They had rallied to their queen, only to realize it had been an illusion. That the might of the Fire-Bringer was not with them. Would not shield them against the army at their heels.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed.
Aedion took the empty cup of water before he gripped her hand, squeezing gently. “I am sorry, Lysandra. For all of it.” His throat bobbed again. “When I saw the ilken, when I saw you against them …”
Useless. Lying bitch. The words he’d thrown at her, raged at her, dragged her further from the haze of pain. Sharpened her focus.
“You did this,” he said, voice lowering, “for Terrasen. For Aelin. You were willing to die for it, gods above.”
“I was.” Her words came out cold as steel.
Aedion blinked as she withdrew her hand from his. Her leg ached and throbbed, but she managed to sit up. To meet his stare. “I have been degraded and humiliated in so many ways, for so many years,” she said, voice shaking. Not from fear, but from the tidal wave that swept up everything inside her, burning alongside the wound in her leg. “But I have never felt as humiliated as I did when you threw me into the snow. When you called me a lying bitch in front of our friends and allies. Never.” She hated the angry tears that stung her eyes. “I was once forced to crawl before men. And gods above, I nearly crawled for you these months. And yet it takes me nearly dying for you to realize that you’ve been an ass? It takes me nearly dying for you to see me as human again?”
He didn’t hide the regret in his eyes. She had spent years reading men and knew that every agonized emotion in his face was genuine. But it didn’t erase what had been said, and done.
Lysandra put a hand on her chest, right over her own shredded heart. “I wanted it to be you,” she said. “After Wesley, after all of it, I wanted it to be you. What Aelin asked me to do had no bearing on that. What she asked me to do never felt like a burden, because I wanted it to be you in the end anyway.” She didn’t wipe away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. “And you threw me into the snow.”
Aedion slid to his knees. Reached for her hand. “I will never stop regretting it. Lysandra, I will never forget a second of it, never stop hating myself for it. And I am so—”
“Don’t.” She snatched back her hand. “Don’t kneel. Don’t bother.” She pointed to the tent flaps. “There’s nothing I have left to say to you. Or you to me.”
Agony again rippled across his face, but she shut out what it did to her. What it did to her to see Aedion rise to his feet, groaning softly at some unspecified ache in his powerful body. For a few breaths, he just stared down at her.
Then he said, “I meant every promise I made to you on that beach in Skull’s Bay.”
And then he was gone.
Aedion had spent a good portion of his life hating himself for the various things he’d done.
But seeing the tears on Lysandra’s face because of him … He’d never felt like more of a bastard.
He barely heard the soldiers around him, tense and skittish in the snow that blew between their quickly erected tents. How many more wounded would die tonight?
He’d already pulled rank to get Lysandra care from the best healers they had left. And still it was not good enough, the healers not gifted magically. And despite Lysandra’s quicker healing abilities, they’d still had to stitch up her leg. And now changed the bandages every few hours. The wound had sealed, mercifully, likely fast enough to avoid infection.
Many of the injured amongst them could not say the same. The rotting wounds, the festering blood within their veins … Every morning, more and more bodies had been left behind in the snow, the ground too frozen and with no time to burn them.
Food for Erawan’s beasts, the soldiers murmured when they’d moved out. They might as well offer the enemy a free meal.
Aedion shut down that talk, along with any sort of hissing about their flight and defeat. By the time they’d camped tonight, a good third of the soldiers, members of the Bane included, had been assigned various tasks to keep them busy. To make them so tired after a day’s fleeing that they didn’t have the energy to grumble.
Aedion aimed for his own tent, set just outside the healers’ ring of tents where Lysandra lay. Giving her a private tent had been another privilege he’d used his rank to acquire.
He’d almost reached the small tent—no use in building his full war tent when they’d be running again in a few hours—when he spotted the figures huddled by the fire outside.
He slowed his steps to a stalking gait.
Ren rose to his feet, his face tight beneath his heavy hood.
Yet it was the man beside Ren who made Aedion’s temper hone itself into a dangerous thing.
“Darrow,” he said. “I would have thought you’d be in Orynth by now.”
The lord bundled in furs did not smile. “I came to deliver the message myself. Since my most trusted courier seems inclined to select another allegiance.”
The old bastard knew, then. About Lysandra’s masquerading as Aelin. And Nox Owen’s role in moving their army out of his grasp.
“Let’s get it over with, then,” Aedion said.
Ren tensed, but said nothing.
Darrow’s thin lips curved in a cruel smile. “For your acts of reckless rebellion, for your failure to heed our command and take your troops where they were ordered, for your utter defeat at the border and the loss of Perranth, you are stripped of your rank.”
Aedion barely heard the words.
“Consider yourself now a soldier in the Bane, if they’ll have you. And as for the imposter you’ve paraded around …” A sneer toward the healers’ tents.
Aedion snarled.
Darrow’s eyes narrowed. “If she is again caught pretending to be Princess Aelin”—Aedion almost ripped out his throat at that word, Princess—“then we will have little choice but to sign her execution order.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“I’d like to see you stop us.”
Aedion smirked. “Oh, it’s not me who you’d be dealing with. Good luck to any man who tries to harm a shifter that powerful.”
Darrow ignored the promise and held out a hand. “The Sword of Orynth, if you will.”
Ren started. “You’re out of your mind, Darrow.”
Aedion just stared. The ancient lord said, “That sword belongs to a true general of Terrasen, to its prince-commander. As you are no longer the bearer of that title, the sword shall return to Orynth. Until a new, appropriate bearer can be determined.”
Ren growled, “That sword is in our possession, Darrow, because of Aedion. Had he not won it back, it would still be rusting in Adarlan’s trove.”
“He will always have our gratitude for it. If only in that regard, at least.”
A dull roar filled Aedion’s head. Darrow’s hand remained extended.
He deserved this, he supposed. For his failure on these battlefields, his failure to defend the land he’d promised Aelin he’d save. For what he’d done to the shifter who had held his heart from the moment she’d shredded into those Valg soldiers in the sewers of Rifthold.
Aedion unbuckled the ancient sword from his belt. Ren let out a sound of protest.
But he ignored the lord and tossed the Sword of Orynth to Darrow.
The lightness where that sword had been threw off his balance.
The old man stared at the sword in his hands. Even went so far as to run a finger over the bone pommel, the hateful bastard unable to contain his awe.
Aedion just said, “The Sword of Orynth is only a piece of metal and bone. It always has been. It’s what the sword inspires in the bearer that matters. The true heart of Terrasen.”
“Poetic of you, Aedion,” was Darrow’s reply before he turned on his heel, aiming for wherever his escort waited beyond the camp’s edge. “Your commander, Kyllian, is now general of the Bane. Report to him for orders.”
The swirling snows devoured the old lord within a few steps.
Ren snarled, “Like hell you aren’t general.”
“The Lords of Terrasen decree it, and so it shall be.”