When Rowan didn’t resume their sparring, Aelin scowled. “What.”
It wasn’t so much of a question as a demand.
His gaze was unfaltering. As it had been when she’d returned from her run through the misty fields beyond the inn and found him leaning against the apple tree. “That’s enough for today.”
“We’ve hardly started.” She lifted her blade.
Rowan kept his own lowered. “You barely slept last night.”
Aelin tensed. “Bad dreams.” An understatement. She lifted her chin and threw him a grin. “Perhaps I’m starting to wear you down a bit.”
Despite the blisters, she’d gained back weight, at least. Had watched her arms go from thin to cut with muscle, her thighs from reeds to sleek and powerful.
Rowan didn’t return her smile. “Let’s eat breakfast.”
“After that dinner last night, I’m in no hurry.” She didn’t give him a blink of warning before she launched herself at him, swiping high with Goldryn and stabbing low with her dagger.
Rowan met her attack, easily deflecting. They clashed, broke apart, and clashed again.
His canines gleamed. “You need to eat.”
“I need to train.”
She couldn’t stop it—that need to do something. To be in motion.
No matter how many times she swung her blade, she could feel them. The shackles. And whenever she paused to rest, she could feel it, too—her magic. Waiting.
Indeed, it seemed to open an eye and yawn.
She clenched her jaw, and attacked again.
Rowan met each blow, and she knew her maneuvers were descending into sloppiness. Knew he let her continue rather than seizing the many openings to end it.
She couldn’t stop. War raged around them. People were dying. And she had been locked in that damned box, had been taken apart again and again, unable to do anything—
Rowan struck, so fast she couldn’t track it. But it was the foot he slid before her own that doomed her, sending her careening into the dirt.
Her knees barked, skinning beneath her pants, and her dagger scattered from her hand.
“I win,” he panted. “Let’s eat.”
Aelin glared up at him. “Another round.”
Rowan just sheathed his sword. “After breakfast.”
She growled. He growled right back.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’ll lose all that muscle if you don’t feed your body. So eat. And if you still want to train afterward, I’ll train with you.” He offered her a tattooed hand. “Though you’ll likely hurl your guts up.”
Either from the exertion or from the innkeeper’s suspect cooking.
But Aelin said, “People are dying. In Terrasen. In—everywhere. People are dying, Rowan.”
“Your eating breakfast isn’t going to change that.” Her lips curled in a snarl, but he cut her off. “I know people are dying. We are going to help them. But you need to have some strength left, or you won’t be able to.”
Truth. Her mate spoke truth. And yet she could see them, hear them. Those dying, frightened people.
Whose screams so often sounded like her own.
Rowan wriggled his fingers in silent reminder. Shall we?
Aelin scowled and took his hand, letting him haul her to her feet. So pushy.
Rowan slid an arm around her shoulders. That’s the most polite thing you’ve ever said about me.
Elide tried not to wince at the grayish gruel steaming in front of her. Especially with the innkeeper watching from the shadows behind his taproom bar. Seated at one of the small, round tables that filled the worn space, Elide caught Gavriel’s eye from where he pushed at his own bowl.
Gavriel raised the spoon to his mouth. Slowly.
Elide’s eyes widened. Widened further as he opened his mouth, and took a bite.
His swallow was audible. His cringe barely contained.
Elide reined in her smile at the pure misery that entered the Lion’s tawny stare. Aelin and Rowan had been finishing up a similar battle when she’d entered the taproom minutes ago, the queen wishing her luck before striding back into the courtyard.
Elide hadn’t seen her sit still for longer than it took to eat a meal. Or during the hours when she’d instructed them in Wyrdmarks, after Rowan had requested she teach them.
It had gotten her out of the chains, the prince had explained. And if the ilken were resistant to their magic, then learning the ancient marks would come in handy with all they faced ahead. The battles both physical and magic.
Such strange, difficult markings. Elide couldn’t read her own language, hadn’t tried to in ages. Didn’t suppose she’d be granted the opportunity anytime soon. But learning these marks, if it helped her companions in any way … she could try. Had tried, enough to know a few of them now.
Gavriel dared another mouthful of the porridge, offering the innkeeper a tight smile. The man looked so relieved that Elide picked up her own spoon and choked down a bite. Bland and a bit sour—had he put salt in it, rather than sugar?—but … it was hot.
Gavriel met her stare, and Elide again restrained her laugh.
She felt, rather than saw, Lorcan enter. The innkeeper instantly found somewhere else to be. The man hadn’t been surprised to see five Fae enter his inn last night, so his vanishing whenever Lorcan appeared was certainly due to the glower the male had perfected.
Indeed, Lorcan took one look at Elide and Gavriel and left the dining room.
They’d barely spoken these weeks. Elide hadn’t known what to even say.
A member of this court. Her court. Forever.
He and Aelin certainly hadn’t warmed toward each other. No, only Rowan and Gavriel really spoke to him. Fenrys, despite his promise to Aelin not to fight with Lorcan, ignored him most of the time. And Elide … She’d made herself scarce often enough that Lorcan hadn’t bothered to approach her.
Good. It was good. Even if she sometimes found herself opening her mouth to speak to him. Watching him as he listened to Aelin’s lessons on the Wyrdmarks. Or while he trained with the queen, the rare moments when the two of them weren’t at each other’s throats.
Aelin had been returned to them. Was recovering as best she could.
Elide didn’t taste her next bite of porridge. Gavriel, thankfully, said nothing.
And Anneith didn’t speak, either. Not a whisper of guidance.
It was better that way. To listen to herself. Better that Lorcan kept his distance, too.
Elide ate the rest of her porridge in silence.
Rowan was right: she nearly vomited after breakfast. Five minutes in the courtyard and she’d had to stop, that miserable gruel rising in her throat.
Rowan had chuckled when she’d clapped a hand over her mouth. And then shifted into his hawk form to sail for the nearby coast and their awaiting ship, to check in with its captain.
Rolling her shoulders, she’d watched him vanish into the clouds. He was right, of course. About letting herself rest.
Whether the others knew what propelled her, they hadn’t said a word.
Aelin sheathed Goldryn and loosed a long breath. Deep down, her power grumbled.
She flexed her fingers.
Maeve’s cold, pale face flashed before her eyes.
Her magic went silent.
Blowing out another shuddering breath, shaking the tremor from her hands, Aelin aimed for the inn’s open gates. A long, dusty road stretched ahead, the fields beyond barren. Unimpressive, forgotten land. She’d barely glimpsed anything on her run at dawn beyond mist and a few sparrows bobbing amongst the winter-dry grasses.
Fenrys sat in wolf form at the edge of the nearest field, staring out across the expanse. Precisely where he’d been before dawn.
She let him hear her steps, his ears twitching. He shifted as she approached, and leaned against the half-rotted fence surrounding the field.
“Who’d you piss off to get the graveyard shift?” Aelin asked, wiping the sweat from her brow.
Fenrys snorted and ran a hand through his hair. “Would you believe I volunteered for it?”
She arched a brow. He shrugged, watching the field again, the mists still clinging to its farthest reaches. “I don’t sleep well these days.” He cut her a sidelong glance. “I don’t suppose I’m the only one.”