their necks.
And if Erawan attained the two other Wyrdkeys, if he could open the Wyrdgate at will and unleash hordes of Valg from his own realm, perhaps even enslave armies from other worlds and wield them for conquest … There would be no chance of stopping him. In this world, or any other.
All hope of preventing that horrible fate now lay with Dorian Havilliard and Manon Blackbeak. Where they’d gone these months, what had befallen them, Aedion hadn’t heard a whisper. Which he supposed was a good sign. Their survival lay in secrecy.
Aedion said, “So for Erawan to waste a scouting party to find small mountain passes seems unwise.” He scratched at his stubble-coated cheek. They’d left before dawn yesterday, and he’d opted for sleep over a shave. “It doesn’t make sense, strategically. The witches can fly, so sending scouts to learn the pitfalls of the terrain is of little use. But if the information is for terrestrial armies … Squeezing forces through small passes like that would take months, not to mention risk the weather.”
“Their scout just kept laughing,” said Ren, shaking his head. His shoulder-length black hair moved with him. “What are we missing here? What aren’t we seeing?” In the firelight, the slashing scar down his face was starker. A reminder of the horrors Ren had endured, and the ones his family hadn’t survived.
“It could be to keep us guessing. To make us reposition our forces.” Aedion braced a hand on the mantel, the warm stone seeping into his still-chilled skin.
Ren had indeed readied the Bane the months Aedion had been away, working closely with Kyllian to position them as far south from Orynth as Darrow’s leash would allow. Which, it turned out, was barely beyond the foothills lining the southernmost edge of the Plain of Theralis.
Ren had since yielded control to Aedion, though the Lord of Allsbrook’s reunion with Aelin had been frosty. As cold as the snow whipping outside this keep, to be exact.
Lysandra had played the role well, mastering Aelin’s guilt and impatience. And since then, wisely avoiding any situation where they might talk about the past. Not that Ren had demonstrated a desire to reminisce about the years before Terrasen’s fall. Or the events of last winter.
Aedion could only hope that Erawan also remained unaware that they no longer had the Fire-Bringer in their midst. What Terrasen’s own troops would say or do when they realized Aelin’s flame would not shield them in battle, he didn’t want to consider.
“It could also be a true maneuver that we were lucky enough to discover,” Ren mused. “So do we risk moving troops to the passes? There are some already in the Staghorns behind Orynth, and on the northern plains beyond it.”
A clever move on Ren’s part—to convince Darrow to let him station part of the Bane behind Orynth, should Erawan sail north and attack from there. He’d put nothing past the bastard.
“I don’t want the Bane spread too thin,” said Aedion, studying the fire. So different, this flame—so different from Aelin’s fire. As if the one before him were a ghost compared to the living thing that was his queen’s magic. “And we still don’t have enough troops to spare.”
Even with Aelin’s desperate, bold maneuvering, the allies she’d won didn’t come close to the full might of Morath. And all that gold she’d amassed did little to buy them more—not when there were few left to even entice to join their cause.
“Aelin didn’t seem too concerned when she flitted off to Eldrys,” Ren murmured.
For a moment, Aedion was on a spit of blood-soaked sand.
An iron box. Maeve had whipped her and put her in a veritable coffin. And sailed off to Mala-knew-where, an immortal sadist with them.
“Aelin,” said Aedion, dredging up a drawl as best he could, even as the lie choked him, “has her own plans that she’ll only tell us about when the time is right.”
Ren said nothing. And though the queen Ren believed had returned was an illusion, Aedion added, “Everything she does is for Terrasen.”
He’d said such horrible things to her that day she’d taken down the ilken. Where are our allies? he’d demanded. He was still trying to forgive himself for it. For any of it. All that he had was this one chance to make it right, to do as she’d asked and save their kingdom.
Ren glanced to the twin swords he’d discarded on the ancient table behind them. “She still left.” Not for Eldrys, but ten years ago.
“We’ve all made mistakes this past decade.” The gods knew Aedion had plenty to atone for.
Ren tensed, as if the choices that haunted him had nipped at his back.
“I never told her,” Aedion said quietly, so that the falcon sitting in the rafters might not hear. “About the opium den in Rifthold.”
About the fact that Ren had known the owner, and had frequented the woman’s establishment plenty before the night Aedion and Chaol had hauled in a nearly unconscious Ren to hide from the king’s men.
“You can be a real prick, you know that?” Ren’s voice turned hoarse.
“I’d never use that against you.” Aedion held the young lord’s raging dark stare, let Ren feel the dominance simmering within his own. “What I meant to say, before you flew off the handle,” he added when Ren’s mouth opened again, “was that Aelin offered you a place in this court without knowing that part of your past.” A muscle flickered in Ren’s jaw. “But even if she had, Ren, she still would have made that offer.”
Ren studied the stone floor beneath their boots. “There is no court.”
“Darrow can scream it all he wants, but I beg to differ.” Aedion slid into the armchair across from Ren’s. If Ren truly backed Aelin, with Elide Lochan now returned, and Sol and Ravi of Suria likely to support her, it gave his queen three votes in her favor. Against the four opposing her.
There was little hope that Lysandra’s vote, as Lady of Caraverre, would be recognized.
The shifter had not asked to see the land that was to be her home if they survived this war. Had only changed into a falcon on the trek here and flown off for a while. When she’d returned, she’d said nothing, though her green eyes had been bright.
No, Caraverre would not be recognized as a territory, not until Aelin took up her throne.
Until Lysandra instead was crowned queen, if his own did not return.
She would return. She had to.
A door opened at the far end of the hall, followed by rushing, light steps. He rose a heartbeat before a joyous “Aedion!” sang over the stones.
Evangeline was beaming, clad head to toe in green woolen clothes bordered with white fur, her red-gold hair hanging in two plaits. Like the mountain girls of Terrasen.
Her scars stretched wide as she grinned, and Aedion threw open his arms just before she launched herself on him. “They said you arrived late last night, but you left before first light, and I was worried I’d miss you again—”
Aedion pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You look like you’ve grown a full foot since I last saw you.”
Evangeline’s citrine eyes glowed as she glanced between him and Ren. “Where’s—”